Prologue – The Storm
Peering across the crashing waves from Tintagel, he read the stars through the murky clouds above. It was here he had learned that a new King would come, one that would lead the people to triumph against those that had crushed them beneath their heel…
Arthur…the one true King of the land…
Myrddin could not fathom what it was that had brought him here once more. He knew that trial and tribulation would be forthcoming in the pursuit of peace, that treachery was afoot to see the world he would forge never be so…
'The lightning,' he murmured. 'The sorcerer yet to come…he who defies Death…'
He narrowed his eyes as snatched glimpses of battles passed before them, of the King yet to be crowned, of a faceless man who stood defiantly before Myrddin; the one who would see his efforts bear no fruit.
It could not be.
Myrddin had not toiled so to allow any to stand in his way. Arthur would be King in name, yet it would be Myrddin to guide him towards the world Myrddin envisioned, a world he would carefully mould using the hands of the boy born to Uther and Igraine's coming together.
Through sorcery, and his own design, he would see his vision brought to life.
He had laid down his pieces long ago, and now, it was time to witness how his machinations would play out.
Though the stars were ominous, and the froing waves unsettling, his own movement and guidance of all around him caused him no pause.
The sword would be drawn, the new King would claim his throne, and Merlin would enjoy the fruits of his labour for the years to follow. Not even the stars above nor the sea below Tintagel would stand in the way of what was to come.
'Beware the storm…of he who defies Death…'
Myrddin merely frowned.
If the stars and seas could not prevent what was to come, how could one man hope to?
He looked to the boy-king on his left, the Briton of Britons who would lead the purge of the Saxons, who would reclaim the land for his people.
They would flock to him, would fight for him, and Arthur would unite the kingdoms as one.
Campaigns of war were a necessity, but the spilling of blood would bring a time of peace and prosperity, though Myrddin could not forget the warning of the stars.
If what he'd undeniably seen was true, another would one day come and put his plans in jeopardy.
Myrddin could not allow that.
A world where his own kind and the mundane could live harmoniously was true peace, and it would be Myrddin and Arthur who would bring his vision to fruition.
The boy trusted his guidance, and he'd born witness only to the slightest hint of the power he possessed.
Myrddin had spent many years honing his skills, consulting the elements that spoke to him so, and planning the future of the Britons meticulously.
"We will arrive soon, Arthur."
The boy nodded and his hand gripped the pommel of his magnificent sword.
Arthur had been humbled by his upbringing with Ser Ector, the man whom Myrddin had chosen to raise the boy with the knowledge that, Arthur's father, Uther, would inevitably be killed soon after the birth of his son in war.
Such had indeed come to pass, and Arthur knew nothing of his lineage until he'd pulled the sword from the stone.
Myrddin had told the boy what he needed to know, and now, the headed a large host heading towards the castle of Camelot.
It would be Arthur's seat from where he would bring peace to magicals and mundane alike, and where Myrddin would guide the boy to a great destiny.
Or so he hoped.
"There it is, Arthur," Myrddin murmured, pointing towards the enormous castle on the hill in the distance. "It will be your home, where you will become the true king of Briton."
"Am I not the king now?" the boy asked.
"You are the rightful king," Myrddin assured him, "but there are those who must see you for the man you are to become. A king must prove his worthiness to rule, and when he does, he will have the love and loyalty of his people. You must be strong, virtuous, chivalrous, and pious, Arthur. For you have been chosen by the gods to bring much-needed peace to these lands."
Arthur swallowed deeply as he nodded.
"What if I fail?"
Myrddin chuckled as he ruffled his hair.
"You will not," he vowed.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because it is already written in the stars, my king," Myrddin whispered, smiling encouragingly at the boy.
Arthur nodded and sat a little taller on his mount.
The road ahead of them would be. Perilous, but Myrddin truly believed all he'd said.
Nonetheless, he could not forget the many warnings he'd received throughout the years.
The unfaithful wife, the treacherous companions, and the bringer of the storm.
Myrddin knew not who these people were, but the faceless figures he'd seen would one day show themselves, and he would be ready for them, for Arthur was to be king, a king guided by Myrddin's own capable hand.
