As It Was - MesserMoon - Harry Potter (2024)

The Flame

Godric is five years old when his family is killed.

It isn’t until years later that he really understands what happened.

At the time, all he knew was that the angry people came, and his mother hid him in the woods, under the brush—under the leaves and dirt and fallen branches.

“You don’t come out for anyone but me, you understand?”

“Is this a game?”

“Yes, yes, a very, very important game,” arms wrapped around him, mouth pressed to his hair. “You stay here and you be so, so still and so, so quiet, just like I know you can be. And you wait for me, yes? No matter what you hear, you don’t move until I come for you.”

“Yes momma.”

“You promise me?”

“I promise.”

She’d kissed the top of his head then, “I love you so much,” before darting back towards the house.

He heard the screaming. He saw the fire. The shapes of things that looked like they could be people but didn’t sound like people. Too angry. Too violent. And he stayed. Stayed right where his mother left him. Because he was a good boy.

By the time Wymond Slytherin found him he’d been there for two days. He was freezing, he’d soiled his trousers, eyes trained on the burnt carcass of his family’s home. He’d felt the older wizard’s magic creeping along the forest floor, making him shiver when it reached his toes, crawled up his calves all the way to his neck, into his ears. It was warm, familiar. Wymond was his father’s best friend. Their families always close.

“Oh saints,” Wymond cursed under his breath, kneeling down in front of him. “Godric? Godric can you hear me?” he’d reached out, rubbing some of the dirt and sticks away. “Jesus, you’re freezing. Have you been here the whole time?”

Godric just kept staring at where his home had been. At the last place he had seen his mother before the shadows swallowed her.

“C’mere boy, lets get you cleaned up, huh? Get you somewhere warm.”

But Godric shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Can’t? Why? Are you hurt?” he could feel the magic again, running him over, like gentle fingers drumming against his skin.

He shook his head for the second time. “Momma said not to move. Not to move until she came back. So I have to wait.”

There was a long moment of silence. “Godric—” but then he’d stopped. His voice cutting off abruptly. Wymond was such a strong man, he had a thick black beard and shaved head, his shoulders broad, his height causing him to loom over most people. Him and Godric’s father had always felt like mountains. Unshakable. Solid. But in that moment, Godric was pretty sure he saw the older man wipe tears from his eyes.

“She’s not coming back Godric.”

“She said she would.”

“I know, I know she did. I am so sorry, but we have to go now.”

“I was good, I did what she told me to.”

“I know, Godric—please,” choked.

“I have to wait. I have to. I have to—”

“I’m so sorry,” he’d taken him by force then. Wrapping his strong arms around him, holding him to his chest even as Godric had struggled. Had screamed and cried for the first time.

“I’m sorry,” he kept saying. “I’m so sorry.”

He was the same age as Wymond’s son, Salazar, and suddenly Godric found himself sharing a room with him, a bed. At night, when he would cry, Salazar would wordlessly wrap himself around Godric’s back. He wouldn’t say anything. Not in the moment or the mornings after. But he never let Godric cry alone.

They were only five.

You see, Wymond Slytherin is the man who pulled Godric out of the wreckage of his family’s home.

But Salazar Slytherin, is the man who saved him.

The Light

“Gee! Gee wake up!”

They’re ten.

“Gee! Open your eyes, it’s me.”

He blinks his eyes open to find Salazar crouched over him, forehead pressed to his, bringing their faces so close that both of Salazar’s eyes have blurred into one, like Godric has a small cyclops sitting on his chest. He blinks a few more times, trying to wake up.

“What?” he finally manages to croak, voice sleep rough.

Salazar grins. “It’s snowing.” And with that he rolls away, off the bed and across the room to the window. Godric pushes himself up, scrubbing at his face, the heavy fur blanket he’d been sleeping under falling to his waist. He thinks even if Sal hadn’t told him he would have known it had snowed. Their room is freezing, frost on the wooden floors and walls, Godric’s breath a cloud in front of his mouth.

“Come here! Come here!” Salazar waves at him.

“Did you open the shutters?” Godric asks—no wonder it’s so cold. Still, he slips out from under the blankets, the iciness of the floor reaching all the way through the thick wool on his feet and making him shiver as he waddles up beside Salazar.

The sky is a deep blue, meaning the sun hasn’t risen yet. And sure enough, through the crack in the shutters, Godric can see that the fields outside are blanketed in white. There is something about the winter that always feels nefarious to Godric. The world suddenly barer, darker, less friendly. He doesn’t trust the cold, the way it makes a home in your bones. Uninvited. Unwanted.

“Lets go outside.”

Godric looks at him. “Are you crazy?”

Sal is still smiling—his face gets so bright when he smiles—the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“They’ll never let us out, not in this.”

“We’ll have to be fast then.”

“What—“

But the other boy has once again taken off running.

“Sal!” but even as he calls his name Godric finds himself following after him, helpless to do anything else.

They speed into the hallway in nothing but they’re underclothes. Godric can hear the voices in the kitchen already. Sal’s mother, his sisters—Prudence and Annabeth. There is the smell of smoke from the fireplace, and whatever they're cooking to break their fast. He doesn’t know where Wymond is. Likely already in the fields. The barn. Working.

“Oi! What do you think you’re doing!” a wooden spoon is pointed at them but they don’t stop, feet slipping slightly on the wooden floor.

“Hey—Sal!” Annabeth makes a swipe at her younger brother but he dodges her with a laugh. Godric ducking under Prudence’s arm and following him through the front door. It’s only marginally colder outside, his socks almost immediately soaked as he runs into the yard. Big fat snowflakes floating down from the grey sky above, like the clouds are breaking apart.

A second later he gets a handful of snow thrown in his face, spluttering and coughing as Sal runs away.

“Oh you bastard,” he hisses, picking up his own snow, hands burning from the cold as he runs after his friend. They’re wet and shaking and laughing. He manages to hit Salazar’s shoulder, before dodging Salazar’s next throw. In a matter of seconds the pair of them are covered head to toe in snow. Their cheeks pink.

“Aha!” Godric cries triumphantly as Salazar misses him again. His smugness only lasts for a short time, because in the next second Sal is running at him full speed, tackling him to the ground. “Oof,” is all he manages to get out as he finds himself on his back, Salazar hovering over him.

“Got you,” he says. It feels like he’s glowing, the sunrise behind his head, snow in his hair.

“Yeah,” Godric manages eventually, breathless. “Yeah, you did.”

Neither of them move, both freezing and breathing heavy. There is nowhere else, Godric is quite certain, that he would like to be.

“Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin,” comes the sound of Sal’s mother, cutting through the morning. “You get back in here right now!”

Sal smiles, not tearing his eyes away from Godric. “Yes mother!”

“I mean it!”

“Yes, we’re coming!” Sal leans in a little closer, their noses brushing. “You think we’re in trouble?” he whispers.

Godric swallows. “We’re always in trouble.”

Which only makes the other boy laugh.

Wymond takes them with him to visit Merlin.

They’re thirteen.

Wizards don’t have a formal king or government, but in every way that matters, Merlin has come to occupy that position. What he says is respected by most magical folks on this side of the world. It’s a bit terrifying, if Godric is being honest. It takes them two weeks by horse, sometimes camping in the woods, other times staying at inns. Godric has never been this far from home before. Shivers running through him as they pass by muggle towns. He tries not to make eye contact with anyone by mistake, feels certain they’ll be able to tell he has magic right away.

Melinda, Salazar’s mother, didn’t want them to go. The trip is dangerous and tough. But Wymond insisted that it was important.

“This is about him,” he’d said, pointing at Godric who felt himself shrink away from he attention. “He should be there.”

You see, they don’t have wands.

Merlin decided, years ago, that only those closest to him, those he trusted, should be allowed such magical control. The rest of the wizarding world he left to make do with potions and the few wandless spells they’re able to cast. It’s why the Muggles could overtake Godric’s family. They had no way to fight back. This is about him, Wymond had said.

Merlin doesn’t live in a castle exactly, but it’s certainly the largest building Godric has ever seen. At least three stories of grey stone, with crenelations along the top, and a draw bridge that lowers of its own accord when they approach. Godric can feel his heartbeat speeding up as they ride into the courtyard where metal is being melted into weapons and hay is being shovelled out of barns by enchanted tools. It is eery. Godric has never been anywhere so full of magic and so empty of people.

“You two stay at my side, you understand?” Wymond says under his breath as they walk up the steps into the main building. All Godric can do is nod stiffly. Sal falls into step beside him, moving in close, the backs of their hands touching.

It’s been almost ten years since his family was killed.

He still has nightmares sometimes.

And Sal still holds him.

The great wooden doors at the end of the hallway fly open and they walk into a long room with a table that stretches nearly from one end to the other. A man—Merlin, Godric imagines—sits at the head. There are no windows, but torches line the walls, glowing green.

Surely there must be other people in this great house, but Godric hasn’t seen any. Not servants. Not friends or family. Godric is so used to small simple rooms full of chatter, that all this space is shocking, their steps echoing off the emptiness that surrounds them. Godric notices that the only adornment on the walls is a single portrait, large and framed in gold. It sits on the wall behind Merlin. A man in a crown, with golden curls, brandishing a sword.

The old Muggle king. Arthur. He’s dead now. Been dead for years. But the portrait looks brand new, shining and bright in a way that nothing else in this place is.

Wymond comes to a stop and so do Godric and Salazar.

“My lord.”

Merlin has no hair on his head, and a long gray beard dripping from his chin. The corner of his mouth quirking up—amused. “No need for such formalities Wymond, sit, sit.”

Wymond does, Godric and Salazr following his lead, pulling out chairs at the grand wooden table, the noise of the legs scraping against the stone floor seeming excessively loud in the silence. Godric flinches, the hair on his arms standing up. It’s so cold.

“These must be your sons,” Merlin says once they’re seated, leaning forward to get a better look at them.

“Yes,” the lack of hesitation in Wymond’s voice fills Godric with warmth. “Salazar and Godric.”

Merlin smiles at them, it does not reach his eyes—which are dark in the flickering torchlight. Almost black. “Lovely,” gaze returning to Wymond. “So, you wanted an audience with me?”

“Yes,” Wymond says again. “Given the increasing violence of the Muggles over the last few years, I think it is time that the discussion of wands be reopened.”

That makes Merlin laugh. Godric doesn’t know why. It wasn’t very funny. “Do you? And what exactly are you hoping opening this discussion will achieve?”

Godric watches the hardline of Wymond’s face, the clenching of this jaw, tightening of his eyes. “That the right to bare wands will be opened to all magical folk.”

Merlin arches a furry eyebrow. “All magical folk? Come now Wymond, be reasonable.” It’s strange, Wymond commands such authority in their house, in their small community back home, Godric doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone…dismiss him before.

“We need to be able to defend ourselves.”

“You need to get better at hiding.”

The silence that follows that silence is filled with violence. Godric can see it coursing through Wymond’s body—in the tense way he holds his shoulders, the way his teeth grind. But he doesn’t speak. Knows better. Sal doesn’t.

“Why?” Sal demands. Godric looks at him with big eyes, but Salazar is staring right at Merlin. Unafraid.

“Why?” the older man repeats. “Sorry—which one were you again?”

Godric does his best not to cringe.

“Salazar.”

“Right. Well Salazar, you need to get better at hiding so that you stop getting killed.”

Godric doesn’t manage to stop himself from flinching this time. Under the table Sal presses their legs together.

“I’m not ashamed of being a wizard,” he says, with a confidence Godric isn’t sure he’s ever felt.

Another laugh from Merlin, no more pleasant than the first. “I’m not telling you to be ashamed, I’m telling you to be smart.”

But Sal doesn’t waver. “You hide things you’re ashamed of. I’m not ashamed of being a wizard. I won’t hide. ”

“Salzar,” his father hisses under his breath, but Merlin raises his hand to silence him, leaning forward and tilting his head, looking Salazar up and down. Godric doesn’t like it, wants to move in front, to block Sal from his view. But he stays frozen in his seat.

“How old are you boy?”

Sal pulls his shoulders back. “Thirteen.”

Merlin smiles, teeth crooked, some missing. “Yes, that seems right. You do not yet understand the world, but you will one day. We do not hide out of shame. We hide because we have just enough hubris to believe we deserve to survive.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way though,” Sal pushes. “If you gave us wands—”

“So you could run about casting whatever spells you wished?”

“No, only you’re allowed to do that, right?”

“Salazar.”

But Merlin throws his head back and laughs. “You speak your mind, I like that. But you see, I am very old, and very wise, and very strong. So yes. I am allowed to do that. Because you and I, boy? We are not the same. And a world filled with a bunch of wizards with unchecked power running about casting spells on whomever they like is a terrifying prospect. It is my job to keep peace. To keep order,” almost unconsciously his hand twitches in the direction of the portrait behind him, like he’s going to reach out and touch it. “You understand?”

Sal’s jaw is clenched, hands in fists on the table. He opens his mouth to speak but his father cuts him off.

“That is your answer then? No?”

After several long and painful seconds in which Godric truly fears that Merlin will set Sal on fire, he finally turns his gaze back on Wymond. “Yes,” he says evenly. “That is my answer.”

There is little to say after that.

That night the two of them sneak out of the inn they’re staying at, finding a nice patch of grass so they can stare up at the stars. They sit with their shoulders pressed together. They’ve always been like that, since the day Wynmond first brought Godric home. Needing to touch and pull and poke. Melinda often laughs at them, calls them a two headed monster. They are a bit like that, interconnected, made of one another.

Made for one another.

“I hate him,” they’ve been quiet for so long that when Sal speaks it startles him. Godric looks over at the other boy, at his fair hair, and stubborn expression, moonlight dripping down his nose.

“Merlin?” because he doesn’t know who else he could be talking about.

Sal nods. “He acted like we were stupid for wanting to protect ourselves. After everything that’s happened, everything we’ve lost, everything we’ve been through,” he pulls at the grass underneath them. “He has no idea what it’s like, all locked up in his manor, safe and sound. He has no idea how dangerous the Muggles are.” Godric doesn’t really know what to say, so instead he just presses further into Sal’s side. “I don’t care what he says,” Sal goes on, eventually. “Father won’t give up. Neither will I. We deserve to be able to control our magic just much as that old bat. We deserve to feel safe.”

With that last word he turns to Godric, eyes fierce, and all Godric can do is stare back. After a moment he manages: “I believe you.” And for whatever reason that makes Sal’s eyes go soft.

“I knew you would.”

It is hard to explain what Godric feels for him. He isn’t sure there are words. He just knows it’s a lot.

It’s so much.

Godric’s first kiss is with a Muggle girl.

They’re fifteen.

She lives on a farm not far from the Slytherin’s. He sees her once or twice, when he goes with Wymond to the market in town to sell their eggs and milk and to buy wool and meat. Godric used to be too scared to go, too scared to be surrounded by so many muggles. But eventually he manages to gather the courage. And after the first few times the fear dulls into nothing but a vague feeling of unease.

Sal still doesn’t like to come, and when he does he spends the whole time glaring, which does not help attract customers. So usually he stays home with the girls and Godric goes with Wymond. Which is how he ends up meeting Adelaide.

“Hullo.”

