Upon the Tenth day of January, in the Year of Our Lord 991

Doth Love Abide Amongst Letters?

By Her Ladyship, Skita Reeter, Herald of Tidings

 Thou shalt ne'er divine what transpires at yon new British school for wee magicallings, my beloveds, aside from the common squabbles of who shall instruct whom, and what manner of creatures Hogwarts and its lands shall harbor for the pleasure of its lords and pupils.

Nay, this day I proffer to my wondrous, loyal, MOST GLORIOUS readers the gossip of the age. E'en shouldst thou venture beyond the bounds of the realm, past the edge of the map where foul beasts do roam, thou wouldst not guess what I have prepared for thee, my beloveds.

The shocker of all shockers:

Salazar Slytherin, one of the four Founders of our finest and only grand institution of learning, harbors a fondness, and ye shall ne'er believe for whom. Nor shall any other ever believe for whom. I doubt even he himself believes he holds such a fondness, and for whom! The identity of the object, the victim of his tender sentiments, is simply too outrageous, too far beyond belief to credit. Moreover, as all who follow Hogwarts' affairs know, he is not deemed the sort to entertain fancies, nor to possess feelings that serve not his renown or ambition.

But ere I name the lucky soul who hath caught Old Serpent-Tongue's fancy, hark, and I shall recount how this savory morsel came to me. 'Twas within the hallowed halls of yon grand school of learning, where I did mind mine own affairs, a-rattling about as one is wont. Though amidst those marble columns and sacred study nooks one may stumble upon the finest scraps of gossip, and the most dire of dramas, yet forsooth, this 'Hogwarts' school of witchery and wizardry is a most tedious realm. They take their purpose so gravely that mirth is oft forbidden, which news shall gladden the hearts of all parents among my readership. So there I was, my sweets, a-scampering through the library. Picture the scene: I, a dazzling enchantress, wandering amid dust and musty words penned by folk who would not know a feast if it fell upon their pates.

"Dull, dull, most dreadfully dull!" I did cry to myself, having unfurled the latest tome with such a lofty title as: How to Horribly Hex Hideous Humans, yet found within but the feeblest of parchments, when lo, the sound of boots did draw nigh. I spied a corner of fine vantage, chosen beforehand for such a moment, and there I didst sit and wait and watch. By the very quality of those steps—soft and warm and bold—I knew full well who my next source would be, and so I drew forth my tiny quill as a writing desk, ready to inscribe notes upon my small book.

In a swirl of black and gold, the fairest and least vexing of Hogwarts' grand lords did round yon towering book contraption - 'twas Helga Hufflepuff, forsooth. She seemed to know her quarry, for she plucked a tome from its shelf and did leaf through it, her gaze fixed upon the page as if by the glue of foresight. A gentle smile graced her comely face, as 'twas wont to do. My belief holds that, beyond her generous figure and winsome nature, that smile did cause many a man, both living and undead, to kneel at her feet.

For a time she did continue to leaf through the thin vellum leaves of that tome ('Scotland's Most Perilous and Fanciful Flora'), a smile still upon her lips. Yet her orbs, like amber honey, oft wandered not upon the pages but gazed afar, fixéd on naught—not e'en the dust motes dancing in the damp air. She was listening for a soul, thou seest. Keeping vigil, moving with stealth, hoping to overhear some word spoken by one who frequented these cloisters of enforced silence. Such a stance ever set my hackles rising with delight, for intrigue was afoot, and it was almost ever of a romantic nature—the merriest sort of intrigue. Bloodshed and revolt have their place, but such skirmishes oft disturb my carefully tended visage.

Scarce had Her Hufflepuffish Majesty made plain she played the Skita Reeter without my aid, when another pair of footfalls entered the chamber. Two pairs. 'Twas then I near leapt from mine own skin at the savory nature of the gossip morsel Fortune had bestowed, little knowing how delectable this five-star morsel would prove. 

"Salazar—" 

''Tis Lord Salazar to thee, Harald. Or Professor at the very least.'"

"Lord Salazar, of course. Thou wouldst speak with me?"

