Founders (Salazar)
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Salazar had been called a great many things in his life, and he would be the first to admit that more often than not the names were warranted. He had even (a time or thrice) been called a fool, and there were stories from his past that would, in hindsight, qualify for a description of foolhardy. All that aside, he was not now nor had he ever been enough of a fool as to decline a place at Helga's table when such an opportunity arose. He was unclear as to why his friend had approached him first - a part of him suspected that he had wanted reassurance that his ideas were at least plausible before he presented them to someone that was more likely to dissect them for flaws than embrace the concept. (He had deemed them plausible himself, but he had refused to reassure Godric of their practicality. The man should have started with Helga in his opinion. She, after all, had been pointing out the need for as long as she had been known to him.) He had been abandoned while his friend pursued an audience with his sister-in-law, but it was difficult to feel truly abandoned when one was left to the care of a bustling figure determined to feed him. (In truth, he wanted nothing to do with what was likely to be an unpleasant interview unfolding above stairs and was well-satisfied to keep to the warmth and comfort of the kitchen.)
[more]
He took his place with a murmur of thanks and spent a long moment inhaling the scent of the stew she placed in the trencher in front of him. It was an overly expressive response, perhaps, but one which he felt that the occasion legitimately warranted - it had, after all, been so long since he had last enjoyed this particular pleasure that the time frame was measured in years. There was nothing complicated about the offering, but the smell alone made him feel as if years of worry were sliding off of his shoulders. He breathed in more deeply.
He had seen a great deal of magic in his day (and a few things that could only be termed wondrous during the years that he had taken to traveling with Godric). He had never, however, seen anything that conjured quite the same sense of being in the presence of genius as the mastery with which the woman in front of him commanded a kitchen. He was perfectly willing to admit that his viewpoint might be biased by the fact that he only enjoyed Helga's hospitality on rare occasions - generally toward the end of one of his and Godric's rambles when one or both of them needed to be mended of something or other. At those times, both of them had generally been subsisting on more burnt than not items of questionable origin singed over a campfire alternating with what was more grease than anything else that often passed for soup in one of the inns that catered to those too travel weary and hungry to pay the lack of quality any mind.
Biased view or not, Helga was still a marvelous cook (and the truth was that he did not eat much better when he was at home than he did when he was on the road with Godric). He would take what he could get while he could get it. The blessed woman must have read his mind as she placed a loaf of bread and a crock of butter to his side. He did not know how long Godric's errand would take or even if he had a moderate chance of success. He had misgivings enough about the idea himself, but he found himself thinking that if Rowena did agree, then Helga was likely easily persuadable to the plan.
That part he could get behind - he wondered if there was any way of asking what Godric's plans entailed when it came to keeping them all fed that would not sound rude or completely self-serving. He heard her chuckling at him and made an effort to slow down the speed with which he was shoveling the contents of the trencher into his mouth.
"How long since you have had a proper meal this time?" She asked. He shrugged his shoulders and kept eating as his reply. She clucked her tongue at him and poured out another ladle from over his shoulder. "Slow down before you choke," she admonished.
He let his mind drift as he chewed at a more reasonable pace.
He had been . . . less than pleased by the development that had arisen on his last visit to his sister's household. He understands very well that he is not a prominent fixture in the lives of his children. He had left their early care far too much in the hands of others for it to be either fair or reasonable for him to resent that the girls both kept a certain level of distance. He would not class such a thing as a regret - he knew that he would not have done best by them at the time as things were, but he could say with all the benefits of hindsight and hard thrust upon him maturity that he would not make the same choice if in similar circumstances now. (Easily said, he knew, as he had no intention of ever again being in a situation that could lead to those circumstances.) The girls had passed their childhood under the care of their aunt with intermittent flying visits between his travels. They had been happy children, and he had been a content traveler. Their adolescence had seen him more readily available to them, but that was a time when a trusted female confidant must be considered a more valued necessity than indulging an oft missing and rather distant father.
Wizards might tend to longer lives than their muggle counterparts, but the prevailing tradition towards young marriages stood even among his compatriots. It was not uncommon for a family aligning betrothal to be requested for a daughter at seven or eight (some families began maneuvering at the first confirmation of magic). He had not been entirely surprised when he had been approached when the girls were twelve. He had declined the negotiation with a certain amount of civility (his original curt reply had been revised by his sister). He saw no need to rush these things - and he had no need of (or desire to) playing the never ending games in the politicking world of those who considered themselves the nobility of wizarding society. His daughter making the request was a different matter entirely than dealing with a request from outsiders. He had, in truth, been entirely unprepared for such a thing.
He was less than pleased, but he would not stand in the way of this particular choice. His youngest would be married before autumn. Perhaps, this plan of building a school would provide an opportunity for his eldest to come and spend an extended visit with him. In any case, it would provide a compelling distraction from his distaste at his soon to be cemented new family alliance.