He immediately drops the bag of grain he’d been carrying, frowning at it before he looks up to find a short girl, with thick brown hair and freckles, smiling at him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He opens his mouth to tell her that she didn’t scare him, but, well, that wouldn’t exactly be the truth. No one has ever spoken to him at the market before. Mostly he just unloads supplies from the wagon and reloads it with the stuff they’re bringing back to the farm. Getting Wymond whatever he needs as he trades and barters with the Muggle farmers.

“It’s alright,” he says finally. “Can I—er—help you with anything? ”

It’s always a bit unnerving to him, how…normal muggles look. He feels like they ought to have fangs or scales or talons. When he was a kid and he would think about the people who burnt his home to the ground, they always looked like that. Like monsters. Not like pretty girls.

She smiles, her eyes a sort of amber colour, Godric’s never seen eyes like that before. “Is that your father?” she gestures to their stall, a few feet away from where they’re standing. Godric had been on his way to the wagon.

“Yes.” Sometimes, when he calls Wymond his father, he feels like he’s betraying his real father. The problem is, he can’t really remember that man. He’s just a vague blurry figure in his memories. Still, it doesn’t feel good, to speak as though he never existed. Doesn’t feel fair.

“You don’t look a like him,” she says, eyes running Godric up and down.

He doesn’t know how to answer that. “Are you here with your father?”

If she finds the change of subject odd she doesn’t mention it. “Yes, and my mother and sisters. I make the jams. Have you tried them?”

“Er—no, I don’t believe so,” they don’t usually have the money for such luxuries.

“Well you should, they’re excellent. Very sweet, just like me,” with another cheeky smile.

He feels his face heat. “Oh. Right. Yeah, okay, I—“

“Godric!” Wymond shouts in the distance, making him jump so bad he nearly falls over the bag of grain at his feet.

“Sounds like you better get going,” she looks a little amused but Godric isn’t certain at what exactly.

“Yes I—Yes.”

“Well, I’ll see you at the next market then, my name’s Adelaide, by the way.” Holding out her hand.

Godric stares at it for a moment before his brain seems to catch up with what’s happening. “Oh—ah—Godric.”

“Yes, I gathered,” nodding in the direction of Wymond who had, of course, just shouted it very loudly.

“Right,” face heating up even more.

She giggles as she heads off back towards her family, leaving Godric just standing there, flustered and hot and not knowing what to do with any of it.

“GODRIC!”

“Sorry! I’m coming!”

It’s a few weeks later. The kiss. An innocent thing, behind the wagons. It has Godric smiling the whole ride home. Cheeks warm. Blood buzzing. He can’t wait to tell Sal, leg bouncing all through dinner with the anticipation. Desperate for the moment the door to their room is closed, the pair of them in bed together.

But Sal goes rigid as soon as the words are out of his mouth. And Godric is hit with the sudden unbearable sense that he has made a terrible mistake.

“You what?” the other boy demands, sitting up.

“I ki—”

“No, I heard you,” Sal snaps, causing Godric to instantly close his mouth. “I just—why—why would you do that?” he sounds genuinely confused. Lost. And Godric feels a horrible curdling in his stomach. He’s done something wrong. He’s done something wrong, wrong, wrong.

“I—I don’t know I just—I wanted to.”

Sal flinches like Godric’s just hit him. “You wanted to,” he repeats numbly.

“I’m sorry,” even though Godric isn’t entirely sure what he’s apologizing for. “Sal—” he reaches out for him but Salazar pulls away.

“How could you want to?” face all scrunched up, hands fisting the blankets. “How could you want to kiss one of them?”

Them. Muggles.

“She’s nice.”

Sal laughs coldly. “I doubt that.”

It’s Godric’s turn to snap now. “You don’t even know her.”

“And she doesn’t know you!” he spits back. “Did you tell her you’re a wizard? Huh? Did you?” Godric just stares sullenly back at him. “Yeah,” Sal sneers, “that’s what I thought. Because you know the second you do she’ll tear you apart. That’s how f*cking nice she is.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it is.”

“They can’t all be like that, they can’t all be that cruel.”

Sal shakes his head in disbelief. “You sound like an idiot right now, you know that? I mean, I knew you weren’t exactly the smartest, but I truly never imagined you were this thick.”

“Stop it.”

But of course he doesn’t. Sal has never been very good at putting his claws away. Always so ready to scratch and bite. Godric wonders about that, why he isn’t more like that, after everything that’s happened. Why he finds it so much easier to forgive people than Sal does.

“Your parents didn’t burn to death for you to go throwing yourself at some Muggle slu*t. Their lives are worth more than your desire to f*ck something.”

Godric doesn’t think he’s ever been so angry in his life. For a moment all he can do is stare at the other boy, his whole body tense. It’s the first time he’s ever wanted to hit him. Like really, properly, hit him. The first time he’s wanted to hurt him.

“f*ck you,” he finally manages, voice shakier than he wants it to be. He throws the blankets off and gets out of bed.

“Where are you going?” Sal demands, but Godric ignores him, pushing into the corridor and then the kitchen, not stopping until he’s outside. It’s spring, but he’s only in his underclothes and it’s the middle of the night so he still shivers when the breeze hits his skin. He doesn’t turn around, though. Instead he ends up just sitting down on the lawn, a few feet from the front door, knees bent, arms wrapped around them as he stares out into the night. Trying to convince himself not to break something. Not to cry. Neither would be acceptable reactions. So instead he sits and counts out his breaths and tries to cool his blood.

He’s not sure how long he’s there before he hears the sound of the door opening behind him, of footsteps. He doesn’t look. Doesn’t need to. He knows it’s Sal. The other boy sitting silently down beside him, a noticeable gap between them. He doesn’t speak for a long time.

“I shouldn’t have said that about your parents,” voice small, nearly swallowed up by the space around them.

Godric almost laughs, but he doesn’t. “No.”

More silence. He can feel Salazar looking at him but he doesn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.

“I’m sorry,” Sal finally manages. And then, voice stronger: “I’m sorry, Gee.”

“I was excited to tell you,” Godric mutters, kicking at the ground. “You’re right, I am an idiot, I should have known you’d…” but he trails off, not sure how to finish that.

“You’re not an idiot,” he exhales, fists coming up and digging into his eyes. He looks so young when he does that. Like he did when they were kids. “I shouldn’t have said that either. It was not…not kind of me.”

Godric snorts. “No, it certainly wasn’t kind.”

“You—I was just—” he’s frustrated—flustered even—which surprises Godric. “I wasn’t expecting you to—I thought—“ it’s so unlike Sal, not to be able to say what he’s thinking. Usually he has the opposite problem. It’s enough to finally make Godric look at him. His face is all scrunched up, bottom lip between his teeth.

“You thought what?” Godric finally prods, but Sal only shakes his head.

“Nothing, never mind,” looking away. “Tell me about the girl.”

Godric lets out a surprised laugh. “What?”

Sal chews on his lip for another moment before looking up, the stubborn expression Godric knows so well in his eyes. “Tell me about the girl. The way you wanted to. The way you were excited to. I can—I’ll listen, I promise.”

Godric opens and closes his mouth several times. Not sure what to say. He wants to tell Salazar that they don’t have to do this, it’s obvious it makes him uncomfortable. But then, Godric knows an olive branch when he sees one.

“Well,” he starts. “She has these eyes, they’re like suns…”

He sees Adelaide a few more times. They find ways to sneak away together, exchanging kisses, holding hands, smiling at one another. It’s sweet. Young. Never going much further than that. Once or twice he brings her flowers from the farm. She blushes and holds them to her chest, breathing in deep.

“Thank you, they’re beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” he replies without thinking, cheeks instantly flushing, eyes darting away.

They never talk about the future. And one day, almost a year after that first kiss, Adelaide doesn’t show up to the market. It takes a few weeks before Godric finally works up the courage to ask one of her sisters where she’s gone.

“Oh, she got married. Lives in the next county over now.”

Godric doesn’t know what to say.

“Jam?” the girl holds out a glass jar.

He knew, of course, that he couldn’t marry Adelaide.

He still feels horribly hollow every time he returns to the market without her.

Godric grows that summer. He’d already had an inch or two on Sal, but now he towers over him, taller than Wymond even. He grows fond of sword work, of labouring in the fields, both of which fill out his shoulders, his back. Sal is more interested in magic than farm work. He starts a book, catalogues all the herbs his mother and sisters stew. He experiments with different methods of cutting and crushing and slicing—the new properties each technique brings out of the ingredients. Pushes the limits of his wandless magic.

“Come here,” he says one day, grabbing Godric’s hand and dragging him into the vegetable garden. They drop to their knees in front of a patch of fresh earth.

“Sal, what—”

“Shh,” he hisses, and Godric rolls his eyes, watching as the other boy places his hand in the soil and closes his eyes, like he’s praying. Several seconds pass before thin green vines begin to sprout between their fingers, quickly growing into thicker stems, shooting up until Godric is staring at a set of sunflowers nearly as tall as he is. He laughs.

“Impressive isn’t it?” Sal’s face is so bright—his eyes, his smile—Godric leans into him, knocking their foreheads together. Stays there.

“It’s amazing.”

He feels so much for him. When he looks at Sal that’s all he does. Feel, feel, feel.

The Shame

Godric kills a boy.

They’re eighteen.

He’s coming in from the fields when he hears it. Shouting. He twitches like a dog as he turns towards the noise, not thinking much about it until he hears the unmistakable sound of Sal screaming.

He’s running before he has time to think.

Through the woods at the edge of their property, branches clawing at him as he throws himself at them without any attempt to find a proper path. His heart hammers against his ribs, cold sweat on his skin. No, no, no, is all he can think. No, no, no. He’s heard the people he loves scream before.

No, no, no.

There’s a clearing where a few fallen trees lie rotting on the ground. He sees them immediately—three boys, talking, laughing. And Sal. He’s been hogtied, hands and legs behind his back, lying on his stomach on the ground. They’re throwing knives at him.

“Oh ho, look-y here boys,” one of them gleefully steps forward and pulls a blade out of the ground by Sal’s face. “I think he might have wet himself.”

There’s a chorus of laughter. The noise in Godric’s ears is deafening. His whole body shaking. So angry his fury has turned ice cold.

“Are you scared freak? Huh? Are you scared?” digging the blade into his cheek.

Godric sort of.

Blacks out.

After that.

“Gee! Gee stop! Gee!” Sal’s voice is broken in so many ways. Desperate and fearful. Ashamed.

Godric blinks down at the body underneath him. Finds the mutilated face of the boy who’d been taunting Sal. Finds his own knuckles ripped open, making it impossible to tell whose blood is whose. He could check for a pulse, but he doesn’t think he needs to. One of the boy’s eyes is swollen shut. The other open. Unseeing. He feels frigid in a way that reminds Godric of the chickens after their necks are snapped. He’s breathing heavy, pins and needles running through his arms and legs.

“Gee?” Sal calls again, waking him up.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah, I’m here, I’m coming.”

He doesn’t know where the other boys are. Not here. Not bleeding on the ground. Unfortunate.

He crawls over to where Sal is lying, hands shaking and twitching as he struggles to undo the ropes. It takes him too long, but eventually he manages it, Sal groaning as his arms and legs fall to his sides.

“f*ck,” he murmurs.

Godric sits back, bringing his hands up to wipe his face before remembering that their covered in blood. For a moment he just stares at them, mildly aware that he isn’t thinking clearly. A fog has descended over him, making everything go out of focus. Distant.

“Is he dead?”

Godric looks up from his hands to find Sal sitting in the dirt across from him. Eyes on the boy over his shoulder. Godric doesn’t look. Can’t.

“Yeah,” voice rough, so he coughs and tries again. “Yeah, I think so.” Beneath the fog is fear. He can just feel it poking and prodding at him, certain that the minute he’s able to focus properly that feeling will be unbearable.

“We can burry the body,” Sal says suddenly.

“What?”

“No one has to know what happened,” he goes on. “They’ll think he just got lost in the woods or eaten by wolves or something.”

Godric stares at him. There are dark patches in his jacket—his shoulder, upper arm—the places where the muggle boys’ dagger hit its mark. Godric has to close his eyes then, because the fog cannot contain the rage that washes over him again. “You’re hurt,” he hears himself say, voice cracking.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine, Gee. We need to—I’ve been working with plants, I bet I could get the trees to pull the body under. I can make it so no one will even be able to tell. He’ll just disappear.”

Godric forces himself to take in several deep breaths before finally opening his eyes again. “Go get your father.”

Sal’s eyes grow wide. “No. No, I can fix this. Let me fix this for you.”

“There were two other boys,” Godric gives Salazar a sad smile. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, really. But we can’t make this disappear. So you need to go get your father.”

Sal shakes his head. “Then—okay—then we’ll say it was me. We’ll say I did it, okay?”

“Sal.”

“I’m not afraid, I’ll take the punishment, I don’t care.” He’s not sure either of them really have any idea what the punishment will be. A cell? A noose? Likely the latter, but Godric doesn’t feel like thinking about that right now.

“I know you don’t. But—” swallowing, his throat too dry. “But then this’ll have been for nothing.”

“What? What’re you talking about?” he sounds frantic.

“I wanted to save you,” Godric wishes his voice wasn’t cracking down the middle, it’s not helping things. “So if you take the blame then…” Godric trails off, swallowing with some difficulty. “As long as you’re okay, I don’t really care about the rest.”

Sal’s eyes are glassy and Godric has to resist the urge to reach out and wipe the tears away. “f*ck you,” words thick, like he’s drowning. Like Godric is holding him under. “f*ck you, f*ck you. I didn’t ask you to save me.”

“I know.”

“I won’t be okay if you’re—if they—if they take you away. You understand that? I won’t be okay. I can’t—just bury the body Gee. Just let us bury the body.”

Godric doesn’t say anything, can’t really. The pain in his hands is starting to break through the numbness. He smells blood. Like rotting meat. Like rusted metal. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at Sal. It’s calming in a way, even though he’s so scared. There are few things as beautiful as Salazar Slytherin’s face.Eventually, a strangled noise comes out of Sal’s mouth, as he finally gets to his feet. “I hate you,” he says, with feeling.

Godric nods. “I know.” Listening to his footsteps disappear into the woods. He hangs his head between his knees. “I know.”

Wymond comes back alone. He stops when he reaches the clearing, standing there for a moment, frozen by the gruesome scene before him. Godric still has his head between his knees, not brave enough to look at him. To see the disappointment on his face. The disgust. Eventually, after several long seconds, Wymond walks forward, crouching down in front of him. He doesn’t now why it reminds him of that day all those years ago, when Wymond came and got him from the woods. Two horrible moments of his life getting all tangled up in his head. Sal’s screams mixing with the screaming of his family.

Wymond doesn’t say anything, just waits. The forest so quiet around them. So peaceful.

“They were hurting him,” he manages finally, voice thick, barely recognizable. “They were hurting him—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

There’s another pause, before he feels Wymond’s hand on the back of his head, forcing him to look up. The older man’s face is kind. Almost soft, which is shocking in its own way.

“Thank you,” clearing the emotion out of his throat. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

Godric nods. He nods. And nods. And nods until he starts to sob. Wymond pulling him into his chest.

“It’s okay son,” holding him firmly. “It’s okay.”

