Godric Gryffindor gave his loyalty to a country that treated his kind with skepticism at best. He hoped fighting off the Vikings who had been terrorizing Lundenburg would bring him and magical folk into the King's favor.

Partly, this notion came from honor. Godric felt that acts of bravery in defense of his home, something he loved, was what created nobility more than even blood. But he could not help also noting shame that his father, Lord Geoffrey Gryffindor, was not welcome in the King's Court. The King, as with kings past, seemed to fear witches and wizards enough not to force over their titles or treasures—not that he likely could have taken either by force from most of them powerful enough to acquire them—but he did not allow them to request audience, a right Muggle Lords had. In fact, Godric's passing audience with the King was only because he signed up for an expedition against the Vikings, and even then he was in the middle of the ranks, his noble lineage granting him status as a junior officer. He did not ever speak to the King, only chanted his allegiance with the others.

Now, after weeks of travel and days of fighting, his rank was higher. England's numbers were thinning. Godric was certain he could turn the tide of the battle tomorrow, but he had to be allowed to use magic.

Although he had been using magic, just quietly, subtly. Arrows misdirected, swords that wouldn't swing true. Healing herbs for their wounded who would otherwise succumb to their blows. And enchantments at night that made their camp impossible to find, thwarting any surprise attack.

Still, he had been refused previous arguments to use magic openly. He was not sure whether his ranking officer, Lord Denson, was more afraid of magic himself or concerned that any show of magic would taunt the Vikings into using magic of their own. So far, the battle had been fought with swords and bows, lances and shields. Muggle weapons, Muggle armor. He hoped it would remain that way.

The officers sat around their own fire, their grand tents surrounding it. Lord Denson's tent was nearly three times the size as the next largest, though Godric's was enchanted to be far larger on the inside.

"My Lord, we are down more than fifty men today. Please, we must—"

"We must fight to the last man with the weapons of the King," Lord Denson said, his voice a firm growl. "I will not have this argument again, or I will consider it treason. I am not interested in your abilities, Godric, not beyond your skills with a sword."

Godric sat silent. Now was not the time to pick a fight. He was hoping that around the fire, knowing his men had suffered great losses, that Lord Denson would be more subject to reason. He could usually read men's moods well, and knew when to apply pressure to get what he wanted. It seemed he misread this time, or perhaps Lord Denson was under tighter orders from the King than he thought.

The other officers had looked at Godric. They knew there were a few other wizards among them. Godric's students, rumor had it. None of them, so far as they knew, were using magic, though Godric did invite them into his tent several times for private discussions. As long as they did not have to see the magic then they could claim ignorance from it and not themselves be persecuted. Still, they viewed Godric warily, even as they appreciated his swordsmanship.

"Tomorrow, we will try a new strategy. Their men are strong and now greatly outnumber us. We must be more cunning than them. We must do something they have never seen before…" Lord Denson said, his voice trailing off as his eyes watched the flicker of the great fire.

The other officers knew he did not have a plan. They were unsure whether he would make one in time. They knew better than to speak on the matter.

Then, a scream came from the camp.

And another.

Two more cries pierced the night air as the officers jumped to their feet, rushing to their tents to grab their weapons. Godric gripped his wand in his robe—fourteen inches, yew, springy, core of a hippogriff's feather.

A soldier came running up to their fire. Godric recognized him as one of his students, Alexander Nott. Nott reached them, slightly winded, but Godric recognized this more as a response to fear than physical demand. He gave Nott a slight raise of his eyebrow.

"They've sent a wizard. He's cursing the men, destroying our weapons. He knows what he's doing, Lord Gryffindor."

"Thank you, Nott," Godric said and turned to face Lord Denson, who had overheard.

Lord Denson's face was tight with rage, rage that their camp had been discovered and his men caught off guard, rage that the Vikings were resorting to using magic on them, and most of all, rage that he would have to let Godric use magic.

His jaw tense, Lord Denson said, "I grant your wish, Godric. God save the King."

"God save the King," Godric said and ran towards the screams.

Their camp was not large, so it took him only moments to find the Viking wizard. His wand at the ready, Godric sent a jet of red light towards his foe, hoping to disarm him quickly and end the frenzy.

The Viking wizard was quick, however, and the bright, magical light in the darkness caught his eye. He countered easily with a protection charm, a blue flash that bounced Godric's spell away. The Viking wizard turned on his enemy at once and returned a shot of purple at Godric, meeting the his second disarming charm in the air and causing a small explosion.