Nothing would change that, not the ominous splattering of rain as they approached the gates to the keep, nor the echoing rumble of thunder in the distance.
(Break)
She watched as the forks of lightning battered the lake on the grounds and narrowed her eyes against the buffeting winds. The storm had been raging for hours, and she could not recall experiencing one so violent, but despite the strange phenomenon, the stars shone brightly above.
She came here often to look upon them, not for the mere beauty or to map them, but for her own guidance.
"Mars is bright tonight," she noted.
The man to her left released a deep sigh.
"But what does it mean?"
"War will soon be upon us."
The man shook his head.
"For one blessed with such wisdom and wit, I find it most peculiar that you put so much faith in such things, Rowena."
She turned towards her companion.
"There are things out there much more powerful than us, Salazar. We are but flesh and bone, blessed with a gift we barely understand. Oh, we continue to make great strides, but the magic that flows through us is a deep pool that we perilously tread at the very surface."
"It is," Salazar agreed, "but I prefer to believe in what I can see with my own eyes and not those of something else I cannot possibly fathom. Perhaps one day we will find the answer to the great questions we find ourselves pondering, but I cannot bring myself to waste time pursuing them. If there is indeed a higher power, it will reveal itself to us when it chooses to. It will not be coaxed."
Rowena nodded.
"I do not wish to coax it, but I will not ignore the guidance it provides. If only you would truly open your mind to what is there, you could share in my wisdom," she replied with a slight smirk tugging at her lips.
Salazar chuckled and held up a hand.
"I'm afraid I do not possess the same faith you have. Perhaps I prefer to look to the problems at hand than those yet to come."
Rowena smiled.
Salazar was ever the pragmatic but no less brilliant than her in his own ways.
He possessed talents she did not, as did their other two companions.
It was why they were able to teach so well.
Each had their own talents to pass on to their students, and over the years, they had gathered others of equal excellence to join them, but it would always be the four of them who founded the school.
"It is quite a storm," Salazar commented, pulling her from her musings.
"Like no other I have ever seen," Rowena acknowledged aloud. "It is an omen."
"An omen?"
"Such things are not only destructive, but they bring about change. Can you not feel the change in the air?"
"I feel something," Salazar murmured. "It is disturbing but…"
"Equally comforting."
"Yes," Salazar agreed as he leaned over the parapet to look at the grounds below. "But what is it?"
"I do not know."
They fell silent for some time, listening to the wind and rain as it continued to pummel the castle, startling at the sporadic bouts of thunder and subsequent lightning.
There was indeed a change in the air, something unknown, but something, nonetheless.
What it could be, Rowena didn't know but this was no regular storm. It was saturated with magic unlike nothing else she had ever felt.
All that remained was to wait and see what it would bring.
"Mars is bright tonight," she repeated quietly.
If the two instances were connected then perhaps what the storm would bring was something to see them through the turbulent times ahead, or maybe it was a bad omen that both were present.
Only time would tell, but what Rowena was sure of was that war was coming and much blood would be spilled.
(Break)
He stared across the eerily still waters of the lake, grasping his wand in one hand and the Gillyweed in the other. It was odd that the lake was so still after the storm had raged on until the early hours, but Harry was not truly focusing on the weather.
It was a cold February morning, but that meant little in the face of the task ahead.
Spending perhaps an hour underwater was not something he was looking forward to, but he was not as nervous as he was when he'd faced the dragon.
Even now, months after he'd mostly outflown the Horntail, he felt a twinge in his arm where the spike of its tail penetrated him to the bone.
He rubbed at the scar and a pale Cedric offered him a nod.
"It's a good day for it," he declared as he began to stretch.
Harry snorted humourlessly.
"Maybe for those who wanted to be a part of it."
Cedric smiled sympathetically.
"You'll do great, Harry, just like you did against the dragon. I'm certainly not going underestimate you."
"Well, that seems to be a small club," Harry sighed.
"Ignore them," Cedric urged, nodding towards the jeering Slytherins. "I would bet my life that none of them could do as well as you have. Besides, you do have people cheering for you."