Wymond takes the boy’s body back to his family. He tells Godric not to worry about it. Godric does, of course, worry about it. Him, Salazar and Melinda sit around the kitchen table all night waiting for Wymond to return. Sal won’t look at him. His shirt’s been changed, wounds tended to. There are marks on him that Godric hadn’t noticed in the woods—split lip, left eye already turning blue. He wants to touch Sal. Wants to cradle his face between his hands. Wants to take his pain away.

When Wymond returns it’s nearly dawn, he barely looks at any of them as he comes in, sitting down at the head of the table and taking his boots off while all of them watch in silence. Godric doesn’t think this home has ever known a silence like this before. So wrought with fear. With pain. They’re usually so happy around this table.

“The boy was found by the road,” Wymond says finally, sitting back in his chair, sounding exhausted. “Highway robbers. Stole his coin, his sword, beat him and left.” Finally, he looks at them, at Sal and Godric specifically. “You understand?”

“But—” Godric has to stop, clearing his throat which has grown tight and dry from lack of use. “But the other boys?”

Wymond nods. “Yes, I saw them. And they saw me,” he looks at Godric pointedly. “They know who I am. They will not say anything.”

Oh.

There is no denying, though it is occasionally hard for Godric to see it, that Wymond is a terrifying figure.

Perhaps they did not realize whose son they were terrorizing.

Some of the fear that’s been knotting up Godric’s lungs starts to loosen until he hears Salazar’s chair scraping against the floor. He turns just in time to watch the other boy storm into their room without even a look in Godric’s direction. He stares at the empty hallway for a few seconds, chest aching, before he turns back to the table, head down.

“He’s angry with me.”

Wymond gives him a sympathetic look. “He’s angry at himself. He feels ashamed by what happened. Ashamed that he needed to be saved. Just…give him time?”

Godric nods numbly, working up the courage to follow Sal to their room. None of the candles are lit when he finally opens the door, the room dark, Sal already a lump under the covers. As quietly as he can Godric undresses, sliding in beside him. It takes several seconds before he realizes that the body next to him is shaking.

Crying.

Godric stares at his back for a moment, the most horrible sadness filling him up. Before eventually he shuffles over, wrapping his arms around Sal and pulling him into his chest. He expects Salazar to push him away, but he doesn’t. Clinging to his arms instead, like he’s worried without them he will fall off the earth. Get lost in the darkness.

It’s never been Godric in this position before.

He hopes he is as good at it as Sal is.

There’s a war coming.

They’re twenty-one.

“We have lived too long under tyranny,” says the man in the pub. He’s standing on a chair, beard and hair scraggly, the entire room’s attention focused on him. “It is time we band together. That we fight for our right to use magic freely.”

General cheers and whistles rumble through the room. Godric and Salazar stand at the back, leaning against the wall. Sal has his arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed as he watches the proceedings. He’s been…different, since the instance in the woods. More withdrawn, more guarded, even with Godric. Maybe especially with Godric. Before, it felt as though there existed no walls between the two of them. Now it feels as though Salazar has placed walls between him and everyone.

“Countless times we have grovelled at Merlin’s feet and countless times he has rejected us. But we outnumber him and his favourites. All of us united cannot be defeated, wand or not!”

Godric used to wonder why they didn’t just make wands. Yes, of course, it’s against Merlin’s rules, but clearly there are plenty of people who feel the rules are unfair. Wymond had explained though, that wand making is a delicate art. One that Merlin has managed to gatekeep. Locking up the grimoirs and all their secrets. Keeping those trained in the craft hidden. Protected. Controlled.

“We’ve travelled across the kingdom, gathering volunteers. We intend to attack soon. If you wish to join, we ask you make an unbreakable vow. To see this through. To overthrow Merlin the tyrant and reclaim magic for everyone!”

More cheering, tankards lifted in the air, beer spilling on the floor. The man jumps down from his chair and the crowd begins to move, people pushing towards the front to join the cause.

“It’s smart,” Salazar says, not taking his eyes off the crowd. “The unbreakable vow I mean, good way to weed out spies.”

Godric feels his brows draw together. “You think Merlin has spies?” he finds himself suddenly surveying the crowd with a new nervousness.

Sal shrugs. “I would.”

That makes Godric frown, an uncomfortable feeling in his chest that causes his hand to come up and rub at his sternum. “I wish this wasn’t…being done this way.”

Sal looks at him, and Godric notices, with some warmth, that Salazar’s eyes seem to soften slightly. “This way?” he repeats.

“With secret meetings, and spies,” he shakes his head. “If we are going to fight then lets do it honestly, out in the open. Lets challenge Merlin outright not…sneak around like rats.”

Sal arches his brow “You want to—what? Write him a letter? Dear Merlin, we’re hoping to kill you and your followers. How does Sunday afternoon sound?”

Godric rolls his eyes, giving Salazar a shove as he laughs. “Not quite like that,” he mutters.

“But I’m not far off am I?” looking far too happy about this. Godric only huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away. “What do you think would happen if we did that, honestly? Do you think Merlin would stick to any of our terms? Or do you think he would make a deal with us just to turn around and attack when we weren’t expecting him to?”

“Maybe he wants to win fairly.”

“God Gee,” another laugh. “You’re too good a man by half, you know that?”

“I’m not,” he says stubbornly, looking back at his friend who has a fond expression on his face. “I’m not good, I just…” he struggles to find his words, “want to make sure I win because I deserve to.”

And now the fondness turns into pity. “No one deserves to win,” Sal says, matter of factly. “No one deserves anything.”

Which Godric doesn’t think is true, but before he can say so another voice beats him to it.

“Well, that’s a rather depressing outlook.”

Both Godric and Salazar turn to find a girl standing in front of them, smirking. She looks to be about their age, with jet black hair and big, grey eyes.

“Hello,” she says, when neither of them manage to come up with a response. “I’m Rowena.” She’s very beautiful, Godric can’t help but notice, is still busy noticing in fact, when Salazar speaks.

“You make a habit of eavesdropping on other people’s conversations, Rowena?”

Godric turns at him, horrified, but Rowena only laughs.

“I do try. You get all the best secrets that way.”

“I see,” Sal’s eyes running her up and down.

“Ignore him,” Godric steps in quickly, before anything more cutting has the chance to come out of Salazar’s mouth. “He has no manners, was raised in a barn.” He can feel Sal glaring at him, but he ignores him, offering Rowena his hand. “I’m Godric, that’s Salazar.”

She takes his hand, grip significantly firmer than he was expecting. “Nice to meet you,” eyes shifting with amusem*nt to Sal who Godric can only imagine is pouting. He doesn’t like strangers. Never has, but even less these days.

“So you agree with my friend here?” Salazar goes on. “Think we should meet Merlin in the open field, one force against the other, no plotting, no scheming, just an honest battle?”

It’s Godric’s turn to glare now.

Rowena snorts. “God no, that sounds like a strategic nightmare. But I like to think I still deserve to win, even if I have to do a little more manipulating to get there. Most battles are half over before anyone steps onto the field.”

Godric is surprised to see a mildly impressed look on Sal’s face in place of his normal scowl. “I can respect that.”

“Well thank goodness,” she says with a mocking sigh. “I was so very concerned with your respect.”

Godric looks between them, feeling like he’s missed something. It sounds like they’re fighting and yet both of them have rather smug smirks on their faces.

“Er—right—well,” he starts awkwardly. “Are you going to join the cause then?”

She looks over at him. “I already have. Unbreakable Vow and all. No one gets to control magic, not even the great Merlin. We deserve access to those grimoires, to all that knowledge. We deserve the chance to experience our magic in its entirety.”

“Here, here,” Sal drawls, lifting an imaginary goblet to her.

She dips her head in a mock bow. “Will I be seeing you two there?” eyes bouncing between the pair of them.

Godric looks over at Salazar and finds him looking back. Will she? Sal asks, and Godric shivers at the sensation of his voice invading his thoughts. Salazar’s always been good at Legilimency. Secretly Godric likes it, likes the way Sal feels in his head.

This is up to me is it? he thinks back.

The corner of Salazar’s mouth flickers. You’re the valiant one. Is it a worthy cause? Godric rolls his eyes, resisting the urge to shove Sal again when he goes on: I won’t go to war without you Gee, even in Godric’s head he can hear the sincerity. Can feel it. What would be the point?

His chest feels suddenly tight. Sal—

You better hurry up, she’s starting to get suspicious.

Godric had almost forgotten Rowena was there, head turning back to her and, sure enough, there is something questioning in her eyes.

Godric swallows, clearing his throat. “Yes,” he says finally. “Yes, you will.”

She smiles, though there remains something almost knowing in her gaze. “Good.”

Before anymore can be said a short blonde girl appears out of the crowd, she has rosy cheeks and big green eyes. “Oh my goodness that took ages,” grabbing hold of Rowena’s arm. “I mean honestly, men, they’re so fussy. Make the vow and move along, you know?”

Rowena smiles. “Efficiency is not their strong suit.”

“Truly.”

“You took so long I was forced to make new friends.”

Helga gasps, like she’s offended. “What? I can’t believe I’ve been replaced so easily.” She seems to notice Godric and Salazar standing there for the first time. “Oh dear,” looking them up and down before leaning into Rowena’s side and whispering rather loudly: “They’re a bit…tall, aren’t they?”

That makes Godric laugh. “Do you normally have height requirements for your friends?”

“Well,” she tilts her head from side-to side. “It’s just that I get a horrible kink in my neck otherwise, from all the craning.”

“Helga,” Rowena interrupts, laughing. “May I introduce you to Salazar and Godric. Salazar and Godric, this is my very good friend, Helga Hufflepuff.”

“You seemed to like her,” Godric says on their way home, hands in his trouser pockets, kicking at the rocks along the road. Salazar looks at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Like who?”

“Rowena.”

“I suppose.”

Godric rolls his eyes. “Oh come on, you liked her, admit it,” he jostles Salazar lightly with his elbow.

Salazar grumbles, pulling away and rubbing petulantly at his side. “She was interesting, why?”

“Dunno,” shrugging his shoulders. “You don’t like many people.” Sal just makes a vague affirmative noise so Godric decides to push the matter. “Don’t like a lot of girls especially.”

Now Sal’s eyes narrow. “What’s your point Gryffindor?”

Godric can’t help but smile at the use of his last name. “Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Just,” he kicks at the ground again. “You smiled at her.”

“I absolutely did not,” like this is some sort of insult to his character.

Godoric laughs. “It’s alright Sal, you’re allowed to smile at a pretty girl every once and a while. You might even want to try kissing one at some point. The Slytherin name isn’t going to carrying on itself.” He’s only joking, really, he doesn’t even think much of it as the words come out of his mouth. But Salazar stops dead in his tracks—so sudden that it takes a few seconds for Godric to notice. Turning back to face him.

“What?” he asks, brows drawing together.

Sal looks very distinctly like he does not think this is a joke. “Has my father talked to you?”

Godric blinks. “What?” he repeats.

“Is he worried that I’m not going to be able to carrying on the family line?”

“What?” for the third time, and then instantly: “No! No—I didn’t—I’m sorry I was just—I was just teasing, I didn’t mean anything by it I swear.”

But Salazar is still standing there, staring at him, body tense, like he’s preparing himself for another blow. Godric steps forward, back towards him, closing the space between them. “Sal I’m sorry,” he says again. “Whatever you think I meant I didn’t—you just, I’ve never seen you be that way with a girl before I didn’t—I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Sal looks away from him, chewing on his bottom lip. For a long time they just stand there and then: “I think he is worried, my father.”

“No, he isn’t, of course he isn’t.”

But Salazar still isn’t looking at him. “I’m worried,” he finally confesses, voice quiet, barely loud enough to hear. “I’m worried I’m going to let him down.”

Godric has no idea where this is coming from but he hates it. hates the things it’s doing to Salazar’s voice. “Hey,” he says, ducking his head to try and catch Sal’s eye, and when that doesn’t work he reaches forward, gently taking his face in his hands and tilting it towards him. Sal only fights him for about have seconds before he relents. Bright eyes finding Godric’s. He swipes his thumbs over Salazar’s cheeks.

“You could never let him down, you understand? You’re—You’re perfect.”

Sal’s eyes fluttered closed. “Gee, please.”

“What? What is it?” he searches his friend’s face, trying to figure out what it is he’s asking for, what it is he needs.

“Don’t—you can’t say those things to me.”

Godric can feel his face scrunching up. “Why not, it’s true?”

A strangled noise comes from the back of Salazar’s throat before his eyes fly open again. For half a second Godric gets the feeling that he’s going to tell him something. Something important. But then he pulls away, out of Godric’s reach.

“C’mon, we should get home before it gets dark.” Starting off along the road before waiting for a reply, leaving Godric utterly lost.

It’s not a fair fight.

Not even close. Not when one side has spells and the other side has nothing but the vague imprint of magic. But the man in the pub—the one Godric has come to know as Antonio—was right. What they lack in magic they more than make up for in numbers. Still. It’s a brutal messy fight.

“I suppose there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?” Sal had been outside, readying their horses, Wymond standing in their bedroom door, watching as Godric finished with their packs.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said. He didn’t like upsetting Wymond and Melinda.“But if we don’t go, I’m not sure we’ll ever forgive ourselves.”

Wymond had nodded, walking into the room and placing his hand on Godric’s shoulder and squeezing. It was strange to see so much fear in his strong face.

“You’ll protect him?” he’d asked after a moment, voice almost soft.

Godric nodded his head, covering Wymond’s hand with his own. “Always.”

Those words echo in his head as he pulls his sword out of some man’s chest. Some man whose legs are currently trapped in the tree roots that had suddenly burst through the ground to trap him. He looks over his should at Sal who has his hand pressed to the earth and a wicked grin on his face. Of all of them Sal’s by far the one who can do the most with his magic, Helga maybe second, though her magic tends to heal more than hurt, which has its own uses, of course.

“Salazar, Godric, left flank!” he looks up to see Rowena on horseback, armour glittering in the sun. “Lets cage them in!”

Godric nods, giving her a two fingered salute. “Aye, aye captain.”

In the days leading up to the battle her and Antonio had poured over maps, working out different formations, moving pieces around. Godric couldn’t make much sense of the any of what they were muttering about or the shapes they drew on the maps—lots of lines and arrows.

“Just tell me what to stab and I’ll do it,” he’d murmured to Rowena one night, making her laugh.

“I can do that.”

He’s back at Sal’s side, moving with about two dozen other men to block Merlin’s only escape route. They step over bodies as they go, trying not to think about how many of them are their own people. How many he had dinner with only a few days ago.

“Avada K—“ Godric draws his sword across the man’s throat, the wand falling from his hand as he crumbles to the floor, blood pouring out of him.

Sal steps nimbly around the growing pool of blood to pick up the fallen wand, looking at it with immense curiosity—even awe. Now that he thinks about it, Godric isn’t sure either of them has ever held a wand before.

“I don’t think we have time for you to experiment right now,” he says as his eyes dart around, searching for their next opponent, making sure that no one was looking at them and muttering things under their breath. It’s chaos, the ground beneath their feet turning to mud from all the blood being spilt, swords and arrows and spells all flying through the air, men being thrown thirty feet, men having their skin randomly catch fire, men dropping dead without a scratch on them.

Salazar waves around the small stick in his hands but nothing happens. He frowns down at it.

