Her hand was cold.

He was used to cold.  He liked cold.  There was a reason he had chosen to reside in the dungeons during his time at Hogwarts. 

He didn’t precisely know why he had always been more partial to being in cold than hot, or even being in mild temperatures.  Those who disliked him �“ and there were many these days (there was a reason he had isolated himself) �“ had likened it to the fact that he himself had such a frigid heart.  That might have been true, but there was more to it than that.  Something about the cold just naturally appealed to him: from the frost of the winter months; to the cool surface of stone; to the smooth, icy skin of a snake. 

He was used to cold.  He liked cold.

But not this cold.

The skin of her hand was still as soft as it had always been.  He ran his fingers over hers, willing some of his warmth to pass into her, for her skin to be as warm as he remembered it once being.  It remained cool, wintry, indifferent to his pathetically hopeless attempts.

Why?

The thought blew into his ear and passed through his mind repeatedly, making him shiver.  Why had she died?  Neither of them were old by any means.  One would not have known this from looking at her now, with the way her thick brown hair had faded and thinned, or the way her delicate yet strong-jawed face had wrinkled in on itself and paled . . . this was not the appearance of a powerful witch in her fifties.  What had happened to her?

“A broken heart,” he had heard the villagers murmur on his travel towards the castle he had vowed to never return to.  “Died of a broken heart, poor soul.”

He did not entirely believe this.  Rowena Ravenclaw, die because her soul was so shattered?  The brightest witch he had ever met �“ the brightest human he had ever met �“ who always placed her intellect and mind far above any sort of feeling or emotion?  No.  Not her.  His mind would not allow his memory of her to be degraded in such a way. 

And even if it were true . . . well, it had been years since he’d left Hogwarts . . . surely her heart would have broken faster . . .

Selfish bastard.  Who’s to say you’re the one who broke her heart?

He gripped her hand tighter at this thought, but could think of nothing that would deny it from being true.  It made a good deal of sense, were he to be honest with himself.  Who was to say that there was not someone she had loved more than him?  Who was to say that she ever loved him at all?

In a fit of either fury or pain (not even he was able to tell which), he released her hand and threw it back at her.  It landed with a soft thud against her bedcovers; he winced at the sound, but did not move to take her fingers again.  He stared down at her.  Were it not for how cold he knew her skin to be, he would have almost taken her for sleeping.  Her posture was relaxed against her bed, her head tilted to the left against her pillow, the covers pulled nearly to her chin.  And again Salazar couldn’t help but wonder how she had died.

An internal cold that caused him to quiver passed over him once more as he looked at her . . . yet, it did not feel so internal.  He turned his head.  Her window was open.  Had no one in this wretched castle thought to close it?  Fools.  He strode over to close it, trying not to recall all the times he had closed the window before, but paused with his hands half-outstretched.  Beside the window, as always, was her wooden desk, where she had liked to sit and merely stare out through the glass, lost in her many insights and thoughts. 

But sitting atop the desk now was a vase of white flowers.  She had never had a vase there before, or flowers.  True, it was not terribly unusual for people to redecorate their rooms �“ especially when over a decade had passed �“ but Rowena had never liked flowers.  She said their fragrance penetrated her nostrils and interfered with her thinking.  She would have never chosen to have flowers in her room.

People change, Slytherin.

He grimaced to himself: how right this was.  Still, though he could not decide what, something about the room unsettled him.

Shaking off his feelings of unease, he took the window latch in hand and closed it firmly.  It was time for him to go.  There hadn’t been any reason to him for stay at Hogwarts all those years ago, and there certainly wasn’t any reason to now.

 He whirled away from the window and prowled towards the door, his eyes unwavering on the door handle, with every intention of leaving the room �“ until his gaze fell on the floor beside her bed.  A book sat on the floor, opened.  One of the flowers from inside the vase lay atop it, with one difference: its color was red.  Blood red.

He moved towards it without conscious thought and knelt down to examine both objects closer.  The book was normal enough considering her vast love of literature; he couldn’t see the title, but from the words, it looked to be something about the magical theory behind ghosts and how they come to be. 

He turned his attention to the flower next.  The red coloring, it quickly became clear, was not just a trick of the light, or the flower’s natural coloring, as he had vaguely hoped against hope that it would be.  This white flower had truly been stained with blood.

His eyes moved to Rowena’s face.  Her expression, of course, had not changed in the slightest since he had last looked upon her, and if he had been thinking clearly he might have chastised himself for being as emotional as the witless Godric Gryffindor.  But he was not thinking clearly �“ or at least, he was not thinking clearly about such matters.

The blood upon the flower covered it entirely.  A small trickle ran from the petals into the spine of the book, and though he had not touched it, he could tell from the blood’s wet gleam that it had not yet dried.  Rowena’s death had come upon her three days ago.  If this were her blood, it wouldn’t have looked so new . . . would it?

He stood, his eyes still on her face.  Careful not to disturb either the book or the flower, he slipped closer to the bed.  His hands hesitated for a fraction of a moment as they reached for the blankets covering her form, then he grasped the materials and pulled them back to reveal her entire body.

Either she had died in her sleep, or had simply lost the strength to rise from her bed and change clothes during her final days, for she was still in her nightdress.  Her long hair was loose and spread all over the bed; her limbs were straight and rigid for the most part, though her arms were at slightly odd angles from being thrown back by his forceful jerking back of the bedcovers; her waxy skin was illuminated only slightly by the dim moonlight coming through the window, as there were no candles lit in the room.

In short, she looked like a dead person.

But there were no signs of any recent injuries.  Her skin was white and wholly undamaged.  Which meant the blood on the flower belonged to someone else.

“Bastard.”

The word snapped with unbridled anger, grabbing him out of his reverie.  He looked up into the face of Godric Gryffindor, whose tall broad frame stood in the doorway, one hand restraining the door that threatened to close on him.  He looked older than Salazar had remembered �“ obviously, given that with the progression of time, people do age �“ but it was a different old than just natural aging.  His features were wearied, fatigued, the age lines on his face long and deep.

