A/N: Thanks for the reviews. I'm interested (read: scared) to see what you think of this one! I promise, more of Tom (and Tom/Hermione interaction) coming up shortly.

~oOo~

In the days and weeks that followed his conversation with Death, Albus was preoccupied almost to the point of insanity. He replayed the encounter in his penseive, in his waking mind, and in his dreams. He examined it from every possible angle of motivation; searched for every possible scrap of meaning, but had come to a dead end. It should have been a pleasant change, to be challenged by something – Merlin knew that teaching Transfiguration and listening to the insipid gossip of his fellow Wizengamot members was rotting his brain – but it wasn't. It was unsettling and perplexing and left him feeling like a small cog in a large, invisible wheel.

It had been some while since he had considered any of life's big questions, if he were honest – he was a busy man, after all, and not generally prone to idle speculation. In the years following Ariana's death he had often found himself talking to her or wondering if there were any kind of afterlife, but it was a subject that eventually grew old since it was impossible to know the answer. If Death himself existed, though, there must be something. He yearned to know more, to speak further with Death, but unsurprisingly he did not show himself again. Albus could not even decide what had caused his appearance the first time: had it been something about Morgana's tomb, or merely coincidence?

The tomb was another subject vying for space in his overcrowded mind. There was nothing to be done but keep it a secret and return promptly next midsummer, but that didn't stop his questions from forming, uninvited and unanswerable. He had a nagging feeling that he had glimpsed the edge of something big – something he didn't understand, but he wanted to – and Albus Dumbledore with his curiosity piqued was quite a force to be reckoned with. He was reminded apprehensively of another subject he had once been rather fanatically interested in.

When he had first developed an interest in the Hallows – upon moving to Godric's Hollow – he wasn't really sure if he believed it at all. It was just a fun way to pass the time, a sort of high-stakes intellectual treasure hunt. But later on Gellert's conviction had persuaded him, and the more one dug into those particular legends the more one got the sense that they were based in fact after all. Now, he had confirmation from Death himself, and he didn't know what to make of it. Death wanted him to obtain the wand, apparently. It would be impossible to deny that he desired it; told himself that it was merely to keep it out of reach of less benevolent hands.

In between pondering the afterlife, and Morgana, and the Hallows, he had barely had time to consider Death's central point: that he, Albus, should be the one to stop Gellert. He had become accustomed to that thought over the past year or several: accustomed, that was, to burying it deep down and ignoring it. Accustomed to steering Ministry policy and hoping they would one day act. Accustomed to pretending that there wasn't a significant but powerful minority of pureblood families who would welcome the Revolution. For the Greater Good.

There were a huge number of reasons why he did not relish the thought of confronting the man – the very strong possibility of dying in the act might have been reason enough, though in fact it was by no means at the top of the list.

He had feared knowing the truth about Ariana, hadn't he? He could admit that now - hadn't been able to before. But it was a double-edged sword because he now realised that, just as Death had said, it was irrelevant anyway. His sister was still just as dead as she had been for four decades, and all the instigators of the fight to blame. No – there was no need to fear Gellert's words on the subject, except for the more obvious reason: public attention. People – important people – no longer knew or cared to know his past. He had worked tirelessly, almost night and day, for forty years, taking on three careers, to reach a position where his cultivated reputation was all anyone knew about him. Was it so wrong to desire privacy, at least, if not happiness?

There was a deeper dread, though, than was caused by the unwillingness to die or even by the idea of certain stories reaching the Daily Prophet. A much more personal dread, which simply appeared at the idea of seeing him again. Because he knew that seeing him would melt the intervening years away until he was left as the boy he had once been, a moth against the incandescent flame of Gellert's personality, charm, knowledge, and power. Albus was older now, stronger, and immeasurably wiser – confident to the point of arrogance, on the surface – he held several positions of power, though several less than he could be holding, if he had accepted. And yet… and yet he knew that there was still somebody who could reduce him to nothing, ultimately because he would let him. Because he was… special. After all this time, and no matter how much Albus hated it and hated him. He had never been able to get him out of his mind, and so gave him power. He had never met anybody like him – like them – and never would, and therein lay the problem.

Albus had known Gellert for a grand total of thirty-six hours when their relationship sailed past the confines of a regular friendship.

