Chapter 1- The Serpent's Egg

I remember the day I fell from Grace.

The Abbey at Bury St Edmonds in Suffolk had been my home for many years, first as an orphan that Brother Thomas took in to help in the scullery and then as a postulant. It had been two years since I had made the next step and been accepted as a novice.

I was in the scriptorium, copying Exodus 22:17: “Do not allow a sorceress to live�. The verse gave me pause, even knowing that the blessed Oswald, Archbishop of York and councillor to our good King Edgar, was a protector of those with magical abilities. Oswald had interpreted these words of Moses to mean the false practitioners of magic, and given exemption to those whose magic was true and hearts were just.

I whispered a blessing and touched the cross and rosary that hung on the belt of my habit, turning my thoughts from the sin of questioning. Although just what the sin was, questioning the laws given to Moses, or the dispensation given by a mortal man, however blessed, I wasn’t sure.

I dipped my quill in ink and resumed my task.

Who my parents were had never been clear. I didn’t look like the villagers, with their fair Saxon colouring and strong, broad bodies. I was tall, slight and dark. Brother Thomas said I looked like a monkey he had seen once in Aethiopia, all clever face and slender spider hands.

I suppose you could say that Brother Thomas had raised me. He was a quiet man with a lined face and grey hair who had travelled far before settling down here in the lowlands along the eastern shore of Britain. Some said he had lived amongst the heathen in the deserts; others claimed that he had walked the roads of the Holy Land. But no one really knew for sure. Maybe he had done all those things. Sometimes, when the mood struck, he would tell me tales of people and places far beyond our small village. I would listen, fascinated, torn between my curiosity to see these things for myself and my desire to belong here in the Abbey.

Brother Thomas had been my sponsor to the order, arguing that my calling to be a monk was true, and winning against the better judgement of most of the community. I suppose they suspected what he never spoke of, that I was a wizard. It was something I had always known, that I had the power to change things; that with a muttered word and a gesture I could turn aside a blow. But it was my delight in sharing speech with the tempter of Eve that was to be my downfall. Only the week before a fellow novice had seen me turn aside the nædre, the black adder that lived in the garden wall. They are shy, these serpents; they harm no one who does not harm them, but you can’t expect an ignorant lout like Wuffa to know such a thing.

The whispers were starting up again, and Brother Thomas was gone these last four months, felled by the same pox that scarred my cheeks. I was alone among the Brotherhood of St. Benedictine, however much I had once felt I belonged.

The bell rang for None, the mid-afternoon prayer. I carefully examined the page I had been copying, then cleaned and put away my quill. For the last time, although I did not know it then.

I remember feeling uneasy, more alert than usual. It happened to me sometimes, a sense of foreboding that chilled my soul. I learned, to my sorrow, not to ignore it. I knew something was awry, but as I joined my fellows in the hymn, psalms, scripture and verse that made up the Office of Readings, I put aside my dread.

As we left the chapel there was a commotion outside the Abbey, and despite discipline, some of the Brothers gave in to all too human curiosity, and went to look. There in the village square was a piteous sight. A young woman, alone, in the centre of a rabble.

“Tha’s a witch, I seen ‘er look cross-eyed at my wife ‘an bairn!� Wuffa’s equally loutish brother raised the cry, a twisted grin on his face.

“An’ me cow’s milk, she’s dried up, after she touched ‘er and put the evil eye on ‘er!� yelled a slattern with dirty yellow hair.

The woman turned a fearful face towards me and our eyes met across the crowd. No doubt she was some innocent whose red hair had inflamed the mob’s ignorant prejudice.

“Stone the witch! Stone ‘er a’fore she witches us all!�

The mob’s cries went up as the first stones flew with sickening accuracy. The woman staggered, her cheek cut and bleeding. I could see her hand reach into her cloak and withdraw a slender stick, absurdly delicate for a weapon. As she raised it, a large rock hit her shoulder with a crack of bone, spinning her around as her arm dropped limp to her side. The stick fell from her grasp.

I watched in horror, but I did nothing. Nothing, that is, except try as hard as I could to slow the stones and rocks that spun the figure first one way, then the other, the force of their impact leading her in a macabre dance.

It was futile, I knew, as I knew that trying to stop the mob would only endanger me and do her no good. Calculating? Yes. I regret it, but I would make the same decision today, for what good would it have done to lie dead at her side?

Finally it was over, and the crowd dispersed to celebrate their bravery with beer and mead at the village’s public house. The other novices had watched in silence equal to my own. Now they murmured and drew together, leaving me standing alone, staring at the still body and the flies that had already collected on the sticky wetness that showed through her red hair.

Wuffa whispered to his fellows and uneasy glances were turned my way. His smile told me that he was spreading the tale of my speech with the adder who lived in the garden wall. I knew with certainty my turn to dance and dodge in the centre of a mob would come soon.

That night I lay uneasy in my cell. There had been no outcry over the young woman’s death and, contrary to all custom, she had been left where she had fallen in the village square, a still, pathetic huddle. How could the Abbey’s community of Brothers allow this? How could men of God turn a blind eye? How could God Himself allow such a thing? In that moment, long before Lauds brought the community together in prayer at dawn, my faith shook.

I was cold with fear despite the warmth of the summer night. Although I did not know it then, on that day, July 8th, 975, that Edgar the Peaceful had met his own death. The reign which had promised tolerance to the workers of magic was at an end, and the coming years were to be marked with conflict between his heirs as his sons dipped their swords in brother’s blood.

As I arose and stealthily packed my few belongings, my thoughts went to the young woman in the village square. I could at least spare her the ignominy of being left to the carrion crows and curs of the village.

She was silent and cold, her face heartbreakingly young, a girl really, just on the verge of womanhood. I murmured a prayer, a habit too long ingrained for me to stop just yet, as I straightened her limbs and made to lift her for her last journey. As I did, the small piece of wood she had pulled from her cloak rolled out from under her. It was strangely carved and graceful. Curious, I picked it up. Instantly a feeling of warmth ran up my arm, and sparks shot from its tip. With a feeling of intense regret, I realised that the girl had truly been a witch, with knowledge beyond mine.

I carried her into the abandoned tunnels by the village that I had explored as a child, and hidden in as a young man. I had needed privacy to practise my magic, to see what I could do, and the old chalkworks had afforded me that concealment. I did not mind sharing my secret with the mortal husk of this young, nameless witch.

As I laid her to rest in a shallow grave, I made her a promise that I, Salazar Slytherin, of no family or fortune, would hold the memory of her pain and needless death in my heart. I would not forget that, alone, I had not dared to help one of my own.