“Good evening, Godric,” he said softly, showing no reaction to the abrupt arrival.

Godric’s eyes were narrowed, his posture stiff, his lips curled back in a partial snarl.  “Why is thou here?”  His volume was much louder than Salazar’s.

“Is that not obvious?” Salazar tilted his head in Rowena’s direction, though he kept his focus on the other man.

Godric’s eyes flashed.  “Thou would not come to see her without ill intent in thy soul,” he snarled, growing steadily louder and angrier.

“Ill intent?” Salazar echoed, who, in contrast to his companion’s behavior, became quieter and more devoid of emotion.  “What ill intents could I possibly have?  I have only come to bid good-bye to a woman now forever in the throes of slumber.”

“None of those games tonight, Slytherin.”  Godric removed his hand from the door and stepped inside; the door swung shut behind him with a snap.  “Thou never does anything without reasons that would benefit thee in some way.”

Salazar did not like the predicament he had found himself in �“ a room alone with Godric Gryffindor barring his way through the door.  Still, he remained calm: riling the other wizard would do no good.

“I do not know what thou wants me to say,” said Salazar.  “I have never been able to tell what thou wants me to say.  Whenever I have spoken what I think, thy response is anger; whenever I have fed thee lies in attempts to have peace remain between us, thy response is also anger.”

Godric advanced two paces; Salazar remained where he stood, his eyes not breaking away from the other man’s. 

“I’m tired of thy riddles and mockery,” Godric seethed.  “Get out.”

A heartbeat of stillness, then Salazar’s lips turned up in a droll smile.  “The final words thou spoke to me the last time I departed from this castle.  History does indeed repeat itself.  I now see that I was mistaken when I questioned dear Rowena over that matter, for she was right, was she not?”

The words had barely rolled from his mouth before Godric drew his sword.  A gleam of silver plunged in Salazar’s direction, and reacting without thinking, he whipped out his wand; the blow of the sword bounced away harmlessly against the invisible shield.

Godric, though he was still breathing heavily, did not make to strike again, but Salazar waited several long moments before stopping his shield charm just to be cautious.  They stood, facing each other, neither moving.

“I do not want to fight,” said Salazar at last.  “Thou can choose to think whatever pleases thee about myself and my intentions, but if there is one matter I want made clear, it is that I do not wish to battle with thee or any other at this school.”

The sword held in Godric’s grip twitched, catching the moonlight and sending a glare right into Salazar’s eye, causing him to squint a bit.  Whether this was Godric’s intent or not, it was difficult to say.

“Then I’ll tell thee one final time,” Godric responded lowly.  “Leave.”

Salazar bowed his head.  “I shall leave immediately.  Good day.”  He waited for Godric to step to the side, which he finally did with a wary look.  Salazar slipped past him and out the door, feeling the other man’s eyes on his back, burning with suspicion and wrath.

His footsteps seemed loud in the empty hallways; where were all the students?  It had been slightly before dinnertime when he’d arrived, and he had not seen a single pupil during his entire journey.  Then he realized it was the end of December.  The holidays.  Many of the students had gone home.

He neared the staircase and stepped swiftly onto it as it began to shift locations.  How long ago it was when these stairs had been nothing but floor plans on parchment, a mere idea and nothing tangible.  How long ago it was when Rowena had waved the parchments detailing the design of the moving staircases in front of his nose, her young face shining with enthusiasm.  How long ago it was when they had been young.

The staircase he stood upon swung and then halted on a lower landing, one that was on the ground floor and eventually led to the Entrance Hall (or Exit Hall, as it currently was for his purposes).  He stepped onto the landing and made his way through the corridor, but instead of passing to the front of the castle, he detoured when he reached the Great Hall, and dived down the narrow staircase leading to the dungeons. 

It had not been a conscious decision to go this way, but when he finally realized where his legs were taking him, he did nothing to stop their movement.  His original intention had been to do just as Godric said and exit the castle.  He had nothing left here for him.  But he couldn’t leave yet.  A part of him needed to see . . . needed to know. . . . He stopped at a door halfway down on the left and pushed it open. 

It looked much as it always has: potion bottles lining the shelves on the walls; a dozen or so cauldrons set up all around the room; a desk against the back wall with papers in neat stacks, along with a potion bottle.  The set-up of the room surprised him.  He had expected it to look drastically different, assumed they would have done everything they could have to rid the traces of him from the place.  Then again, there weren’t many changes you could make to a Potions classroom.

He drew nearer to the desk and peered down at the piles of paper, looking to find out which of the three had usurped his position of teaching the Potions class.  Her handwriting leaped out at him from the parchment papers.  Of course.  He’d known it would be her to take over.  She was the best at Potions, out of them all (not counting himself, obviously).  Her writing was as perfect as it ever had been, with every letter tidy and exact.  The exception to this were her g’s, which for reasons always unknown to him, were incredibly large and loopy, out of place among the other immaculate letters.  Also for reasons unknown to him, were why he’d always been so fond of those bloody g’s.

Shaking himself away from his languor, Salazar turned his focus to a potion bottle sitting atop the desk.  Wondering why this bottle seemed to have been given preference to over all the others (the rest sat on the shelves instead of her desk), he picked it up to peer at the label.  Cauldron-Confidence Potion, the bottle declared proudly in curvy letters.

He raised a brow at the bottle, as though to ask it a silent question.  Cauldron-Confidence?  What would Rowena have been doing with this?  She was the last witch on earth who would need further confidence in her magic abilities.  He couldn’t see her purchasing this for her students either.  She would have wanted them to rely on their own confidence and skill, not those of a little bottle.  What, then, was the potion for?

“Excuse me!”