Harry frowned as he looked towards his housemates, the very same ones who'd all but ostracised him until after the first task of the tournament.
Only Fred and George had believed that he'd not entered himself.
Even Ron and Hermione, who had been there with him through most of his unwitting adventures here, had doubted him.
Maybe he was tired of the same isolation he'd experienced throughout his life, or that he simply didn't wish to lose the only friends he'd ever had, but he'd forgiven them all for the doubt.
Nonetheless, Harry couldn't help but still feel betrayed and hurt by how easily they'd shunned him.
Not that it mattered now.
They'd all seemingly forgot just how badly they'd treated him and they evidently assumed he had too.
He shook his head as Dumbledore began explaining what would be expected of the champions during the second task, and he readied himself to plunge into the depths of the lake.
"CHAMPIONS, THE TASK WILL BEGIN AT THE SOUND OF THE CLAXON!"
Releasing a deep breath, Harry shoved the Gillyweed into his mouth, grimacing at the rubbery yet slimy texture.
He managed to swallow it as the claxon droned across the length and breadth of the grounds, and without hesitation, he dived into the lake.
It was when he broke the surface that he felt the changes taking effect, and he looked down to see his fingers lengthening, and joining together at the webbings.
When he began swimming briskly towards the centre of the lake, he realised that he could breathe freely, and he kept a tight hold of his wand as he kicked his legs, urging himself forward.
For how long he swam, Harry didn't know, but his legs were tired by the time he heard the familiar singing in the distance.
'Come seek us where our voices sound,
We cannot sing above the ground,
And While you're searching ponder this:
We've taken what you'll sorely miss,
An hour long you'll have to look,
And to recover what we took,
But past an hour - - the prospect's black,
Too late it's gone, it won't come back.'
Somehow, the voice sounded even more eerie as he swam ever deeper, so deep that he could no longer see the light above.
Still, Harry knew it was the anticipation of reaching where the hostages were being kept that was bothering him the most.
He'd been in the water for perhaps fifteen minutes and he was making good progress, though he did not wish to comprehend what would happen if he didn't make it back towards land before the Gillyweed inevitably wore off.
He shook his head of those thoughts as he continued onwards, not willing to focus on the prospect of drowning here.
What could Dumbledore or any of the judges do to prevent such a fate.
Down here, Harry was all alone, save for the voices of the merepeople which were growing stronger with each passing moment.
He paused as the singing suddenly ceased, and the depths of the lake fell completely silent.
Readying his wand, he scanned the darkness around him, wondering if this was just one of the inevitable surprises of the task.
Harry pondered what kind of creature could cause such a sudden calmness, and he realised that his apprehension had gone with the singing.
A sense of peace washed over him, and as he caught sight of an ethereal figure moving gracefully through the water towards him, he felt a burst of anger at the thought it was Delacour somehow using her odd effect on him.
As the figure drew nearer, however, he realised that it wasn't Fleur at all but another; a woman somehow more ethereal than the Veela girl, though she had the same alabaster skin and silvery-purple hair.
Harry could feel her presence grow stronger and he struggled to fend off whatever it was the woman was doing to him.
As she reached him, she merely stared for a moment before holding up her hand in a calming gesture.
By now, despite his best efforts, Harry had been swept up by her, and as she beckoned for him to follow, his body complied against the wishes of his mind.
He fought and fought against what she was doing to him, but the more he did, the tighter her hold on him became.
Still, he would not relent, but he could not prevent himself from following her as she opened something resembling a doorway at the bottom of the lake.
Passing through it, Harry felt an immediate exhaustion settle within him, and though he tried to resist his own closing eyes, the darkness took him.
(Break)
He gasped as his gaze swept across the length and breadth of the Great Hall he found himself in before they came to rest on the ornate throne at the far end of the room.
Arthur swallowed deeply as the weight of all that had happened to him settled on his shoulders but Merlin gave his arm a gentle squeeze.
"Feeling that burden means that you will be a good king," the man said encouragingly.
Arthur nodded.
