Adric Gryffindor turned his collar up against the wind as he trudged across the moor. It was a particularly cold, wet day for such a journey, especially for an old man, but his excitement was too great to contain. He had to reach his brother's house. He could see the windows glowing across the vale. As a boy, he could run from the manor to the outbuildings in a matter of minutes, but now his shuffling gait would drag this trip out for more than an hour.
An hour was nothing compared to a lifetime of study, particularly a Wizard lifetime. Adric was a scholar of Ancient Runes, and he had spent the better part of a century translating a single text. Like water wearing down stone, he had labored years without noticeable progress; it took a year to sort out the alphabets, and that was after a year ascertaining there were four languages represented in the text. The main tongue, fortunately, had been the precursor to a well-studied ancient language, which had evolved into their current tongue. It was possible to draw general conclusions about the content and even the sound of the text after a mere decade of study. He'd spent twice as many years collecting more grammar: rubbing charcoal reliefs from carved stones, scouring catacombs for scraps of parchment, visiting royal and noble families to copy the runes etched on weapons so ancient they ought to have crumbled to dust--but the magic they posessed had kept them intact, which was of course precisely why they were invaluable.
The text had been written in three distinct hands, one spidery and fine, one firm and flowing, one blocky and coarse. It was a record of events of its day, and also of history. It contained maps, songs, and many, many names, some of which shimmered tauntingly with magic inside his mind, if only he could pronounce them. All of these, however, were in a tongue so old that not a trace of it remained in any language; it would never be spoken aloud again.
He had found the book in his youth, during a holiday far down in the southwest. He and his brother had spotted a pleasant-looking hill while riding brooms, and stopped to enjoy the view over lunch. He approached what he took for an ancient well made of brick, finding to his great surprise that his voice did not echo sharply from water within, but reverberated strangely. Guessing that there was some sort of chamber in the hill beneath them, the two brothers naturally (and promptly) opened the hillside with their wands. There was indeed a cavity, burrowing and branching deep into the hillside. Ancient tiles, though displaced by roots, still demarked a hallway, and some semblance of walls and archways were still discernable, though the entire hilltop had obviously sunk; the ceiling was too low for them to stand upright anywhere inside.
All within was long decayed, but Adric happened to spot a pane of glass reflecting the dim light of his wand. He fancied to let some sunlight through the tiny window one more time. Levitating the dirt on the other side of the glass, he stepped forward to admire the view that the previous occupants had doubtless enjoyed. The hem of his robes brushed the dirt from the surface of a book, revealing the red cover in the sunlight. It was perfectly intact, as though fresh from a bindery, yet Adric knew at once that the writing was older than any runes he'd ever seen.
They should have taken it to Camelot for study, but Adric knew he was meant to have it. The world was not so capricious as to lead a budding Runemaster and his undauntable, curious little brother to this particular hill on a dry, sunny day, without a reason. Thus began a lifetime of meticulous study, which he felt had come to fruition this very afternoon.
Adric pounded on the door once, then barged in straightaway as usual. Helga Hufflepuff was visiting, which was just as well; this concerned her too.
"Godric, I found it!"
"Your blue cloak?" said Godric Gryffindor.
"No, you idiot, would I have walked all the way here on a day like this to tell you about my cloak?" he shouted. "And if I did, don't you suppose I would be wearing it?" His brother was a great man, but at times he could be dumber than a bag of rocks. "I've found the Hidden City!"
Helga dropped the lamp she was holding, which immediately started a rather impressive fire as the oil splashed over the old floorboards. It was no match for their wands, however, and they quickly settled down at the hewn table. Adric's hands trembled under the best of circumstances, but now he was so excited that he could barely unroll his parchment.
"Here!" he pointed triumphantly.
Helga and Godric exchanged a skeptical look; Adric was pointing to an ancient map, which bore absolutely no resemblance to any land that they knew of. He glanced back and forth between them, clearly expecting a more enthusiastic response, then squawked in frustration. Yanking a modern map out of his bundle, Adric tapped it lightly with his wand, saying "Hemilysis epistratum," and laid it on top of the first parchment. The spell had made the parchment semitransparent, so the lower map was dimly readable through the top. He adjusted it carefully to his satisfaction, then beckoned them closer.
"Look at this range of mountains, it's on both maps," he said. "They've been there since the dawn of time, they've worn down quite a bit but you can still see the ridge on our map."
Godric raised his brow skeptically. "Adric, there are ridges like that all over the world. Nothing else on that map looks anything like our country!"
You know very well that the earth was violently changed, twice, since the first map was drawn. But this ridge, it's on every map, the same shape--" he fumbled quickly through his scrolls and unrolled a third map, "--you see how it appears here, the shape is even more similar. This map was made after the first Great Change." He pointed to the east of the ridge, at an area labeled in somewhat familiar letters. "These runes read very nearly like our own tongue--say it for yourself! 'Angband.' It must be Angland, Godric. It must!"
"But the coasts...this isn't even an island, Adric!" Helga said.