Startled, he spun around, drawing his wand reflexively from his cloak.  A shadowed form, that of a woman, stood in the doorway, but he could not recognize her in the dark.  Her wand was raised in a menacing stance, but as he turned her arm dropped to her side.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the woman.  She took a step away, falling against the wall of the dungeon corridor; a torchlight burning on the wall threw her features into recognition: Helga Hufflepuff.  “I did not mean �“ I did not know who was standing there �“ I thought thou was an unwanted intruder �“ ”

“Helga, my dear,” said Salazar, relaxing his stance as he replaced the potion bottle to its former location, “I am an unwanted intruder.”

She, like Godric, had aged in appearance more than her actual years truly were: the once smooth, rosy skin of her face was now wrinkled and wan; her golden tresses that used to hang in soft curls had dulled in color, their natural bounce gone.

“Thou is always welcome here,” she said softly.

Salazar let out a faint snort.  “I do not think Godric is aware of that policy.”

The corners of her eyes tightened, though he could not read the feeling behind the slight movement.  “Thou has already met Godric while here?”

“Indeed.  Rowena as well.”

“Oh.”  She seemed to remember the wand she still held in her hand, and stowed it away with trembling fingers.  He followed her lead, and tucked his own wand out of sight.  Helga had never thought to attack or trick him, and he knew, with the intuition that only comes from knowing the very soul of a person, that she never would either.

“If it is not too much to question,” she said then, “is there a reason behind thy visit here?”

He drew his cloak around him and with a final sweeping look at the room, moved for the doorway.  “I only wanted to say farewell to Rowena.  As I have done that, I’ll be on my way.”

Helga held up a hand, and he halted his strides.  “I did not mean to push thee out the door.  Please, stay, if it is what thy wishes are.”  She searched his face.  “Thou is troubled.”  She said it not as a question, but merely as a statement, and looked up at him with concern. 

“I am fine,” said Salazar evenly.  He was not, of course, but what difference did it make?  There was nothing to be done about any of it.  Rowena was dead; how or why she had died made no difference, and neither did remaining here any longer.  “Please, let me pass by.”

But Helga did not move.  “Why is thou troubled?”

He did not want to reply, but stall though he did, there was simply no way for him not to reply.  Helga simply had a way of compelling people to speak honestly, of making them admit what they did not want to, of forcing them to recognize truths they did not recognize themselves. 

“Her,” he grunted, unable to articulate more than that, but knowing at the same time this single word was all that was needed.

Crystal-blue orbs held his own for a minute, and no other movement was made.  Then she spoke, her voice as low in volume as his had been.  “Come with me,” she whispered.

She took his hand; her skin was worn, callused, and warm, far too warm, and everything about her touch made him want nothing more than to pull away, but he did not.  He let her lace their fingers together, and when she began to pull him through the door and out of the dungeons, he did not fight against her.  They moved up the stairs and to the ground floor, wove through the Great Hall, then the Entrance Hall, and at last reached the large doors. 

Helga used her free hand to wrench the doors open, then she joined the brisk evening air, tugging him along.  Their feet slipped along the grass, moist with dew, and down around the side of the castle, until they came to the side of the Astronomy Tower.  Her arm rose, and one willowy finger pointed to an unlit lamp fixated to the wall.  The lamps had never gone unlit during the hours of darkness while he was teaching at the school.

“The last place she visited before becoming confined to her bedchambers was right here, under this light.”  She was forced to lift her volume beyond a whisper in order to be heard above the whistling wind, though her tone was still tender.  “She stood against the wall beneath it, and looked up at the light �“ no, I am mistaken,” she amended softly.  “She did not look at the light �“ she looked past it, beyond it, looked at what I could not see �“ and she said, ‘I am ready to fly, Helga.’” 

A violent tremor sifted through her body, and she let out a dry sob, eyes lifted upward, examining the sky with wild despair.  “And fly she did �“ the week following �“ fly she did.”

Helga tucked her chin to her chest, shivers continuing to rattle her limbs, and though he knew she was not shaking from cold, he unfastened his traveling cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders.

He did not know what to say, did not know what to do.  He had never known what to do with a crying woman.  Were you supposed to envelop her in a warm embrace and whisper soothing words of comfort of how everything was going to be fine, even when it was not?  Were you supposed to stand idly by, pretending that you did not see her tears, and thus not embarrass her further?

Though, she was not actually crying, so perhaps he did not need to apply either of these actions.  She merely stood, chin against her collarbone, his cloak around her shoulders, a silent soldier who battles not enemies, but friends.

After standing motionless and mute beside her for quite some time, he could do nothing no longer.  Floundering wildly for something to do, he made the first move he could think of, and reached inside his robes, withdrawing a clear potions bottle half-full with a glowing blue liquid.  He lifted one of Helga’s hands in his own; with his other hand, he pressed the bottle against her palm, wrapping her fingers around its surface.

“Calming Draught,” he offered briefly as she lifted her head towards him.

She raised the bottle to eye-level.  “I am no Potions master, Salazar, but even I am aware of the fact that Calming Draughts are meant to be green when properly brewed, not blue.  Surely thou knows it too, being as skilled as thee is in this field.”

“I do indeed, but I’ve been experimenting.  This mixture of ingredients works better than the ones thou may have seen previously.  Trust me.”

Her eyes flickered with some emotion he couldn’t interpret at this last statement �“  he realized too late how wrong it was of him to ask such a thing of her �“ but she uncorked the bottle without further question and took a large swallow.

He somehow found himself giving a wry smile as she recorked the bottle and handed it back to him with a word of thanks.  “Godric would have immediately assumed what I offered to him was poison, and then would’ve thrown the brew in my eyes.”

She smiled too, but it was not wry, only sad.  “I know thou would never offer me a poison, Salazar.  We disagree over much, but we are still as bonded as any siblings who are related by blood.”

“Blood brothers and sisters kill each other,” he contradicted darkly, looking towards the front entrance of Hogwarts as he put the potion back inside his robe pocket.  “Even if not by a physical wound, they still stab one another in many other forms.  And they still leave scars.”

Eyes wet with tears she hadn’t yet cried, Helga reached out a hand and placed it on his forearm; still so unused to physical contact, he had to remind himself not to upset her further by pulling away.  “Salazar �“ ” she began, but stopped when, distracted, he took her hand and lifted it towards his face, lighting his wand to better see.