As a young man of only fifteen who'd been raised in the humblest of abodes by Ser Ector, learning that he was the rightful king of the entire country was more than a little overwhelming.
"Is Camelot really mine?" he asked.
Merlin offered him a smile.
"Arthur, from the most northern point to the south, everything you see belongs to you by right. Your subjects will bow to you, they will fight for you, and they will keep you fed, but you must be willing to do the same. You may have to bleed for your people, perhaps be willing to give your final crust to a hungry child, but that is what a good king does. He wields his power justly, spills blood only when needed, and remains humble to all above and below him."
Arthur frowned thoughtfully.
"Be strong to those who oppose me but merciful to those who seek it."
Merlin beamed at his words.
"Yes, my boy," he whispered. "You will be a most excellent king. There is a greatness in you, Arthur, and we must build it."
Arthur continued to stare at the throne.
"But what of all the invaders and the lands taken after…"
He broke off.
Merlin had explained what had happened to his parents, and although Arthur had only ever seen Ser Ector as his father, it still hurt to learn of their deaths.
"They are your lands," Merlin said firmly. "When the time is right, you will reclaim and the country will be united under your banner only."
"When the time is right?"
Merlin nodded.
"You are not ready to wage war, Arthur. To be a strong leader, you must be an exceptional warrior. You must first establish your court, build and army, and bide your time."
"When the time is right," Arthur agreed.
"Good boy," Myrddin praised. "Now, while you are settling in, I have an errand or two to run. I will be gone no longer than a week or so, but I'm afraid it is unavoidable. You will be fine, Arthur. You have good people around you. Take this time to familiarise yourself with your new home."
"But there is a storm coming," Arthur pointed out.
"That is exactly why I must go," Myrddin replied cryptically, giving Arthur's shoulder a comforting squeeze before he took his leave of the hall, raising his hood to shelter him from the hammering rain.
(Break)
As he opened his eyes, Harry revelled in the brief bliss of ignorance as he tried to remember what had happened before he'd lost consciousness. He thought that perhaps he'd been retrieved from the lake, but he quickly realised he was not in the hospital wing, but in what appeared to be a roughly hewn cave of sorts.
"You are quite safe, Harry Potter," a soothing voice comforted.
He looked up to see the same woman who'd come to him in the lake, a lit fire, and little else.
"Who are you?" he asked warily.
The woman offered him a smile and Harry felt his cheeks redden.
Despite the ominous situation he found himself in, she was undeniably beautiful, rather inhumanly so. Even compared to Fleur, this woman was like no other he'd ever seen.
"I have gone by many names," she answered. "Some call me Nimue, other Elaine, among several others, but to all, I am the Lady of the Lake."
"The Lady of the Lake?"
The woman nodded.
"That is who I have always been for as long as I can remember. I have seen kingdoms rise and fall, many men and women, and their children's children come and go, and yet, I have always been. Perhaps I always will."
Her words were cryptic and Harry did not pretend to understand them.
"Is this a part of the task?" he asked.
"Task," she sighed. "The task you found you were a part of is nothing to the task ahead of you, Harry Potter," she added apologetically.
"So, this isn't a part of the tournament."
"No," she answered sadly. "What you are to do goes beyond a simple competition. From here on out, your life will not be what it once was."
Harry frowned confusedly before shaking his head.
"I don't understand."
The woman looked into his eyes and swallowed deeply.
"No, you do not," she agreed. "You should understand what I am to tell you, but you have never been given the chance to. I brought you here, a child of prophecy, to fulfil another given by the very stars. Fate had plans for you, Harry Potter, and perhaps she still does, but it is I that need you now."
"Me?"
"You," she reiterated firmly. "There is another like you, a wise and powerful man who does not understand what he will bring about should he succeed with his plans. I have seen it with my own eyes, have lived what it is to come, but the fate of the world was never his to dictate. He brought about a king, a strong and noble leader, but the man's intentions are not as pure as he proclaims them to be. Many will suffer and destinies will remain unfulfilled, that will not change, but he cannot be allowed to succeed."
Once more, Harry found himself deeply confused.