“Sal,” Godric says nervously. “Please move.” It isn’t safe to stay still for too long, turns them into easy pray.

“Yes, sorry,” though Godric doesn’t miss the way he slides the wand into the breast pocket of his jacket.

Godric shakes his head, huffing. “When this is over I’ll get you your own damn wand. Hell, I’ll get you twenty of them.”

Sal looks up at him, smiling, face covered in dirt, a little bit of blood—not his, Godric has to remind himself. “Is that a promise, Gee?”

And despite the fact they are in the middle of a battle, Godric can’t help smiling back at him, throwing his free arm around his shoulders and kissing his temple. “You bet it is.”

They aren’t there when they cut Merlin’s head off. But they do see it afterwards, paraded around on a stick to the cheers of those left alive. Godric is so exhausted that he barely makes it off of the battlefield. Collapsing onto the first patch of grass he finds, the sun setting over him. He’s sweaty and swore, a nasty cut to his abdomen that he’ll have to get Helga to look at later.

Sal tries to stay upright, gripping his knees, chest heaving, but eventually he drops down too, ending up on his back beside Godric, their arms pressed together. It takes several minutes, but eventually Sal speaks;

“We did it,” Godric is almost certain that if either of them had the breath they would be laughing. “We won.”

As it is, he smiles up at the sky like a mad man. “We won.”

It’s several hours later, well into the night—all of them still too pumped full of adrenaline to sleep—that the four of them end up sitting in a tent, passing around a bottle of firewhisky.

“I can’t wait to get my hands on those f*cking grimoires.” Rowena has a black eye, one arm in a sling, but you’d never be able to tell from the way she’s grinning.

“How long do you reckon before we can start handing out wands?” Godric asks, taking a swig from the bottle before passing it to Sal.

“You don’t hand out wands,” she goes on. “They have to be specifically crafted for you, they have to suit your magic.”

Godric arches his brow. “That sounds…time consuming.”

“Yes,” though her smile doesn’t dim. “But it’ll happen. We’ll make it happen.”

“It’ll be nice to finally let it out, you know?” Helga says, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her face. “I feel like I can feel the magic in me, feel it building, begging to be given somewhere to go."

Sal hums thoughtfully. “It’ll be nice to finally feel strong.”

Godric looks over at him, finding his friend with his mouth pinched, eyes on the ground. He leans in closer, bumping their shoulders together, making Sal look-up. You’ve always been strong, he thinks at him, knowing that if he said it out loud it would only embarrass Sal. Sal’s lips do flicker up briefly, the ghost of a smile, but Godric can tell that the other boy doesn’t believe him.

“You know what we need?” Rowena says suddenly.

“More alcohol?”

Godric snorts as he watches Helga stare longingly into the mouth of their now empty bottle.

“No—well,” Rowena makes a considering face. “Yes. But also, we need a school.”

“A school?” Godric repeats. “For wand making you mean?”

She waves her good hand dismissively. “For magic.”

“Magic?” he’s starting to feel like a bit of a parrot. “Magic isn’t really something you teach, is it?”

“It will be, once we have wands, once we can cast proper spells.”

Godric frowns, unconvinced, but Salazar has perked up beside him. “You’re right, Merlin’s fear was that it would just be chaos if everyone had access to their full abilities, but if we have a place where wizards can train—“

“—and witches,” Helga adds quickly.

“And witches,” Sal amends. “Then that won’t be a problem.”

“Exactly!” Rowena says excitedly. “And think about how much magic will advance if we have a place where we can all come together, learn from each other.”

Sal is nodding. “Yes, yes, we can take all the knowledge Merlin squirrelled away and share it.”

“We?” Godric asks. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for teaching, I can barely do any magic.” Truthfully, he’s never tried that hard. Just seemed like a whole lot of trouble he didn’t need.

“It’ll be different after you have a wand, you’ll be brilliant,” Salazar says confidently, and Godric can’t help sending hip a lopsided grin.

“Oh yeah?”

“I can feel it in you,” his face is so bright, bright in a way it hasn’t been in years, hasn’t been since before the boys in the woods. “I can feel the magic in you Gee, it’s so powerful.”

Godric reaches out and musses his hair, just because he wants to touch him. And then, because that isn’t enough, because he can’t help himself, he leans down and kisses his temple, just like he had on the battlefield. Both of them laughing though he isn’t sure why—the alcohol, the exhaustion, the relief.

“So it’s settled then,” Rowena says, bringing their attention back to her. “We’re starting a school.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I really wish we could drink to that,” Helga says mournfully, which has them all in stitches a second later.

Godric doesn’t really believe it’s going to happen. But it does.

They’re twenty-five.

It takes a while to sort everything out after the fighting. To pick through all of Merlin’s treasures. To start to set-up a framework for what will come after. A senate of sorts instead of a monarch. Wandmakers turned into a guild instead of a secret society. Efforts made to deliver wands to wizards and witches across the continent and beyond.

They are all rather busy.

And then one day they get a letter from Rowena.

“She wants us to meet her in Scotland,” Salazar says, leaning against the outside of the wooden pen and watching Godric tend to the pigs.

“Scotland?” he asks, pouring slop into the trough, mud up to his shins. “Why?”

Sal only shakes his head, evaporating the letter with the flick of his wand. “No idea, she doesn’t say. What do they have in Scotland?”

Godric frowns. “Sheep?”

“Kilts?”

“Rain?”

“Castles?”

“Bagpipes?”

“Yes, I think that one’s definitely it,” Sal says dryly. “She wants us to come to Scotland to listen to some bagpipes.”

“Maybe they’re cursed Bagpipes?”

He can tell that Sal is trying hard not to smile but he doesn’t manage it, and something warm and triumphant pools in Godrics’s stomach as he reaches down to scratch behind one of the pigs’ ears.

“You know,” Sal says, looking at the pen with wary dislike. “You could just charm the trough to refill itself.”

But Godric shakes his head. “I like doing it, besides,” bending down to kiss the top of the pig’s head. “They’d miss me.”

Salazar pulls a revolted face that has Godric laughing.

Castles turns out to be the correct answer.

Though, admittedly, so does rain, since it starts pouring the minute the portkey spits them out into the grassy field.

“Honestly,” Sal mutters, pulling out his wand and casting a water repellant spell. Godric smiles while he watches, rain starting to soak his shirt. He loves seeing Sal do magic, it comes so easy to him, so effortlessly. There’s been such a clear change in him, like he’s suddenly become more comfortable in himself.

“Do you need me to show you the spell?” he asks, pulling Godric out of his thoughts. There’s no judgement in the question, though they both know Godric has taken to spell work much more slowly.

He gives his head a shake. “Didn’t bring my wand.” He’s still not used to having to carry it everywhere. His longsword, on the other hand, is strapped to his back as always.

“You didn’t—oh Christ’s sake,” Sal rolls his eyes as he flicks his wrist, the magic tickling trough Godric. He honesty did forget his wand, though sometimes he wonders if he does it subconsciously. He loves the way Sal’s magic feels. Warm, safe, with a bit of citrus somewhere in there. He loves it more than he loves his own magic, he thinks. An invisible bubble seems to descend, preventing any water from touching him.

“Thanks,” he says, shaking his hair out like a dog, much to Sal’s dismay.

“You really need to get better at remembering your wand,” he says. “You’d be soaked through if I wasn’t here.”

“Guess I’ll just have to make sure to stay close to you then,” Godric grins, enjoying the way Sal blushes even as he rolls his eyes.

There’s a loud whirring noise, and the next moment both Rowena and Helga appear by the same portkey. “Excellent,” Rowena looks at them brightly, spelling herself and Helga dry. “You’re here. Lets get going shall we?”

“Get going where, Rowe?”

But instead of answering she simply pushes forward up the hill. Sal gives Helga a pointed look, but blonde girl only shrugs, following behind. “She hasn’t told me anything either.”

Sal huffs but Godric gives him a nudge forward. “C’mon, it’s an adventure.”

“Adventure,” Sal grumbles, but they go after the girls anyway.

Rowena hasn’t wandered far, standing at the top of the hill in front of them, hands on her hips, satisfied look on her face. The view looks out over a lake, a forest in the distance, and what appears to be the ruins of a castle.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” she exhales. Godric snorts at the look on Salazar’s face.

“It’s raining is what it is,” Sal says flatly. “Why have you dragged us out here?”

She turns back to face them, arms opened wide. “This is it.”

“It?” Helga asks, looking around like she’s expecting something to jump out.

“This is what?” Sal demands.

“This,” still beaming, dark hair curling slightly at her temples from the humidity. “This is our school.”

Now, admittedly, Godric has never been to a school. But he is fairly certain they’re supposed to have roofs.

“Er—where?” Helga asks, voicing Godric’s own thoughts. But Rowena is not deterred.

“We’ll fix up the castle, that’s where most of the classes will be,” as she talks Sal steps forward, coming to stand beside her. “And then there’s plenty of space for a greenhouse, and gardens down there. And we have a field for sports over there.”

“Where’s the nearest Muggle settlement?” Sal asks.

“Miles away,” Rowena assures him confidently. “We’ll put up protective charms, of course, but out here we should be pretty safe.”

Godric is surprised to see Salazar nodding along. “It’s perfect,” he says finally.

“It is perfect,” Rowena smiles at him. And Godric tries to ignore the strange wiggling in his chest at that. At the way they’re looking at each other. That’s my look, the wiggling says. Mine, mine, mine.

“Well,” Helga turns to him, eyebrows raised, a dry smile in the corner of her mouth. “I guess it’s perfect.”

Godric huffs, looking back at their two friends who are still muttering plans to one another. “I guess it is.”

So they get to work, Rowena and Salazar focusing on the castle while Godric and Helga take care of the grounds. Helga’s magic works best on living things and Godric is good with his hands. They plant ingredients for potions, for food, and flowers, just because Helga thinks they’re pretty and Godric can’t say no to her, not when she smiles at him like that.

“We should each take on a group of students we’re responsible for,” Rowena says one day when they break for lunch. She has an apple in her hand and she’s chewing it thoughtfully. “Like a household of sorts, that way we can make sure no one falls through the cracks, every child taken care of.”

“And how exactly are we deciding which students will be members of our households?” Sal asks suspiciously. “Don’t think I’m gonna let you take all the clever ones.” Rowena rolls her eyes.

“Well, I don’t mind who’s in mine,” Helga tears off a piece of bread. “I’ll take anyone.”

Godric still isn’t sure he should even be teaching at this school, let alone in charge of a household of children.

“Why don’t we make lists then,” Rowena suggests, swallowing the last of her apple before flicking the core off into the grass.

“Lists?” Godric asks.

“Mhm, of all the qualities we want our houses to embody.”

Sal is nodding. “Okay, we should each come up with a coat of arms as well, like proper households.”

“A coat of arms? My, my, aren’t you getting posh,” Rowena drawls. “Next you’ll be asking us to call you Lord Slytherin.”

Godric can’t help laughing. “Don’t go putting ideas in his head.” Salazar throws a handful of grass at him.

“Are you done yet?”

Godric tsks, hunching over his parchment a little more when Salazar tries to get a better look at it. “Patience is a virtue, you know?” shoving him back.

“Yes, well, no one has ever accused me of being virtuous.”

Godric snorts. They’re in his bedroom in the finished wing of the castle. There is still plenty more work to be done but they’ve managed to finish most of the staff quarters and the dorms. There’s a desk, but somehow they’ve ended up on the red and gold carpet. The fireplace going strong, candles lit allover. It’s a big room—the biggest Godric has ever had. Big and empty. Sometimes Sal will sneak in at night.

“This okay?” he asked the first time, standing uncertainly at the foot of Godric’s bed. Godric had practically laughed with relief.

“Come here,” pulling the blankets back.

“Are you done now?” Salazar whines.

“Jesus, you’re worse than a child,” Godric mutters as he scribbles down one last word before dropping his quill and turning to face Salazar, who is sitting crossed legged staring at him.

“Done?”

Godric laughs, nodding. “Done, you menace. What did you write on your list?”

“You go first.”

“Nah-uh, no way, you go.”

Sal narrows his eyes for a moment before huffing and clearing his throat, lifting up the piece of parchment in his hands. “Ambition, resourcefulness and cunning—what?” he demands when his eyes flick up from the page. “What’s that look for?”

“Cunning?” Godric demands. “Really?”

“Oh alright, what’s on your list, then?” crossing his arms over his chest and scowling.

Godric looks down at the three words he’s written. “Er—well—bravery, loyalty and chivalry.”

“Chivalry, Gee? Really?”

“What’s wrong with chivalry?”

“What, are they going to be running around saving damsels in distress?”

“Well, hopefully if there is a damsel in distress they will save her, yes.”

Salazar rolls his eyes and a second later Godric finds himself being tackled to the ground. “Oi!” he laughs, Sal’s hands on his shoulder, pushing him onto his back, and then on his wrists, pinning them to the floor on either side of his head, holding him there. Godric pretends to fight it a little, but the truth is, he could push Salazar off easily if he wanted to. He just. Doesn’t.

They stay like that for a moment, Sal hovering above him, looking at him, and Godric has the vague memory of two boys in the snow, in the same position.

“I think this is going to be really good,” Sal says finally.

“Yeah?” a little breathless.

Salazar nods. “I’m—I’m so f*cking happy you’re here Gee.” His eyes are big, head dipping slightly closer.

Godric swallows. “You’re here,” he shrugs. “Where else would I be?”

And That makes Sal smile so big Godric almost has to look away.

“I love you, you know? I love you more than anything else.” He feels Sal searching his face, clearly looking for something, but Godric has no idea what.

Eventually he nods. “I love you too.”

He thinks he sees something like disappointed in Salazar’s eyes, which doesn’t make sense, but a second later he’s rolling off, onto his back beside him.

“What do you reckon Rowe and Helga have on their lists?” he asks, speaking to the ceiling.

Godric huffs. “Rowe will have something about bloody reading.”

“Yeah,” amused. “And Helga’s will be like, friendship and sunlight.”

“And sunlight?”

“Well, she loves being in the garden so much, she’s practically a flower.”

Godric smiles at that. It’s a nice imagine. “I’m glad we met them,” he says. “I love them too.”

There’s a pause, long enough that Godric turns his head to look at Sal, but the other boy is still staring at the ceiling, expression oddly blank.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, I know you do.”

It’s a few days later, they’re picking through some of the grimoires taken from Merlin’s home, deciding what might be useful for the students, when Rowena sighs.

“God, do you think I should put her out of her misery and tell her that she doesn’t stand a chance?”

Godric feels his brow furrow, looking up from the page in front of him. “What?” But Rowena isn’t looking at him, her eyes across the room on Sal and Helga. They’re also sitting with a grimoire between them, Helga laughing at something Sal said, cheeks pink. Godric notices that she is perhaps leaning into his side more than is, strictly speaking, necessary.

“What makes you think she doesn’t have a chance?” he asks finally, looking back at Rowena only to find her eyebrows raised.

“What makes me…” she trails off, squinting at him. “Do you not—” but then her mouth instantly snaps shut. “You know what? Never mind, you’re right. I don’t know anything,” her eyes drop back down to the page in front of her, leaving Godric thoroughly confused.