“What is it?” said Helga, after letting him scrutinize her fingers for a minute.

“There is blood on thy hand,” he intoned slowly.

“Dried blood, yes.  What of it?”

“There is blood on a flower in Rowena’s room.”  He released her hand, meeting her eyes.

She bit her lip, but did not break his steady gaze.  “I was . . . grieving.  I was mad with this grief, I was not thinking clearly at all.  I thought that perhaps I could employ ancient magic of rumors and myths, and bring her back . . . cut wounds in us both and mix our bloods by the pure white flower, as the ancients supposedly did . . . but after I made the cut upon myself, I realized how foolish I was being.  There is no way for the dead to return to us.”

“Thou was hurting,” Salazar comforted her. “Actions such as that are understandable �“ ”

She shook her head, ashamed.  “I still should have never �“ ” She broke off, her sight on something over his shoulder.  He stepped around to stand beside her and look at what had captured her attention.  Coming towards them was a short man with a slight potbelly, a trunk in his hands, his wand tucked behind his ear.

“Good evening!” he said as he neared them.

“Good evening,” Helga and Salazar chorused back, the former as cheerful and polite as ever, the latter with a good degree of wariness.

“You must be the good people called Godric and Helga who run this school,” the man said, stopping in front of them and putting his trunk on the ground.

“I am Helga, yes, but this is not Godric,” Helga amended hastily, “this is �“ ”

“A man who is merely passing through this magnificent school,” Salazar jumped into their dialogue smoothly, bowing his head at the man.  Gossip was high enough as it was.  He did not need word to get out that the infamous Salazar Slytherin had returned to Hogwarts, even if it was only for a night.

“It is magnificent, isn’t it?” said the stranger warmly.  “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you.  I wrote earlier this week and delivered a message by owl that I would be coming,” he added to Helga.

“Oh, yes!” said Helga.  “Thou is Geoffrey?”

The man confirmed that he was.

“And thou was interested in the positions of Transfiguration and Potions, was thou not?”

“I was indeed.”

“Well, thou has come a long way today, so thou is welcome to stay for the night.  Tomorrow we shall conduct an interview for the teaching positions to determine whether thee will be a match for our school.”

“I can demonstrate how adapt I am for the Transfiguration position now,” responded Geoffrey eagerly, “we need not wait for tomorrow.”

“That is truly not necessary, sir �“ ” Helga started to say, but her words went unheeded.

“There is no one better to teach Transfiguration, I assure you,” he stated with confidence, and within seconds, the man had become a cat, which looked up at them with yellow eyes and meowed loudly.

Salazar did not think he had ever seen a worse Animagus transfiguration.  The man had indeed become a cat, it was true �“ the entire anatomical structure was there, from the small body to the padded paws to the swishing tail �“ but he still possessed traces of his human self.  His human eyebrows were still there, positioned above his cat eyes.  Upon revealing the interior of his mouth in a yawn, rows of human teeth were shown, not the pointed ones of a normal cat.  Worst of all were the ears.  The ears of a typical cat sat on his head, but the man had not quite managed to get rid of his own ears either, and they stuck out in a very ridiculous fashion from the top of the skull, covered with fur but still retaining their human shape.

“This is a lovely demonstration of thy talent, sir,” said Helga, recovering herself faster than Salazar, “but I’m afraid that I am simply too tired to adequately interview thee tonight.  Please, go on inside and find Godric.  He shall be happy to escort thee to an available room.”

The cat’s form molded and grew back into the man, who picked up his trunk with a smile.  “My sincerest thanks.  Good night to you.”

“Farewell,” said Helga, and watched the man as he retreated towards the castle.  Salazar watched him too, his initial amusement over the man’s pathetic transfiguration fading as he comprehended what his arrival meant.

“Thou is hiring new teachers?” he questioned softly.

“Godric and I cannot run the school alone,” said Helga steadily, meeting his narrowed gaze.

“And whose chambers is that man to receive?  Mine, or Rowena’s?”

She seemed to try not to wince at his blunt, unfeeling tone.  “There is plenty of space at Hogwarts.  Thou will remember that Rowena was well-prepared for adding new teachers, and while constructing the school created many rooms that have yet to be used.”

“He is completely incompetent,” Salazar declared forthrightly in disgust.  “He cannot possibly be expected to pass on his knowledge to the young when he has no knowledge himself.”

Helga stared at him without flinching this time, her tone as flat and cold as a road frozen over as she returned, “There is no one better for the job.” 

He scowled over her head at a Hogwarts’ window.  “He is a pompous, witless imbecile whose greatest magical achievement is most likely being able to balance his wand upon his index finger, and if that is the sort of wizard thou believes capable enough to become a teacher �“ ”

“If thou is jealous that we have at last found someone to replace thee, why does thou not just say so?” Helga snapped.

“That is not what this is about,” Salazar retorted, beginning to seethe.

“Then what is it about, Salazar?”

“It is about my concern for how thou is going to have students leave this school knowing just as much as they did upon entering �“ nothing �“ and that will be thanks to the incompetence of thy teachers thee has hired �“ ”

“Thou has no right to �“ ”

But he never found out what precisely he had no right to, for it was then that someone within the castle began to shout, and Helga fell silent, her forehead creasing, as she turned around to face the school.  Another person began to yell too, and then there was a loud smack �“ Helga screamed as the source of the noise became evident �“ for an arm had just hit one of the castle windows from the inside.  The limb slid down slowly, silhouetted against the yellow light coming from within, the outline of the fingers splayed and dragging against the glass.

“Oh, God,” Helga murmured, and started running for the front doors, Salazar following after her.

They slammed through the front doors of Hogwarts and bolted into the Great Hall. 

Geoffrey’s was the hand that had been against the window, and his fingers were still sliding down the glass, making an awful screeching noise.  He was red in the face and breathing hard.  Godric stood some distance away, scowling heavily.