And then, with the wand of wood in my hand, and my small package of belongings on my back, I walked out into the fresh day to make my way in the world.

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Chapter 2 - Den Mother

One of my greatest blessings was a happy childhood. The memories are my solace in times of loss and sorrow and my strength in times of need.

I ran wild in the hills of Wales with my brother, gathering the plants and herbs that my mother used for her healing potions and salves, herding the sheep and searching for the enchanted cave where, they say, Merlin sleeps. We knew that the greatest magician of all time made his home in our misty hills. The singers would have it that Nimue bewitched him with her beauty and imprisoned him when he let fall his guard, but I never believed it. I think that he rests waiting for the time that Arthur will return to his kingdom from far Avalon. And the sooner the better, I say.

It is a sad and sorry state that our gentle island has fallen into, where magic is shunned and healers are suspect. I never thought I would see the day. Well, well, but there it is.

A happy childhood, yes, but not a privileged one, oh no. Our mother was a great healer, as I have said, brewing her potions of nettles and willow bark to cure the ills of the poor and rich alike. And she was rewarded for her kindness and wisdom, oh aye, that she was. The poor would leave us wood for our fire and bracken to bed our beasts down on, honey for our bread and if naught else, their thanks, which is payment enough, of course. The rich - well, you never knew if it would be cloth, or candles or fine meats. Once it was a lovely golden cup, with a fine badger, the Hufflepuff family emblem, on it. I have it still; there it is, on the mantle over the fire.

We ran wild, we did, until we grew a bit older, and it came time for us to start to make our ways in the world. Oh, Harold would have made a healer, men do. But I think it a more womanly way, the nurturing and soothing. And women are better at accepting when nothing can be done, and you must let go. “Heal the sick and mend the broken, but let the dying spirit go.� That’s a woman’s saying, not a man’s. They want to fix and create and build, and Harold was no exception.

My brother went to apprentice with the goblin smith, learning the ways of the fire and forge. And a high honour it was, to be sure, for the goblins don’t take many human apprentices. But it was lonely for me, for he was my closest friend: my twin and other half. Nights I would lay awake and reach out with my thoughts to touch his, but it got harder as we were longer parted, and one day, I could touch him no longer. Well, well, but we must grow up, so we must, and as we do, we grow apart.

Once Harold was apprenticed away, why, nothing would do but for me to settle down and learn my mother’s wisdom: how to cool the fever and heal the other hurts that mortal man and wizard alike are prey to. ‘Twas not so wild, roaming the hills and gathering herbs on my own, but there was a great contentment in the solitude of it.

The country was quiet in those days, not like today. The sixteen year reign of King Edgar the Peaceful was a good time for wizards. Edgar was a friend of the wizards, or at least Bishop Oswald, his advisor, was and that’s what mattered.

His sons, now that is another story. Edward, poor lad, was murdered at sixteen, and by the supporters of his brother, Ethelred, too. Though they were only half brothers, and Edward had a fiery and unmanageable temper, so they say. Who knows what would have come to the wizards if he had been king? But I don’t think that magic would be so suspected now if King Ethelred were not so ill-advised as to believe it a threat to his kingdom.

But there you have it. If wishes were thestrals, beggars would fly, so they would, so they would.

They were good years, the years my mother and I worked together. I learned all I could from her, and then I continued on learning, finding new uses for old potions. My mother delighted in my discoveries, but as time wore on left me more and more to deal with those who came to us for help, or called us away to help them. I was barely a woman grown when she fell ill for the last time. Naught that I could do helped her, nor did she expect it. She would smile her fragile smile at me and my ministrations until she slid away from me through that misty veil that separates this world from the next. Ah, but I miss her kindness and wisdom still, that I do. But her love - well I hold that in my heart even now, these long years on.

Harold made the trip home to help me do her honour and see her on her way, and it was a delight even in our sorrow for us to be together again. Ah, he was a bonny, handsome man, brawny and strong from the forge. He stayed a few months, and they are some of the happiest in my memory.

After he left though, then I was alone, and lonely with it. Solitude is not so welcome when it comes at the end of the day with none to break it. I resolved to take an apprentice, and so I did, a quiet girl, and apt; a good worker. But it was not enough, I thought, to train one girl and call it a lifetime. Once she could look after the people whom I, and my mother before me, had healed, it was time for me to venture out into the world. And so I did.

For ten years I travelled far and wide. To Aetheopia, even, and to Egypt. To the great city of Constantinople, corrupt and beautiful. I delighted to learn all I could of healing and magic, for there was much I didn’t know. And much I don’t know still, that I can tell you, so I can. Aye, a woman travelling alone…it does sound unwise and unsafe, does it not? But I could disguise myself at need, and bemuse any who thought to do me harm, and for the most part I travelled in good company and at my ease.

Even so, there came a time when I missed my own green island of Britain, and I turned myself homeward. A sad change had come while I had been gone, and many of the wizarding folk kept to themselves and hidden away. But there were many magical households still, like this one of Gerald Gryffindor, in the untamed lands of Cornwall. And it was here that I came, for a healer of my repute is always welcome, and I do not think I am a braggart to say so.

Gerald is a great bear of a man, all golden hair and booming laugh. And his two sons are of a piece with him, Gareth and Godric both. Ah, aye, those boys are trouble, barely two years apart. ‘Tis a good thing that they are being trained to the sword and the horse and the bow, for it keeps them just tired enough to make them teachable.

Master Slytherin started as their tutor in letters and book learning a short while after the Gryffindors welcomed me to their household. A monkish man, he is, tall and narrow, with dark skin and hair and eyes as deep and dark as a well. He reminds me of many I saw on my travels and mayhap that is where he is from.

I can tell that he will have a great deal more to teach them than books, so I can. For he is a powerful wizard himself, but with a bitterness and anger in his eyes that bespeaks some great wrong. But what it was, I do not know. I have never yet asked of his past, and may never do so, for he has not confided much, even to Lord Gerald, and every man deserves to keep his secrets.

I know that I wish to keep mine, so I do.

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Chapter 3 - Fledgling

I didn’t know that I was lonely until I left my father’s home. We held lands at the edge of the Uplands by the river Clyde under the authority of Máel Coluim, King of Strathclyde, and Owain the Bald, who came after him. My father was renowned as a seer and advisor, for he had mastered the art of Arithmancy. The Lords of Strathclyde, in return for his council, ceded him the Ravenclaw lands and protected him from the turmoil of the Kingdom of Alba, of which they were a part. As a child, I thought that our hills and moors, the river and castle and farmlands were all there was of the world. Certainly it seemed that we needed nothing else.