The two eyed each other, circling slowly. The Viking wore dark black robes and a heavy bear skin over his shoulders that matched his yellowish-brown beard. Godric's robes, the scarlet and gold of his House, were played on by the firelight, as were his thick red locks and beard.

Godric wanted to read the man. He seemed to be acting alone, though it would have been wise to bring backup; even if they could not see the camp, the wizard could simply drive the soldiers out into an ambush. The Viking did not look afraid, his posture was rigid but in control. This was an unyielding man. It would not be enough to disarm him, but he may not have to kill him. He was also fast, and casting a spell first may only play into his counter.

How best to goad him into casting? Something simple, this was a discerning man. He blinked, a little too long.

The Viking spoke in his ancient Nordic tongue and cast another stream of purple.

Godric, as his eyes were just opening, before he even saw the curse, knowing it was coming, cast a rebounding charm. More complex than just protection, he knew right where to aim his enemy's curse—the spot the wizard would dive to when he saw it coming back at him. This, Godric surmised, would be a few feet counter-clockwise from where he stood; the Viking wizard had begun their circling, and that was the direction he chose.

He was right, and the Viking dove into his own curse, letting out a scream that rivaled the English soldiers'. Godric ran to him, took the wand he had dropped in his fall, and saw boils form and burst on his skin. He hadn't seen anything like this kind of magic before, it seemed something evil. For a moment, he understood why Muggles were afraid of his kind. If he could do this to them with words and a flick of a wand, and they had no way of counteracting it, of defending themselves, he would live in terror of his kind's mercy as well.

Godric tried several counter-curses until the boils ceased, then, before the Viking wizard's screams had quite stopped, he petrified him. Certain that this intruder posed no more threat to his camp, Godric called for Nott, who was quickly at his side. He told Nott the counter-curse and asked where Lord Denson was.

"He's left camp, my Lord. He took a small party with him to see who else was lurking nearby."

"The fool! He'll never find his way back here, and the Vikings certainly have an ambush set. Where are Burke and Avery?"

"They've been trying counter-curses on soldiers."

"Well, tell them what I've told you, then keep everyone in camp. Have Avery keep an eye on our unwelcome guest here. I'm going to find Lord Denson, and I want you to come find me when the camp is secured."

"Yes, my Lord."

Then Godric was on his feet, and with one motion he snapped the Viking wizard's wand over his knee and dropped it on the petrified body. He ran for Lord Denson's tent, found his footprints, and tracked him to the edge of camp and beyond.

With dim wand light to guide him, Godric followed the trampling of footsteps Lord Denson and his small band had made, though he didn't need them for long. He heard a roar louder than any soldier's scream, a sound lower than any human could make. His wand's light paled to the forty-foot jet of blue flame that burst over the tops of nearby trees.

The Vikings had brought a dragon.

Godric figured their wizard must have been keeping it tame. He sent sparks in the air, scarlet, gold, then scarlet, his signal to his pupils that he needed all of them now. Then he started towards the dragon, slowly but steadily. Surprise would be key.

The flame shot out again, then screams. One cry in particular made Godric's stomach sink. A shout of "My Lord!"

Godric ran, wand and sword drawn. He heard footsteps behind him—ones he recognized.

"Lord Gryffindor, what is it?" Nott asked.

Nott was answered by a third jet of flame.

"Tonight, all of our mettle will be tested. We must act as one. Remember what I've taught you. I'm afraid it's likely we'll have to kill the beast. More bounty for us to return with, that's alright with me. Our spells won't be too effective in a direct attack, we must be wise about when and how we strike. Its eyes, and the inside of its mouth may prove best points of attack. With me."

The three young wizards gave an aye and followed their teacher through the trees. Only steps later they saw the scene.

A Ridgeback, it seemed, although it looked to be on the smaller side, perhaps just out of childhood. Possibly shackled. Still incredibly dangerous.

And soldiers, their screams fading, still on fire. Godric recognized the shape of Lord Denson. The wizards extinguished the flames on their fellow soldiers as best they could—it would be too late for most of them.

"Burke, Avery, you will strike at its eyes. Nott, I will bait it to open its mouth, and we will aim for the mouth together. Position yourselves, I will step out in a five count."