“What is going on?” Helga demanded; Salazar had to admire her ability to sound so commanding and firm when speaking to them, as he could hear her the pulse in her throat beating rapidly.

“Thy new teacher is quite theatrical,” Godric growled, talking to Helga but keeping his eyes fastened to Geoffrey.  “Perhaps he would be better suited to the stage than to teaching.”

“Perhaps thou would be better suited to wandering the streets, gathering alms with thy petty jokes,” Geoffrey threw right back.

Helga’s gaze flashed to Geoffrey, to Godric, then back to Geoffrey.  “I do not follow �“ ”

“Just get him out of here,” said Godric in the same dry, snarling tone.

Helga stared at him for a moment, then shook her head, perplexed.  “Well, there’s something the pair of you have in common,” she muttered, with a sideways flick of her eyes at Salazar.  “You cannot stand that man.”

Godric spared Salazar a brief glance, having just noticed him.  Salazar stiffened �“ last time he had seen Godric this evening, the man had told him quite specifically to leave the castle, which Salazar had not.  But to Salazar’s surprise, Godric’s attention was instantly back on Geoffrey.  He must have really loathed the new arrival. 

“He is not who he claims to be, Helga,” said Godric lowly.

“Who else would I be?” Geoffrey questioned angrily, taking his hand away from the window and gesturing to himself with it.

“Oh, do not waste thy breath on falsehoods,” Godric snapped, “thy Polyjuice Potion is wearing down.”

Sure enough, Geoffrey’s skin was beginning to bubble and remold; his bones shrank and his spine bent over; his hair turned wispy and white; his face went from plump to sunken and wrinkled, with an overbearing nose and small, watery eyes.

Helga made a noise of disgust.  It took a moment longer for Salazar to put an identity to the man.  This was Ethelred, known on the streets as Ethelred the Ever-Ready, well-recognized for being easily offended and cursing people for absolutely no reason.  That certainly accounted for Godric’s response to him; ever the just and righteous fellow, of course he would hate such a man. 

Ethelred gave them a pinguid smile.  “There’s no need for such reactions.  I have only come to see Rowena Ravenclaw, and then I shall be on my way again.”

“What does thou want to see her for?” Godric replied tersely.

“Unfinished business,” said Ethelred apathetically.

“Such as?” said Godric.

“Where is she at present?” Ethelred returned, delaying the answer to this inquiry.  “In the library, I presume?”

Godric and Helga shared a glance; it was clear that their visitor was not aware of Rowena’s death.

“She is not well,” said Helga in a careful, guarded manner, “but what did thou desire to meet with her for?”

“I simply had a few matters that I intended to discuss �“ matters that, pardon me, do not concern any of you.”

“She is dead,” said Salazar flatly.  Helga and Godric both looked at him, the former with caution, the latter with irritation.  Salazar did not know why they looked at him thus �“ really, what was to come of hiding the fact?

Ethelred’s eyes darkened for a second, then he bowed his head and moved for the doors.  “Well, then, I’ll just be on my way �“ ”

“Just a moment, please,” said Helga, “thou has still not answered our inquiries.  Thou says it is none of our business, but �“ do forgive me �“ the ties our Rowena has to thee is our business.  I always remain watchful of my family.”

“Very admirable of thee,” Ethelred sneered, not stopping his stride, “but I am still not obligated to detail my affairs to any of your creed �“ ”

“It’s a pity thy magical skill is not even a fraction as excellent as thy ability to divert subjects,” Godric said loudly, “otherwise you might be able to have a profession with it.”

Wasting not a moment to prove that he lived up to his nickname of ‘the Ever-Ready’, Ethelred wheeled around and drew his wand all in one fluid motion.  Godric, though, was faster �“ before the spell had even left Ethelred’s mouth, his wand was thrown from his grasp, and his back hit the ground, his wrists and ankles bound together with thick ropes.

“I have done nothing to you!” he cried out furiously as Helga, Godric, and Salazar moved in closer to hover above his form.

“No, nothing but attack our friend,” Godric struck back.

“I said nothing of attacking her �“ ”

“Why else would thou be here?” Helga wanted to know, tone cold.  “We know who you are, everyone in Scotland does �“ thou would come for no other reasons than ones with malicious intent.”

“I tell you again, I �“ ”

“If I might be so bold as to offer advice,” Salazar murmured, “thou would be better off if thou were to confess than to have the information extracted by force.  I have no preference. I can very easily employ Legilimency or brew a vial of Veritaserum �“ but my guess is that the former option would be much simpler for thee.”

Ethelred glared up at them all.  “When I get away from here . . .”

“‘When’ is a rather optimistic statement at this point,” Godric felt the need to point out.  “We shall see what thee have to say first.”

Ethelred waddled saliva in his mouth for a moment, as though contemplating spitting at them, but then he seemed to reconsider this notion, and swallowed.  “All right, all right!  I came here today to place a curse upon her.  Yesterday I heard that this Geoffrey man was appointed to come here today, so I put him unconscious, took some of his hair, and impersonated him.  Satisfied now?”

“No,” said Godric bluntly.  “Why did thou want to curse her?  What had she ever done to you?”

Ethelred snorted.  “Thou sounds so indignant!  How dare anyone suggest Rowena Ravenclaw ever inflicted anything bad upon others!  This might come as a surprise, Gryffindor, but your Rowena was no saint.”  He smirked at them, gloating, trying to bait them, but the remaining of the Hogwarts Four did not bite, and remained stoic.  When they gave him no reaction, he continued.

“It was just over a week ago when our paths crossed,” he said.  “I was sitting outside my home, watching over my animals, when she came running up the road to my little town.  She was breathless from racing so fast, but regardless, she wasted no time in asking me if I had seen a young woman who looked something like her within the past few months.”

Oh, Helena, thought Helga; Salazar did not normally like to use his Legilimency on his fellow Founders, but this thought rang so loud in her head that he could not help picking up upon it.