My father held the land, and my mother held him together. She knew how to soothe his tempers and lighten his gloom, how to distract him from me when all he could see were my flaws. And those I had in plenty. Frail and thin, with nothing of beauty to remark on, I learned to please him with precocious knowledge. And this came easily to me. I delighted in exploring his library, consuming the hundreds of books there. He called me his bright little bird when he was pleased with me, and I treasured those moments.

My mother made sure to contract my marriage early, for the years of my childhood were uneasy, marked by wars and skirmishes and the succession of kings. From the time I was eleven I knew that my future lay with the family of Gryffindor in Cornwall. I learned all I could of that their country and its rich heritage of magic, for they say that Camelot was within the boundaries of the Summer Country of the Dumnonii. All that is left now of that kingdom is Cornwall and Devon.

Some girls would find romance in the thought of marriage, planning the names of their bairns, but not I. I was more concerned with the number of books in the Gryffindor library and the possibilities of learning more than my parents could teach me of Charms and Transfiguration.

Four years after she had settled my future, my mother changed. She who had been robustly healthy grew pale. She took her meals, not in the Great Hall with the household as the lady of the castle should, but alone, hiding how little she ate. My father teased her about her growing belly, never noticing her wasting limbs and sunken cheeks. He could not, or perhaps would not, see that something was growing inside of her and consuming her from within.

At last she lacked the strength to leave her rooms, and even my father acknowledged what the rest of us had known for months: she was dying. He fell into a rage, and for the first time, my mother was not there to appease and calm him. I stood by, desperate and useless, for I did not know enough of wizardry to help either one.

As we laid her to rest, with the honour and ceremony due to her station, I knew that my life would never be the same. Now the task of smoothing out my father’s high and low moods fell to me, and I fell woefully short of my mother’s example. His dark fits would last for weeks, as I tried calming words and soothing spells to no avail. His antic passions were equally uncontrolled, and he would stay awake for days, whirling everyone around him into a frenzy of activity. But as the antic phases got shorter and ceased altogether, it fell to me to order the household. He would lie abed for days, weeping for the loss of his wife, or perhaps for himself, or sit in the Great Hall consuming cup after cup of ale and mead.

I had always revered my father, rather than love him. His learning and intellect had seemed so superior to my own, unattainable. My mother’s wit and practicality had been something I had taken for granted until it was gone. Now I watched with contempt and fear as my father was overcome by his loss and sank into black madness, slovenly drunkenness and disgraceful idleness. His abandonment of his duties to his people, and to me, infuriated me.

A household run by a fifteen year-old who had always cared more for learning than for the practical matters of mending and tending and keeping the people fed is a sorry thing. I was inept, and knew it. Our farm holders began to drift away to better lords; our servants vanished in the night. And still my father drank and slept and grew inward, curled around his sorrow.

Our salvation came in the form of Master Salazar Slytherin, an emissary of Sir Gerald Gryffindor. He bore a message of condolence to my father and a proposal to expedite the marriage contracted between me and the eldest Gryffindor son, Gareth.

It fell to me to welcome our guest as best I could. As he took in the disarray of our hall and lands his thoughtful consideration of my drunken father made me ashamed. My family is of noble wizarding blood, and yet here we were, with the fields unplanted, the beasts wandering and the hall stinking of old meat and spilled ale.

My father accepted the commiserations with all the self control we had come to expect from him, and agreed to send me early to my marriage without even glancing in my direction.

That night as I lay abed, I felt my soul contract with despair darker than the night itself. Even though I had known of the marriage contract these last five years, I had not faced the reality of it, always distracting myself with hopes of new books to read and new things to learn; new ways to please my father. Now it was upon me and I could hide no longer. I was to be tied irrevocably to a man I had never met, a land I had never seen and a way of life that I had never lived. There would be no going back.

I rose and paced restlessly, the cold stones of the floor striking my feet like a blow. As I gazed out the window I thought how easy it would be to cast myself out. A moment or two of fear and falling, a crash that would reverberate through my body and it would be done. My hand was on the window ledge, but I froze.

Was this how my father felt? Was I destined to be like him? I looked out at the rising moon and silver-washed landscape. No. I would not give in to despair so easily.

The next day Master Slytherin found me in the library. He bespoke me gently, as an equal, even, and seemed to understand how I felt, as if he could see into my thoughts. As he told me of a marvellous Healer who had joined the Gryffindor household, and how he would send for her to help for my father, I wept, hardly daring to admit hope.

And then something wonderful happened. He pulled out a slender, gracefully-carved rod of wood from the inner pocket of his robes. For the first time I saw something I had read about: a wand. Although wands had been made for hundreds of years, it was not often that itinerate wand-makers would come so far afield. Once my mother had spoken of having a wand, but it was clear she had lost it or hidden it away years before. Now it seemed that we might break our journey in London, and visit the famous Ollivander there. My heart fairly burst with joy.

Preparations for my journey south, the assembly of my dowry, and, once Mistress Hufflepuff arrived, experimentations with potions and spells to help my father made the next few months fly by. Under the guise of assisting my preparations, Master Slytherin skilfully manipulated my father into appointing Kenneth MacBede to oversee the lands, and his brother Domnall to oversee the hall. It was a clever thing to do, and well executed. There was no danger of the two ever colluding against my father, as they would never be able to stop arguing with each other long enough. And yet, each would try and outdo the other, to the benefit of everyone, including myself and my heirs, for there was no one else for the lands to come to.

All too soon, the day came for me to bid goodbye to my home on the moors. My father, thanks to the potions and spells, and to his own resolve, had been both sober and in his proper wits for the last month. It seemed that Master Slytherin’s spells, and Mistress Hufflepuff’s potions had worked the wonder that my mother, for all her loving effort, had not been able to do alone.

For the first and only time in my life, I clung to my father, looking to him for support, still afraid of the future. He smoothed my hair and his weary eyes met mine as he bid me well to fare.

I left with a heavy heart and many a backward glance, for all I had ever known was behind me.

Chapter 4 - Lion Cub

I don’t remember a time when I did not follow my elder brother as close as his shadow, wanting the same things, fighting and playing and learning with him. My brother had the spirit of a warrior, the heart of a poet and the broken nose of a born troublemaker. It was a wonder that Master Slytherin was able to get him to sit still for two minutes together, but once he did, ah then! For Gareth did love a wizarding duel, and with what he learned from our tutor, why, there was no stopping him.

