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Merry Smutmas Reveal
The reveals are up! Yay! And now the great mystery as to who drew my lovely, lovely gift can at last be known! *G*

The ever-fabulous, gifted and lovely karasu_hime drew the gorgeous "Only You, After All" for me! *smooshes Karasu* Thank you, honey, I just love it to pieces! *G*

As for me...*sheepish grin*...I wrote "On a Sure Foundation" for themostepotente, and I was very flattered and humbled by all the kind things people had to say about it. It's a twisty fic with three pairings and plot lines sort of braided together: Godric/Salazar, Harry/Severus, and Albus Severus/Scorpius.

Here 'tis:

Title: On a Sure Foundation
Rating: NC17
Pairings: Godric Gryffindor/Salazar Slytherin, Albus Severus Potter/Scorpius Malfoy, Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Warnings: DH canon compliance...to a point, hurt/comfort, frottage, wanking, bloodplay (of sorts), sex magic, orgasm denial, cock ring, rimming, object insertion, semi-public sex, mild bondage, spanking, and unauthorized shenanigans in the Library.
Summary: In Albus Severus Potter's Seventh Year at Hogwarts, he discovered something magical, something scary and exhilarating, something he isn't sure he can tell anyone else about-- oh, and that odd manuscript of Salazar Slytherin's was kind of neat, too...
Notes: This was written as a gift for themostepotente, for merry_smutmas 2007.




On a Sure Foundation

"If we would build on a sure foundation in friendship, we must love friends for their sake rather than for our own." - Charlotte Bronte

Salazar stoked the fire in his chamber and set the poker to heating in the heart of the blaze. Sweat beaded his brow as he stirred the small cauldron hanging over the fire with a long iron ladle, then dipped out a steaming portion of the herb-fragrant brew and poured it into a heavy clay bowl that had been warming on the hearth.

He turned back to the man lying in his bed and frowned.

"Godric!" he snapped, "stay with me!" He carried the bowl to the bedside and grasped the fevered man's shoulder firmly. "You must not sleep. Not yet. Not after that great clout to your head! Here. Drink!"

Gryffindor stirred, red hair fanned out over the pale linens, face flushed red, dry and feverish. His eyes opened as he struggled for wakefulness, but they, too, were fever-bright. They fastened on Salazar's face and recognition gleamed.

"Drink," Salazar said again, more quietly. "'Tis bitter, I know, but it will bring the fever down and ease your head. I have cast a healing spell, but with a skull as thick as yours, it may take some time to mend!" His words were sharp, but the hand he slipped under Godric's head to help him drink was gentle.

Godric essayed a nod, then gulped the steaming brew. He coughed a bit at the heat and flavour, but managed to choke down a mouthful, then another, and another, until the bowl was drained.

"Good," Salazar said. "There is dittany and poppy gum and other herbs good for pain and healing. Now, you may sleep without fear. What comes next, I think neither of us will much enjoy." He drew back the bedclothes and grimaced at the livid gash across Godric's belly. The wound was purple and oozing foulness already, which spoke of more than a mundane injury. Black sorcery had been used in the battle, he knew, and although Godric had returned to the castle victorious, it would be a hollow victory indeed, if his enemy's spell had the undoing of him at last.

Salazar took fresh linen from the stack that lay ready beside the bed and poured clean water from an ewer, wetting the soft cloth. He cleaned the wound carefully, but Godric hissed in pain.

"I know, I know," he soothed. "It will hurt worse, before I am done with you," he promised wryly. "Consider it penance for stupidity," he added, under his breath.

"Penance?" Godric essayed a laugh, though it was more of a bark of pain. "Shall I...recount my sins...for you...old friend?" he asked, panting with the effort to force the words out.

"Can you remember them all?" Salazar smiled. "I am no priest, nor can I shrive you. But tell me, if it eases you." He continued working at the wound, wiping the festering matter from it until healthy flesh showed red and raw beneath his hands. He started to sigh in relief, then frowned as faint lines of black began creeping back into the wound, like the black mold that crept along lines of damp in a neglected dungeon cell. Where it touched, the flesh festered anew. He swore softly.

"What?" Godric grunted.

"Nothing of concern to you," Salazar said. "Come, tell me this tale of sin and repentance."

