The first thing he noticed about France was that it was warmer than home. Home…such a strange word, that it would bring to mind a place I have long abandoned, he thought. “Home” conjured up images of a towering castle in the Scottish highlands, on the edge of a forest he had often explored, on the shore of a glittering lake he had often sat beside. But no longer. He had left that place a long time ago, but somehow he still thought of it as home.
Tossing the Portkey aside, he gazed around the hills to get his bearings before trudging off to the north. Strange country though it was, he felt the familiar pull of his friend’s--former friend, he reminded himself sternly--mind, and headed for the signature embedded into the very stones. With a wry thought, he realized he always seemed to be following this signal. It had shaped his life.
- - -
His walks had grown longer and longer each day, taking him further and further from the place of his birth. He wandered now upon the strange moors, lost in thought, when suddenly he felt a pull. He couldn’t explain it; he had never felt such a strong compulsion before. He realized that it was the feel of another wizard, powerful magic the likes of which he had never encountered before.
It was in the rocks, the grasses, the very air itself. He moved on, eagerly, towards the heart of the power. He could sense it, somewhere ahead of him. The wizard…
He ran up the bluff, and down on the moors he could see a tall man striding across the windswept grasses.
- - -
As he walked, he noticed the changes time had brought to him. He walked slowly, with a limp, and his iron-grey locks swung before his eyes. He was an old man now, bitter and lonely, and full of regrets. Time had worn him away.
Regrets…In his mind’s eye, he traced each regret back to its source. The day he learned the meaning of his heritage, the pride that came with it…The day he had first met her, a day that would change him forever…The day he had met him, the one he was now drawn to, had both regrets and fond memories attached to it. For a moment, he let his thoughts travel over the fond memories. Red, blonde, black hair, gleaming in the sunlight…laughter on the shores of the lake…laying the first stones…
Then the arguments, the bitter duel, and the sound of his voice as he screamed he was leaving.
He remembered her tears as she begged him not to go, but he was adamant--he had seen the look in his eyes and knew that if he stayed, he would die.
Before him, before her, came himself. He had pride, in what and who he was. He was younger, more arrogant, and so he had left.
Now, though, he was an old, battered man. He did not regret the stance he had taken, but he always, always regretted turning his wand on him. They had been the best of friends, and though they had drifted apart slightly, he never would have imagined, at the start of everything, that he would ever turn so far as to raise his own wand against him.
Sighing, he shook his head and continued on.
- - -
The sun had nearly set by the time he reached his destination. A ruined castle that had once stood tall and proud, now abandoned when the last of the line had passed on, looking forlorn in the dimming light.
He saw the stone tomb, but he made no haste towards it. He never did anything hastily anymore. He had been hasty in his youth, and now all he had to show for it was an empty heart and an empty cabin in a weed-choked fen.
What remained of the lion that sat on top of the monument looked as noble and proud as he had in life. The two griffins flanking it had once been gilded, he could see, but now weather had worn away their luster--much as time had worn away his anger. Now there was only the emptiness of regret.
He wondered who had built the marble tomb, years upon years ago. One of the other two, he was certain, but had gold hair or raven been the first to weep at this site?
None remained to weep. Time had taken three from what once had been four.
- - -
“I wonder what we should name it.”
“Something majestic,” the taller woman replied to her friend, idly plucking a leaf from one of the trees as the four friends strolled through the outskirts of the forest.
“Something noble,” her lover corrected, wrapping his arm around her waist. Dark hair glinted against dark hair in the late afternoon sun.
“It should be memorable,” the first woman mused. “What do you think, love?” She turned to the man lounging on a rock, practicing spells on the pigs roaming around their pen beside the small cabin on the edge of the trees. His merrily ruddy hair glowed with all the warmth of his face and eyes.
“Hmm? Oh, I don’t know…” He looked up at them and grinned, pointing at one of his test subjects. “How about Hogwarts?”
The four exchanged long looks.
“Well, at least it’s memorable,” the dark-haired man said dryly.
- - -
Gently, he brushed the moss and leaves from his name, etched into the cold stone. Seeing the shape of it again brought back memories of the happier times, and he smiled. He hadn’t in a long time. Indeed, even in the better times he had rarely smiled. But something about being here…together again with the one man he had trusted above all others. He felt complete, more so than he had since he had walked out of the great doors that he had built his life upon long ago.
I came to say goodbye, my friend.
But he knew, in his heart, that it would never be goodbye. One did not say goodbye to this man. This man would never truly leave his mind, or his heart. Not even death could break their bond.
Godric Gryffindor was dead, but never gone.
Salazar Slytherin, having said his last farewell, turned and walked away.
Worn Away by Cherry and Phoenix Feather
Chapter Notes: Love and thanks to dory_the_fishie, my beta, Leanne. And to Maeve for extending the challenge deadline so us Hufflepuffs could compete.