Not that it distracted him from the serious work of training for battle; nothing could turn him aside from that. Nothing, that is, until his bride arrived one fine summer day.

Outriders from the party that accompanied her from Stathclyde interrupted our duel in the courtyard, and one, as I pointed out, that I was almost winning at that! We put our wands away and rushed to make ourselves presentable, rinsing the dust out of our hair and donning suitable robes. I was afire with curiosity, and how much more was Gareth, for was this not the maiden that would be his life’s mate?

We stood with the household to formally welcome her, my father bearing the guest cup with my mother by his side and my brother looking almost dignified. I, who knew him well, could tell that his excitement was tempered with apprehension. His life’s partner had been chosen for him, and when I had teased that a troll was coming to be his bride, his laughter had been worried.

And then there she was, astride a white palfrey. As she made a formal obeisance to my parents, I could hear Gareth’s sharp intake of breath. Later he told me, with great seriousness, that that was the moment he fell in love with her. She was not beautiful in the way that maids are usually thought beautiful, but the intelligence and wit that informed her every expression was fascinating in a way that many a maid would cast a spell to achieve. And my brother was ready to be fascinated.

Gareth played every game to win, fought every battle for victory, and the same was true of his wooing of Rowena. Nothing less than winning her whole heart was his goal, and he was persistent, romantic and . . . successful. Of course, being contracted in marriage was something of an advantage, but still, by the time of their wedding at mid-winter, Rowena looked at Gareth with eyes that were just as enthralled as his.

Gareth asked that I be their Promise Keeper when they made the Unbreakable Vow that is a part of every wizarding marriage. I was honoured, of course, and yet I couldn’t help being a little jealous, although whether of him or her, I still can’t tell you.

I must have grown more silent than was my wont, for Mistress Hufflepuff sat me down in her rooms, the smell of mint and tansy, lavender and musk around us, and bid me tell her just what cat had taken possession of my tongue.

Her sharp eyes made me squirm. It was every bit as uncomfortable as being interrogated by Master Slytherin, who I swear can read minds, he is so canny. I fiddled with my wand, accidently shooting off some sparks into her dried herbs, but she was not distracted.

When I told her how I felt, all betwixt and between, and ashamed to be feeling so, she laughed.

“M’dear boy! Don’t you know that it happens to us all as we grow older and grow apart? Aye, I know that your brother and you are two sides of the same coin, but no more so than my Harold and I. Come, it is time that you shook off your reserve with the lady, for she will be your sister soon enough, and you should treat her with the warmth she deserves, poor lass.�

She beamed at me, and I had to smile, thinking of her brother, the smith, who had finished his long apprenticeship at the forges of the goblins and had been asked by my father to settle in Godric’s Hollow, for a goblin-trained smith is a prize indeed, and added greatly to the our standing amongst the nobles of the realm, Muggle and Magical alike!

It is a proud burden to be a Gryffindor, and especially to bear the name of Godric. There were times as a boy when I wondered if my father chose right in naming me so. Family history has it that our village of Godric’s Hollow was named for the founder of our house, Godric ap Gwyddno, who fought at the side of King Arthur at the Battle of Badon Hill, when at last the Saxon invaders were put to flight. Not since the triumph of the Kings of Wessex over the Summer Country two hundred years ago has our family enjoyed the honour we had under the Dumnonii, and though my father was a theign of King Edgar the Peaceful, it was uncertain if his son Ethelred wanted our loyalty, or just our lands.

The next day I joined Rowena and Gareth as they listened to Master Slytherin lecture on proper wand work. He was closely attended by his audience, which included wizarding children of the village whose parents used their magic for everyday trades as wheel wrights, coopers and potters. Gareth maintained that no matter their station in life the children of wizards should be educated and taught magic, and my father, looking to the uncertain future, had agreed.

Master Slytherin described how wands helped focus magic and how they were a quarter-way alive, bonding to the wizard of their choice. He had learned much of the mysteries of wand crafting, he told us, in his year with the famous Ollivander in London, though not enough to make a wand himself. When the lesson ended, my brother was summoned to my father’s council, leaving me alone, for the first time, with my future sister.

“Gareth tells me that you are a fine dueler, and that you are better than he at Transfiguration. Would you show me? It is not something that my parents were able to teach me, for it was not part of our family tradition.�

I could feel my face warm, feeling equal parts of shyness and pride. But, remembering Mistress Hufflepuff’s injunction, I nodded. And so began my friendship with one of the greatest intellects of my generation.

The ceremony at midwinter was splendid, and the happiness between Gareth and his lady-wife was of such a contagious nature that even Master Slytherin could be seen to smile at Lind, one of Mistress Hufflepuff’s young apprentice Healers, a softening most unusual for that grim monk of a man.

That spring we began to hear reports of Danish raids on Thanet, Cheshire and Dorset, and although the rumour stirred our interest, it was too far away to suppose my father would allow Gareth and me to take a troop and taste our first battle.

Our impatience was rewarded the next year, for the Danish slaughter-wolves were seen from the shores of our fair country, and my father and his trained troops rode to its defence. We were deployed along the banks of the River Camel, and as the longships came aground and their cargo of fierce warriors disembarked, I could feel my pulse quicken, and the hand gripping my sword become slippery with sweat.

My father drew up his men in battle order, riding up and down the lines extorting us and steadying our nerve. As the first arrows flew, I could feel my gorge rise in my throat, and for a moment I felt that fear would overcome me. But then I heard my brother’s voice.

“Steady, little brother, steady. Remember what we are fighting for.�

I gripped my sword anew, and felt my resolve harden as the first Danes threw themselves at our lines. Sharp spears whispered death and drank blood, swords flashed and bit, and I flung myself, shouting, at the adversary. The sounds of the battlefield faded and my vision narrowed to just the man before me, just the task at hand. My shield arm ached from the impact of blows as I screamed and thrust, dodged and danced and lunged in for the kill. It was nothing like the swordplay I had practiced every day of my youth, and yet it seemed to be as natural as breathing.

I heard Gareth yell beside me, and I turned in time to parry and thrust at his opponent, taking the man’s life with my blade, as my brother stumbled, his arm bleeding. I turned, ready to take on the next enemy, but a hush had fallen over the battlefield. The invaders were retreating, defeated, for now. My lungs hurt within me; my breath was harsh in my throat as I watched the receding longships and the dark shadows of circling carrion crows. Elation died as I looked around at the fallen. There was nothing noble about the bodies with their life spilled out on the sand. There was no glory in the charnel house smells that rose from the beach.