"Yea, and thou art tardy."

"My most humble apologies, Sir Godric—"

"Pray lay not blame on him for thine own sloth in keeping time."

"Aye, well, mine ears are bent to thy command, Master."

"Yon Welsh wench, Helga, shall bring ruin upon this noble hall if suffered to continue. She doth poison the minds of the others. Some action must be taken against the peril she poses to this school, and all we hold dear and strive for herein, ere it be too late."

"What wouldst thou have me do? Challenge her to a joust? She shalt vanquish me entire."

"Nay, thou witless knave! Lay not aside a single silken strand upon her brow, lest I smite thee down with mine own hand!" ...angry gasps broke in at this point, and methinks Slytherin's pallid and gaunt visage grew flush with wrath, making him more fearsome than ever. A few moments passed ere his soft and cunning voice rose once more into the air, like certain marshland wyverns. "Nay, what I bid thee do, Harald, is far more gentle and humble. My wish is that thou dost court yon lady and bear her hence from this place forthwith."

It was then that Helga of House Hufflepuff made her grand appearance amidst the wretched, gloomy council of men stirring betwixt the shelves.

"Yet I shall not wed Harald, Lord Sal... What say thee?" quoth the lady, emerging from behind a tome-filled shelf as the sun doth break from a cloud.

Hark: Though I may harbor a maiden's fancy for her, she is verily a paragon of grace and comeliness, and poor, frail, comely-dried Salazar Slytherin near turned to ash beneath the fierce blaze of her badger-eyed stare. And know, fair and wondrous readers, that badgers are mad beasts. They shall slay thee. Thus no wonder Harald held doubts of crossing wands with her. Nor would I dare such, though I have clashed with many a churl, lord, and monarch in my time.

"Ahh... thou wert not meant to hear that," quoth Slytherin, feebly, as Harald did flee the scene of his misdeed. "Uhh... I do hold great admiration for the Welsh breed of cattle. Methinks they be the most exquisite these fair Isles can offer." So finished Slytherin, without conviction.

Helga vanished behind the bookshelf once more, where she did resume her leafing through a tome. A rustling and shuffling sounded from where Lord Salazar stood, alone in a circle of dust, with the hawkeyed librarian glaring at him as though he were about to commit the same sort of sticky-fingered villainy a stripling of eleven winters might attempt.

Ere a minute passed, the grandest sunflower mine eyes had e'er been honored to behold, did turn the corner of yonder bookish shelves, where it stood, fixing its many-eyed gaze upon Lady Helga.

"Hel, thou cam'st not for our fortnightly draught at the Hog's Head tavern," spake Salazar, lurking behind his mighty bloom, now fashioning the gentlest, most dulcet voice known to all wizardkind. 

I declare here, he be the most magically gifted of the Four Founders.

That voice, brimming with noble tenderness, did grievous harm to Helga's wall of scorn, and she did turn a page with a sniffle. "Thou speak'st of me behind my back, Sal. And worse, thou think'st I know it not."

The man of keen and cunning countenance drew nigh, and from his garland of blooms did peer. "Only for my love for thee, Hel. I speak harshly, for this torment I cannot bear. I-I must have an ending, or all shall meet its doom. I care not for the presence of pure blood nor common-born."

Brave Helga did strive to turn his words. "Thou art, in many ways, a true friend, Sal- " The sunflower fell to the ground, whence Helga raised it and held it close to her bosom.

"Nay! Call me not a friend, when I yearn to be a true paramour! Name me no brother!"

The knave fell to the earth, and verily did I feel sore vexed. Had I bitten off more than I could chew? I would not stand at the heart of a great blast.

"Pray, Lord Sal, cease thy overmuch lamenting," quoth Lady Helga, lifting her comrade from the stone soil as she had lifted his bloom. "Yet I do yearn for thee to wield greater wit of heart. To speak ill behind a gentle maiden's back is no path to winning her favor."

"Thou dost favor it," spake Slytherin, with a viper's smirk. 

"Forsooth," answered Helga, her grin in kind. 

Know ye well, that badgers devour serpents.