“I replied I had seen many young women in the past months, none of whom I remembered distinctly enough to answer her question adequately.  Still, she beseeched me to ransack my mind for if I had seen a woman fitting this description recently, and when I replied that I did not think so, her expression turned very shadowed. 

“I then inquired to know more about her search for this woman.  She became very cautious and sparse with her chatter.  All she told me was that she had been looking for months for this other female, visiting village after village to query peasants on if they had seen her. 

“I suggested that, well, if she had been searching for that long, it was obvious the other woman did not want to be found, and perhaps she should give up her investigation.  She flared up at once, snarling at me that she would not stop her search just because it was what a half-witted pig such as myself would have done.”

Salazar found himself hiding a smile as he imagined Rowena saying this, then felt ashamed: surely it was disrespectful to her, since she was now dead, to be mirthful about such a thing.

“Well, I was certainly not going to take that lying down, and was about to hex her, but she wasn’t finished, and went on to call me and my family every foul-mouthed name under the sun she could think of.”

“And thou simply let her do this?” Salazar could not help but interject.  “Thou could not stop a woman from stepping all over thee?”

“It wasn’t a one-sided exchange,” Ethelred muttered. “I put in as many insults as I could, but that woman just kept ranting at me.  Normally I would have hexed her, but I had figured out she was Rowena Ravenclaw by that point, and I was not at all eager to make her angrier �“ I had heard stories of the extent of her power, and I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of it.

“But at last I could bear it no more �“ my anger was past my control.  When she had finished ranting at me and turned to go, I cast upon her a long-lasting Stinging Hex, which would sting at her innards and slowly deteriorate them over an extended period of time.”

“I have never heard of such a hex,” Helga exhaled, looking stricken.

“Thou would not have, it was only perfected recently by a man in my village,” said Ethelred.  “But, there you have it.  After that, we parted, and I came here today because I wanted to see how the hex was working, as I have never seen its effects on a human, and it’s an intriguing spell, to have a consistent stinging pain that you cannot even reach �“ ”

“You bastard.” 

Salazar glanced to Godric, a bit surprised to see him wild-eyed and nearly spitting with rage at the trapped Ethelred �“ and then Godric lunged at the old man with his hands outstretched as though to physically attack him.

“Godric!” Helga exclaimed, and pressed her hands to his chest to stop him.  “This wizard might be a fool, but there is no reason to �“ ”

Godric’s eyes shifted from Ethelred to Helga, but they were still unfocused and crazed, darting back and forth between each of her pupils.  “He killed her, Helga!”

Helga shook her head.  “That doesn’t seem likely; thou knows as well as I do she was hurt because of Helena �“ ”

“Helena left months ago,” Godric snarled, “and this scalawag claims it was a little more than week ago he saw her �“ just before she fell ill.”

Helga continued to shake her head, but more out of an unwillingness to believe him, for her eyes were now flecked with doubt. 

Salazar, too, felt suspicion over Godric’s conclusions as he looked down at Ethelred �“ this man did, after all, have very low magical powers, and thus it seemed unlikely that he could have utilized such a slow-acting, powerful curse properly.  Then again . . . perhaps his poor magic talents had all been an act, just like his Polyjuice disguise.  Perhaps he did have the power to do such a thing.  And the timeline of it all did make sense . . . besides, hadn’t he been questioning how Rowena had died ever since he arrived here?  Hadn’t he been going over the facts over and over again in his mind, feeling as though he were missing an important piece of the situation the entire time?  This piece would certainly fit . . . would certainly add a bit more sense to her untimely death . . .

And a rage of blinding, all-consuming fury like he had never known, overtook him.  Not even during the worst of his fights with Godric had he felt such a madness �“ at the time, he had thought he could feel no more anger than that, but he had been wrong.  He had a sudden primal need, like that of a fox who has been starving for days and has just seen a piece of meat, to lurch, to attack, to strike out at his victim.  It was only Helga’s hand on his shoulder that stopped him from tearing at Ethelred right then and there (her physical strength did not match up to his, it was true, but she seemed to be gaining assistance from her magic).

“Oh, please,” said Ethelred, “you do not actually believe that I caused her death?  That woman was sick from the start �“ ”

“And thou did nothing to help that!” Godric yelled.

“We have nothing to �“ there is no way that we can �“ confirm any of this �“ ” Helga stammered.  Her eyes were full with tears of ire and grief, passion and hurt.  She wanted to convict this man of the crime just as much as the two wizards she was holding back, but as usual, could not put aside her notions of fairness and equality.

Though Salazar was still possessed by flames of the hottest wrath, he forced himself to speak in level tones.

“Helga,” he said quietly, “it does make sense.”

“For the final time,” said Ethelred loudly, “I did not commit murder with a Stinging Hex �“ ”

“Thou cast a spell that would ‘sting at her innards and slowly deteriorate them over time,’” Salazar hissed, echoing Ethelred’s previous words.  “What else would ‘deteriorate’ imply other than eventual murder?”

Ethelred glared up into his face.  “I can’t make you three happy, can I?  Very well, yes, I suppose I cast the hex with murderous intents.”

Godric whipped out his sword before Helga could stop him.  “Can I kill him now?”

“The grounds of Hogwarts should not be soiled like this, Rowena would not have wanted such bloodshed �“ ” Helga tried to reason, though her composure was slipping with every second, dissolving into despair rather than anger like Godric and Salazar.

“Then let there be no bloodshed,” said Salazar, struck with a sudden thought.  “Give him to me.  He’ll die without blood.  I shall imprison him in the castle and his remains will rot here.”

Ethelred began to thrash around on the floor, his ankles and wrists still tied together.  “Now just a moment, I’ve done nothing to warrant such �“ ”

“She isn’t the first person thou has killed,” said Helga softly to Ethelred.  “I know there have been others.”  She seemed to have finally come to agree with Salazar and Godric on the matter.

“Where would thou imprison him?” Godric questioned.  He met Salazar’s eyes, and, for the first time that Salazar could recall in a very long while, the anger in Godric’s gaze was not directed at him.