"I said...nothing...of re...pentance," Godric said, trying to laugh but biting his lip at the pain it occasioned.

"Ah, a sinner unrepentant, then? No matter. Say on!" Salazar held his hands a finger's breadth above the wound and chanted almost silently, drawing the power to him. Soft light played over his fingers, and he willed it into the wound, bidding it purge the black magic from cloven flesh.

"Since...my last...confession...I have...bedded...a dozen women," Godric said, grinning against the pain. "More...perhaps. Maidens...good...wives...a harlot...or two...and once...a lusty...crone of...fourscore."

"Are you confessing or bragging?" Salazar asked dryly. "What else?" He moved back to the fire and drew his wand, casting spells of purification and healing over the iron, glowing now in the heart of the fire. He drew it forth and returned to Godric.

"I have...gambled...at dice..."

"And cheated, forget not," Salazar reminded him, gritting his teeth as he carefully held the poker over Godric's belly.

"Aye, cheated," Godric laughed again, gasping in pain. "And spent...the winnings...on strong drink. I...have stolen...cider and ale...and...good berry wine...from your...cellar stores. God's...blood!...do it...now, Sal--"

Salazar waited no longer, but drew the poker down into the again-festering wound, searing away corruption and black sorcery with red-hot iron and powerful magic, chanting as the charmed iron retraced the line a hexed and poisoned blade had sliced into his friend's flesh.

Godric screamed in agony, clutching the bedclothes in both hands until cords stood out in his forearms and sweat beaded his fevered brow.

Salazar's hand was steady, and his voice never faltered as he carefully drew the iron along, watching coils of black and dirty green smoke writhe up where the evil was burned away.

It was mere heartbeats, or a lifetime, but at last, it was done. Godric gave a last hoarse cry and slumped back onto the bed, senseless.

Salazar paused, himself covered in sweat, and his hand trembling, now that the work was done. He noted that Godric's chest still lifted and fell with his breathing, and he saw that the wound was now the bright pink of a fresh, clean burn, rather than pustulent and festering with foul sorcery. He nodded grimly and returned the poker to its place on the hearth.

He opened a small pot of soothing, healing ointment and spread it liberally over the seared flesh, watching the livid burn cool and heal, until it seemed as if the injury were days, if not weeks old.


He put the ointment away and took more damp linen to bathe Godric's brow.

"Rest now, my golden lion," he said softly, now that Godric could not hear him. "Proud, brave and foolish, my Gryffindor. All will be well. I am here, and none shall harm you in my care." He gently stroked back the flaming red hair and smiled ruefully. "Rest and heal, beloved."

He slipped his outer robe off, along with his soft house shoes, slid into bed beside Godric and pulled the heavy woolen blankets over them both. He lay there listening, until the steady cadence of Godric's breathing lulled him to sleep.

* * * * * * *

Harry struggled up out of a blood-filled dream, thrashing wildly for his wand with one hand, as the other grappled with a huge serpent that melted into a rope of twisted counterpane.

He forced his fingers to relax, as he tried to slow his ragged breathing. It took a while for his eyes to track. He shakily groped for his glasses and put them on, sighing in relief as the familiar walls of his bedroom came into focus around him.

"Hm?" came sleepily from beside him.

"Dream," he said shortly.

There was a faint sympathetic sound, and a slim, fair hand patted the bedding over his thigh.

Harry smiled, a bit sadly. Ginny's reactions to his frequent nightmares had wound down over the years, much like their marriage. There was no question that they still cared for each other, still loved one another in many ways, but the passion of their first years together had worn itself out long ago. Harry sighed and got up, wrapping his favorite faded robe around him, and headed down to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

He rubbed his forehead as the leaves steeped, trying to banish the lingering remnants of his nightmare. The dreams had been bad for the first few years after the war, but eventually their frequency had diminished, and now they occurred only a few times a month.

Still so vivid, though, he mused. It was, as always, the Shrieking Shack again, and as Snape's lifeblood poured out between them, Harry had found himself wrapped in Nagini's coils, fighting for his life. He shuddered. It didn't matter that he had seen Neville lop off the serpent's head with the sword of Gryffindor, or that he had seen the earth shake and split open, in the aftermath of the last battle, swallowing the Shack and entombing Severus Snape's last remains quite emphatically. When he dreamed, it was still all new and horribly real.