Godric began counting quietly to himself. He hoped his voice had not contained any hint of the fear he felt. Walking to face a dragon that had just slaughtered half a dozen men as if they were nothing more than garden gnomes! He must be mad. But he would not ask his students to do anything that he would not. And he had a country to fight for, a reputation for all magical folk to uphold. He must be brave. He almost started to say "six" when he felt his feet move.

Sword and wand held high, Godric looked right into the beast's eyes. It had a long, dark snout, and at the end were two flared nostrils that spurted small flames as it puffed. To the Ridgeback, Godric was nothing, wizard or not.

The dragon did not immediately breathe fire at him like he expected. In fact, the creature seemed rather calm, if a bit annoyed. He walked closer to the beast, just out of range of its swiping paws, looked down and saw that it was in fact in chains. Godric took another few steps towards the dragon. It still eyed him, but did not open its mouth.

He touched the tip of his sword to the end of the dragon's snout, not believing he was really so close to such a creature.

Fast as lighting, the dragon snapped its jaws and broke his sword, as if it was nothing more than a piece of kindling.

Godric jumped back and let the half a sword he held fall to the ground.

The dragon lurched forward, its shackles strained on the ground, not making a sound, which Godric noticed but didn't understand. He was more focused on the dragon, having it open its mouth. With his free hand in the air he made a signal, then held up one finger.

An ice blue light in a pulsing beam shot out from a tree to Godric's left, striking the dragon in the eye. The dragon puffed more flame from its nose in response and tugged harder on the shackles, pulling up earth, until finally one massive claw was free. It swung immediately at Godric, who cast the best protection charm he could. It would not have been enough if his students had not had the same idea, the four of them together managed to block the blow, the dragon's taloned claw rebounding off the magic.

Godric stepped back again, out of range, waiting for the dragon to open its mouth, waiting for the second he would have to strike with Nott and subdue the beast.

The dragon pulled at its other shackle, straining itself forward with another swipe, revealing a bloody mess where its right eye had been. Godric made another hand motion, then held up a two with his fingers.

A flash from the right, which hit the dragon on the cheek and absorbed into its hide without a trace of damage. Another came soon after, which struck its target, even as the Ridgeback swung again, the tip of a claw catching Godric's raised hand, opening part of his palm. When it landed, finally, it opened its mouth.

Nott and Godric cast the same curse, a curse they had sworn never to use on another human, Muggle or magical. They would not cast it at all except for the most dire circumstances—such a circumstance Godric had determined they were in now, and he had signaled this to Nott before calling Burke to strike.

Flashes of green followed their words from an old, foreign tongue, and in that light was the fate of death.

The curses hit the dragon at the same time, directly in its mouth.

The dragon seemed to choke, letting out a sort of croak instead of a flame.

Then it roared, head held high in the air, flame catching. It was a plume of blue so hot that even the wizards hiding back from Godric felt as though they were standing in a campfire. They shielded their eyes from the blinding light.

Godric forced himself to keep looking, and though he could barely keep his eyes open, he noticed, or perhaps he felt…? A different blue light danced near the flame.

Then the fire was coming down, down at him. Godric raised his wand and cast protection around himself again, focusing his mind, strengthening his magic as best he could, bracing for the impact of the flame, drawing in something else as well.

The fire was upon him, searing hot, though his skin did not burn and his clothes did not ignite. The strange blue light danced around him, and when the flame stopped, the dragon's mouth still open, he directed that light into the dragon.

It took the form of lightning, white-hot, and leapt inside the dragon with a crack that made a house-elf's disappearing sound like a dropped gobstone. The lightning coursed through the great beast and stopped its heart. Its horned, eyeless head dropped to the floor, and the forest was eerily silent in the presence of death.

Godric walked to the dragon and touched it, mourned it. He would rather have not killed it, but what was necessary was done. This death, like his commander's, was simply a part of the butchery of war.

Tonight, he would take control of the camp.

Tomorrow, he would broker peace with the Vikings.

The day after tomorrow, they would turn towards home.

None of the other officer's questioned Godric's orders that night. In fact, they seemed relieved that he replaced Lord Denson. Partly, he knew, because none of them really knew what to do, but mostly because they did not want to answer for what happened upon their return. Godric could answer for himself.

He would.

Bravery comes in many forms. The kind of bravery called for that night was a quiet one, a reflective one. The men buried their dead quickly, but none were allowed to shy away from the scorched bodies. The dragon had taken six of their number, the wizard four; fewer than the rest of the Vikings had, but with a brutality even they could not match. They must know there could be more magic to face.