The woman was evidently concerned about what she was referring to, and though Harry wracked his brain for what she meant, he remained as clueless as when he'd first woken up.
"I'm sorry, I still don't get it."
She smiled sadly as she took his hand and Harry shuddered from the coldness.
"I know and I'm afraid there is little time to explain," she whispered, "but he is not what he claims to be. He is a powerful sorcerer, but you are no stranger to those, Harry Potter."
Harry shivered as she ran her finger down the length of the scar on his brow.
"He's like Voldemort?"
"No, not like your foe," the woman denied. "He is different but even more dangerous in his own way. He is misguided and set firmly in his beliefs. I have tried to deter him, but to no avail."
"You want me to stop him?" Harry choked. "Why?"
"Because perhaps only you can," the woman answered ominously.
"But I'm just a boy!"
"For now," she agreed, "but you are not so far from manhood. The day will come when you are ready, Harry Potter, and your journey is only at the very beginning."
Harry began to panic as he felt a grogginess begin to come over him.
"Wait, I don't understand!"
"You will," the woman assured him. "When the time comes for you to do what is needed, you will understand."
The room was fading quickly and Harry dug his fingers into his thighs in a bid to remain conscious.
"W-who is it?"
The woman's eyes met his own and instead of speaking aloud, he heard her voice in his head, as though her voice was caressing his brain.
'Myrddin Emrys.'
(Break)
"I do not understand why you must chop it by hand," Helga huffed as Godric removed his axe from within his hat.
"Your body should be as strong as your magic," he replied simply. "A weak body can only wield weak magic."
"Tell that to Rowena."
"She's an exception," Godric grumbled. "Her powerful mind makes up for her lithe frame."
Helga chuckled as she leaned against the tree she was standing by to watch her companion chop another that had fallen in the storm.
"Did you just call yourself a dullard?" she asked.
"I'm no dullard," Godric denied, his thick red beard twitching irritably. "Rowena just has a way of making the rest of us appear that way."
"She does," Helga agreed.
Godric grunted as he drove the head of his axe into the trunk, splitting it cleanly in two.
"Aha, I remain as strong as ever," he declared, flexing his arm in triumph.
Helga rolled her eyes.
He was not really a brute.
Godric was perhaps the kindest man she'd ever met, except for her Heathcliff, and though he could be rather brash, blunt, and would regularly engage in behaviour she did not approve of, he remained one of her closest friends.
"Come on then," he urged. "You can carry the smaller half."
Helga quirked an eyebrow at him and drew her wand, levitating it as Godric huffed once more.
"I do not see the harm in using magic for such things. I am but a delicate flower of a woman, after all."
Godric let out a loud bark of laughter.
"Don't come that with me, Helga. I remember the night you and I shared that mead and the swollen eye I woke up with."
"It served you right."
"You're not wrong," Godric replied with a fond smile. "You keep me well-mannered."
"Someone has to."
Godric's smile only widened as he held a thick branch aside so that Helga could pass through without getting her dress snagged.
"You're not so bad, Godric," she sighed. "When you're sober."
"Most of the time then," he chuckled. "I will take it."
Helga shook her head, pausing as they emerged close to the edge of the lake.
"What is that?" she asked pointing to what appeared to be a maroon garment washed up on the shore.
Godric frowned and the two of them approached.
As they neared, Helga gasped and dropped the large piece of wood she'd been levitating before her.
"It's a boy!"
Hurrying to his side, she hurriedly turned him over and drew her wand.
He was paler than he had any right to be, and she could feel the clamminess of his skin through the water of the lake, yet, somehow, he was still alive.
"We must get him help immediately," Helga whispered, forgetting the piece of wood and levitating the skinny boy.
It wasn't often that Godric appeared to be worried by much, but as his gaze remained on their charge, he was undoubtedly concerned.
"Where did he come from?" he mused aloud.
Helga shook her head.
"I do not know. He is not familiar to me."
"Nor me," Godric murmured. "I will send ahead for the others. Rowena and Salazar will know what to do."
Helga nodded and watched as Godric whispered.