“I—” he blinks down at her before shaking his head. “Sorry, what just happened?”

But Rowena doesn’t look up. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I just—misspoke.”

Godric looks from her to Sal and then back again, a familiar discomfort in his chest, the way there always is, when Sal and Rowena share smirks, or looks, or inside jokes.

“We should really finish this reading,” she says, clearly aware that he’s just been sitting there, staring at her.

He coughs, clearing his throat, one hand coming up to rub his sternum. “Right, yeah.”

“Is something going on with you and Rowena?”

They’re in Godric’s room again, Sal fiddling with some new wand materials, Godric sharpening his sword—or, well, he’s supposed to be anyway. Mostly he’s just…frowning at it. Thoughts going round and round thinking about earlier today. About Rowena’s cryptic words.

The basilisk horn drops from Sal’s hands, landing with a clang onto the table. “Pardon me?” he asks, voice slightly higher than normal. Godric isn’t sure what to make of that, honestly.

“You can tell me, you know? I’d be happy for you,” though the wiggling in his chest disagrees. He’s choosing to ignore it.

Salazar stares at him for several seconds, just blinking. “What—where is this coming from?” he demands.

Godric shrugs, looking down at his sword again, feeling a little embarrassed, though he isn’t sure why. “Just…something she said.”

“What? What did she say?”

“Sal—” he sighs, but it’s too late now.

“No, tell me what on earth Rowena Ravenclaw said to give you the impression that we—” but he cuts himself off, like he can’t even speak the words, and Godric’s eyes flick up again.

“So there’s not then? Anything going on, I mean?”

“Of course there’s not,” Sal says dismissively, but Godric doesn’t stop frowning.

“But…why not?”

“Why—what do you mean, why not?” he’s getting angry now, Godric should really bow out while he still has all his limbs attached to his body. But he can’t help himself. He’s curious.

“I see the way you two look at each other sometimes—”

“Oh Christ,” Salazar gets out of his chair, turning towards the fireplace and shaking his head. “The way we look at each other. Really, Godric? You’re being ridiculous.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so—“ but he can’t find the right words.

“Why I’m so what?”

Godric sighs, running a hand over his face, before taking the sword off his lap and placing it on the table in front of him so that he doesn’t accidentally impale himself. “Why can’t we talk about this?”

“Talk about what? Me and Rowena? There is nothing to talk about,” he’s still facing away from Godric, hands braced on the mantel of the fireplace.

“Why we can’t talk about you and…women? Or me and women? Why can’t we—we talk about everything,” a little helplessly. “I don’t understand why we can’t talk about this?”

There’s a long moment of silence, Godric staring at Salazar’s back, the tension running through his shoulders, his neck, before eventually—finally—he turns around. “What did Rowena say?”

Godric bites back his frustration, unsure why this matters. “I don’t know she just—” gesturing vaguely with his hands. “She was watching you and Helga, she said—she said she wanted to tell Helga she didn’t have a chance with you and I didn’t understand why.”

“You didn’t?” Salazar asks flatly.

Godric growls. “Yes, she acted like that too, like I should know. Why should I know Sal? What am I supposed to know?” And when Salazar just stands there, staring, in a rare moment of speechlessness, he pushes on. “Since when do you tell her things you don’t tell me?”

He lets out a humourless laugh. “I haven’t—I haven’t told her anything.”

Godric squints at him. “Then what—” but suddenly Sal is moving, and in the next second he has his hands on either side of Godric’s face and he’s kissing him.

Which.

Which isn’t supposed to be happening.

Godric feels his thoughts scramble around in his head, desperately looking for something sensible to grab hold of. Because this. This makes no sense. This makes no sense at all.

“Sal—” he mumbles against his mouth, gently easing him back. “What are you doing?”

Sal looks at him with an expression Godric doesn’t think he’s ever seen before, at least never directed at him. Fear. He’s so surprised by it that he doesn’t know what to say. Reacts too slowly. Sal already out of his reach before he can think to stop him.

“Sorry,” Sal’s voice quivers. “Sorry, sorry I don’t know what—I shouldn’t have done that.”

It breaks his heart, hearing the cracks in those words. “Sal,” he gets up, but Salazar instantly steps back.

“No, no please I—can you just forget that I did that? I—oh God, Gee I—I won’t do it again, okay? I won’t,” retreating towards the door.

“Sal.”

“Just forget it, please, please.”

“Salazar.”

But he’s already gone, Godric’s arms outstretched, reaching for nothing.

He thinks he’s going to be sick.

He doesn’t know what just happened.

But he thinks he’s going to be sick.

He should go to Sal, should try to find him, to explain…well…he doesn’t know. Actually, maybe it’s Salazar who needs to explain. Either way, when he finally manages to get his legs to move, it’s not Salazar’s door he ends up in front of.

“Godric?” Rowena rubs the sleep from her eyes. He doesn’t actually know how late it is, how long he stood in his room after Salazar left.

“I need—” but that’s all he manages to get out before he starts choking on his words. Rowena instantly reaches for him, pulling him inside.

“What is it?” she asks, shutting he door behind him, Godric stepping into the middle of the room, hands running up and down his arms, eyes darting around, he feels twitchy, off-kilter. “Godric?”

He swallows, looking back at her. “He kissed me.”

She stares at him for several seconds. “Oh.”

“Why?” his voice comes out strangled, and he feels the tears at the back of his throat. He can’t even remember the last time he cried in front of anyone who wasn’t Sal. Rowena’s eyes are sad, Godric doesn’t understand that. Not really. He thought he might see horror or disgust or confusion, but not sadness.

“You really didn’t know?”

“Know what?” he feels like he’s going crazy. This can’t be real. Can’t be. It must be some sort of nightmare.

“I think we’re going to need alcohol for this,” she says, nodding to herself as she makes her way to the cabinet across the room, Godric watching her and feeling so, so lost.

“Rowe, please, I—” he shakes his head. “I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t understand—” he can feel him. Feel his lips. His hands. “I don’t understand. Why would he do that?”

“Godric,” she sighs, pouring amber liquid into two cups, back to him.

“What? What? Rowe—“

“He loves you,” she says bluntly, turning to face him, glasses forgotten.

“I—yes. I know that. Of course, I know that. But—“

“No, Godric, listen to me,” her voice is steady, commanding, like they’re back on the battlefield, and he is powerless to do anything but give her his full attention. “He is in love with you.”

He doesn’t know why he’s shaking his head exactly, why there are tears in his eyes. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Godric,” pity. There is so much pity, and Godric doesn’t know what to do with it, doesn’t know how to bear it. He backs all the way up until his knees hit the end of her bed. He sits down hard, still staring at her.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he’s begging her to understand. Because he’s never heard of such a thing. He’s never even thought of it.

She walks over, hand going to the back of his neck and squeezing before she bends down and kisses the top of his head. “Take this,” she says softly, forcing a glass into his hand. He takes it because he’s too much of a mess to think for himself. “Drink,” not unkindly. “You’re gonna need it for what I have to say next.”

“Oh god, what’re you going to say next?” he half-laughs, half-chokes, before doing as she said and throwing the drink back. When he’s done she takes the glass out of his hand again, setting it down on the ground before crouching in front of him, hands wrapping around his shins while she looks up at him.

“Godric,” squeezing. “You are also in love with him.”

There’s a beat.

“What?” God, he doesn’t think he’s ever said that word so much before in his life. “What are you talking about, I don’t—I can’t—“ he doesn’t even know where to start. Tries to pull the words out of his head but finds his hands empty.

Rowena keeps looking at him, not a speck of uncertainty in her eyes. “I want you to think, I mean really think, can you imagine your life without him?”

“I—“

“Can you imagine one day? Just one single day?”

It’s hard to breathe. He brings his hand up to his chest, pressing down on his sternum again.

“Can you imagine yourself happy?”

“I don’t—I—“ he’s struggling, every inhale a battle.

“I mean, isn’t it him? When you just think happy, isn’t it him you see?” she keeps going cruelly.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” he crumbles forward, unable to stop the hitching sobs from crawling out of his mouth. “What do I do? I don’t know what to do.”

“Sh, sh,” hand on his back, making soothing circles. “You just breathe.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. You breathe, and then once you have that under control, you go find him.”

It doesn’t quite work out like that.

Godric is so exhausted by the time he’s able to pull himself out of Rowena’s room that he barely makes it back to his own, collapsing onto his bed and curling up as soon as he gets there. So it’s not until the next morning that he goes looking for Salazar. The world around him suddenly feeling foreign, Godric no longer fitting properly in his own skin.

“Sal?” he knocks gently on his door. “Sal?”

But there’s no answer.

Godric goes down to the kitchens, finds Helga there, whistling to herself as she spreads some jam on bread.

“Morning,” she smiles brightly, though he can see the small flicker of surprise in her eyes as she takes in the state of him. The bags beneath his eyes. The slouch of his shoulders. He tries to smile back.

“Morning—have you seen Salazar by any chance?”

She chews her breakfast, looking thoughtful before she swallows. “No, not this morning. Why?”

Godric shakes his head quickly, nerves all over the place. “No reason, I’ll see you around, yeah?”

He goes to the areas of the castle that are still unfinished, the spots where Rowena and Sal have yet to rebuild the walls, re-lay the floors. But he finds no sign of him. He goes back to check his bedroom one more time before giving the castle up as a lost cause and going outside. He checks the greenhouse first, the gardens, the small vegetable patch Helga has been working on. He’s beginning to get worried that maybe Salazar took a portkey in the middle of the night and left entirely. He’s not sure where he would go—back to the farm? To his parents? What would he say? What would they think about this? But just as he’s trying to decide whether or not to go there himself, a he sees a figure emerging from the forest.

Oh thank God.

“Sal!” the other man visibly stiffens as he approaches. He has a small bag thrown over his shoulder, a smudge of dirt across his nose—he’s been collecting potions ingredients, Godric thinks.

Salazar eyes him warily. “Good morning,” he says, when Godric finally gets closer. And then there’s silence in a way there never has been between them before, the two boys just staring at one another. Godric truly has no idea where to start what he wants to say.

“I—”

But he can’t even get through a full word before Salazar starts walking again, head down, brushing past him. “I have work to do on the west wing so,” is all he mutters.

Godric blinks, momentarily shocked by the sudden departure before he wakes up and starts jogging after him. “Wait, Sal! Sal, come on!” There are few physical activities in which Salazar is superior to Godric, but one may very will be running away. They’re practically back at the castle by the time Godric is able to catch up.

“Sal! Jesus—would you talk to me, please? Please,” he reaches out, grabbing hold of Salazar’s arm and pulling.

“We really don’t need to do this,” Sal rips himself out of Godric’s grip, but he does, thankfully, finally stop moving. Turning back to face him. “Nothing has happened, nothing has changed.”

Godric stares at him, at his flushed cheeks and his nervous eyes—flickering around, unable to look at Godric.

“You kissed me,” he says, watching as Salazar flinches away.

“Nothing has changed.”

“You kissed me.”

“I KNOW!” he shouts back. And behind the anger and frustration there are tears in his eyes. “I know what I did. I will regret if for the rest of my f*cking life okay? So please, just—“ he shakes his head, hand coming up to rub at his eyes, to force the tears back. “I can’t lose you,” he finally whispers. A confession, pried from unwilling fingers. Finally, he looks at Godric properly. “So just—just promise me that nothing has changed, okay?”

Oh.

Godric stands there, thick grey clouds over their heads, fog creeping in off the lake, crawling over the hills. The grass impossibly green. A boy standing in front of him. So sad and so scared and in so much pain.

Oh, oh, oh.

Finally, Godric shakes his head, and a horrible sounds comes out of Salazar. The kind of noise he hopes he never hears him make again.

“Gee,” his voice cracks, tears starting to fall, but Godric is already moving, he wraps his arms around him, pulling him into his chest, burying his face in his hair.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you so much.

“Gee—“

But Godric kisses the top of his head, his temple, his cheek, his nose. He hovers there for a moment, Salazar blinking at him, eyes wide and glassy, Godric’s hand on the back of his neck.

“I’m in love you,” he finally manages.

They’re close enough that he can feel Salazar’s breath hitch, eyes running the circuit of his face. Looking, always looking.

“You—really?” in a choked voice.

Godric kisses his chin, his forehead, the hinge of his jaw. “Really.”

And the smile that comes across Salazar’s face then—they kiss properly, mouths crashing together, Godric with one hand in Salazar’s hair, the other on his hip, pulling them together. Salazar’s mouth is soft and warm and makes something flutter inside him. Makes something settle. Like he’s been searching for this—searching for years without even realizing.

Salazar hiccups, shaking in Godric’s arms as he drops his forehead onto his shoulder, breathing a little franticly. “I thought I lost you,” he says, voice thick. Godric clutching him tighter.

“No, never.”

Salazar’s hands are tangled up in his shirt. “It hurt Gee,” he whispers, still hiding his face, still breathing hard. And Godric has to blink back his own tears now. “It hurt so bad to want you and not have you.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he closes his eyes, pressing Salazar still closer somehow, like he’s trying to consume him. “You can have me. You can have me forever, alright? Please, please,” words melting into kisses somehow. “Please, please, please.”

Salazar laughs quietly, everything wet and messy as he pulls back to wipe at his face, bright eyes flicking up to Godric’s. “Forever, huh?” he reaches out, cupping Godric’s cheek, and Godric presses into the touch.

“I’m yours,” Godric exhales. “I’ve always been yours.” Hot mouths and tongues and teeth.

“Mine,” Salazar murmurs against his lips, and Godric finds himself laughing a little.

“Figures that would do it for you.”

Salazar only smiles. Grabbing. Touching. Stumbling against the wall of the castle. He presses Salazar into the stone, groaning.

“Yours,” into the next kiss. “Yours,” and the next one. “Yours, yours, yours, yoursyoursyoursssssss

s ss

s s

s.”

The Dark

Years later, he would miss that time. At the beginning.

They’re thirty years old.

Back when it was just the four of them, and all they had to worry about were the students. It wasn’t so hard, to be discreet. It was like Salazar said, nothing had changed. Not really. Except that now, when Sal snuck into his bed at night, there were kisses and touches and skin, skin, skin. Godric had never craved someone before like he craved Salazar. As though as soon as the light was lit inside him it burned so bright it almost consumed him. He turned it into his mission to kiss every part of Salazar. To worship him. To let him know that however he had been at the start, Godric wanted him. Wanted him desperately.

When he thinks back, those first years are bathed in golden light. Salazar taking his hand under the table in the Great Hall, or holding himself above him in the mornings with sleep mussed hair, walking next to him through the school grounds explaining all the different properties of the flowers he’d planted.

The only hard part had been when they visited the farm. Godric didn’t like lying to Wymond, couldn’t manage it quite as easily as Salazar. When Melinda would tease them about finding wives, about children, Godric’s stomach would curdle. Wymond had asked Godric to protect Sal, and sometimes he felt like he was letting him down. Surely whatever this was, between them, wasn’t protecting Salazar. If people found out—well. It only ever felt like a perversion when they sat around that table.

Salazar must have felt it too, because they returned home less and less over the years. At Hogwarts they were safe. Rolling their eyes at Rowena and Helga’s sly looks and playful comments. Sometimes the four of them would have dinner together, Salazar in Godric’s arms, feeding him food from the table, stealing his wine, kissing his cheeks. Godric loved those moments.