Salazar faltered fleetingly; they did not know about the Chamber of Secrets.  “That is to be my secret, I’m afraid.”  Godric’s eyes narrowed at this, but Salazar quickly said, “We all have them, Godric, thou cannot fault me.” 

Godric hesitated, then nodded, recognizing the truth to his words.  It had been secrets on both sides that had ended their relationship, and they both knew it.

“Do I have your approval as well, Helga?”

There was no hesitation in her gaze, no pause to her response.  “Yes.”

And so, the three Founders temporarily united, Salazar knocked Ethelred unconscious to stop his yammerings and protests, levitated him into the air, and walked away.  It was time to revisit his Chamber . . . and make a request of his basilisk.

The route was walked automatically: to the second floor, into the lavatories, beside the tap with the snake carved on it.  Then down, down, down, until at last he reached the cold stone passage.

He walked along the dark corridor for a bit, an unconscious Ethelred still bobbing along in front of him.  Salazar did nothing to prevent the other wizard’s head from occasionally scraping against the ceiling; perhaps this was intentional, or perhaps Salazar simply didn’t notice �“ it was unclear which.

When they reached the main room, Salazar dropped Ethelred onto the floor with a slight flick of his wrist.  Ethelred hit the ground with a very sickening crack from his head, but Salazar paid no attention to this.  His eyes were scanning the room, his every sense on alert.  The basilisk was probably not used to having company after this many years, and if he was not careful, his companion might accidentally kill him before realizing who it was . . .

“It is I,” Salazar said as loud as he could in Parseltongue (a language that, being spoken in hisses, does not lend itself to being very loud).  “I have come for a brief return.”

The walls began to rustle with noise �“ the noise of something long and heavy sliding around. 

A smile lit Salazar’s face.

“I require a favor, my friend,” hissed Salazar.  “On the ground lies a man.  I want thee to kill him.  I do not care what thou does with him before or after this deed, so long as he eventually dies.”

A heartbeat of silence, and then a hiss of a reply that reverberated from within the walls themselves �“

“It shall be done.”

A flame of vindictive carnality ignited in his soul as he faced Ethelred for the final time.  He flicked his wand, and Ethelred awakened, blinking around blearily.

“What is �“ where has thou �“ ?” he questioned disjointedly, as his eyes took in the scene.

Salazar turned around and began to walk out of the chamber.  He did not want to see what his basilisk would do.  He was afraid that if he did stay to watch, the vengeful burning would overtake him until it would be all he had left.  He had already lost too much of his humanity (already lost all of it, if one were to ask Godric, he thought to himself with vague wryness); he didn’t want to lose anymore.

Out of the chamber, exit the lavatory, down the corridor, toward the staircases so as to reach the Entrance Hall and finally leave.  He never made it to the staircase, stopping instead in the middle of the second floor corridor, frozen.

For one wild, fleeting, heart-stopping moment, he thought it was her, her, her long tresses and graceful limbs and slender neck and inquiring mouth, all returned, all come back as a ghost.  Then he took in the high cheekbones, the straight and narrow nose, the long-lashed eyes.  His cheekbones.  His nose.  His eyes.  All staring back at him.

“Thou came back,” said the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw.

He spoke when his heart returned to its normal pace.  “No, I am only a visitor.”

“As am I,” she murmured.

“Does thou not live here?”

“No, I �“ ran away many months ago.”

So that was why Rowena had been running through the villages, asking if anyone had seen her daughter.  Still, that did not explain why Helena had felt the need to leave . . . or how and when she had died.  He arched an eyebrow at her, indicating she should elaborate.

“I stole Mother’s diadem,” she said flatly, as though past being able to feel any emotion on the subject.

“Whatever for?”

“I desired to be knowledgeable �“ talented in some way.”

“Helena, thou did not need to thieve to accomplish that, thy talents were always great and plentiful �“ ”

“The last time thou saw me, I was ten years of age.  Hardly an age to judge a person’s intellect.”  She did not try to hide the scorn in her voice.

“There is nothing wrong with being ten years old,” said Salazar.

“That was not my point, and thou knows it.”

He did know it, but he had not known what else to say.

“I had tried other ways to make myself more powerful �“ magic charms �“ potions �“ ” The Cauldron-Confidence Potion must have been hers, then.  “Everything I could think of.  None of it made a difference �“ neither did the diadem.  Least of all the diadem.”  Absently, she pulled back her cloak to touch at a dark gray spot at her side, a bloody wound.

“How did thee die?” he asked softly.

“When Mother fell ill, she sent a former suitor of mine to find and bring me home, so she could say good-bye to me.  He found me, but I refused to return to Hogwarts with him.  He became enraged at my apathy, and stabbed me.  And then he killed himself out of remorse, so there is no need for thee to hunt him down,” she added, for Salazar’s eyes had darkened at her tale.

“But that is neither here nor there,” she continued, straightening her ghostly form.  “I have come here today to do what I never had the courage to do in life.  I’ve come to make amends with Mother.  I know that it won’t be the same �“ this situation I have created cannot ever be righted.  But I am going to try.”

She spoke with such clarity, such determination, such ignorance to the facts, that he nearly faltered in his next words. 

“Your mother is dead, Helena.”

She looked for a moment as though she had not heard him, for nothing in her expression shifted.

“How?” she whispered, her lips hardly moving.  “It was because of me, wasn’t it?  She fell ill after I left.”

Salazar shook his head.  “Do not take all the blame, Helena.  The death of a human is never solely for one reason.  We are all dying for various reasons, even we who are still presently alive.  It is a build up of reasons, accumulating over time and eventually becoming too many, that kill us, not any one thing.”

“I was one of the reasons,” she replied with flat recognition.

She spoke so firmly that he knew it would be futile to argue.

“When did she pass?” she asked then.

“Three days ago.”

She dropped her eyes.  “Oh, Helena,” she murmured to herself, the words broken and pained, ending on a slightly hysterical laugh.  “Too late again.”

“I as well,” he said quietly.

