A Sword of Any Other Name Would Not Pierce As Well

[FoenixFyre]

Update: This is now a series of 'shots (two-shot, one-shot, short stories, or whatever you want to call them) !


I’m still stuck in my four founder obsession, so here’s another product of my mind’s eye. Take care to remember that the mind’s eye is never entirely clear in what it means or divulges. I welcome any and all comments as I know they will help me develop my writing skills.

“Mars is bright tonight.” Comment Here

Summary: A certain wizard meets his sword on its birthday, and the Sorting Hat regrets ever commenting beforehand.

Disclaimer: I own nothing belonging to J. K. Rowling or anything concerning the four founders.
Voila!

A Sword By Any Other Name Would Never Pierce As Well

By: FoenixFyre

The hot ironworks sprayed from the furnace and sparks lighted the simple stone cave as short figures, whose shadows made their existence known on the walls, worked laboriously on a piece of metal; a lone cloaked figure by the mouth of the cave looking on in awe. Few had ever been allowed to watch the forging that had made Goblins significant allies of the civilized magical world, but this had been an exception.

What was to be forged today was something that had been prophesied by Wizards and the few Goblin seers alike. What was to be forged today would prove to garner a myth of its own, separate from the tale of the circumstances of its creation. What was to be forged today was to be the legacy of a Wizard whose name would continue to be passed down in written history as a brave and noble warrior. The brave and noble warrior whose name would be eternally attached to that of the sword’s.

The brave and noble warrior flinched as the flames in the furnace climbed steadily and unnaturally higher, reminding him that he should have heeded one of his female companion’s ideas to shield himself with a Flame Freezing Charm, as was the style those days with muggles going about and setting wizards and witches afire.

His pride won out in the end, as he heard the clanging of a hammer against metal; unwilling to quail under the forces that his forged partner was being birthed under, he stood his ground, ignoring the heat that dampened his red robes and golden cloak. He stood unrelenting in the face of the inferno, maintaining his presence still--even when his hat began to protest the sweltering conditions. He paid no heed--continuing to oversee the creation of the ultimate weapon. His sword.

The sounds stopped and all that could be heard was the swish and crackling of the dancing flames as they flickered and slowed down their tempo, retreating back to slumber, to wait until they were needed again.

Darkness fell and a soft mutter revealed a wand’s glowing tip held by a trembling gloved hand. The goblins stood loosely in a half-circle, their gaunt complexions and sloping frames the only reminder to the activity they had partaken in moments before. Silence now reigned.

The cloaked wizard stepped forward slowly, his leather boots’ heels tapping against the hardened floor of the enclosure in a hesitant yet steady rhythm, the distinct characteristic that indicated the anxiousness in this single endeavor.

What was forged today was to be a golden sword encrusted with rubies and inscribed with one name.

The bearer of this one name did nothing for a few moments but gape at the creation that had been borne from metal, sweat, and flame--that is, until this bearer struck out his hand quickly to grab its pallid metallic colored hilt before it could possibly leave him, intricate designs wrought into its visage and whispering hauntingly of a mysterious beauty.

A blazing look, rivaling the inferno in intensity and emotion focused itself on one point of the sword’s blade as he raised it to his crystal blue eyes. What was located there was not taken lightly by a wizard of any class, its legend passed on from the days of Merlin and his protégé’s sword once called Excalibur.

He nipped his thumb (his right hand gloved as it was holding his rather temperamental wand--wands those days and of that quality were rather new and yet untested) sharply with his teeth, bringing blood which soon dripped and pooled in his palm. Smearing what he could over the engraving, he waited for a sign of the sword accepting his blood-oath, the oath that would tie the sword to himself and only himself, as usually was done of most enchanted swords. A ringing and haunting melody erupted all around them suddenly; reminding the brunette faintly of a song he had heard long ago…--it echoed around the cave, remaining even long after the original melody had stopped.

A flash of light brought him out of his stupor, and as his eyes locked on to the magnificent weapon he held in his hands. It glowed gold and crimson, his favorite colors, he mused brokenly as he drank in the sight of the golden and ruby encrusted sword. He turned it over in his hands, looking for what he had previously tarnished with his blood. His search came to a stop all of a sudden as his twinkling eyes caught yet again what he thought had eluded him. One whisper echoed through-out the cave, mixing in with the haunting melody that had brought even his hats annoying murmurs to an end.

“Godric Gryffindor”

And so the sword’s engraving remained, not to be erased by another, to be forever within his creation, watching over the future of the his world, and going to aid the heirs of his role as protector.