He sipped at the tea and looked up at the kitchen clock. It was five already; too early to start the day, but too late to go back to bed, really. He sighed. First day of school tomorrow, and then the trip he'd been half-dreading for years - down to the solicitors' office to sign the parchments that would formally dissolve his marriage. Well, formally acknowledge its dissolution, anyway. He wasn't sure why he'd insisted they wait until the kids were back in school. James had been off studying in Rome for six months already, and Al and Lily certainly knew what was going on; waiting until they were out of the house didn't really make much of a difference.

Harry snorted. Just another example of the Famous Harry Potter trying to cling to the vestiges of a normal family life, he thought bitterly, recalling one of Ginny's more caustic speeches.

No, that wasn't fair, he chided himself. After all, they'd had a longer run than most Muggles managed. Twenty-four years was nothing to sneeze at, and it was understandable that a couple might find their interests...diverging, especially once the children were grown.

He rubbed his stubbled chin and drank more tea. It was all so very civilized. They'd discussed it calmly, and agreed that, as Ginny was touring with the Harpies much of the year, it made more sense for her to move out and leave the house to Harry. He'd protested, of course, that she could stay; he wouldn't mind at all, and it would be less of a transition for the children, but she had given him an arch look that melted slowly into something horribly like pity, and said quietly that she thought it would be rather inappropriate for them to continue living under the same roof, particularly once they each began seeing other people.

The words had hit him like a bludger to the gut. He'd thought at first it was jealousy, but when he'd had time to mull it over, he'd realized that it wasn't Ginny and her theoretical (he hoped) lover that bothered him, but the concept of living in a house without her, of "visitations" and "shared custody" and other horribly Muggle words that went along with "divorce." He could contemplate the idea of Ginny with someone else with perfect equanimity, but "a broken home" sank like cold, wet mud into his belly and lay there, a dead weight.

He poured another cup of tea and abandoned the kitchen in favour of his study. He lit the desk lamp with an idle wave of his hand and sank into his comfortable old chair behind the giant oak desk. He had fallen in love with the massive desk at an antique fair in Muggle Scotland, years ago, and it had been the first piece of furniture he'd brought into the house, when it was their brand new home, full of possibilities and promises.

He ran a hand over the framed photos: Ginny, in Harpies gear, holding a snitch above her head and grinning in wild triumph; James and Al, wide-eyed toddlers staring at their baby sister in her cradle; James in Gryffindor quidditch robes, looking small and solemn before his first game; Al in a rare moment of sunny pleasure, smiling in delight at something in a book almost bigger than himself; Lily, with flowers in her hair and mischief in her eyes; Hermione and Ron on their wedding day; Professor McGonagall talking with Professor Dumbledore's portrait...

His hand rested on the last photo, in its rubbed ebony frame. Professor Snape stared malevolently at him, arms folded. Colin had taken the picture some time during Snape's year as Headmaster, and when the retrospective volume of his work had been published after his death, Harry had made inquiries and managed to purchase a print of this particular shot. He couldn't explain it, but often, when he was troubled, or just needed someone to talk to, it was this framed picture of Severus Snape in which he confided. Severus didn't speak to him, of course; the magic animating wizarding photographs was not as complex as the spells woven into proper painted portraits, but he did appear to listen, and his expressions changed as if in response to whatever Harry had to say.

"I had the dream again, Professor," Harry said, almost idly. "The bad one, back in the Shack. You were there, of course, only Nagini was trying to kill me, too."

Snape appeared to sneer at him.

"I know, I know. I wish...I wish it had worked out differently. I...there must have been something I could have done." Harry sighed again and leaned back, sipping his tea. "Well, it's old news anyway. Someone once said it was the height of arrogance, talking about one's dreams. It's not like they were prophetic or even interesting, really. So. Up for some gossip?" He raised an eyebrow in inquiry. Snape rolled his eyes and shrugged.

"Well, today's the day. After we send Al and Lily off on the Express, Ginny and I are going to sign the forms. Dissolution of Marriage. So much for the traditional 'bonded for life,' huh? I ought to have argued harder for the old vows, when we were planning the wedding, I suppose."