"Do you want to know the real reason they expelled me from Durmstrang?" he asked, mischievously, and Albus blinked in surprise at the rapid change of subject, for they had been talking about the Hallows solidly since lunchtime.

"I – you – they said it was dark magic." Gellert laughed conspiratorially.

"Durmstrang? Expel someone for dark magic? They don't even call it that. They teach us that!" The blond boy had advanced a step whilst he spoke, and now he was stood much closer than propriety would have dictated. Albus couldn't quite meet his eyes anymore – had to avert his gaze out through his bedroom window where the sun was just setting over the empty fields beyond. He didn't dare to speak, and after an excruciating length of time Gellert leant forward and whispered in his ear. "The Headmaster caught me fucking his granddaughter over the desk in his office…"

He was going red – could feel it, but couldn't stop it, for the sudden turn of the conversation had taken him far out of his depth into entrancing yet uncharted waters. Gellert's breath was warm against his neck, sending a shiver straight to… well. That, too, wasn't a thing one should discuss in polite conversation. But then this didn't really classify as such anymore.

When he tore his gaze away from the window, the other boy had pulled back with a smug smile on his face. His brain, for perhaps the first time ever, was completely failing to supply him with something to say.

"Have you ever had a girl, Albus?" He was frozen – couldn't believe this discussion was happening to him – didn't know whether to answer, and if so whether to lie. Gellert's expression told him that he knew all of these thoughts and more. "…ever had a boy, then?" He couldn't stop the sort of choking sound escaping his mouth.

Of course he knew he wasn't… normal. Of course he knew that the things he thought about in the dead of night weren't what the others thought about. But he had never heard anyone say those words out loud – like it was a legitimate possibility – had never even voiced them in his own head.

"Seriously? What did you do at Hogwarts? It sounds unbearably dull. Didn't you sleep in a –" he scrunched up his face in thought, as was his custom when trying to recall a forgotten word, a habit Albus found adorable – "Schlafsaal... how do you call it?"

"D-dormitory," he managed to reply. He was rewarded with a smile revealing a flash of perfect white teeth.

"Ah, quite, quite. Didn't you sleep in a… dormitory?"

"Of course… why?" Speaking to Gellert often gave him the feeling of being several steps behind; it was a feeling that had become completely foreign to him, but despite that he found it more often exciting than disconcerting.

"Surely you must have –" he made a hand gesture which was entirely vague and yet still made Albus' cheeks burn with embarrassment – "together?"

"W-what? No, of course not!" Gellert shook his head in amusement, eyes dancing.

"Oh, Albus. You English are so terribly proper. With anyone else I'd find it tedious, but with you…" He couldn't breathe. The joke, such as it had been, was over now: Gellert was looking at him in a way he knew no one had ever looked at him before.

"I'm going to make you come now." It wasn't a question. All the air seemed to have gone from the room; in the absence of Gellert's voice, the silence was absolute. He nodded weakly, and in the next second Gellert was on his knees and reaching for the front of his robes.

It should have been awkward – humiliating, even – or at the very least horrendously embarrassing. It wasn't. There was no room for any thought beyond staying upright; he clutched desperately to the bookcase behind him as Gellert's hand closed around him. His eyes drifted closed only to fly wide open again as the hand was replaced by something warmer and wetter.

His most vivid fantasies had not come close to preparing him for the sensation – the sight – that followed. He knew he was crying out; saw Gellert throw up a silencing charm with a click of his fingers, and then their eyes met and he saw the wild laughter there. It was a conspiratorial exchange stemming from the mutual recognition of a kindred soul: nobody-else-would-understand-this-but-we-do.

He was laughing, now, because somewhere through the haze of euphoria in his mind he felt the chains of society falling away. He was not strange – he was special, and here was another made just for him. This was what he had been searching for, without even knowing it; this kind of connection that he had never managed with anyone else. Any of the normal people, the not-special people, who didn't understand. But now the answer was right in front of him, with golden hair and quick hands and a feral expression. With a tongue that was doing something that made his vision hazy and all his muscles burn against the urge to collapse, jelly-like, to the floor.

He tried to give a warning when he couldn't take any more, but the other boy either didn't hear or he took no notice. The orgasm ripped through him so much more strongly than it had ever done before, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the pale column of Gellert's throat as he swallowed again and again. The image seemed to burn straight into his retinas.