"I know, but you aren't appreciating how much time elapses between these maps. The coasts and waterways change the most, erosion and what not. I believe, for example, that this whole basin--" he indicated a wide plain further east of the ridge--"widened and flooded, as this range of mountains drifted northeast to become the Nordic peninsula."
Helga's eyes lit up. "I remember from the story, there was a place at the edge of those mountains..." She scanned the map in Adric's hand closely. "Yes, this one, 'The Final Home...' If these mountains have indeed become Nordia, then 'Final Home' would be sitting right where Asgard is now!" She looked up meaningfully at Godric. The Odin Academy of Sorcery in Asgard was built on a site strong with ancient magic, and they dreamed of building their own school to rival it.
"Exactly!" said Adric gleefully. "Now, look again at the oldest map. Below the ridge was a kingdom of the Elders, the one where the entire forest was protected by magic. Imagine! Leagues and leagues in every direction, no one could enter without leave of the queen--what a witch she must have been!
"Godric, if I'm correct, then the hill where we found the book, it was within the former bounds of the old forest kingdom. You know the story; that land was nearly hidden from men, protected, even though wars raged around it--though no one had woven spells over the area for thousands of years! And the original magic was strong enough to preserve the book all this time, without being maintained or replenished.
"The Hidden City dates even before the forest kingdom; it belonged to the Eldest. That was the story I deciphered last month. It fell because of treachery and betrayal, but it was never found by men. It would have even more potent magic than the forest kingdom, protective wards and hiding spells, crafted by the world's first wizards, Godric! It's here," he pointed, "in this circle of mountains. Those must have crumbled during the First Great Change, but the spot...look there, it must be right there. Only 70 leagues or so from here, two days by broom, at the very most!"
Adric looked up from the map with such wide-eyed enthusiasm, he seemed ready to start off right then. Helga pursed her lips and gave Godric a nod.
Godric and Helga headed north the next morning. Adric's tremors made his broom twitch too violently to fly. They followed the map, noting from the air that the roads built by both Romans and native clansmen all seemed to gently curve away from the spot they were heading. When the two friends suddenly eyed each other, each trying to judge if the other had sensed the tingle of power in the air, they knew it was time to descend. They set down on top of a cliff overlooking a lake, and neither needed to speak. They had found the site where they would build their school.
"I'll Apparate and get the others," said Helga, as Godric gazed in every direction, plans already forming in his head. Something was not quite right, though he couldn't place it until he turned around and found the crown of Helga's head poking out of the stony ground.
"Bugger!" He rushed over, but realized he was not quite sure what to do; he had gone on many bold adventures in his life, but none of them had involved solid rock acting like quicksand. He tentatively tried to pick up the bit of scalp. Perhaps she had merely splinched off the top of her head...but no, it was clearly attached to more of her, below the surface. "Helga?" he asked the scalp, which made no sound, but the hairline seemed to wriggle a bit. Cocking his head, he reflected that even if he had a shovel, it would be of little use on the granite. He finally decided to try "Accio Helga!", which, to his great relief, resulted in her emerging from the ground in a sort of rapid ooze.
"Well, I never!" she said, spitting out a pebble.
He flashed her a warm but slightly condescending smile; she could be so absent-minded at times, but that was part of her charm. "Don't worry, lass, I'll do it," he said, and Apparated, only to find himself in utter darkness, unable to move any part of his body, the taste of cold stone on his tongue and a terrible urge to visit the garderobe. He could still hear, oddly enough, Helga's muffled laughter.
After uprooting him, Helga nipped off on her broom for a few leagues to try again, leaving Godric finally alone to wander. The cliff was a perfect foundation for the castle. They would mine out some dungeons (Salazar would insist on tight, windowless places), and use the same stone to build the towers, though they'd have to import more, perhaps bricks as well. They would need slate for the roof. Perhaps they could find some stones from the original Hidden City. He wandered along the cliff's edge, lost in his own imagination, until something tugged at him from behind.
Godric was never one to jump when startled, so he turned around evenly to a most unexpected finding: an enormous red bird was standing on the hem of his cloak. "Well, hello there, beastie!" he said. "Seen a bit of trouble?" The bird looked ragged, with uneven clumps of feathers; its tail was starkly asymmetric, as though something had pulled out the long pinions on one side. Godric loved birds, and he'd never seen one so stately and beautiful, despite being disheveled. "Poor chap, you can't fly with half your tail gone, can you?" He patted down his robe for a biscuit he had stuffed in his pocket that morning, but the bird only gave it a polite nudge with its beak and sat back expectantly.
"You're no ordinary beastie, are you, friend?" said Godric respectfully, recognizing the sentience behind its behavior. "It must have been some battle for your pinions, what? Well, you're safe with me, now." He tucked the bird snugly in the roomy hood of his cloak, whereupon it trilled softly, laid its scarlet head on his shoulder, and exploded into flames.
Rowena Ravenclaw had already arrived (her home was actually not very far away) and was approaching the cliff on foot when she suddenly saw Godric flare up. Scrambling through the scree up the hillside with her wand ready, she arrived to find him sitting in a pile of ashes, naked as the day he was born, reverently cradling something tiny in his palm. She had already begun to put pieces together; ignoring his state of undress, she ran to his side and peered into his cupped hand. Sure enough, there was a damp, new chick resting there.