The Sorting Hat would regret ever saying he would eat whatever sword would accept Godric’s blood-oath, and it was quite glad to be rid of it, as it told the headmaster of the time later, as a young, emerald-eyed boy faced with the king of serpents drew the legendary sword out of its folds, officially inherting the role of his house’s patron founder who lived those oh so many centuries ago, the founder whose legend still laid within the Wizarding World as more of a confirmed fact than legend. The founder whose name had been the namesake of a certain hollow, with a legend still unfolding.


“Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that sword out of that hat.”
-Albus Dumbledore, Chamber of Secrets

[FoenixFyre]

Another one-shot is coming up that's Salazar & Godric centric, one hint: It begins with a Godric and ends with a Hollow! Hope you like it when I post it up in the next few days.

[FoenixFyre]

I was on a trip over the summer when I came up with the image of Godric crying over something, and the name “Godric’s Hollow” popped up in my line of thought. I decided to make it a two-shot, so expect one more installment!

I’m still obsessed with the founders! Does anyone else share the same obsession?

By the way, I'v decided to make this thread a collection of shots(one, two, etc), is that fine?

Comment Here
Any and all comments and feedback welcome!

Disclaimer: I own nothing relating to or concerning the four founders or J.K. Rowling’s world, except on Hagrid figure on my bed stand…

Summary: Godric’s Hollow is a place where a war ended and another one began, but just who gave it its name? Nobody else but a certain snake and lion…

Of Godrics, Hollows, and Snarky Salazars
By: FoenixFyre


Part One:

There was silence, and all was still. Scorch marks were blazed on the ground, now the only remnants of the tyrant that had terrorized the inhabitants of the area only moments before. Two figures, one on his knees and the other standing, overlooked the majority of the damage which had been inflicted on the once joyous and bustling village—the place the fallen wizard had been raised. They had defeated the violent dragon only to have arrived to late to find any survivors, this fact lying heavily on the conscience of one Godric Gryffindor as he stared sorrowfully at the ground, immersed in thoughts of regrets and sadness…

“Sal-do you,” Godric took a shuddering breath unable to articulate his fears fully. Salazar stood directly between his line of sight of the smoldering and smoky ruins, having moved there unable to stand his friend’s unwavering open-eyed stare. His back turned, and his forest green cloak whipping and billowing in the strengthening wind, and effective barrier between Godric and his nightmare come to life in this desolate atmosphere.

Godric knelt a ways away, still reeling from the sight of his childhood home totally decimated. The fact heavily compounded by the sight of the usually strong-willed and steadfast wizard crying, his tears streaking down his pallid face and disappearing into what seemed to be the beginnings of an auburn beard.

Salazar, though seemingly cold-hearted, could not help but try to rouse his friend out of his current depression, the opposite having been done many a time in earlier years.

“Don’t be an idiot, Gryffindor.” Replied Salazar tersely, “Your family are a bunch of muggle-loving twits.” The aforementioned wizard stiffened at this jibe, his arms clenching at his sides. “And to have survived this long in this world with those beliefs shows they are hard to kill, trust me-”Salazar strode closer to his saddened companion, and then knelt in front of him so were eye to eye. Godric lifted his head, his blue eyes reflecting confusion as to why his friend’s actions and words were so different, until his dark companion finished his seemingly abysmal pep-speech, “-you are one of them, are you not?”

Salazar stood, dusted off his dirtied robes and cloak, and extended a pale hand to Godric, knowing that the minute he ducked his head again, the tears he had been shedding had stopped, and his friend returned to his usual boisterous self yet again, as he noticed with the twitching, yet still unformed smile on his lips.

What he couldn’t predict, or didn’t predict was how happy he had made him as the surprised and agitated grunt he let out when his friend jumped up and hardily gave him a bear-hug, his booming laughter echoing across the ruins and remaining countryside, revealed--spooking the skeletal thestrals they had used to arrive there.

[FoenixFyre]

Here's the second and final shot of this two-shot in which a joke that Salazar makes(oh the horror) proves to trancend the barrier of time, enjoy!

Oh, and please forgive me for any mistakes and grammar errors-I made this after a loooong long day, sleepily I may add, so I hope I get my point across in this final installment of "Of GOdrics, Hollows, and Snarky Salazars".

Disclaimer: Is the same as always, but...I found Hagrid (the doll not person).
Do you think his disappearance has something to do with this strange writer's flood (opposite of block) I have had with back-to-back posts!?

Comment Here please! Or beware the spirit of the Bloody Baron: there's a reason Peeves is scared of him!

Part 2:

A moment passed while each reviewed the landscape, new thoughts preying on their minds, tempting to break the silence they had become immersed in. Strangely, Salazar was the first to break the solemn atmosphere, turning his head and steeping his long fingers as if in deep thought, by asking a question to further distract his friend from his inevitable foolish self-loathing; at not arriving in time to prevent the destruction.