Snape shook his head in exasperation.

"I suppose you're right. When something's over, it's over. It's been over a long time, really; it just took me a while to admit it. Ginny's a lot more pragmatic than I am. She saw it coming, I think, ever since the kids started school."

Snape's expression was eloquent.

"Yeah, I suppose I am feeling sorry for myself. The Famous Harry Potter and all that rot. I just...was it too much to ask for a nice, normal family? A happy home? Picket fence, rambling rose, wife, kids, cats, puppies, gnomes in the garden and heading up to Hogwarts for the occasional quidditch game?" Harry sighed again. "I quit the Aurors, did I tell you? I just wanted...normal. Peace and quiet and a normal family life."

Snape rolled his eyes yet again and waved a dismissive hand.

"Sorry. There I go again, right? Well, I'll try to keep it down. In other news, Teddy's got a new job, over at Beauxbatons. Junior Professor of Transfiguration. We're all very proud of him..."

* * * * * * * * *

Albus Severus grimaced as he read the letter for the third time. He'd taken it up to the Library and curled up in his favorite chair to go over it again. The letters had come - one each for him and Lily, during breakfast. They'd shot each other a glance across the Great Hall and both nodded grimly. They had been expecting this for a long time, years, really - ever since Lily had started at Hogwarts. Al had shrugged at his sister, sitting over at Ravenclaw table, and she had only rolled her eyes and tucked her letter away.


It was just what they had all expected. Hell, even James had taken them aside the day before he left for Rome and told them that Mum and Dad might have finally got up the nerve to have done with it and get on with their lives. He ought to be relieved, really. It was unnerving, going along as if everything were fine, making plans for winter hols, watching them pretend nothing was wrong, when they all knew that they just weren't happy together any more. He scanned the letter again and shook his head. Mum and Dad had each written, both so careful to say how much they loved all of their children, and how this had nothing to do with anything anyone had done or not done, but sometimes, when grownups live together a long time...

He folded the letter in disgust and shoved it away. "Grownups!" What did they think he was, five? He was seventeen already, a man, according to Wizarding law, and they acted as if he were still in footie pajamas!

"Oh, there you are." The voice was unmistakable, and Al didn't even turn to look as Scorpius invaded his cosy nook.

"Congratulations, you found me. Is there a prize?" he asked sarcastically, still staring out the window.

"Tch! If I'm supposed to say you're prize enough, you've got another think coming," the slim blond said, stepping up and leaning back against the window frame.

Al had to laugh. Their parents were all still rather wary of it, but he and Scorpius had, after a vague initial unease, become close friends in First Year, despite having been sorted into different Houses. Or perhaps that was why they had become friends.

Scorpius, looking pale as death and positively terrified, had sat on the stool, cringing as Professor Sprout, now Deputy Headmistress, brought the Hat down onto his head. There had been rather a long pause, and then the Hat had opened its brim, shut it again, frowned, and finally said, "Well, then...better be...RAVENCLAW!"

The entire Great Hall had seemed to gasp at once, but Scorpius had nearly fallen off the stool, whether in shock or relief, no one seemed to know.

Al, with his father's reassurances still running through his mind, had approached the Sorting with determination. He had screwed up his courage and not protested when the Sorting Hat had laughed fondly at his name and offered him Slytherin. D'you really think I should be in Slytherin? he had asked, silently. Oh, you'll do very well in Slytherin, I should think, the Hat had replied. Your father would have, as well, if he'd had the nerve... The Hat had trailed off, making a challenge of it, and Albus Severus Potter had thought a moment, watching his brother grinning at him from the Gryffindor table, and then said, Well, all right then, I'll be in Slytherin. And the Hat had opened its brim and said quite smugly, "SLYTHERIN!"

It was something they'd had in common, from the start, and when he'd found Scorpius sitting in front of a blank parchment and chewing on his quill, something had prompted Al to ask if he was having trouble telling his parents about the Sorting. A few awkward questions, two chocolate frogs and a handful of Every Flavour Beans later, they were laughing together over what their families were going to say.

Now, six years later, they were still fast friends, no matter how uneasily their parents still regarded their friendship.