I embraced my brother and wept a few tears in relief. And then we turned to tend to the dead and wounded. That evening Gareth and I watched the flames as we sent the enemy dead to their own gods, in their own tradition. As the funeral pyre consumed its fuel, I thought of how different, how much less glorious the reality of battle had been from my expectation.

That raid remains in my memory not for its significance, or because it was a decisive victory, for it was not, but because it was my first experience of the truth of war. All that long summer men looked to their swords and wizards to their protective spells. There were many more raids, many more opportunities to taste the dust and heat and fear of battle. We fared well, driving off the invaders and losing but a few men.

It has now been seven years that the coasts have been empty of longships. Seven years that the arts of peace and magic have flourished. Seven years since my spirit rose to the task of defending our land and people, and my soul mourned at the aftermath of battle.

I do not miss it.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 5 - Through the Curtain

I can hear them through the curtain; walking softly, whispering.

Sunlight streamed in through the open window, resting butter warm and yellow over the high bed on which I lie. The bed curtains are drawn back so that the gentleness of spring air brushes my cheek. If I close my eyes I can pretend, for a moment, that all is well, and that the weakness of my body will pass.

It won’t, of course.

It started in the early days of the school; the numbness and tingling in my hands and feet. I paid it little mind; I was kept far too busy, engrossed in categorizing and recording the spells and potions that Mistress Hufflepuff and Master Slytherin had collected in their travels. My quill scribed the charms and hexes that Godric employed so well in his duels and captured for all time the enchantments that were my family’s legacy to me. Hogwarts would have the greatest collection of Magical knowledge in the world.

It was enough to distract me even from the pain of my long separation from Gareth; from my guilt that our unhappiness was my failing. A wife’s first duty is to bear children, and to do so quietly, frequently, and with little fuss. I could master Arithmancy and discourse for hours on Runes, but I could not, it seemed, carry a child. With every loss I wept. My husband told me to put aside my sorrow; that I was all he needed for happiness, but I could not but mourn my lost children, born too early to draw breath.

The proposed school brought me out of myself. Of course, Master Slytherin had been educated by the monastery, but never had I heard of a school for the magically gifted. Always it was family traditions passed from father to son, mother to daughter, but now, now, I could envision how the living knowledge assembled in Lord Gryffindor’s household could be shared with young witches and wizards thirsty for the wisdom we had. I do not think that Gareth ever really shared my delight, but he could not but be pleased for my smiles and laughter, and for my sake he would bear the absence of his helpmeet.

For of course the school could not be in Godric’s Hollow; we could all see that. But when the time came to leave and travel to the wild North Country the sadness in Gareth’s eyes gave me pause. Was I right to leave him for the dream of a school for wizards and witches?

The whispers grow louder and soft footsteps approach; but I am not ready for them just yet. My little owl, Athena, sits on the footboard, her heart-shaped face turned away from the window, drowsy in the daylight.

Gareth and I spent more years apart than together as his duties kept him in Godric’s Hollow and my love of the school I helped found kept me at Hogwarts. Perhaps the happiness I found here was more magical than all the potions and spells I had tried, for at long last a child was born to us, a beautiful daughter; Helena. To my sorrow, my everlasting regret, she was the only child we would have for in the spring, bare months after her birth, Gareth fell in battle against the Danish wolves. The memory brings a pang to my heart, as fresh as when I first felt it – the loss of my beloved.

There are tears in my eyes and I cannot brush them away. Weak, faithless body; it fails me here at the end.

Hard on the heels of that sorrow came the razing of Strathclyde and the death of my father in a cowardly attack as he sat at his meat. King Ethelred’s suspicion and distrust of the magical had raged unchecked after the death of the sainted Oswald, and when the Danes ceased to harry his coasts he had taken the opportunity to act on his fears. The attack shocked us. Indeed, Master Slytherin spoke for the expulsion of all those of non-magical families from the school. For a time I agreed with him, for who knew where loyalties would lay? But my brother Godric was convinced otherwise, and indeed, what witch would betray her own, knowing how ill the non-magical treated women?

For it is true, as strange at it may seem to me, that non-magical women can never be as strong as their men; can never have as sure a defence as does any witch. Mayhap that is why they fear us, hate us. Ours is a world where a woman can be as powerful as a man, where a Lady can wield as much authority, nay, more, than a Lord by sheer strength of magic. I need never fear a man. Never. And never have I.

Athena lifts her head, and turns to the curtain, shifting from foot to foot on her long legs, she half spreads her pale wings and hisses softly.

Strength of magic? Yes, that I had – and strength of body, once on a time. It was nothing for me to run up and down the shifting stairs of the school; for it was I who had enchanted them to move and confuse. A test for bewildered students? Perhaps. It was a joke, a lark, an airy confection of humour, although, if the truth be told, none but Master Slytherin understood that.

The tingling grew worse after the birth of my daughter – our daughter – and in time it spread to my legs and arms. It would come upon me for a fortnight or a month, or a brace of months, and then leave. I hesitated to go to Mistress Hufflepuff, for it seemed such a little thing, such a nothing at all. And there was much to do; what with the apprentice witches and wizards, with the shaping of the school.

But in time it was something I could no longer hide, for my balance suffered and my vision would show me double what was truly there. I did less, and even that more cautiously; hording my strength as a goblin hordes gold. My daughter suffered for my failing; poor child, for she was as old as I had been when my own fate had been decided, my marriage arranged, and I could do none of that for her. She wished for broader skies than Hogwarts; wished to be praised and made much of. Wished to be the centre of my world; and that I would not do, for she was only one of many and had to strive on equal footing, no matter what her parentage might be.

She would ask for favours of us all; Master Slytherin would grant them – amused by her cajoling, flattered by the attention. Her uncle Gryffindor would pet and praise her, and then forget her when his attention drifted – he was ever busy with defences and planning. Mistress Hufflepuff treated her with the same common goodness she bestowed on us all.

But it was not enough, not nearly enough for my beautiful Helena, for she wanted to be as brave as Gryffindor, as crafty as Slytherin and as wise as Ravenclaw, and that she could not be, she could only be herself. It would have been enough for me. But instead she stole my diadem, a thing of beauty forged by Harold Smith; a thing so fine that it might have been goblin-forged. It had been a gift, commissioned by Gareth, and enchanted by Mistress Hufflepuff to bestow wisdom and goodness. I would have given it to her for the asking, but it was not her way to ask.

And having stolen it, she left.