“Just- just what will this place be named? It will be rebuilt in due time of course,” He added smoothly when his blue-eyed companion yet again stiffened up at the mention of another change of his dear past. He took time to survey him with his calculating emerald green eyes, weighing his options, and then continued his proposal. “It is to be again christened in the wake of the total reconstruction, perhaps by you—you did save it, albeit late, from the dragon.” At this Godric loosened his grip and shrugged, casually placing his ornery hat, which had been cursing (in very un-magical terms) for being left on the sooty ground, and straightening his tunic which had fallen into disarray some time ago.

Godric finally gained enough resolve to look Salazar again in the eye, and with a nod, he silently agreed, and after another moment pause with which he used to gather his voice and thoughts,

“I really don’t know,” he admitted softly, looking up to the smoky horizon, re-buckling his bloodstained (Salazar had once sniped that with his favorite color, scarlet red, there was no point in having a scabbard with which to prevent said stains from occurring) sword to his belt. “but—how about ‘The Hollow’!” he remarked loudly, a familiar smirk stealing over his fair features, “I believe that this place should pay homage to the great and illustrious potions master whom thought it clever to cast a non-repelled sneezing jinx at a monstrous dragon, when said dragon was obviously of the fire-breathing variety!” he laughed, straightening his hat so it was crooked on his ginger-haired head, eliciting even more rude remarks.

In this remarkably long and thought out insult, Salazar could not help but feel a twinge of pleasure that his friend was happy again, yet could not withhold the need for revenge and protection of his ego that had erupted the moment Godric had uttered the jibe.

Sadly, for Godric—the brash and foolhardy wizard had forgotten just who had invented the act of criticism and humiliating degrading when he was barely out of the crib, and he was about to pay for his insolence, as Salazar Slytherin saw it, with a historical achievement. The home of a hero was soon to be born, but as Salazar was thinking after absentmindedly patting on a burnt patch of his green robes, his vengeance was going to be reaped, in more lasting way than most.

“I actually have a better suggestion in mind,” said Salazar, his lip curling just a smidge, telling much about what Godric was about to feel in the next few moments to the outside observer. He brushed his hair away from his eyes, tucking a few stray strings of jet black hair behind his right ear, and taking a few more moments with which to increase the suspense that his impatient friend was sure to experience. “We should name it after the “great” hero whom slayed this dragon,” he gestured toward an unmoving and silent hill several leagues away(or so that was what Godric said after being called to recall the experience by one Rowena Ravenclaw for a book that was being written). “I would at least think to include your name in the new title of this forsaken patch of—wait there is nothing here now is there?” He asked smugly, enjoying for a moment the clueless expression on one Gryffindor’s face as he tried to decipher this abrupt change in mood, completely disregarding the hidden sneer towards his former home.

“So will you allow me the honor of presenting the name of this…place to the council of warlocks; after all, you are the most prominent person from this village—they have no choice in their code of honor but to allow you the right to rename this place?” Salazar finished, clearing his face of any suspicious behavior which was sure to give way to his plot.

Godric, not being as perceptive or skilled in the mind arts, both areas in which his friend was quite capable in, shook his head slowly and hesitantly, not sure just what he was agreeing with seeing as Salazar loved to twist the meanings or understandings of others to suit his own needs.

Emerald stared into azure, each trying to measure the other up, but Salazar strode quickly down the rather large hill as the other blinked, robes again billowing behind with the inlaid personalized spell Salazar tended to use when wanting to add a flair of drama to a situation, which was again added to by the background of the setting sun. Godric, dumbfounded, scrambled to catch up with his quick-footed companion, limping from a slight wound inflicted on him, its bandage a matching color with his newly fastened cloak; a deep bloody red.

“Just what will this name be!” Godric shouted, waving his sleeved arms wildly to try to garner the attention of the overly-satisfied Slytherin as his thin and robed figure grew smaller as I headed toward a nearby forest, and what seemed to be two skeletal horses harnessed at its edge.

Salazar paused, nearly having his frantic friend run into his back. He tapped his black-booted foot, placing a hand under his chin to mimic a large effort taken into thinking up a reply, this exact position taken up by his duller-minded friend on many a same occasion.

“I was thinking about adding ‘Godric is’ and dropping the ‘The’ in ‘The Hollow’”, he answered with all the mock seriousness he could muster. Godric, who had grown too flustered to think straight, could only stare on gaping at his amused comrade, who had by now began to climb up onto the back of the dark, spectral horse. He reigned the horse, pulling Godric out of his slowed thought process and eliciting a ghostly neigh from his thestral. He sighed as Godric scrambled to climb up on his horse, which resulted in several ungentlemanly terms due to the trouble presented by his wound, and opened a lazy jade eye to his edgy companion, whom was staring at him suspiciously as he took time to straighten his robes, which had obviously needed no straightening in the first place.