Scorpius shook white-blond hair out of his eyes and regarded Al closely. "So. Letter from home, I take it?"

Al nodded. "They've finally pulled their socks up and done it."

"Ah. Well...condolences, then, I suppose, or congratulations, depending on how you look at it."

Al snorted. "Congratulations?"

"Don't you know about divorce guilt? I'm reliably informed that newly divorced parents tend to go quite mad with trying to make it up to their poor, traumatized darlings. Elspeth Hardwicke got a ruby necklace, a full set of new potions equipment for a home lab, a trip to Paris and an Abraxan filly out of her parents' divorce. And how'd'you think Roland came up with that new Zephyr Racer 5000, last year? He's got quite a resale business in sweets, too, what with his mother sending him at least five pounds of choccies from Geneva every week."

Al laughed. "Well, I expect my parents will be a little more level-headed about it than all that, though a new potions kit wouldn't come amiss, and I'm sure Lily wouldn't object to rubies."

Scorpius grinned. "With her colouring, she ought to hold out for emeralds, or sapphires, if she's going to get House proud about it."

Al just shook his head and leaned back in the chair. "I'll let her sort that out with Dad. So, given any thought to the Runes assignment?"

Scorpius didn't blink at the change of subject. "A bit. I dug around in the Ravenclaw Papers, but I haven't found anything particularly interesting yet. Most of it's all been written up before; too many eager 'Claws looking for scholarly glory, I'm afraid. How about you?"

"I had a thought...there are some of Slytherin's original writings preserved in the House that never made it into the Library, as far as I can tell. I might ask Professor Bulstrode if she would let me look through them, or if there are copies available."

"Good thought. Not much has been written about Slytherin's research since...well, not since before the wars, I guess. Nothing more than House cant, really," he grinned ruefully at Al. "My father could tell you chapter and verse about the glories of Salazar Slytherin, and Grandfather is worse, but neither of them really cares much about Runic theory or tracing its evolution in Britain back to the Founders."

"It's worth a try, anyway." Al groaned and stretched. "Feel like a walk? And maybe a snack? I could do with tea and cakes right about now."

"Sure. After all, you're reeling in the aftermath of a traumatic experience. Clearly distraught. That ought to be good for a few treats from the House Elves."

Al laughed and got to his feet to lead the way.

* * * * * * * *

Godric gently rubbed his belly over his loosely belted robe and grinned as he sat down to break his fast. "My thanks, Salazar," he said, resting one hand on Slytherin's shoulder. "It has healed well, and far faster than I dared hope."

Salazar looked up from his bowl of gruel and rolled his eyes. "Dared hope? Ever the optimist you are, Godric! You came closer to death than any of us care to contemplate, with that cursed sword cleaving your belly open!"

Helga poured honey over steaming brown bread and shook her head. "When Lothar fell last year, I thought we were done with such coils. But it seems evil and greedy wizards come up with the green barley each spring!"

Rowena, her head bent over a scroll, merely sighed. "More like toadstools, foul and loathsome, springing up from the dank places of the earth to poison all who taste of them."

They were gathered as usual, in Rowena's Great Hall, as her Keep was nearest the site of the school they meant to build. Thus far, it was little more than crude rock walls delineating the space, a rough, unfinished Keep, and an ever-increasing stack of parchment plans. Too many interruptions had slowed their progress - harsh weather, illness among the local peasantry (upon whose strong backs much of the building depended, as well as the tilling, planting and harvesting of the crops that kept them all fed), incursions of bandits, and most recently, the uprising of a self-styled "Dark Lord," (yet another wizard who had turned to blood rites and demon-summoning when diligence and study proved too onerous a path). There were times when each of them separately despaired that the school would ever rise, but somehow, they managed to bolster one another through the dark times and work together toward the goal they all yearned to achieve.

A serving wench brought hot porridge and warm, honey-sweetened milk and set them before Godric.

Salazar grinned at his expression. "No meat for you until your stomach has had more time to heal. I'll not have you undoing all my hard work with your gluttony!"

Godric looked mournfully at his food and sighed. "Well, needs must, I suppose." He picked up the bowl and slowly supped it.