When the men were sent back to bed it was only a few hours until the early sunrise, and they were grateful for the rest. The officers stayed up only a little longer around their fire. Godric wanted to make sure they knew he would lead tomorrow, too, and that he would use magic to win his fight. He cared not for the rumors that would spread about his King sending a wizard to fight for him. They must win, and they must strike fear into their enemies lest they return.

In the morning, he let his soldiers have a long breakfast. He needed the extra time with Nott, Avery, and Burke. Together, they broke the preservation charm Godric had set on the dragon the night before and began butchering it—it was far too big a prize not take take home. Avery and Nott pulled scales off, a strenuous and tedious task, but well worth the armor they could make from it. Nott pulled teeth and claws. Godric took the fallen sword of Lord Denson and carved open the dragon, taking its heart.

"Avery, pass me a few scales. I'll take the horns, too, Nott. We'll save the rest, no time to brew a potion with any of this. Keep them in my tent, in the east wing there will be a trunk you should be able to open with your magic, it will preserve these pieces until we are home."

The camp broke from breakfast an hour later, their weapons thoroughly charmed by the wizards, and they marched through the woods to the Viking's village. They stood a quarter mile from it, uphill slightly, and the land descended to the water. Godric put his wand to his throat, amplified his voice, and spoke:
"Hear me! We have defeated your wizard and slain your dragon. We do not seek more bloodshed. Send a guard for parlay."

He knew in the Viking ranks someone spoke his tongue, though he did not know if the request would be accepted.

In a few minutes, he saw that it was not.

Four or five hundred men, Godric estimated. He hoped they did not have another wizard among them, or a dragon. His hundred and forty would be fine as long as they had no more tricks up their sleeves; they had four adept wizards who were no longer bound against using magic.

"Three ranks!" Godric called to his soldiers, "two to the sides, we will draw them into the small valley here. The wizards and I will disarm them best we can. I want a surrender, not a blood bath."

He heard rumblings that some of them would have preferred otherwise, what had they come all this way for? But they obeyed him.

As the Vikings came charging in their fur-covered armor, axes, swords, and spears wielded high, the British soldiers flanked around them, boxing them in. Even as they approached, the wizards were pulling arrows from the sky and sending weapons flying out of the Vikings' hands to the far side of the British troops' ranks. By the time the Vikings were trapped, most were disarmed, and the few that fought found that their weapons simply could not land blows. Heaving and angry, the Vikings soon understood their predicament. Godric heard someone yell "parlay".

With the Vikings still surrounded, Godric stepped aside with the Viking's leader and a translator. Their leader was a big man, bigger than Godric, with a beard longer and thicker and a dirty yellow. He had rage in his eyes, but intellect, too. Godric had come to their home—a response for them coming to his, sure, but he understood the anger. The humiliation. He would try to assuage that, even slightly.

Godric took out the dragon horns and scales, offered them as both a gift and sign that he really had defeated the dragon—though his mere presence should have been proof enough. He figured it would be an acceptable start to negotiations. The leader's reaction seemed mixed, complex: fear that his dragon was defeated—and surely his wizard, too—; anger that his enemy had come to his home and offered him his own animal back; a measure of gratitude that he could not help for such a generous gift. The Viking spat at the gifts. He hadn't wanted peace, he hadn't wanted to be attacked in his home, either, but such circumstances were bound to come around given their own proclivity for invasion.

The translator spoke, saying these gifts were an insult. That the Vikings were prepared to die. Surrender was not their way. Godric replied that slaughter was not his. For a while they argued this in circles. Then Godric had a new thought.

"Who of your people knows you sent a wizard last night? We were expecting a raiding party waiting for us. There was only a dragon," Godric said to the Viking.

The Viking leader flinched. Good. Now they were getting somewhere.

"Your people hold superstitions about my kind, then, too," Godric said and pulled out his wand. He swished it around in the air aimlessly. "I fought your wizard. I saw what he could do. I have never seen magic like that… There was evil to it. The kind of evil that justifies superstitions," he continued, now staring right into the Viking's icy blue eyes. The translator hastily relayed Godric's words, and he could see the Viking leader's pupils dilate. Yes, on to something here indeed.