Her eyes swam back to his, and in the same pitch of voice as before she said, “I guess we are alike in that way.”

She did not say it as a question, but he could hear the hidden inquiries behind the words, all the issues between them they had never addressed aloud, all the things they did not want to say even if they already knew them.  He traced his eyes over her, and all the best and worst of her, of him, of them stared back at him.  Yes, she was his daughter.  The words may have never been said by anyone, never confirmed by any spoken voice, but some part of him had always known, even if he had tried to pretend otherwise.

But he would not answer her hidden questions.  There would be no point.  They both knew.  They had always known.  Saying it aloud wouldn’t make any difference.

“Yes,” he said simply, “yes, we are.”

She folded her hands in front of her, twisted her fingers.  “Is thou going to be staying long?”

“No �“ no, I was just on my way out, actually.  What about thee?  Does thou plan on staying?”

“Hogwarts was always my home.  I cannot see myself residing anywhere else.”

A silence seeped between them.

“I must . . .” said Salazar, indicating the staircase behind her.

“Yes,” said Helena quickly, “I also.  I think I’ll go see Godric and Helga.”

“They’ll have missed thee.”

“I do doubt that; they are most likely still mad at what I have done.  But I suppose I should try and at least apologize.”  She unlocked her fingers.  “Well �“ farewell, Salazar.”

“Farewell.”

There was a tense moment where neither moved nor spoke, then Helena drifted sideways through a wall and out of sight.  Salazar, then, continued onward.

He did not realize his feet had carried him to the wrong place until he stood there.  He blinked rather stupidly.  Yes, he had intended to come to a door, but he had intended for the main entrance door . . . not the one leading to Rowena’s bedchamber.

There is nothing left for you here, Slytherin, he told himself, staring at the door.  You’ve done all you intended to do here.  You’ve seen her, and you’ve found out all the contributing reasons for her death.  It’s time to leave Hogwarts.

But he did not move.

Then in one movement, he had grasped the handle yet again and flung himself inside, shutting the door behind him.

The sky outside was dark now, so the room was nearly pitch black.  With slight reluctance, he lit his wand.  The room seemed just as it had when he had been in here earlier today, and Rowena, too, looked the same.  Still, despite this, his eyes scanned every space, every gap, every corner there was, looking for �“ he didn’t know.

He dropped down to his knees, fingertips running over the stones.  His eyes landed on the book with the bloody flower again, though this time, he saw that another book was sitting beneath this one.  With careful fingers, he extracted the lower book and pulled it to him.

There was no title upon the cover.  It was not a book, he realized, but a journal, a black-feathered quill stuck in its middle.  Perhaps Rowena had not want anyone to read it, then.  He shouldn’t intrude on her privacy.  He shouldn’t open it.

He opened it.

Empty white parchment gazed up at him with blank eyes.  He flipped to the next page and was greeted with the same sight.  The entire book was unfilled.

And with sudden clarity, he realized he had seen this journal before.  He had given it to her.  It had been a gift.  He had told her to pen her own book within its pages, as she already had all of the books in the world, save for one that she had written.  She had chuckled and said it was a lovely journal, but she would simply be too afraid to soil such a permanent thing with her frantic and nonsensical scribbles. 

That had been years ago, and she had still never written in it.  Well, to be honest, he would’ve thought she’d have thrown it out after he’d fled.  Yet she had kept it all these years.

He shook his head.  He was getting lost in the past again.  It was time to leave.

Still, he did not get up.  Something was bothering him.  Something had been bothering him since his arrival here, and even though it was something he knew he could not change, it nagged at his mind, tugged at his side, pulled at his gut.

I never said good-bye to her . . .

Which was his own fault, of course.  His fault, for never returning to Hogwarts during that long period of time, for never contacting anyone from that distant part of his life.  He could hardly even remember the last words he had said to Rowena.  They certainly hadn’t been the words that he should have said: of how special a person she was, of how much she had impacted his life, of how much his stomach would clench and his head ache and his heart tear when she was gone . . .

It was too late for such words.  Too late for any words.

He stared down at the blank pages of the journal.  Or maybe . . . maybe it didn’t have to be too late.  Too late for him to speak them to her, perhaps . . . but not too late for him to speak them.  Or write them.

He picked up the quill nestled between the journal pages, and withdrew a bottle of ink from within his own cloak, which he then placed on the ground and uncorked.  He dipped the tip of the quill in the ink and then poised it over the page.  But although there was so much he wanted to say, he did not know how to say it. 

He tried to formulate all that he wanted to express to her into words.  He could not.  The words had never been there, and they still weren’t.  Salazar had never been adept at dealing with his emotions �“ normally, in fact, he pretended they didn’t exist.  Yet even when he admitted their presence, he remained unable to articulate them.

The quill in his hand remained still as his thoughts raced in an incomprehensible whirl.  Now was his opportunity to write down what he should have said to her while she was still living, now was his chance.  She may not be able to read his penned words, but perhaps her spirit would sense them somehow, or read over his shoulder as he wrote.  He hadn’t ever believed devotedly in any religion, but he knew there were spirits out there, knew there were souls; they could be closer to Earth than some might think.

The words still did not come.

He stayed there for a long time, quill in his unmoving hand, blank parchment pages in his lap.  At last, he wiped the ink off the tip (it was nearly dry by that point anyway), replaced the quill between the journal pages, and closed it.

He stood up, and, walking over to her bed, tenderly lifted one of her hands that was lying at her side.  He placed the journal over her heart, and then put her hand over its cover.

There was no need to write anything, he came to realize as he stared down at her forever-sleeping form.  The blank pages said more than any mere words could ever say.  The blank pages showed everything he did not know how to put into any language.  The blank pages expressed just how impossible it was to condense the depth of what he wanted to tell her into some flowery, meaningless phrases.

She would understand, he knew.  She had never liked flowery, meaningless phrases either.

He brushed his fingers one last time over the back of her hand, then strode over to the door, opened it, and departed.

~Fin