Once everything was settled, Salazar let across his face one of the smuggest, and content smirks (smiles being below him) that he had ever allowed to swathe his face. It was then that Godric began to wonder just what and how much chaos he had given his friend permission to reek. He had faced many things in the course of his twenty-five years of existence: Manticores, Acromanantulas, Centaurs—but of all the creatures he had had to have faced, Salazar—Salazar Slytherin was the one he feared above all else. Disregard the recently coined saying, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”, he had too much respect for women to even compare them to the mighty wrath of the dark man. Why didn’t he wait until he got back to the others to ask Rowena before answering? Godric moaned, running a hand though his unruly hair (he had long since learned to ignore his hats commentary when he committed acts that disturbed it such as that) just thinking about it made him shudder.

“ Godric’s Hollow will be its name—Godric is Hollow is too much of a sentence to use as a name, don’t you think?” Salazar said, not waiting for the reply to his abrupt retort to what he knew was boiling through his, in his opinion, dimwitted friend’s mind, before whispering his destination into the ear of his gaunt mount and disappearing in a wisp and whirl of green air.

Godric sat open-mouthed, the only sound coming from him coming from his vindictive hat which had caught on much faster than he. “What!” he roared, much like a lion whose pride had betrayed him. He spurred his thestral, causing it to buck wildly before he quickly roared his destination, intent on throttling the serpent whom tricked him before he actually accomplished his act revenge. A whirl of red air disappeared with a low whistling sound .

Across the occasional patch of grass on the nearby plain echoed the enraged yell of a lion whose name would soon grace its presence with a name. This place would then grace the world with a legend. And this legend would grace the memories of these two wizards as their heirs, one knowing his heritage, and the other soon to lose his, would battle—mirroring the sad fate presented to the two comrades who long ago split and never returned to this place name and saved by both again.

[FoenixFyre]

It’s been awhile since I last posted, but it’s all because of school picking up and stuff. I found myself eating dinner a while ago ruminating on if the great Salazar Slytherin would ever cry . I though of the one instance, if he could, that he would cry in. I hope you enjoy!

Comments are always welcome and encouraged!

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Pretty please with lemon drops on top?

Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to the founders or anything of J.K. Rowling’s works.

Summary: A Slytherin can’t cry…can he?

A Hiss And A Tear:
What Was Lost Is Not Now Here

By: FoenixFyre



Crying, a foul and loathsome term.

He hadn’t cried, nor had he ever found the merit in weeping.

Shedding salt-water from his eyes was less than an attractive idea for him. This magnified by the fact that he did not care much for emotions like sadness or sorrow, they were merely an obstruction; clouding his mind, judgment, and ambition; something a person such as himself could not afford.

So when he found himself casting a final glance at the first place he had ever called—felt at home, what streamed down his face as he watched his friends close its great gates wasn’t at all tears—he wasn’t—couldn’t— be crying. It was implausible, improbable…impossible!

A dark figure turned on his heels, adding to the distance between himself and his creation, muttering about foul weather and pointless rain, his emerald eyes distorted by the steady flood of tears cascading down his pale pointed face onto his silver tinted dragon-hide boots. The river of tears hidden desperately by the dark robes used to stem their flow. His attempts would be in vain; the tears would always persist, even when they were not present on his face.

The ebony-haired man disappeared into the fading sunset, leaving his memories, and tears behind him, until his tortured-soul was released from this ever cruel world.

A newly-formed trio weeped alongside him—behind him, in the home he had lost… A group of four friends now reduced to none.


Yes, he had always found tears abhorrent—and it was no wonder a disquieting person such as himself would find numerous reasons to create so many, so often.

[FoenixFyre]

I was bored and looking through some old drawings to get some inspiration when I came across these mini...poetry drabbles scribbled on some corners of paper. I'm not so sure their drabbles or more poetry, but I felt like posting this up before I come up with a new 'shot. Enjoy!

Comments welcome and encouraged!
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Pretty please with Odgen's firewhiskey on top?

Disclaimer: I do not own anything that is owned my J.K. Rowling. That would defeat the point.

The Four Founders:

Themes of Hogwarts

By: FoenixFyre

Of the Eagle

Fly high and fast into the wide expanse of sky
Knowledge can’t be reached or gained
Without strong, wide wings to make your way

Of the Lion

Continue to hold your head up proudly
Stand roaring in your foe’s path
For only in bravery and defiance
Can your pride roam free

Of the Snake

A word of caution if you please
Heed the serpent's tongue
For in it leads
The path of greatness
To others despair
For in ambition
Only the snake doth tread

Of the Badger

To look through eyes free of hate
To look upon others
Not their mistakes
To work all day
For what is earned
Is exemplified by the badger
With whom lessons are often learned