It broke my heart, and the grief weakened my already weak body. I had failed her as I had failed Gareth, as I had failed my father. I was not there when they needed me; I was here, here at the school that housed my dreams; tending my apprentices, my wonderful journeymen – nurturing their knowledge. Soon I could no longer rise and attend even them. And then, all too quickly, I could no longer arise and tend to my own needs. Perhaps Mistress Hufflepuff could have helped if I had told her, but I was too proud, too foolishly proud to ask for help. Now I can only accept that my body is but a frail housing for my spirit, and that it will not be strong enough to contain it for much longer.

Eventide has come, and Athena lifts her head, spreads her wings, and takes to the night air. She is the essence of freedom, floating silently – would that I could be so free.

And now, and now... my daughter will not come back, even though I have sent her lover after her. I would wish for one last sight of her; long for one last kiss. Master Slytherin left us not long ago, pursuing his pet I know not where. If I could take my leave of him and ask his pardon, I would, for I regret the argument we had before he went away. My brother Godric stays away, pouring over defences and plans and safeguards for the school’s future; I think it makes him too sad to see me as I am now. Only Mistress Hufflepuff is beside me, always, holding my hand, waiting with infinite kindness so that I am not alone. The strength of my youth is gone, even to the use of my limbs. My dreams are all around me, for what did I dream of if not this school? It is enough now; I think that it is enough.

The voices behind the curtain beckon me; I can hear Gareth, whispering my name, as he used to. It is such a small distance, such an easy step to make, to pass through the curtain and to leave this poor body behind. I need but choose; I need but take that step. . . .

Gareth! My love, my heart. . . .

~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 6 - A Life Well Lived

‘Tis cozy here by the fire, Malkin purring at my feet, the flames no more red than his fur. A few apprentices move quietly around the room; they are a willing audience for an old witch’s tales of her life, or so I flatter myself. It is a mix of joy and foolishness and sorrow, but at the end there is something left behind that is more than the sum of all our lives, young Godric, Master Slytherin, poor Lady Ravenclaw and me. We changed the world, so we did, so we did.

A bit lonely at the end, you might think, for I am the last of the four. If lonely you could call it, being that the castle is full of apprentices and journeymen wizards and those that teach them.

I cannot remember who first spoke aloud the idea of a school. P’raps Master Slytherin, for he was forever looking for ways to part the magical and non-magical worlds. He didn’t have faith in the goodness of people, and if I had walked in his footsteps mayhap I would have felt just the same. Always more comfortable around his fey beasties, he was, especially after his wife was gone. That now, that was a terrible time for us all.

From the moment I stepped into it the school was my home, the resting place at the end of all my travels and a place to share with all that wanted to learn. Lady Ravenclaw saw it differently; she collected her books and learnings and scrambled them up together, the way a house-elf makes a cake. A little of this and a little of that all combined in a toothsome morsel to make you smile. Why, the way she bespelled the staircases to move about was a wonder and a delight, but held no earthly practical use! Unless to bewilder the apprentices.

It makes me sad still that those early times passed us by. You might ask what happened, and if you did I would tell you, for it saddens me that the tale is so little known. What ill will folk think of Master Slytherin if the truth were left behind to moulder through the years?

Now some will argue, and I will not say them nay, that Master Slytherin was a distrustful man, grim and distant seeming. You would not think that he was one to love with all his heart. Ah, but there you would be wrong, for he gave his heart to my little apprentice, Lind, to keep for all time. And she in her turn loved him with all her soul. It would warm me clear through to see the two of them together. Quiet-like they were – but the happiness between them could fill a room. I think that when she bore him their first child, a sweet girl, his joy sang up to the heavens that he said he no longer believed in. Young Godric stood up to be Rhiamon’s godfather, for he and Master Slytherin were as close as that in those early years. As close as that.

Well, well, if I could have saved the memories in a bowl and look back on them that is one that I would keep.

Of course, we were all close in those days; the four of us bound snugly by ties of family and affection. Lady Ravenclaw and Godric were brother and sister by marriage, and I could not have loved them more had I bourn them myself. Master Slytherin earned my affection as well as my respect for I saw how gently he treated my Lind, and how tender he was with Rhiamon, and Arvel, his son, born two years later. Godric now . . . .Godric looked to Master Slytherin with such esteem and admiration that you might think them brothers – or lovers, if you did not know how little Salazar would think of such a notion.

Those were the best of days, so they were. The best of days.

It was a new thing, Hogwarts. Oh, I had seen the Lyceum in Greece, and the Academies in Rome, broken down as the northern hordes had left them. I had even visited the University of Al-Qarawiyyin, in Mauritania, and saw with my own eyes its great library. Hogwarts was like, and yet not quite – for we take our apprentices in as children and ask for nothing in return.

I can see them still, the first few classes. Awkward apprentices, young and shy, like little birds, apt to start and twitter at the least thing. Some had never known that the things they could do were magic. Some came from families with a history as long as my own, and as humble. Others came from a noble wizarding blood as ancient as Lady Ravenclaw’s and young Godric’s, and thought they knew it all.

That now, that makes me chuckle, for none of us know it all. Not even Lady Ravenclaw with all her books, or Master Slytherin with his wanderings on the edges of Faerie.

I said “Faerie,� yes that I did, for it is real, though you smile at an old witch’s ramblings. And Hogwarts is one of the places where it borders easily on. Why, all you have to do is wander the woods that edge the castle to watch the unicorns come down to drink the stream, or see the piskies and thestrals at twilight. As for the Fair Folk themselves, there were times I thought I saw them passing the time of day with this or that apprentice – a worrisome thing, for you never know when they might be minded to make a changeling.

My, how the telling takes me back! We see little of the Fair Folk these days.

When Lind died. . . . Ah, when Lind died. Master Slytherin was heartbroken. No, that does not do it justice. I worried that he would do himself harm, no matter that it would leave his wee ones orphaned. But young Godric stayed by his side; plied him with strong drink and soft words and sweet reason until the worst was over. Master Slytherin drifted among us like a ghost for months after that – speaking little. That was when he started spending so much time away from the castle, we knew not where. He all but abandoned his poor bairns, and they suffered for the loss. That was a sorrow that needn’t have been, that was.

Rhiamon, now there was a child to break a parent’s heart. So headstrong and cunning she was and as quick and supple as the adder that lived in the wall. She wished to see the world, and had I yet been travelling, I would have taken her. Perhaps. They named her for the witch she became, but in the end, she left and married that man from the Highlands. A brother of one of Godric’s apprentices, he had not a magical hair on his head. But he could enchant with his harp and enspell with his voice and so he wooed her away. Master Slytherin never forgave Godric for not putting a stop to it. Hah! As if Godric could have! I have to shake my head and laugh for the folly of men, for any woman would have known that lass would wiggle out of any plan to keep her from her desire.