He’s not sure when it changed, exactly. If he had to guess, it would be when Michael arrived. They had too many students you see, they needed help. So they hired a new professor. And then another—Natasha. And another—Raymond. And as the staff grew, as the school grew, hiding became more and more a part of their lives. Funnily enough, it was Salazar who was the most concerned with it. He no longer wanted to sit next to Godric in the Great Hall. No longer wanted to be seen alone with him on the grounds. Or in the halls, for that matter. No longer wanted to be seen coming in and out of his room.

“I still don’t understand why this is necessary,” Godric grumbled, the first night Salazar insisted they meet in the Room of Requirements instead. It was an addition to the castle Sal had made himself. In case the students ever found themselves in need of somewhere safe. Somewhere to be protected. Taken care of. Salazar had wanted the castle itself to be able to parent them. Provide for them. Rowena had felt it unnecessary, but ultimately, it cost her nothing to allow it, and so Salazar had made his room. And now he was dragging Godric into it.

“How would we explain me constantly coming in and out of your room?” he’d said. “Or if someone came to see you and found me in your bed? A student even, god forbid. This is safer. No one will be able to find us here, the room will protect us.”

The room, at that moment, looked an awful lot like Godric’s room. He wasn’t sure what that meant, that when Sal had asked for what he needed this is what the castle had provided. It was sweet but it also didn’t stop him from feeling that this was all a bit excessive. However, the protests flew out of his head when Salazar reached back, grabbing his shirt between his shoulder blades and pulling it over his head. Revealing his beautiful torso—lightly muscled, pale, a few scars here and there he’d gotten growing up, Godric had been there for each one.

“Now come over here and take me to bed,” he’d said with a grin, and, well, Godric was powerless to do anything else.

It got to the point where the only time they ever spoke was in that room. Alone. In the dark. Godric didn’t understand how they got there. They had been friends publicly before, surely they could be friends now? But no, Salazar insisted, it would be too risky, now that they actually had something to hide. And Godric let him call the shots, because he always did.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Natasha leans towards him one day during lunch. She has dark red hair and green eyes, freckles dashed across her face. “What exactly did Salazar do to you?”

Godric blinks. “He—what?”

“Sorry,” she says immediately, cheek flushing slightly. “I don’t mean to pry only, well, I’ve been working here for three years and I think I’ve only seen the two of speak maybe twice.”

Godric isn’t sure why the lump forms in his throat then. His eyes go across the room to where Sal is standing with Rowena, talking.

“Er—” he has to stop to clear his throat. “No, nothing. We’re old friends.”

Natasha looks at him skeptically but nods anyway. “Oh, okay.”

Godric isn’t sure why he doesn’t let the topic drop, he should, considering the clawing feeling it’s awoken in his chest. But he finds himself speaking anyway. “Why did you think it was him who did something?”

She looks up again, apparently just as surprised he’s decided to continue the conversation as he is. “Oh well,” tilting her head from side-to side. “He’s just a bit…cold, isn’t he?”

Godric looks back at Sal again. Suddenly desperate to be able to touch him. To see him smile. Hear him laugh. “No,” he murmurs finally. “I hadn’t noticed that.”

“Huh, really?” chewing thoughtfully on her lunch.

“Excuse me,” Godric says suddenly, hearing his chair scrape against the floor as he walks around the head table and down the aisle between the students, heading right for Sal and Rowena. He sees Sal notice him when he’s still a few steps away, face scrunching.

“What’s the matter?” he demands, as soon as Godric reaches them.

“Nothing is the matter. What are you two talking about?” he looks at them brightly—too brightly, he imagines, smile brittle and painful. He’s standing right at Sal’s side, their shoulders almost brushing. He feels the other man step away and he grits his teeth, immediately closing the gap between them again, earning him a glare that he pointedly ignores.

“Uh…” Rowena looks between the two of them warily. “We were just discussing the possibility of adding a course on magical creatures to the syllabus.”

“Oh yeah?” he says easily, even though his skin feels like it’s crawling off his bones. Something reckless prowling beneath his skin. He isn’t angry, exactly. He’s something else. Something more desperate. He’s starving. “Helga will love that.”

Rowena smiles. “Yes, you will be shocked to know it was her idea. She brought it up to me a while ago but we just didn’t have the staff. Now though, I think—” Godric puts his arm around Salazar’s shoulders, the way he has since they were kids. It’s friendly. Platonic. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it. Casually touching. Something in him almost seems to sigh with relief at the contact. Oh yes, I’ve been so hungry, so hungry, hungry, hungry. For you. For your heat. Your skin. You used to love me in the sun. You used to love me in the sun, sun, sun.

“What the f*ck are you doing?” Salazar hisses, shoving him away with two hands, despite the force behind it Godric barely moves.

“I’m talking,” he snaps back, somewhat less quietly. “What the f*ck are you doing?” he knows that several of the students nearby have turned towards them, no doubt some of the professors up at the head table are looking as well.

“I think perhaps we should—” Rowena starts, but almost immediately Salazar cuts across her.

“We have rules Godric,” glaring at him.

Godric glares right back. “No, you have rules. And I’m just supposed to follow them because you say so.” Salazar opens and closes his mouth, apparently not expecting that.

“Well,” is all he comes up with, throwing his arms out in exasperation.

“I’ve kissed you in public before, you are aware of that?” Godric goes on, he’s being bratty now and he knows it. “Slept in your bed for our entire lives before we came here, to the knowledge of everyone.”

“Shut-up,” Sal snaps. “What are you doing? What is this?”

Honestly, Godric doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what he’s doing. Doesn’t know what he’s hoping to achieve. He just knows that he’s starving, starving, starving. You used to love me in the sun. Eventually he shakes his head. “I—“ voice cutting off, but he forces the word out even though it bleeds. “I miss you.”

He stays just long enough to see Salazar’s eyes widen in shock before pushing past him, out of the Great Hall and down the corridor. Hands shaking.

He considers not going to the room that night. Nearly convinces himself he won’t. But, of course, in the end he can’t stay away.

Salazar is sitting on the end of the bed when he walks in, he has his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. Godric stops at the door, suddenly unsure of what he’s supposed to do, where he should stand. Sal doesn’t look at him, staring at his hands instead, several long moments passing before:

“You miss me?” he asks. Godric takes those words like a punch to the gut, breath stuttering as he steps back, running into the door. Salazar looks at him now, concern creasing his brow. “Gee.”

He lets out a choked laugh. “You never call me that anymore.” He thinks those words catch Salazar almost as off guard as they catch him, his eyes going wide. “I used to have you all the time,” Godric pushes on. “But these last few years Sal? It’s like all we have is this f*cking room, and it’s not enough. I can’t—I can’t do this like this. I feel like I’m losing you. Like being with you means losing you. And that just—that can’t be right,” he shakes his head. “I think it’s driving me mad to tell you the truth.”

You used to love me in the sun, sun, sun.

They’ve just piled themselves between them, all those words. And Godric feels instantly embarrassed in the following silence. Left with nothing to do but stare. Eventually, Sal gets up, walking slowly towards him. Godric watches him warily, not entirely sure what to expect. It surprises him when Sal wraps his arms around his waist, burying his face in Godric’s chest. It’s a second before Godric is able to make himself move, able to get himself to hold him back, burying his nose in Salazar’s hair and breathing him in.

“I’m trying to protect you,” Salazar says finally, still clinging to him, voice barely above a whisper.

Godric feels his brow furrow. “Protect me?”

Salazar squeezes him tighter. “I’m the one who—“ he starts and then stops, exhaling. “I dragged you into this. You could be normal. And if anything happens to you because of it I’ll never forgive myself.”

Godric isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. “Sal,” he says finally, pulling back just enough that he can see Salazar’s face, though the other man isn’t really looking at him. “Hey,” he tilts his chin up gently with his knuckle. Stubbornness and fear warring in the blue eyes that find him. “You didn’t drag me into anything, okay?”

“Gee—”

But he shakes his head, bending down to brush their noses together. “You didn’t drag me into anything,” he repeats. “You don’t need this more than I do, you understand? I could never be with anyone else. Not really. Might have taken me longer to realize it, but it doesn’t make it any less true.”

Salazar doesn’t look convinced by this, but he doesn’t say anything, staring at Godric intensely for a long time before reaching out and tucking a lose lock of brown hair behind his ear.

“Don’t ask me to put you in danger Gee,” he says finally, sounding tired. “Please, I can’t. I’m not as brave as you. Never was.”

Godric drops his forehead to meet Salazar's, exhaling. “I don’t know why you think that. You’re the bravest person I know.”

“Gee.”

He sighs. “Okay, I won’t. I promise.”

Salazar’s eyes flutter closed, his hand running over Godric’s chest, stopping on his heart. “Okay,” like he’s trying to reassure himself.

After that Salazar sits next to him more at meals. Acknowledges him when they pass one another in the corridors. But mostly, things don’t change. And Godric tries not to let the hunger eat him.

“Oi!” he shouts at a pair of second years who are currently attempting to rip one another’s ears off outside of the Ancient Ruins classroom. “Knock it off, you two!”

He waves his wand and the boys go flying apart, one stuck to each wall, facing each other, breathing heavy, robes and hair eschew.

“What exactly is going on here?” he still isn’t really used to being an adult in this way. Reprimanding. He always feels like he’s doing a bad impression of Wymond.

“He tripped me!” one of them shouts.

“I didn’t trip you!” the other one shoots back. “You fell over. It’s not my fault you’re clumsy,” and then, belatedly: “AND stupid.”

The first boy growls. “Shut-up! I know what a tripping hex feels like!”

“Alright, alright,” Godric holds his arms out, silencing them both. “Even if you were hexed,” he says to the first one. “How do you know he’s the one who did it?”

The boy is glaring daggers across the hall. “Cause he’s a Slytherin, obviously.”

Godric blinks, something heavy suddenly weighing down his chest. “What?”

“He’s a Slytherin,” the young boy repeats, slower this time, like he thinks maybe Godric genuinely didn’t hear him. “Everyone knows they’re a bunch of bullies!”

“Oh give me a break!” the other one shouts. “Get eaten by the giant squid Gryffindor.”

“Enough,” Godric quiets them for the second time. “Detention, both of you. And your houses are not insults, alright?” the weight still pressing against his ribs.

“Detention! But he’s the one—“

Godric rounds on the first boy and he instantly goes silent. “If you ever want to be unstuck from that wall the next words out of your mouth will be ‘yes sir’ do you understand? Otherwise you’ll be the school’s new permanent wall decoration.”

The boy visibly gulps before nodding his head. “Yes sir.”

“I don’t know,” Helga is saying, bent over about a dozen flower pots in the greenhouse. “Kids will fight over anything.”

“Right, but—” Godric fidgets, chewing on his lip. “I’m just worried that maybe the houses are stating to be taken a little too seriously by the students.”

“Are you upset they’re fighting about their houses,” Rowena is standing across from him, leaning against the glass wall, “or are you upset about which houses are fighting?” Godric scowls at her which makes Helga laugh.

“I think, to be fair,” Helga goes on once she’s stopped laughing, “the Gryffindors and Slytherins were always likely to clash.”

Godric’s head snaps back towards her, she has gardening gloves on, and is currently holding something slimy and spiky and green—Godric has no idea what it is, but Helga looks pleased with it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh don’t bite her head off,” Rowena sighs. “She just means that loyalty and cunning aren’t exactly a match.”

Helga points her free hand at her. “Yes, exactly.”

Godric lets out something sounding like hrmph crossing his arms over his chest, shoulders curling forward slightly.

“And now he’s pouting,” Rowena stretches out her leg, kicking Godric’s shin playfully. “It doesn’t say anything about the two of you.”

But Godric’s arms remain crossed. “I don’t like that they’re turning the Slytherin’s into villains, but I also think there’s a bigger issue here. They aren’t—we just made those lists arbitrarily, they weren’t meant to define the children, and I’m not sure they know that,” he chews on his bottom lip, thinking. “Maybe we should get rid of house tables in the Great Hall? Have them…” he waves his hand vaguely in the air, “mix a little more, you know?” Rowena looks at him skeptical.

“Sounds like an organizational nightmare.”

“And maybe we should get rid of the point system,” he pushes on, “It’s pitting them against each other.”

“No I like the point system!” Rowena says adamantly. “It’s a good way to get them to behave.”

Godric rolls his eyes, turning over at Helga for support but she looks conflicted. “I like being able to reward students for the good work they do, I think those sorts of things need to be recognized, but maybe we stop taking away points?”

“That’s ridiculous, we can’t just reward them,” Rowena says, unimpressed.

“Maybe the points can be given individually then? Instead of to houses?” Godric suggests.

She gives him a flat look. “Again, logistical nightmare. besides, I think it teaches them an important lesson—that their actions affect other people.”

Godric sighs, running a hand over his face. “Fine, I just—” but at that moment the door to the greenhouse opens and Salazar comes in. His hair has been getting longer, now past his shoulders and frequently braided down his back. It’s beautiful.

“Sorry,” he huffs, walking over to them, cheeks slightly pink like he ran there. “Got mobbed by students asking questions after class. They’re really struggling with potions this year,” he shakes his head. “I’m thinking I might have to rewrite the textbook—oh, Helga, I brought you one of those pastries you like from the Great Hall,” he pulls out the carefully wrapped parcel from his pocket levitating it over to her.

Helga makes an excited squealing noise. “Oh I was craving one of these the other day, thank you!” Godric doesn’t know where the slimy, spiky, green thing as gone, probably into a flower pot he imagines, but she sheds her gardening gloves quickly and grabs the pastry from the air.

“So,” Sal looks between them all. “What were you talking about?”

And Godric can’t help it, he reaches out, grabbing hold of Salazar’s wrist and pulling him into his arms. He’s allowed because it’s just Rowe and Helga. Because the greenhouse is shielding them from the outside world. He still feels Salazar stiffen at first, but then he relaxes, holding him back.

“Hey,” he asks softly, and even though Godric has his face buried in Sal’s neck he can tell he’s trying to look over at Rowena. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“He caught a Gryffindor and Slytherin boy going at each other.”

“Oh,” Sal huffs, “well, they’re not us,” running his hand up and down Godric’s back. He loves it when he’s like this—soft. It doesn’t always happen with Sal, depends on his mood.

“They use our names,” Godric mumbles into his shoulder.

“Gee—god—you’re such a sap,” Salazar kisses his temple before bringing his hands to Godric’s face and forcing it up. Godric allows him to reluctantly, meeting Salazar’s bright eyes, his thumbs brushing Godric’s cheeks. “You’ll always be part of my house, you know that?” he says with a smirk that has Godric laughing a little. “You’ll always be my home.”

He kisses him then. Just a small thing. Sweet. It makes Godric melt.

“Oh,” he hears Helga whisper behind him. “You two are going to make me cry.”

It starts with one.

They’re thirty-five years old.

The registry is magic, the names of all the eligible students appearing on it the year before they turn eleven. They’ve had half-bloods before. Not many, at the start, but steadily more as the years have gone on.

“I don’t get it,” Salazar had mutters, looking down at a class list with nearly ten half-bloods. “I don’t know how they can stomach being with those things.”