Salazar had been called a great many things in his life, and he would be the first to admit that more often than not the names were warranted. He had even (a time or thrice) been called a fool, and there were stories from his past that would, in hindsight, qualify for a description of foolhardy. All that aside, he was not now nor had he ever been enough of a fool as to decline a place at Helga's table when such an opportunity arose. He was unclear as to why his friend had approached him first - a part of him suspected that he had wanted reassurance that his ideas were at least plausible before he presented them to someone that was more likely to dissect them for flaws than embrace the concept. (He had deemed them plausible himself, but he had refused to reassure Godric of their practicality. The man should have started with Helga in his opinion. She, after all, had been pointing out the need for as long as she had been known to him.) He had been abandoned while his friend pursued an audience with his sister-in-law, but it was difficult to feel truly abandoned when one was left to the care of a bustling figure determined to feed him. (In truth, he wanted nothing to do with what was likely to be an unpleasant interview unfolding above stairs and was well-satisfied to keep to the warmth and comfort of the kitchen.)
[more]
He took his place with a murmur of thanks and spent a long moment inhaling the scent of the stew she placed in the trencher in front of him. It was an overly expressive response, perhaps, but one which he felt that the occasion legitimately warranted - it had, after all, been so long since he had last enjoyed this particular pleasure that the time frame was measured in years. There was nothing complicated about the offering, but the smell alone made him feel as if years of worry were sliding off of his shoulders. He breathed in more deeply.
He had seen a great deal of magic in his day (and a few things that could only be termed wondrous during the years that he had taken to traveling with Godric). He had never, however, seen anything that conjured quite the same sense of being in the presence of genius as the mastery with which the woman in front of him commanded a kitchen. He was perfectly willing to admit that his viewpoint might be biased by the fact that he only enjoyed Helga's hospitality on rare occasions - generally toward the end of one of his and Godric's rambles when one or both of them needed to be mended of something or other. At those times, both of them had generally been subsisting on more burnt than not items of questionable origin singed over a campfire alternating with what was more grease than anything else that often passed for soup in one of the inns that catered to those too travel weary and hungry to pay the lack of quality any mind.
Biased view or not, Helga was still a marvelous cook (and the truth was that he did not eat much better when he was at home than he did when he was on the road with Godric). He would take what he could get while he could get it. The blessed woman must have read his mind as she placed a loaf of bread and a crock of butter to his side. He did not know how long Godric's errand would take or even if he had a moderate chance of success. He had misgivings enough about the idea himself, but he found himself thinking that if Rowena did agree, then Helga was likely easily persuadable to the plan.
That part he could get behind - he wondered if there was any way of asking what Godric's plans entailed when it came to keeping them all fed that would not sound rude or completely self-serving. He heard her chuckling at him and made an effort to slow down the speed with which he was shoveling the contents of the trencher into his mouth.
"How long since you have had a proper meal this time?" She asked. He shrugged his shoulders and kept eating as his reply. She clucked her tongue at him and poured out another ladle from over his shoulder. "Slow down before you choke," she admonished.
He let his mind drift as he chewed at a more reasonable pace.
He had been . . . less than pleased by the development that had arisen on his last visit to his sister's household. He understands very well that he is not a prominent fixture in the lives of his children. He had left their early care far too much in the hands of others for it to be either fair or reasonable for him to resent that the girls both kept a certain level of distance. He would not class such a thing as a regret - he knew that he would not have done best by them at the time as things were, but he could say with all the benefits of hindsight and hard thrust upon him maturity that he would not make the same choice if in similar circumstances now. (Easily said, he knew, as he had no intention of ever again being in a situation that could lead to those circumstances.) The girls had passed their childhood under the care of their aunt with intermittent flying visits between his travels. They had been happy children, and he had been a content traveler. Their adolescence had seen him more readily available to them, but that was a time when a trusted female confidant must be considered a more valued necessity than indulging an oft missing and rather distant father.
Wizards might tend to longer lives than their muggle counterparts, but the prevailing tradition towards young marriages stood even among his compatriots. It was not uncommon for a family aligning betrothal to be requested for a daughter at seven or eight (some families began maneuvering at the first confirmation of magic). He had not been entirely surprised when he had been approached when the girls were twelve. He had declined the negotiation with a certain amount of civility (his original curt reply had been revised by his sister). He saw no need to rush these things - and he had no need of (or desire to) playing the never ending games in the politicking world of those who considered themselves the nobility of wizarding society. His daughter making the request was a different matter entirely than dealing with a request from outsiders. He had, in truth, been entirely unprepared for such a thing.
He was less than pleased, but he would not stand in the way of this particular choice. His youngest would be married before autumn. Perhaps, this plan of building a school would provide an opportunity for his eldest to come and spend an extended visit with him. In any case, it would provide a compelling distraction from his distaste at his soon to be cemented new family alliance.