The beautiful bird that swooped from the trees of the forest towards him came to rest on his shoulders and ruffled its feathers expectantly.
Both Godric and Rowena had a way with creatures that she and Salazar lacked, save for his talent with Serpents.
"Go, quickly," Godric urged as he finished whispering to the bird.
It took off and barrelled towards the castle only a short distance away, vanishing in one of the uppermost windows.
"How is he?" Godric asked.
"Barely alive," Helga answered. "He is wearing your colours."
"And he has our crest," Godric observed, "but he is not one of ours."
"Then we shall have to hope he wakes and he will be able to give us the answers we seek."
Godric nodded and gave the boys' hand an encouraging squeeze.
"If you survived that storm, lad, you might just make it."
(Break)
He replaced his quill in the holder and waved his wand over the parchment to dry it before closing the book. Sealing with a gently hissed word, he placed it back on the shelf before adding another log to the fire.
The dungeons were most apt for the storage of his ingredients, and Salazar liked that most didn't venture down here.
Godric had taken the seventh floor of the castle for himself, Rowena most of the fifth floor, and Helga the third. Each housed their students close to their own quarters but had a hand in teaching all those that passed through their halls.
Although Salazar had quite the talent for Potions and taught the subject, he enjoyed the wider studies of magic, the more obscure elements, and those that others shied away from.
Most would call his practices dark and perhaps unnatural, but he was living proof that such magic had a place in the world.
One needed only to attempt to breach his mind and they would understand just how powerful a tool it could be when honed.
Rowena was the brightest amongst them, and Godric the most accomplished when it came to martial matters, but Salazar had excelled in things they would not delve into, and his cunning was second to none.
He frowned as the door to his private quarters burst open and a colourful bird entered.
'We need you in the medical bay. We've found a boy half-dead by the lake.'
Salazar's frown deepened.
A half-dead boy by the lake?
If it was a muggle, they had no business bringing him into the castle, but Godric had been as unspecific as ever and Salazar gathered his bag of potions before hurrying towards the fourth floor.
Of course, he would do his best to save the life of a child, but if it was indeed a muggle, his memory would be wiped before being sent on his way.
Non-magicals did not belong anywhere near Hogwarts.
They would only bring war and death with them, and Salazar had seen more than his fair share of both throughout his life.
It was one of the reasons he'd agreed to build the castle.
The muggles would often turn their ire to wizardkind, and although their method of burning them at the stake was ineffective, not even magicals could survive the executioners axe.
His frown had developed into a scowl by the time he entered the medical bay.
Godric, Helga, and Rowena were already there with the latter carefully examining a particularly pale boy, who'd been laid on one of the beds.
The medical bay was a necessity when teaching magic.
Barely a day would go by that one of their students wouldn't need healing of sorts from some mishap, though they seemed to be more common under Godric's tutelage.
The man did teach duelling, after all, and even the sword to those who showed an interest in the pursuit.
"Who is this boy?" Salazar asked curiously.
He was not familiar to him, but there was something of a resemblance in him that was.
Salazar could not put his finger on it, but he could not deny that it was there.
"We don't know," Helga answered worriedly. "He was just lying by the lake."
"Maybe he was blown in by the storm," Godric said thoughtfully.
Salazar shook his head.
"From where, Godric?" he asked. "Aside from the village, there is nowhere else he could've come from."
Godric nodded.
"Maybe he is new in the village."
"No, he is not," Rowena spoke. "Look at this."
She gestured to an odd bracelet the boy was wearing on his wrist.
On it, there was and odd dial with numbers ranging from one to twelve in a circle.
"What magic is that?" Godric questioned.
Rowena shook her head uncertainly.
"I don't know, but he is magical," she revealed. "He's been weakened by whatever has happened to him, but I can feel it."
"A runaway?"
Rowena shrugged.
"We won't know anything until he wakes up, but he is not from here. Look at the material of his clothes. Have you ever seen anything like it?"
Salazar took the fabric between his thumb and forefinger before feeling the thick crest of the school emblazoned on the front of the vest.
"No," he murmured. "It is almost like a silk but thicker and stronger."