“I told you,” Godric elbows him. “They’re not all terrible.” Salazar makes a skeptical noise, but that’s the end of it.

Until, one year, there’s a new name.

“That’s not possible,” Salazar stares at the parchment in horror.

“I’ve heard rumours about this,” though Helga is also blinking at the registry like she can’t quite believe it.

“There must be a mistake,” Sal insists, Godric fidgeting nervously beside him.

Rowena sends him a sharp look. “There’s no mistake, the registry doesn’t make mistakes. She’s a witch.”

“She can’t be a witch,” Salazar growls. “She has two Muggle parents. Where is the magic coming from?”

The family name hadn’t matched any magical family on record. When Rowena looked into the Muggle church records of births and deaths she’d managed to find it there. Two Muggles. And one, apparently, magical child.

“Will she even know who we are?” Helga asks.

“She can’t, can she?” Godric’s leg bouncing nervously under the table as he feels Sal getting more and more worked up beside him. “Muggles don’t know anything about Hogwarts.”

Helga frowns. “That’ll be a shock.”

“No it won’t, because she’s never going to step foot in this school,” Salazar snaps.

They all look at him.

“Sal—“ Rowena starts, but Salazar silences her with the wave of his hand.

“We have worked so hard to create a safe space for these children so that they can be themselves without fear of punishment, or hatred, or violence,” a scream, a woods, a boy with his legs and arms bound. “If the Muggles get word of what we are doing here they will show up with their torches and pitchforks,” a mother, a fire, a boy waiting for her to come back.

“Muggles do know about us though,” Rowena presses on, “The half-bloods—“

“I’m not convinced we made the right call by allowing them to attend either, but at least there is some hope that the Wizard parent will keep the other in line.”

Helga lets out a bemused laugh. “You really think they need to be kept in line?”

He turns his cold gaze on her. “They are dangerous. They will kill and hurt without remorse. I have seen it. I have lived through it. I will not subject our students to that depravity.” Godric aches, he wants to speak, but he doesn’t know how, can’t seem to find the words. He knows all the others hear is anger. But all he hears is pain.

“Yes well, she is one of our students,” Rowena points at the name on the registry. “So what do we do about that?”

Salazar looks at Rowena and then at the name in question. There’s only a moment before he’s pushing his chair back from the table and walking around to the registry. Before any of them have time to think a quill materializes in his hands and he strikes the name from the list.

“Not anymore she’s not,” he says with finality, turning on his heel and walking from the room, the door slamming with finality behind him. Godric cringes at the noise.

“Well,” Rowena says into the following silence, “that was certainly dramatic,” she looks with dismay at the mutilated registry.

“He—“ Godric starts and then stops, sitting back in his chair and running a hand over my face. “I know he seems harsh but he’s just scared. We…we’ve seen a lot more of Muggle cruelty than kindness,” his eyes trail over to the door.

After a second he feels a hand covering his and looks up to find Helga giving him a soft smile, squeezing his hand.

“He might be right,” Rowena sighs finally, still staring at the registry thoughtfully. “The half-bloods at least have one parent, but this…there’s no way to know how they’ll react, maybe it wouldn’t even be fair to the child. To rip them away from everything they know and plop them into a world full of strangers.”

“She might just be an outlier,” Helga suggest helpfully. “It’s possible this’ll never come up again.”

Godric nods, exhaling. “So for now…for now we keep things as they are?”

Rowena bites her lower lip, considering for a moment, before finally nodding. “Yes. For now.”

Once he leaves them he goes right for the room. Somehow he just knows that Salazar will be there.

“Hey,” he says softly, as he closes the door behind him. Salazar has his back to him, staring at his reflection in the mirror on the far wall. He doesn’t move at the sound of Godric’s steps, doesn’t acknowledge his words. Godric comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him back against his chest, chin hooking over his shoulder. He’s grateful when Sal doesn’t pull away. When he just melts into him. The pair staring at their reflection.

“Are you okay?” Godric asks after several moments of silence. He can feel Salazar tracing his reflection with his eyes.

“Were they angry?”

Godric shakes his head. “They agree with you. It’s too risky. Too many unknowns. She won’t be coming.”

He can feel Salazar exhale as much as he hears it. “Good,” he sinks a little further into Godric, still staring at the mirror. “You’re beautiful, you know?” The statement takes Godric so off guard that he laughs into Salazar’s neck. “What? You are.”

Godric huffs. “Please, I think we both know who the beautiful one is between the pair of us.” Eyes locking in their reflection. There’s a shift in the tension. All those nerves suddenly turning into something else.

“I wish you could see yourself how I see you,” words a little breathless. Godric finds his hands tugging up the hem of Salazar’s shirt, kissing the underside of his jaw.

“How do you see me?” he murmurs against his skin, Salazar starting to squirm in his arms. He doesn’t answer, turning around and taking Godric’s mouth instead. Godric has his hands on Sal’s skin now, sliding up his back, Salazar’s hands in his hair. This never gets old—they’ve been together for years now but every time Godric thinks he’s going to die from it. From how desperately he wants the man in his arms. It’s never enough. He can be selfless with everything else in his life but never Salazar.

His hands roam back down, over his ass, under his thighs, lifting him up. Salazar wraps his legs around Godric’s waist, suddenly looking down at him. He pauses, their foreheads pressed together, both breathing heavy.

“I see everything I’ve ever wanted,” Salazar whispers. “When I look at you Gee, I see everything.”

He groans, walking them over to the bed and spilling Salazar onto the mattress. He makes quick work of Sal’s boots, and then his own, grabbing hold of Salazar’s wrist when he starts to unlace his trousers.

“Let me,” he says, one knee on the mattress.

Salazar smiles at him. “You want to take care of me, Gee?”

Those words send a shudder through him. “Always.” Kissing his mouth, his neck, and then finally returning to the task at hand. He is smooth and gentle, easing the trousers off Salazar’s legs, the shirt over his head. They end up kissing again, Godric with his thighs bracketing Salazar’s hips.

“This feels unfair,” Sal murmurs against his lips, plucking at Godric’s shirt.

Godric only hums in agreement, pulling his own shirt off before kissing down Salazar’s neck, his chest, teeth scraping over his hip bone, and then, finally, taking him in his mouth. Salazar hisses, hands tangling in Godric’s hair. He loves this. He loves making Sal feel good. Making him lose control. Loves being full of him. Being this close.

“f*ck,” Salazar throws his arm over his eyes like seeing is too much at the moment. “You’re so good at that, it’s not fair.” Godric smiles, taking him deeper, hands running up the sides of his body. “Christ—come here, come here,” yanking on Godric’s hair. He complies, crawling back up Sal’s body for a messy kiss. Salazar starts to desperately pull on Godric’s trousers, which are still on, and Godric laughs, removing them and enjoying the way that Salazar face as he watches—eyes heavy lidded, drunk with want. With lust. He really is the most beautiful man Godric has ever seen. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve him.

The minute Godric is back over top of him Salazar makes clear what he wants, forever needing to be in charge. He takes Godric’s hand and sucks two of his fingers into his mouth, tongue wrapping lewdly around them, staring at Godric the whole time. He can barely stand it, his whole body buzzing, feeling like it’s about to combust. When Salazar pulls the fingers out of his mouth his lips are wet and red, and then he guides Godric down between his legs.

The spit isn’t enough, of course. Godric eventually fumbling for the vial of oil in the drawer by the bed. Salazar making unbearable noises the whole time Godric has his fingers in him. Small little hiccups and moans. Unravelling Godric with each one.

“I’m ready,” he pants eventually, but Godric shakes his head. He wants to go slow. So slow. So soft. Wants Salazar to feel it. How much he loves him. “Gee—”

“Shh,” he brings their foreheads together, the colour high in Salazar’s cheeks, sweat at his temples as Godric presses into him again. “Let me take care of you.” Somehow Salazar manages to glare and it makes Godric smile, kissing his mouth, his nose, his forehead. He never wants to be anywhere else. Just here, in this bed, with this man, for the rest of his life.

Eventually he does pull his fingers out, lining himself up and watching Salazar’s face as he pushes in. Mouth slack, eyes growing wide. He’s slow at first, but it’s hard, everything in him begging to go faster, losing his self-control.

“Are you—”

“Yes.”

“Can I—”

“Yes.”

Salazar grabs his shoulders, his back, his hair, both of them sweating.

“I love you,” Salazar practically moans. “I love you, I won’t let them hurt you.”

“Sal—”

“I’ll protect you this time.”

“Sal—”

“No don’t stop—f*ck—don’t stop.”

And Godric doesn’t understand the tears that are suddenly in his eyes so he ducks his head, burying it Salazar’s shoulder as he moves inside him. “I—I love you too.” Every inch of them pressed together. Swallowing each other up. It still isn’t enough. It’s never enough. Godric sucks up his breath. His sweat. Teeth in his skin. It isn’t enough.

“I’m going to—“

“Yes.”

“Gee—“

“Yes, yes, yes.”

The name is not an outlier.

The next year there are two more.

The year after five.

“Salazar—”

“No.”

“We have to talk about this.”

“We have talked about it,” he growls, from across the table. “We decided it was too dangerous.”

“That was then, this is now,” Rowena doesn’t back down, Godric and Helga watching their friends go back and forth like they’re watching a jousting match. “You said yourself, when we first decided to start the school, Merlin’s greatest fear was people without any guidance or common sense, out there performing magic. This school is meant to prevent that, but we can’t prevent it if there’s a whole group of wizards and witches we refuse to admit ”

“His greatest fear was giving power to people not fit to wield it,” Salazar shoots back. “Which is exactly what we’ll be doing if we invite those creatures—”

“Creatures? Can you hear yourself?”

“—into our world.”

She points an intimidating finger at him. “I did not fight a war against a fascist egomaniac just to become one myself. It is not up to us who can and cannot have magic. It is up to us to make sure that they are prepared as best they can be to wield it with thoughtfulness and care.”

“Here, here,” says Helga banging on the table, this earns her a death glare from Salazar.

“No,” he repeats. “No, I won’t Rowe. I won’t do it. I will leave this f*cking school I swear to God. I will leave before I teach one of those—“ Rowena arches her brow and Salazar swallows the word with a snarl. “I won’t do it.”

“Oh you won’t will you?” she goes on sharply. “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, there are four of us so. You do not get to make unanimous decisions.”

“Well alright then, lets have a vote shall we?”

“Sal—” Godric tries, feeling very desperately like this conversation is going nowhere good. He just needs to get him alone. Calm him down. Talk to him when he doesn’t feel like he’s under attack.

“By a show of hands, who thinks we should let the Muggles into the school, huh?” Salazar looks around at them all, Helga seems a bit nervous, Rowena entirely unimpressed. “Well go on,” Sal sits back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t be shy now?”

After another second Rowena huffs, rolling her eyes. “This is childish,” she mutters, but she does, in the end, raise her hand. Helga’s going up barely a second later. Godric feels like his stomach is going to eat itself. Like his heart is going to claws its way out of his ribcage.

“There, look at that, a tie. Who could have seen—” but Salazar’s voice immediately cuts off as Godric lifts his hand too. There is only a flash of betrayal before Salazar’s expression goes completely blank.

“Sal,” Godric tries again. “Listen, I—” but Salazar is out of his chair before Godric can even finish his sentence. Getting up so forcibly that the chair actually falls to the floor, wood smacking against the stone as they listen to his footsteps retreat from the room.

Godric closes his eyes briefly, trying to breathe.

“Godric—”

But then he’s up too. And this time he’s running.

“Salazar,” he shouts after him in the corridor. It’s summer. No students. No other professors. The castle empty. Godric’s voice echoing around them. “Sal please, come on, will you just listen to me?” He catches up to him, grabbing hold of his arm and attempting to pull him back. But the second Salazar turns around he drives his fist into Godric’s jaw.

“f*ck,” he hisses, stumbling back as his hand goes to his face. “Really Sal?”

“What the hell was that?” Salazar jabs and angry finger down the hall, face contorted in rage. “How could you side with them? How could you side with them over me?”

Godric sighs, giving him a pitying look. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry but I—you know how I feel. They aren’t—“

“—all bad,” Salazar sneers. “You’re naive.”

“Maybe, but we owe it to those kids to try.”

“We don’t owe them anything,” Salazar bares his teeth. He is a wild animal. He is caught in a trap. Godric just wishes he could understand that it’s a trap he built himself. “They are lucky that the first thing I did once I got my wand wasn’t march into their homes and set them on fire. Wasn’t watch them burn for a goddamn change. They have already gotten more than they deserve from me.”

“What happened to my family wasn’t their fault Sal,” he says gently, lip sore. “What happened to you in those woods? That wasn’t them either.”

But Sal only shakes his head. “I don’t need to be bitten by every lion to know better than to invite one into my house.”

“They’re not lions though, are they? They’re kids.”

“Kids grow up, and then what, Godric? What will we do when they come for us then? When they use our own magic against us?”

“You’re so certain they will?”

“You’re so certain they won’t?”

Godric shrugs. “I hope.”

Salazar laughs bitterly. “Well, you’ll have to forgive me if I can’t manage to muster that kind of faith in people. Especially when the only person I have ever trusted just stabbed me in the back.” Godric takes a physical step back at that, feeling it more than the punch, Salazar already walking away again.

“Sal—”

“Don’t come to my room tonight!” he snaps over his shoulder, turning the corner and leaving Godric on his own.

For three days Salazar ices him out. It drives Godric mad. But Salazar asked him not to come to his room so he doesn’t. Even if it kills him.

“You look like sh*t,” Rowena says to him on the second day.

He gives her a weak smile before going back to poking half-heartedly at his breakfast. Salazar does not, as far as he can tell, come down for meals. Or leave his room for anything. Godric’s not sure they’ve gone this long without talking since they were five. And an incessant and impossible to ignore scratching starts up in his chest. Please, it begs, please, please, please.

He’s lying awake in his bed on the third night, unable to sleep, the mattress too big, the blankets too cold, when he hears the door open. His whole body freezes, at first certain that he’s imagined it. That his brain is tricking him. Grown so desperate it’s started hallucinating. But then he feels the covers lift and he turns to find Salazar sliding into bed with him.

“Hey,” he whisper. “Hi, hello,” he reaches for him instantly, can’t help it, pulling Salazar right to him. So happy when Salazar doesn’t pull away that he almost cries. He kisses the top of his head, his temple, his cheek.

“Gee.”

The spot behind his ear. The hinge of his jaw. His nose.

“Gee, I think we need to talk.”

But Godric shakes his head, pulling him closer. “I haven’t been able to touch you in three days, just give me a second. I just need to have you for a second longer.”

Salazar huffs. “You always have me,” words barely louder than a breath. Godric doesn’t bother pointing out all the ways that isn’t true, instead he keeps pressing tiny soft kisses over every inch of Salazar that he can reach. Listening to the other boy sigh, like he is letting the weight of the world slide off his shoulders.

“Godric,” he says finally, and Godric knows he won’t be able to avoid this any longer, dropping his head into the crook of Salazar’s neck.

“You have to let it go Sal,” he says finally, instantly feeling the boy next to him stiffen. “This anger? This bitterness? You have to let yourself move on.”

“Let it go,” Salazar repeats coldly. “Just so we’re clear. You’re talking about the murder and persecution of my people.”