"Your men don't know they fought alongside a wizard. They should know who their allies are, don't you agree? I can prove it to them, I can show them the body. I am sure this wizard is known at least in rumors to your men. My kind can never escape whispering rumors, no matter how strong our spells, how well we hide. It would not take much convincing at all. How would you look to your men, then, I wonder? Would they die for you if they knew who you allied with?"

The Viking leader's mouth was pressed tight, his face enraged, but his eyes showed fear. The Viking did not need to speak an answer, Godric knew already. Knew before he even asked the question.

Through his grisly beard, the Viking gave his reply. The translator spoke a moment later.

"What are your conditions of surrender?"

Godric held back a smile. It was not time to gloat. But his heart was lighter, no more blood need be shed.

"First, you will take these pieces of your dragon I have offered. Second, you will sign a treaty on behalf of your people that you will remain out of England, and we will agree not to return here. Third, you will spread word that any magical folk of your people may seek audience with me, as students, as peers, or as foes. That is all."

When the translator finished speaking these words in the old Nordic tongue, the Viking leader seemed resolute, then angry, then slightly confused, but he agreed to the terms. He knew he was in no position to argue. His men could not fight despite wanting to. Besides, no one would complain about the dragon artifacts, peace treaties come and go, and no effort need be made to spread a rumor. The fact that the English wizard before him spoke the words meant the message was already sent. The harder thing to do by far would be explaining to his men why they surrendered, but that course of action may yet save his life. If they knew he had sent a wizard to attack, he would be butchered by them instantly.

Godric wrote up two treaties which were signed. He was relieved this expedition was over—he had found the whole endeavor tiresome from its outset, but if it meant magical folk stood in a better light with the King, and Muggles in general, then it was worth the trouble.

The sprawling front garden bloomed heartily in the late summer afternoon and framed Slytherin Manor with both beauty and poise. Godric stood before it with his trunk, enchanted like his tent to hold more than it seemed capable of, yet weighed no more than one might expect. He walked through the garden and lazily rapped his bare knuckles on the door, more like a child coming home than an unexpected guest.

The door opened, its weight swinging inwards. A tall man with dark black hair and matching goatee stood before him, dressed in the emerald green robes of his house.

"Godric Gryffindor, come unannounced to the House of Slytherin, and," the man sniffed, "bringing with him the stench of war to grace this home?"

"What you call stench of war, I call the perfume of victory," Godric replied.

"Then I will let you take those victories alone."

The two stared each other down for a moment, Godric felt a tickle in his mind that he pushed away.

Then they each cracked a smile and embraced each other.

"Salazar, I've missed you my friend," Godric said and they broke, Salazar leading him into the manor.

"And I you. What brings us the pleasure of your company?" Salazar asked.

"If Sadrabald is not already in favor of seeing me—"

"He is always in favor of seeing you, Godric. I think sometimes he would prefer you as a son."

"If he does, it is in addition to, not at the expense of, your kinship."

"You flatter me, but you do not hear how highly he speaks of you when we are alone. Your aptitude for the court is unmatched."

"Your cunning in politics is more than adept, Salazar."

"It is my execution of that cunning which could use work."

"Perhaps. But I did not come here to talk of our abilities. Not when we can test them," Godric said, and Salazar's lips curled up in anticipation.

"I will have an elf take your trunk to the guest room. If you are not too tired from war, I am ready now."

Godric left his trunk in the hallway and the two walked, strides nearly equal, through the few rooms of the manor to the back garden. Their feet took them unguided, having fifteen years of memory ingrained into the steps that led to one particular spot, a clearing just beyond the plants about forty feet long and just shy of ten wide, created more from their trampling than measurements. They stood at opposite sides, wands drawn. Each raised his, simultaneously tapping his head on either side, then his heart, as practiced as a bow.

When they were young, they would not wait to cast spells, chasing each other through the garden, causing mayhem in every direction. Sadrabald could forgive this in children, and it was easy enough to have the house-elves clean up after them. As they got older, he pushed them to a more formal course of play. The Slytherin Lord ramped up the intensity of their competition, let the iron in one sharpen the iron in the other. He had the house-elves clear this patch of garden, then he taught the two boys he cared for most how to duel.

Sadrabald would not be able to hold his own in a duel with either of them now. He was quite pleased the first time the boys had bested him, as he was not a man to hold back in any arena.

Godric and Salazar flashed their wands from their chest to point at each other, each releasing a series of spells in such short sequence it seemed as if a dozen blazes of color appeared at once flying across the dueling pit. No words were spoken, and the only sounds were the rustle of the winds in the shrubs and flowers nearby and the heavy, earnest grunts of the two men. The first volley was a series of near-misses from quick dodges, collisions with each other, and ricochets off protections charms.