She left, let me see, yes, it was just a year before King Ethelred burned Strathclyde. After that Master Slytherin drew away from us all, trusting the world less and less. It led to quarrels. Over this, over that . . . but mostly over apprentices who came from non-magical families. He thought, you see, that they would betray him, as the King had betrayed his duty to his subjects.

More and more he drew his apprentices from families with long magical histories. Oh, he took his turn at teaching all the apprentices about the magical beasties that he loved so much, looking for those as had his own gift of cunning and foresight. It was thanks to him that we were so often forewarned – for he had the gift of Second Sight. And as often as we escaped attack because of it, that was how often he told us we were fools to trust any who were not like us.

He never knew that I guessed at the basilisk. He thought that he could hide his mind from all of us, just as he hid the type of egg he had set a cockerel to brood. A powerful bit of magic, that, to make so unnatural a thing. When it hatched, it gave me the shivers to think of it – so cruel and fell, its gaze chilling. And as it got older its gaze became as poisonous as the venom of the adder whose egg hatched it.

Poison enough to sicken his son.

That was when he told me of the beast. When he brought Arvel to me, stricken and limp. If the lad had not been a strapping youth of fifteen summers, I fear he would not have lived. As it was, it took all my skill to bring him through unharmed. Unharmed but not unaltered, for the poison left a mark on him ever after. When the danger was past, I sat his father down and gave him the sharp side of my tongue, for the beast was a danger to us all, loose in the woods. Mayhap Salazar could control it – but only when he was there! And he could not always be there. The beast, I told him, had to be destroyed or locked away. Ah, I was fierce; I was as fierce as a badger defending her cubs, and it shocked him to silence for an entire hand span of minutes, so it did.

He promised me, most humbly, that he would lock the creature away. I would have wished that he had destroyed it, but it seemed safe enough, far down below the castle, at the very roots of the hill.

For a time I hoped that things would mend. That Master Slytherin would see where his road was taking him and allow our friendship into his heart again. That he would see how much his actions had hurt his son. But it was not to be. The distance grew greater. Especially with Godric; the regard between them had gone as sour as week-old milk.

I misremember the last quarrel; it was not of great note, just one of too many. I came into the Great Hall to find the apprentices sent away and Master Slytherin hissing in anger. Lady Ravenclaw was perched at the edge of her chair, her hands clutching the table, her face pale and drawn; Godric stood beside her red faced and fierce, golden hair reflecting the fire. I remember that Godric flung his hat down and proclaimed that it would choose what Houses apprentices should go to when we were gone.

In the silence that followed Master Slytherin looked at us each in our turn and then walked out into the morning sun. We saw him no more.

For these three score years I have kept watch on the basilisk that lurks in its hidden chamber. As I watched Salazar’s children and grandchildren make their way in the world. Arvel is head of his father’s House, making it into a place where those of old blood flourish. He has darkness in him unlike his father’s, and at times I think that he sees the world through eyes tainted by the basilisk’s venomous gaze.

Rhiamon’s granddaughter, Fenella, apprenticed at Hogwarts and wed one of Harold’s many grandsons. I was godmother to her daughter, a girl the very image of Lind, the same raven-dark hair and milk pale skin. Fenella told me many a time that her daughter would come to Hogwarts one day, and nothing I could say ever convinced her that the lass was gone forever, for she was lost when a band of brigands swept over their croft and destroyed all they had. After that Fenella settled her family in Hogsmeade, for these days it is dangerous for magical folk to live scattered about

The fire is burning down into flickering caves of embers, and Malkin winds about my old legs, reminding me that my bed waits.

I wonder what paths Master Slytherin has walked since I saw him last, and what company his ambition has found him. When he left the home we had made at Hogwarts he was afraid to love again, afraid to let someone near. For what had love done but betray him over and over again? His Church had betrayed his devotion by allowing evil to flourish, his wife had betrayed his love by dying, and his daughter had betrayed his trust by leaving. Even his son, the last to bear his name, betrayed him by growing into a man whose ways were foreign to him. He must have felt so alone when he walked away from the Great Hall that last time.

Aye, I wept for him then, and I could weep for him now, poor lonely soul, with all his secrets. He had eyes that could see the wind and a soul that cried for love. I hope that he has found it, for he has my friendship still, and always will.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter 7 - Going Home

If there was a magic powerful enough to alter the past would I perform the spell?

Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry has become a reality, protected from the non-magical world, hidden by its location in the northernmost regions of the Kingdom of Alba and Lady Ravenclaw’s Ambiguation spell. It was as natural as serpents seeking warmth that we would want a place for our children to learn in safety, but it had remained a topic worthy only of idle conversation for the seven years the raids that plagued the western coasts were in abeyance. By that time I had been with old Lord Gryffindor for ten years, first as a tutor for his sons, and then as a sort of village teacher of magic to any that had the talent and could bear the discipline of learning. It had been a weary office, to teach the mildly interested and weakly magical, but the few with real ability made up for the rest.

Almost.

The Gryffindor boys, boisterous and undisciplined, had been a trial to tame, but had been apt at their lessons. Godric, especially, had been attentive. I suppose since his older brother outshone him in the manly arts, and his sister-in-law’s wit and learning overcame us all, that he had to find his own strength. As he did – no one, not even Gareth, could overcome him in a wizarding duel, so well did he apply himself. And yet it was something he would not turn on the non-magical, arguing that it was unprincipled and unworthy of his honour.

He had never seen a mob stone a young witch to death, or perhaps he would have reconsidered.

Nevertheless, when the longboats resumed their raids, my advice was taken to the extent of allowing the village wizards to supply protective spells to the fighting men. This at least did not offend Gryffindor principals.

It seemed obvious to us all, when it came to proposing a site for a school, that while Godric’s Hollow was protected by the mighty arm of Gryffindor and his sons, it was both too well known and too desirable a location to be overlooked forever by the non-magical nobility of the realm. For a time the Ravenclaw castle in Strathclyde seemed a clear choice, but my uneasiness at being in a place so well known for the magical abilities of its lord convinced the others that we must seek farther afield.