She stared at the phoenix with awe, until she remembered the lore of the Bonding. "Godric! Can you speak?" she said, shaking his shoulders in alarm. "Are you still yourself, my friend?"
Godric took his wide eyes off the hatchling at last and gazed at her in pure joy. He'll be all right, she thought with relief, and began bundling the two of them in her own cloak. Pity he wasn't wearing that ugly hat when it happened.
Tom Riddle had long since lost his patience as he stood in Ollivander's; the proprietor must be deliberately baiting him, recognizing his threadbare Muggle clothes as the sign of a second-class customer. When the next wand sputtered weak yellow sparks, he threw it to the ground and grabbed the strange young man by the lapels, glaring at him fiercely. "Stop bringing out your shopworn garbage, you're not going to unload it on me!"
"Young sir, I assure you, all the wands in this shop are of highest quality." His unruffled complacence about being manhandled made Tom suppose that this infuriating trial-and-error approach was, in fact, something his customers endured regularly. He grudgingly released his hold.
"Don't you have any way of narrowing down the selection?" Tom finally said in exasperation.
Ollivander studied him carefully a moment. "Perhaps. There is something about you, Master Riddle, that makes me wonder...I have a special collection, one which I rarely show." He rolled his ladder to the back of the shop and climbed to the top, retrieving several very dusty boxes, so old and dry they looked ready to crumble. Tom could already feel something about these wands; they had gone unsold for so very long not because they were second-rate merchandise, but because there were very few customers who could handle them.
"These were constructed by my great-great-great-grandfather," said Ollivander. "We sell only a handful of his creations in a century. His, erm, technique was unlike any other wandmaker in my family, though of course his instruments are of the same precision and quality as any Ollivander wand." He arranged the boxes in a neat stack on the floor, and set about to gently loosen the ancient lids.
"As you may know," he continued, "each wand has a magical object concealed in its core. Such objects are generally found, harvested, bartered for, et cetera, in other words, obtained by what one might call 'fair' means. This collection, however, is unique in that their materials were acquired under, erm, less equitable circumstances."
"These three, for example," said Ollivander, "contain dragon heartstrings which were cut out while the heart was still beating." Tom listened raptly; the shopkeeper had his full attention now. "The wood of this one came from an olive tree in Tuscany, over 2000 years old. It was cut down by an arrogant patrician to be whittled into buttons for his shirts. He promptly choked to death on one of them." He handed it obligingly to Tom, who admired it, but though it felt more suitable by far than any other, it was still not quite right.
"What else?" said Tom, replacing the wand in its box respectfully, for a change.
"Ah, this one...this one," said Ollivander, peering reverently at the one he'd just opened. "I think this may suit you, young sir. The core is a tail feather of a phoenix--stolen from the creature at the height of its strength. A feat that has never been duplicated. All other phoenix wands are made from feathers given willingly, or discarded, or, rarely, quickly plucked just before the withered creature immolates itself. This one came into my ancestor's possession for a considerable price. We do not know who...obtained it from the phoenix, or how the feat was managed...only that it was obtained in the manner I described."
Tom took the wand reverently. It fit his palm with a cool balance, and as he ran a loving finger along the length of the wood, it felt like part of his arm.
Ollivander smiled at him obsequiously. Tom Riddle never felt any sense of gratitude or debt, particularly when he was forced to pay a fair price for something he wanted. But he knew he must reward the shopkeeper some day for this service.
As the unpleasant youth finally left his shop (his bag of gold considerably lighter), Ollivander shuddered and replaced the wands on their remote shelf. Since he was a child, he hated even to touch their boxes, but they were beautiful in their own dark way--and every one he sold meant that fewer remained to spread their gloom in the shop.
While climbing down from the ladder, however, he nearly lost his footing in surprise. A beautiful scarlet phoenix was perched on the back of the spindly chair. With a little trill, it stretched its neck and wrenched hard at a tail feather, which pulled out a plug of flesh when it finally came free. Ollivander approached it slowly and took the feather from its beak; the red and gold striations on the underside were identical to those inside the wand he'd just sold.
The phoenix gave him a hard look. Ollivander nodded; he had some holly in the basement, and would turn it on the lathe that night. The feather would be made into a wand within a fortnight.
The phoenix gave him a satisfied nod, and disappeared with a flash.
Harry Potter and the Heirs of Slytherin by fawkes_07
Chapter Notes: Chapter 6 Summary: This chapter consists of two historical vignettes taking place a thousand years apart. they have one thing in common: an outrageous act of violence against a powerful magical being. How long ago was the foundation laid for Voldemort's rise to power? It predates Hogwarts, it would seem. It is no coincidence that the power to defeat him was also ordained at that same time.
Author's Notes: This could easily have been Chapter One of the book, but I put it in here to give a segue from the rather heavy-hearted business in Godric's Hollow to the next event on Harry's schedule: Bill andPhlegmFleur's wedding.
Those of you who are extreme fanatics of a certain British fantasy writer may notice some familiar elements. But this isn't a crossover fic. Really. Honest.