Rowena looked up from the writings she was so carefully studying. "It can be done, I think, but it will require all of us, working with one mind, to one purpose. We had best practice; something of a somewhat smaller scale, perhaps?"

"We might try enlarging one of the caves, first," Helga mused. "If we can manipulate the stones there, 'twill be good practice, and there is need of more room for stores, so 'tis of good use as well. Will you have your students help, Rowena?"

The fair witch nodded thoughtfully. "Young Arden has power, but requires more discipline. As we shape the stone, I will set him to grinding the castings into pea-gravel and filling the path. Elspeth may be of more help to us, although I fear she is not ready to fully mesh her powers with ours for such exacting work."

Godric drank from his bowl of warm milk and wiped his mouth. "My men will guard the approaches, and Edgar can assist your Arden."

Helga took a spoonful of honeyed gruel and smiled. "Lys and Ruan are far better off at their studies than under our feet, I fear. I'll set them to brewing; I believe we will all be needing a good posset before bed, once we've done this."

Salazar laughed. "Will you never give up on those two? Or had you planned to keep them as pets? Ruan has yet to summon fire without flint and tinder, and Lys can levitate nothing larger than a chicken feather, and that only if there is a good gust of wind!"

Helga bristled. "They're good, willing workers, Salazar! It's not their fault their gifts are small! I've yet to see anything useful come from a student of yours, save more black sorcery!"

It was a low blow, as Lothar had once, for a brief time, been Salazar's most prized student, before he had lost patience with the slow route to knowledge and power and turned instead to the blackest of dark arts. It had taken all of them to bring him down, and Salazar still bore a curse-scar over his heart as a memento of the battle.

He opened his mouth to retort angrily, but felt Godric's hand on his back and paused.

"Helga, that is unworthy of you," Godric rebuked her, gently. "Salazar meant no insult, only that even a witch of your great patience must see that Lys and Ruan will never hold great power. And Salazar, it may be so, but even those of small gifts may make good use of them. The teaching is not wasted, if Helga chooses to give it them."

Helga looked mollified, but still somewhat resentful. Salazar snorted and reached for his tankard of hot cider. Godric's hand rubbed soothing circles on the small of his back, and his temper eased.

Rowena looked at him mildly. "Have you chosen a new apprentice as yet, Salazar?"

The cider was rich with fragrant spices and the mellow sweetness of autumn apples. Salazar breathed the steam in deeply before answering. "Two lads have petitioned for places, but as yet I have not tested them. Bright boys, so they seem. One is the son of Mathilda Mouldwart, the herb wife of Tunny Wells; the other is the nephew of Roger FitzAlan, the alchemist."

Helga muttered something, but Salazar ignored her. His preference for students with demonstrated magic in their lineage was well known, and he had no desire to debate his choices yet again, not when the great task of building their school still lay before them. If they were to work well together, they would have to set such differences aside for more leisurely debate.

Rowena nodded pleasantly, ignoring Helga. "Well, when you have finished, let us have horses saddled and go forth to the caves." She rose, dusting crumbs from her hands, and smoothed her jeweled girdle over her slender hips. "I will meet you in the stable yard."

Helga took a long pull of cider and pushed back from the table. "'Tis freezing in the hills. I want warmer robes than these, if we are to ride." She strode briskly from the hall.

Salazar turned to look at Godric. "By all rights, you should stay abed today, aye and for several days to come. But I know better than to ask it of you."

Godric rubbed his belly again. "I'm well enough," he asserted. "The caves are but a short ride, and Orion has a smooth and gentle gait. I'll take no harm."

Salazar sighed. "There is the working to consider, as well. You're hardly fit to cast such delicate and intense spells, Godric."

"I can do my share," Godric said, "And if it is less than I would have managed a month ago, well, it will give us a mark from which to build."

Salazar reached out, parted Godric's robe and pressed a hand gently over the bandage. "Hm. Come, let me salve it again for you and change the dressing. And when we return, you're for bed, with no arguments," he scolded.

"Aye, mother," Godric teased him. He drained the last of his gruel, grimaced and rose.

Salazar followed him, shaking his head and wondering for the hundredth time, how he had ever come to care so much for such a stubborn, headstrong, infuriating man.

* * * * * *

Continued in Part 2