For months I saw the castle in my dreams. Dreams, Mistress Hufflepuff assured me, that were not mere phantasmagorias, but prophetic. Dreams where the castle rose, remote and safe, approached by a mechanical, smoking dragon that discharged children in strange garb. In truth it is smaller, with a Great Hall that Godric enchanted to reflect the outside sky, staircases that Lady Ravenclaw bespelled to move and confuse, a kitchen staffed by Mistress Hufflepuff’s beloved house-elves and common rooms for the four founders and our apprentices.

Though all had a hand in it, Hogwarts is most truly my legacy, for it was I who proposed the school, subtly, so that each thought it was their own cherished idea and would have fought tooth and nail for it. As its stone walls rose, built more by magic than by the crafts of the mason, the I thought of the young witch who had died alone. I knew that because of this school witches and wizards will be able to learn what they need to survive the stones thrown by un-magical louts like Wuffa and his cretinous kin. If I am ever remembered in kindness, it will be for that.

I do not think I will be remembered in kindness.

The rest of my legacy – my children – I would change much if I could. For though they carry on my line they followed paths I would not have chosen for them. Rhiamon to marry a man unworthy of her talents and abide in a hovel in the Highlands; Arvel to pursue a dark path my wrong choices opened for him.

It is hard even for me to understand my actions, for there is a hole in my memory; my mind will not take me to the months after Lind was torn from me. I must have run mad, and my deeds speak to that. For what could I have been thinking to breed a Basilisk and suppose I could control it? The adder and the asp, yes, these serpents would talk to me and tell me their secrets, would acknowledge my mastery of them. But the Basilisk is the King of Serpents and knows no master. In my right mind I would have known that.

But my right mind had left me when my wife died.

My madness and pride led to the wounding of my son. The venomous gaze of the eggling, young as it was, did not kill him, but it changed him, imbuing him with some of the madness of the beast, a darkness that is not human. I could see – something – different in his thoughts after Mistress Hufflepuff healed his body, but I did not understand, not then. And even now, knowing the end of the tale, I do not think I could have betrayed him, not him, not my heir.

I swore I would hide the monster away for even then I feared that destroying it would ruin Arvel.

If I were to live to a thousand years, I could never tell all the tale of my pursuit, for it wound through dream and nightmare. The Basilisk’s magic is powerful, and like all such it is drawn to Faerie like a moth to flame. I had long wandered on the edges of that land, seeking entrance, looking for the secrets it contained, but alone, I had never found my way in.

The monstrous beast led me to the edge of a clearing, where a dark river flowed across the trail, shallow enough to ford. Three paths led into the dark wood beyond it. I looked across the river, considering; to the right the path was narrow and twisted, thick with thorns, uninviting. That on the left was wide and paved and somehow ominous. The one in the middle gleamed with magic, beckoning me onward.

A faint sound warned me that I was not alone.

“Well met, brother.� The words came from a tall figure, lounging against a rock by the path. He looked strange and familiar, like the image in a looking glass, not quite real. His hair was as red as a fox’s brush and I could see long canines at the corners of his mouth as his smile transformed his narrow face into a mask of mischief. My hand tightened on my wand.

He laughed and with a casual wave my wand was wrested from my grip and flew to his hand. He examined it curiously. I groped for his thoughts, but Legimancy failed me.

“Tut,� he said, as he wagged his finger at me, “none of that. The beast you pursued has crossed over the river. The path is open for you to follow, if you will.�

His wild face was unfathomable, as he tossed my wand back to me.

“And of course,� he smiled, “once you have walked in the Twilight Land once, it is never so hard to find your way back.�

My eyes narrowed. It seemed to me that I had yearned to see this place, this magical land of Faerie, all my life. As I forded the river, the blood-warm water lapping at my legs, and stepped on the dim path, I felt a sense of homecoming that almost unmanned me.

When at long last I had captured the monster I had created, it was almost more than I could do to return to Hogwarts. It would have been so easy to stay, to shirk my obligations to my son, my apprentices, and my fellow founders..

But I have never been one to turn my back on my responsibilities.

I confined the beast deep under the school, hidden within the hill, in a chamber I created and bound with every protective spell I had learned. I had meant for it to be a secret known to myself alone, but Arvel had learned his lessons all too well, and was a Legilimens greater even than his father. The magic in the stones of the school alone would have been enough to confine it, but I could not trust them, for I had seen more of my son’s plans than he realized. My spells were intended to keep others out, as much as they were to keep the monster in.

For a hand-span of years longer I remained at Hogwarts; fighting the temptation to return to that far land, teaching those who were deserving and loyal, and watching as my son became more and more secret and sly, practicing magic that gained in power and darkness. When he left, an apprentice no longer, to travel as a journey-man wizard, I knew with the certainty of foresight that I would not see him again.

For weeks after he left I brooded. Control of the school had slipped from my grasp, and into that of Godric’s. I knew that my former pupil, my one time friend, would guide and nurture as he saw fit, but his way was not mine. His faith was understandable in one who had never been betrayed; who had only to put out his hand to be accepted and liked, but I could never share it.

The other founders, too, were gullible; trusting their strength, their wit and their goodness to protect the school and their own lives. More and more I stood alone against the other three. Our arguments were petty, tedious and interminable. And I could not win. I could never win.

There was nothing left for me, and the realization was as bitter as lye. I made my preparations, leaving the locket that was Harold Smith’s bridal gift for Lind hidden for my son and his heirs, strengthening the spells on the Basilisk’s chamber, and secretly seeking out my daughter and her son to give them my blessing. Sentimental, it is true, and unlike me, but I could not leave without seeing, just once, the little boy who was so like his grandmother.

As I walked out of the Great Hall for the last time I thought of what lay behind me. The school that’s legacy would live on for a thousand years; my wayward children who had followed such different paths; the peaceful grave of the woman who had bourn them and still had my heart in her keeping. The memory of a red-haired witch, no more than a girl, laid to rest at last.

If there was a magic powerful enough to alter the past, what would I change? For all these things had set my foot on the path I took; the road to the land that exists between the sunset and the moonrise; the land where, at long last, I found my home.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Epilogue:

She sits by my side, fingers to the harp, her milk-pale skin and raven hair so like my lost love. Perhaps it was wrong of me to steal her out of the living lands into Faerie, leaving not even a changeling in her place. But I could not help but keep watch over my foolish daughter’s family, and in watching could not fail to act when the small girl-child was in harm’s way.

I have the child safe, bright as a little bird, close by my side. An indulgence, a weakness, it is true. But now, with Oberon’s kingdom in the palm of my hand, it is one that I can afford.

It will soon be time, while this twilight land is at peace, to think of her schooling.

~*~*~*~*~*~