They played to immobilization. In their repertoire were stuns, tripping spells, finger-twisters, body hoistings. As they grew stronger in their abilities, they grew more tuned as well. A novice cast of a body hoisting jinx may pull up from the leg; this became boring, and a sign of weak ability. Now they hoisted by an ankle, or a toe. They fought for novelty and humiliation. They fought like brothers.

Salazar was the only man who could think more quickly in a duel than Godric, and Godric countered this mostly by not letting his opponent think. He continued volleys of spells, putting Salazar on the defensive, looking for any sort of opening. Nothing, even as he made Salazar step backward to better hold his ground.

Then Salazar lurched forward and low, just as Godric was bringing his wand forward; he knew his binding spell would miss, and before he could direct a new attack lower, Salazar's orange blaze grazed his foot, and he could feel the heel of his boot lurch backward, dragging his body into the air. He hung upside-down, the bottoms of his robes folding over his top half. Salazar approached him, a head bobbing down and up slightly with his smooth gait.

"Do you know how I won this time?" he asked.

This was the part Godric hated most about losing: Salazar always wanted to lecture him about why he lost. Though Godric could completely understand the sentiment, he did the same thing when he won.

"How did you best me?" Godric asked, his tone bordering sarcastic, as he let himself down with the counter-jinx.

"You have a tell when you cast your binding jinx. You do it slowly, like this," Salazar made a motion with his wand, a pulling-back that was slight, but that did seem to run counter to the rest of the wave. "I waited for you to cast it again—of course I knew you were aiming for my hands, so I kept my wand a little higher than usual—and was able to come in low."

"Very clever, Salazar. I am glad the wizard I encountered in the Nords was not so sharp."

"A war story! I do not know if I should beg you to tell it now, over supper, or be irate that you didn't write it to me during your long journey home."

Godric was about to speak again, when a crack came from the center of the dueling pit—the house-elf knew this was the only way to break up the two when they were going at it, though he was relieved to see they had stopped. Apparating into a fight was low on the house-elf's preferred chores, but like all other orders from Lord Slytherin, he graciously obeyed.

With a low bow, the house-elf said, "Lord Slytherin requests your audience in the parlor," and Disapparted.

"Best not keep father waiting," Salazar said, and the two headed to the parlor, Godric telling the brief version of his duel with the Viking wizard.

They entered the parlor and Lord Slytherin was sitting, two more chairs faced him. He gestured to them, and waited for the pair to rest themselves.

"Boys," he began, "it is good to see you both together again. The only greater joy may be to see you with your wives."

At this, Godric screwed up his face in a very evident confusion.

"Godric, have you not stopped home yet?"

"In truth, my Lord, I have called on you first. I come bearing a gift that could not wait."

"We will get to that in a moment, then, and I have some news for you, though any news concerning your matrimony is not mine to share, and I fear I have already spoiled the surprise. However, it seems Salazar has made no mention of his news. Though he did not seem too eager to hear it himself." Sadrabald gestured at his son.

Salazar looked to Godric and said rather tonelessly, "I am to marry Matilda, Baron O'Dermott's daughter, next summer."

"If I am guessing correctly, if we do not like our wives, at least we will be able to honeymoon together," Godric said, and Salazar could not suppress a small smile. Even Sadrabald had to stifle a chuckle.

"You will both, I'm sure, not find your marriages a burden. At least in time. For now, you may both prove your worth to these women in a very unique way."

Godric dropped his joking demeanor and turned serious, curious, at these words. Sadrabald did not speak idly about glory, honor, or worth.

"I have told Salazar already that our dear King of England has decided that, for the first time since King Arthur's Round Table, one of our kind will sit with him in his court. I convinced him that he should hold a series of trials to determine this representative, and that you and Salazar, as well as two witches with whom I think you are acquainted, should be considered. I have sent word to Rowena Ravenclaw and to Helga Hufflepuff of this decision, and to you as well, though you were not home to receive the message. The trials will begin in a fortnight. Now, what was the gift you have brought for me?"

"My Lord, I am honored you have put my name before the King. I will confirm our King's trust in your judgement," Godric said, his voice serious, tense. "For the House of Slytherin, I have brought the heart of a Ridgeback."