“Sal—”

“Of your family?”

He presses his face further into Salazar’s shoulder. “Don’t blame your hatred on my family. It’s not fair. It’s not fair to them, it’s not fair to me.”

“Oh, I’m the one being unfair to them?”

He knows he should be pulling away, they’re fighting, Salazar’s words sharp, pointed. But he doesn’t. Just keeps holding him closer and closer.

“I understand why you feel the way you do—”

“Really? Because you have a funny way of showing it.”

“—just because I understand doesn’t mean I think that you’re right. We can’t—we can’t live our whole lives in the past Sal. We can’t carry dead bodies with us everywhere we go. At least I can’t.”

Salazar is quiet for several excruciating seconds, though is hands are in Godric’s hair, stroking, almost against his will it seems. It gives Godric hope.

“You would really choose them over me?” he asks finally, voice deadly quiet.

“I would never choose anyone over you,” Godric exhales. “You know that. But we need to stop thinking about this as us and them. Clearly it’s more complicated than that.”

“I don’t think it is.”

“Sal—“

But he’s silenced when Salazar reaches down and kisses him. “You voted,” he murmurs into Godric’s mouth. “I wont stand in the way of the three of you, if this is what you want.”

Godric reaches up, running a knuckle along Salazar’s face. “You’ll see, it won’t be as bad as you think. We won’t let anything happen to the students. They’ll be protected.”

“Yes,” Salazar murmurs. “I’ve made sure of it.”

Godric’s brow furrows but before he can ask anymore questions Salazar is kissing him again. They fall asleep like that, in each others’ arms. Kisses getting sleepier until eventually Godric drifts away.

He has a vague memory of waking up at some point in the night to Salazar’s lips on his forehead.

“I love you so much.”

He means to say it back, but even as the thought drifts through his head he’s already falling back to sleep.

When he wakes up in the morning his bed is empty.

When he wakes up in the morning Salazar is gone.

The Drug

He tries to find him. Of course.

After the hyperventilating. After the fists put through doors.

He tries to find him. He goes back to the farm, to Salazar’s sisters and their families. He gets Rowena to help him with tracking spells.

“He’s blocking them Godric. I’m sorry he’s—”

“How can he do that?” desperate, clawing.

“He’s a very powerful wizard.”

They consider getting rid of his house. In the end they just assign a new head of it. Students come in and are sorted. None of the Muggle borns go to Slytherin. Like somehow the hat knows. Or maybe Sal bewitched it. It’s the kind of thing he might do.

Godric can’t sleep. Which doesn’t surprise him. But does become concerning around two months in. Because it turns out that sleep is rather a requirement for. Well. Being alive. But you see, he’s shared a bed with Sal basically since he was five years old. So. He just. He can’t. Like his body has forgotten how.

Sometimes he goes to the Room of Requirements. Sometimes he talks to Sal. Talks to him like he can hear him. Sometimes he cries. Sometimes he breaks things. Sometimes he just wanders around the grounds.

One day Helga hands him a glass vial at breakfast. “Dreamless sleep,” she mutters, looking at him sympathetically before running a hand through his hair. “Looks like you could use it, honey.”

He does use it.

A lot of it.

After the fifth refill he stops asking Helga and starts brewing his own. Potions have always been more Sal’s strong suit but he manages. The thing is, if you take just a little bit, it won’t put you to sleep. Not completely. It’ll just…dull you a little. Thoughts sluggish. Body numb. Godric will sip on a bottle throughout the day.

That helps him survive the first year. But only barely.

“I was thinking about adding a sports stadium to the grounds this summer,” Rowena says mildly to him. They’re standing at the top of the astronomy tower, watching the children leave for their holidays. “I was wondering if you’d want to help?”

He inhales. Exhales. “I won’t be here this summer.”

She looks at him curiously, but then, it never did take her long to figure anything out. “Godric.”

“I have to find him.”

“Where are you going to look that you haven’t already?”

He only shakes his head. “I’ll walk the whole continent, I don’t care. The whole world. I’ll find him.”

She watches him for several seconds, pity on her face. “He doesn’t want to be found Godric.”

“Well I don’t actually give a f*ck what he wants, funnily enough.”

She sighs, squeezing his arm. “Fine, just—take care of yourself, okay?”

He only grunts in response.

He knows everywhere Salazar does. They’ve been together their whole lives. With those places all exhausted, he starts in Scotland and moves south. He meant what he said. He’ll walk the whole earth if he has to. Once he’s done on this island he’ll move to the next.

He alternates, between riding on horse or walking on foot. He doesn’t spend much time in Muggle villages because he can’t see Salazar being amongst them for very long. When he finds Wizarding communities he goes to every house. Every market. Every pub. He describes the shades of blond in Salazar’s hair, and ice in his eyes. He’s met with blank stares. With shaking heads.

“Oi,” he stops a man on the street one night, he looks maybe a few years younger than Godric, with dark beady eyes that run him up and down. “You know where I could get some dreamless sleep? There an apothecary around here or…?”

The man looks at him for a beat more before he smiles. He’s missing teeth. “No dreamless sleep. But I can get you something better.”

Godric arches his brow. “Better?”

“You ever heard of Papaver somniferum?”

“What’s this, a quiz?” because he’s tired and grumpy and just wants his f*cking potions.

The man in front of him smiles. “Oh I am about to change your f*cking life.”

Papaver somniferum is a plant, apparently. Not unusual, most potions come from plants. Apparently, according to Godric’s new friend, the Muggles know about this one. He’s brought into a dank cellar, full of smoke, cauldrons, and people. Some are co*king, some are laying about with long pipes and glazed looks on their faces. Godric knows, the minute he steps in there, that he should turn around and leave. He knows that whatever this is, it isn’t good. The problem is that, he kind of wants that. Kind of wants something not good. Something that will take him apart.

He’s led to the back room. Words are exchanged and then suddenly a small, glass vile of brown liquid is being placed into his hand. “The Muggles inject it, or smoke it, but I prefer to drink it. If you brew it right you can get rid of the taste.”

Godric looks at him and then at the potion in his hand. “This is like dreamless sleep?”

Again, the man grins. “Better.”

“Right. And I’m just supposed to trust you on that am I?”

The man doesn’t seem deterred by his skepticism. “That’s just a sample, take it, free of charge,” smile still in place. “You’ll be back.”

So he does.

And he is.

It is better than dreamless sleep. Stronger. Needier.

He feels better. He feels worse. He misses Sal so badly he wants to peel the skin off his bones. Once to pull each of the ribs from his chest. Wants to rip his heart out. Not metaphorically. It aches. It aches. It aches.

“Please,” he murmurs to the empty room of some inn he’s stopped in. They’re all blurring together. “Please, please—f*ck—Sal—I can’t. I can’t do this.” There a bottles on his bedside table. They help and they don’t. Make it better and make it worse. But the muddling is still better than the clarity.

He makes it all the way to London. No one has seen Salazar. No one has seen him. No one has seen him. No one. No one. No one. Noo o o o

o

o

o

o

o

o

o

o

“Okay, slow and steady, that’s it, come on—Helga, get his other arm yeah?”

“Yes, I’ve got it.”

Godric blinks, the world around him blurry, like he’s looking at it through a foggy window.

“Christ, he’s heavy.”

“I mean, he’s very big.”

“Maybe I should just levitate him, it’s not like he’s really conscious at this point.”

He tries to focus on what is happening around him, but it feels like he is under water. There is something standing between him and the rest of the world. And it’s making it hard to care.

“Screw it, I’m apparating us.”

“You’re sure you can do it without splinching him?”

“Sure enough.”

And then the world disappears.

And then Godric finds himself kneeling on the floor over a bucket being sick. Time jumps. He is aware of moments but not what is between them. He feels a cold cloth being placed on his forehead, a comforting hand on his back, water pressed to his mouth.

He thinks it’s his third or fourth time being sick before he’s able to hold onto any sort of consciousness. Collapsing onto his back, skin covered in sweat as he stares up at the ceiling, breathing heavy.

“How—” he has to stop, voice too terrible. He coughs, trying again. “How did you find me?”

“You were at the Leaky Cauldron,” that’s Rowena, the lights are low, it must be night still. He can only really make out her silhouette. “I know the owner, he sent me a patronus. Told me you needed help.”

Godric huffs, he’s not sure if it’s meant to be a laugh. “I’m fine.”

“An objectively stupid thing to say.”

“Yeah well, you’ve always been the smart one.”

That particular comment is followed by a long stretch of silence. It’s Helga who breaks it eventually. Godric isn’t sure where in the room she is exactly, can’t see her from his position on the floor, is afraid to move his head too much.

“Do you want to try and lie on the bed?” she sounds like she’s been crying. “You don’t look very comfortable.”

The thought of moving makes his stomach give an uncomfortable lurch. “No,” he manages. “No I don’t think I’ll make it. But I’m okay Helga, I promise.” He’s slurring his words, he can hear it.

She sniffles, and then there’s a hand in his hair. He closes his eyes and is suddenly back in bed with Salazar. Falling asleep kissing him. He only just manages to swallow the sob attempting to escape his throat.

“Godric,” Rowena says finally, voice as soft as he’s ever heard it. “This has to stop.”

The laugh that comes out of him is choked and painful. “You—you asked me,” he forces his eyes open, turns his head to look at her even though it makes the room spin. “You asked me if I could imagine living without him, if I could imagine being happy.” He thinks there are tears in her eyes too. “What do you want me to do, Rowe? I don’t know how to—“ his voice breaks, cracks, falls to pieces. “It hurts so much. Why would he—how could—does he not feel this at all? How can he be happy when—like I can’t breathe, I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to be alive. I don’t know how to want to be. So if you do, if you have a f*cking answer then—then tell me cause, I’ll do it. I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”

Helga’s hand is still in his hair, he can still hear her sniffling, tears now clearly rolling down Rowena’s cheeks. Eventually, she crawls forward, taking his hand and squeezing it, before bringing it to her mouth and kissing his knuckles.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admits, voice rough. “But I need you to know, to understand, that Salazar Slytherin is not the only person who loves you, okay?”

That ought to be enough.

Really it ought to be.

But it’s not.

He squeezes her hand. “It hurts so bad.”

“I know.”

“It hurts so f*cking bad.”

“I know, honey.”

He’s functional when term starts again. Functional in the most preliminary sense of the word. He manages to pull himself out of bed. To drag himself to classes, to hold off on his potions until after the last class bell has rung. He’s losing weight, probably has been this whole time but it’s only started being noticeable now, the bags under his eyes a permanent feature. He doesn’t talk to the new professors.Truthfully, he doesn’t talk to the old professors either. Spends most of his time shut-up in his room.

Until.

Dear Godric,

I’m so sorry, Wymond has died.

The funeral is at the farm on Saturday.

Love,

Melinda

Melinda has white hair and a stooped stature now, Godric towers over her when he walks into the little farm house. Salazar’s oldest sister—Prudence—stops whatever she’d been doing over the fire and comes right to him.

“I’m glad to see you,” squeezing him tight. He can hear the distant noises of her children playing. When she pulls back Annabeth is there. They used to be taller than him. Pinching his cheeks and ruffling his hair, threatening him with wooden spoons.

As if she can read his mind Annabeth smiles, reaching out and cupping his cheek. “I’ll never get used to having to look up at you.”

He gives her a shaky smile. “No, me either.”

“Is—” Prudence starts and then stops, eyes going over his shoulder and then back to Godric’s face. “Still no sign of Sal?”

“He’s not here?”

They shake their heads. “No, no word we, well we didn’t know where to send the letter so we gave an owl his name and hoped for the best but,” Prudence shrugs.

A rock sinks to the pit of his stomach. “He’ll be here,” he says, without any real conviction. “he wouldn’t miss this.”

He does miss it.

Godric doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to hurt Salazar before. The way he does then.

It only a small service, the girls’ husbands and kids, a few neighbours. Wymond is buried at the edge of the farm, right before the trees. When all the words are done and people start moving back toward the house Godric finds himself rooted to the spot. Finds himself suddenly missing Wymond so desperately.

Who’s going to save me now?

Because it’s always been Wymond really. Always been Wymond who was there when Godric needed a hero.

“He was so proud of you, you know?” the voice is gravelly, and he looks down to see Melinda has come up beside him, leaning on her cane, both of them facing the grave. It’s several seconds before Godric feels like he can speak.

“I’m worried—” voice cracking, but he pushes on. “I’m worried I let him down.”

“Oh honey,” she reaches out a shaking hand, wrapping it around his. “You never could. He loved you so much. You and Salazar both. You were his pride and joy, more than anything else he ever did in his life. He was so proud to have raised you boys.”

Godric tries to inhale but all he does is sob, shoulders hitching, tears pouring his face. Melinda makes a sympathetic noise before wrapping her arms around him, head barely reaching his chest, still he curls around her, too big to be held but desperate to be nonetheless.

He doesn’t know if any of what she said would still be true if Wymond had known the truth about him and Salazar. He doesn’t want to think about it. It doesn’t matter now anyway.

“I—I’m sorry he isn’t here,” the words are barely intelligible as they crawl out of his mouth.

“That’s okay,” she rubs her hands up and down his back. “He’ll come when he’s ready.”

She’s a more forgiving person than Godric is. When it’s the people you care about, the people you love, you don’t come when you’re ready, you come when you’re needed.

He goes to the room when he gets back to Hogwarts. He hasn’t been in months, hasn’t been able to stomach it. He walks into the place where he and Salazar loved each other. So deeply and softly and beautifully for so many years and he stands there. Listening to its silence.

“Okay Sal,” he says finally, voice only shaking at the end. “Okay. You win. I’m letting you go. I can’t—I can’t do this anymore. I don’t know what you owed me, but I know what you owed him. You should have f*cking been there. You should have f*cking been there and you weren’t so,” he exhales, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. “So I’m letting you go.”

The drug, the dark, the light, the flame

The drug, the dark, the light, the shame

The drug, the dark, the light, the flame

The drug, the dark, the light, the shame

The drug, the dark, the light, the flame

The drug, the dark, the light, the shame

The drug, the dark, the light, the flame

The drug, the dark, the light, the shame

The drug, the dark, the light, the flame

The drug, the dark, the light, the shame

The drug, the dark, the light, the flame

The drug, the dark, the light, the shame

The drug, the dark, the light, the flame

The drug, the dark, the light, the shame

The drug, the dark, the light, the flame

The drug, the dark, the light, the shame

The drug, the dark, the light, the flame

The drug, the dark, the light, the shame

The drug, the dark, the light, the flame

The drug, the dark, the light, the shamee e

e

e

e

Godric gets a letter.

They’re fifty-five years old.

He’s left Hogwarts. Teaching was always Sal’s dream and in the end, he just couldn’t stomach it anymore. He still has tea with Rowena and Helga every Sunday.

He builds himself a small cabin in the woods. Get a few animals. A small vegetable patch. Takes up metal work. At first it’s just a hobby, but eventually his swords get quite good, so he starts selling them. Goes to markets like he used to with Wymond. Sometimes sees kids running around. Reminding him of himself, of the Muggle girl he kissed whose name he can no longer remember, of Sal.

Years have past. He is better. But he is never good. Still too many potion bottles rattling around his house.

And then one day, he gets a letter.

Hello Gee