"Wait, there was some writing on the back," Helga declared. "When we found him, he was laying on his front, but I didn't pay any attention to the writing."
With a flick of her wand, Rowena removed the vest before turning it over.
"Potter," she said thoughtfully. "His name?"
"Not from around here," Helga spoke up once more, "but close to my marital home there is a family by the name of Potterer."
"But not Potter," Salazar pointed out. "You know how these change from village to village. I say we make no assumptions until he wakes and we speak with the boy."
"I agree," Godric broke in. "I am rather curious to see how he came to be here."
"Then we do nothing until then," Rowena declared.
"What about healing him?" Helga asked.
"He needs only rest," Rowena assured her. "He is weak, but there is nothing else wrong with him, though I find myself curious about these."
She pointed to several scars littering the body of the boy; a thick, round lump of puckered flesh on his right forearm, another not so dissimilar above his elbow on his right arm, and various smaller wounds on his torso and legs.
The one that seemed to bother her the most, however, was an oddly shaped one above his right brow.
Salazar was certain the boy would have some stories to tell as to how he got them, but as his gaze flickered to Rowena, she seemed only to become more concerned.
Tentatively, she placed the tip of her wand on the last of the scars and murmured something incoherent under her breath before withdrawing it.
"What is it?" Salazar asked.
"I am unsure," Rowena said thoughtfully, "but it feels most unpleasant."
Salazar placed his hand on the boys' head and tilted his own curiously.
Whatever had created such a wound was indeed most unpleasant, but again, it felt somewhat familiar to him.
"A curse," he whispered. "It is a curse scar that has never been healed."
"Surely not," Helga gasped. "What curse?"
Salazar shook his head.
"I don't know," he whispered, "but this boy should be dead."
"Then why isn't he?" Helga asked.
Salazar hummed thoughtfully as he withdrew his hand.
"I cannot say, and the curse was used against him too long ago to determine precisely what it was. Nevertheless, it has left a lasting impression on him."
"Is there anything we can do?"
"Until we know what curse was used and what the lingering effect is, I do not believe so," Rowena answered. "I would not take such a risk."
"Nor would I," Salazar agreed, finding himself rather intrigued by just who this boy was.
His gaze roamed over him once more, and he just could not shake the feeling of familiarity he felt both in how he looked and the magic he could sense within him.
"Wait, you do not think that she is somehow responsible for this?" Rowena questioned, narrowing her eyes towards Salazar.
He shook his head irritably.
"She would not attack any boy for no reason," he retorted firmly.
It was no secret to whom his colleague was referring.
The other three only mentioned her as the girl in the forest, but Salazar chose to call her by her given name.
She'd attended Hogwarts for only a few moons before she'd suddenly vanished one day, and it was more than a year later that Salazar discovered her living in the dark forest on the grounds.
He'd urged her against continuing to do so, but she seemed to be thriving.
Occasionally, he would take her extra food and the two had struck up something of a tentative friendship.
She may have opted not to continue her education at Hogwarts, but he saw no harm in her living in the forest.
It was undoubtedly safer than how she would be treated if certain muggles discovered what she was.
Rowena hummed.
"Well, I would speak with her on the matter," she decided. "If she has done this…"
"She has not," Salazar huffed. "Unless she cursed this boy when she was a babe herself, then she is innocent. You may not like her and her ways, but she has done no harm to anyone here."
Rowena nodded reluctantly, but Salazar decided he would pay the girl a visit.
Perhaps she saw something odd leading to the arrival of the boy.
"Excuse me, Professors."
"What is it, Elrond?" Helga requested kindly.
The man tended to the grounds around the castle.
He'd been born to magical parents but he possessed no ability in wielding it himself. As such, he'd been all but cast out of his family and Helga had brought him along when they'd first begun building the castle.
He was getting older now and his work had slowed down, but each of the four were fond of him in their own way.
Elrond would often help Salazar gather ingredients, and always informed him of anything new he found.
"He is here."
"He?" Godric asked.
Elrond nodded and Salazar narrowed his eyes disapprovingly.
"Myrddin."