Then it was over. Gellert smirked, fixed Albus' robes and then stood up and smoothed his own down, though they were as immaculate as before.

"I told you so," he said, and before Albus could formulate a reply he added, "My aunt is expecting me for supper. I'll see you tomorrow." And just like that he was gone.

If only Albus could banish the memory with such ease, but he couldn't – not that summer night in 1899 and not now, forty-two years later. But if he were really to confront Gellert, he would have to be able to manage his emotions. He would have to face up to the past.

~oOo~

Salazar packed a sturdy box with straw and settled the rooster inside, ignoring its squawk of indignation. Silencing it carefully, he apparated directly into a secluded corner of the chamber, making sure to keep his eyes tight shut. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the great breadth of emotions threatening to surface.

"Boudica?" With a wave of his hand and a moment of concentration he conjured his Patronus. Not the raven – her raven – but his original form. An exact replica of the basilisk contained within these walls. He sent it to search for its corporeal counterpart, and it was a matter of mere seconds before an excited hissing began to echo from one of the passageways beyond. He remembered at the last moment to shift into his true appearance – the one she would recognise.

"Salazar… Salazar?" He heard a slithering sound approaching and sensed her come to a stop right in front of him, presumably subjecting him to a thorough examination. After a few seconds, he felt the tip of her tail begin to prod him experimentally. He remained perfectly still.

"Is it really you, Salazar?" She was wary, and reasonably so. It had been a long time.

"Let me prove it to you..." he thought for a moment, and the memories came rushing back from a dusty corner of his mind.

"I hatched you in the spring of 975, in a hut by the lake. You lived with me for almost a year, until you became too heavy to carry around. Then you lived outside for a season, and then I made these rooms for you. I left you with Cyneric in 993, and in 999 I… disappeared."

The tail tip ceased its prodding and began a more friendly exploration.

"I thought I would not see you again. Where have you been? Have you come back for me?" He couldn't bear to answer.

"Close your eyes – let me look at you."

"Yes…"

Well. His Patronus was an exact replica of the basilisk contained within these walls almost a millennium ago. It turned out that she was really quite a lot larger now – Hermione's comments on the subject hadn't prepared him for the creature that appeared in front of him when he opened his eyes. Her body stretched further than the dim light revealed even though it was folded double with her tail still curled around his legs. The spines along it, now the size of knives, looked lethal, but her head was lowered to the floor, eyes closed and averted, submissive. He stroked her snout somewhat tentatively and she made the same happy sound that she used to. It seemed rather incongruous now.

"You've been growing," he said, and laughed slightly as he recalled saying the same thing to Cyneric – his nephew, then aged about ten – a very long time ago.

"Alas... in the beginning I had space to move, but these caverns are small to me now."

He looked around for the first time and saw the prison that his creation had become; no longer cared for, a thousand years of damp and grime accumulated everywhere.

"Has nobody been down here? Have they not helped you?" He wished he really could pass the blame onto someone else.

"Sometimes somebody comes," she said, after a while. "They call themselves the heir… your heir. Some were too scared to visit me more than once, and the rest treated me like a common Adder, or brought their friends down to gawp at me... They don't care to listen to my stories. They talk about setting me on the students, as if upon your orders…" He swallowed hard, and wondered how to explain everything, but there were parts of the story even he didn't know. When had his legacy gone from one of protection to one of murdering muggleborns? Probably sooner than he realised. She continued the tale as if a response were not required.

"Some of them put me into a magical sleep when they left, and it would be a new child who would wake me. At first, I hated it… I thought of how you charged me to protect the school, and how it could fall while I slept… but lately it seems the only danger is already within. The last boy was perhaps the worst of them all… he did not make me sleep. I have stayed here alone, counting the winters past, wondering how long it would be until someone new came."

He could think of no adequate reply. Why hadn't he been here? Because he had been selfish, and disinclined to face the pain of returning to Hogwarts at all. Then, more latterly, it was like he had truly become the alternate personality he had presented to Hermione – visiting her in the Hospital Wing he had been able to pretend that he had no connection to the castle at all.

After a while of his silence she continued to speak even more mournfully than before.

"I have long forgotten the colour of stars and the feel of rain. I have forgotten grass and sun and the sound of the wind in the trees." He tried to stay calm, and not to feel the pain of the words, and the fact that this was, like everything else, his fault. He kept his voice even.

"I have come to free you," he said, and there was a pause – she was thinking.

"You are not taking me with you. You have brought a rooster." If only he could tell her it wasn't true, but a basilisk, let alone one this big, simply wasn't a pet – they couldn't even look at each other simultaneously. He should have never brought her into being, into such a miserable life. There was no kinder solution now, and he was certainly not going to lie about it.

"Yes."

There was a heavy pause, and then great creature hissed wordlessly, but it was a sound of assent rather than anger. She slithered even closer and wound her tail round and round until her whole body was a coiled spiral, the head protected in the centre. She had always slept like that; he remembered the first time, the night she hatched out. She had curled up inside the palm of his hand.

"I am old, now," she said. "I have often wished for this moment. I am ready." And then, tentatively, "Will you stay with me?" He couldn't answer past the lump in his throat, but sat down on the cold floor and leant up against her side. It was reassuringly solid and warm. Solemnly the seconds ticked away. He searched desperately for another solution, but there was none.

"You will like it, where you are going," he said, when he could speak again. "There is no need to be afraid, I promise."

"Will we meet again?"

"Yes… Yes, one day, perhaps we shall." He could no longer stop the tears from falling.

"Goodnight, then, Salazar. You must protect our school now." Her breathing evened out as she relaxed, trusting, and he stroked her smooth scales affectionately.

"Yes," he said. "You have done well. Sleep, now." And then, before the wait could become too oppressive, he forced himself to lift the silencing charm on the box.

The echo of the rooster's cry had long since faded from the chamber when he at last wiped his eyes and stumbled stiffly to his feet.

~oOo~

There was a knock on her bedroom door barely an hour after their argument in the courtyard. A man shuffled inside, wearing the same robes that Zorion – Salazar – had been wearing earlier. She had barely had time to put two and two together when he grabbed her arm and apparated them away, and then she was standing in front of several tonnes of deceased basilisk and all thoughts of his appearance left her mind entirely.

They had arrived in the main chamber where, in another lifetime, she had kissed Ron for the first and only time. The memory was hazy now, slipping away when she tried to look directly at it. After she had been lost in thought for some time she became aware of a large stone extricating itself from the cavern wall. Salazar directed it to the floor and then began to hollow out a space in the earth behind.

As the seconds wore on more and more questions occurred to her, but for some reason it seemed wrong to disturb the perfect stillness. Salazar worked with an air of detachment that seemed entirely forced, but his unfamiliar features gave her no insight to his mind. Eventually he turned away from the hole in the wall and raised his hands towards the giant snake; instantly the air began to roar and crackle with a sound like a thousand furnaces. Flames leapt blue and green as high as the ceiling, though the place where they stood remained cool and damp.

It was over as quickly as it had begun. With another movement of his hand, the fire disappeared and a column of ash whirled in the space where the basilisk had lain. Salazar was speaking in Parseltongue, now – it was a soft sound, and somehow perfectly natural coming from his mouth in a way it hadn't been coming from Ron's. It seemed unlikely to be a spell, for she had never once heard him say an incantation aloud, but she had no idea what he could be saying.

When he had finished speaking he took a pebble from the chamber floor and fashioned it into a kind of urn into which the ashes began to flow. It was only at this point that she fully realised the purpose of the preceding few minutes: they were burying the basilisk. She didn't know what to make of it.

Once the urn was sealed, Salazar settled it carefully into the hole in the wall and retrieved a frog card from his pocket. She would have laughed – it was so horrendously out of place – but somehow she didn't dare. The card was placed next to the urn, and then the giant stone slotted back in. He paused for a moment, as if in contemplation, and appeared to come to a decision to mark the spot. A circle carved itself onto the stone, gradually forming the image of a snake biting its tail: a symbol, clearly, of eternity. Then he took her arm and apparated them back to her bedroom without a word.

Once he had left, still without speaking, she went straight to the sitting room to examine the wall full of frog cards. There had to be some significance to the one placed in the grave. She recognised the picture straight away despite only catching a brief glimpse of it in the chamber.

Boudica (1st century, dates unknown) was the Queen of the Iceni people in the region that is now Norfolk. She fought for independence against the invading Roman muggles, but was forced into hiding to avoid a witch-hunt following her army's eventual heavy defeat in battle.

~oOo~