"Gryffindor is still alive?!" The question was a raw, disbelieving choke in Sebastian's throat. A thousand years had dissolved the physical reality of the founders into dust and legend.
If the Dark Lord had known that the secret to a functional, magical immortality—one that didn't involve horrific, soul-sundering rituals—lay secreted within the bounds of the forest he so often plundered, the irony alone would have caused him to beat his serpentine chest and weep in despair over his failed quest for permanence.
The towering man with the thunderous voice and the sword laughed—a deep, booming sound that echoed across the impossibly silent, pristine hills.
"I am Godric Gryffindor, yes, but more accurately, I am not me at all, boy!" The man's voice was like rocks rolling down a mountainside. "Think of me as a Memory Construct, a repository of self and intent that Gryffindor—the man—left behind. Don't burden your young mind with such complex metaphysics! I am the Sorting Hat's big, slightly more muscular cousin."
He gestured vaguely toward the castle. "The Hat holds the distilled essence of all four of us, a truly unique object crafted by mutual will. I, however, am a singular imprint, a living memory preserved and sustained solely by the ancient, ambient magic of this very Dark Forest."
Sebastian's shock began to cool into professional fascination. No wonder. The body is a projection of pure magic, stable and solid, yet the memory housed within is perfectly preserved. It was a mesmerizing feat of magical preservation, far beyond any known enchantment or potion.
The towering Memory of Gryffindor squinted down at Sebastian, his broad, honest face furrowing with immediate and profound disapproval.
"But what in the great Hall of Hogwarts are you doing here, young man? And why the green tie, figuratively speaking?" His disapproval was almost palpable.
"You are unmistakably a Slytherin! By all logical metrics, the one who found and activated my legacy should have been a student of my own House! Does this mean the modern Gryffindor students lack the spirit to even venture into the true heart of the Dark Forest?"
The sheer audacity of the founder's prejudice sent a pulse of cold annoyance through Sebastian. A thousand years dead, and the man still carries a house bias?
"What, pray tell, is so inherently wrong with being a Slytherin student?" Sebastian retorted, his voice dripping with icy politeness that masked his sudden, burning fury. "Did I consume your personal supply of butterbeer? Do you look upon us with such disdain that our very presence here is an insult to your legacy?"
The Memory of Gryffindor simply scoffed. "How do I know you are a Slytherin? When students pass through that ridiculously simplistic modern Sorting ceremony, they sign a subtle, underlying, foundational contract with the very ground and structure of the House that claims them. I can smell the scent of ambition, cunning, and far too much polished silver on you from a glance!"
"What?" Sebastian felt his control slipping. "Are you suggesting I should attempt to impersonate a Gryffindor to satisfy your medieval sensibilities? I assure you, never!"
The large man's expression grew intensely condescending. "I am merely stating that I recognize you. You carry the unmistakable aura of Salazar's House. And you have certainly not entered this space by my personal invitation."
The veins on Sebastian's forehead throbbed. He took a deep, steadying breath. Endure this. Slytherins are adaptable. Gryffindor's inheritance is not worth an arrogant, futile argument.
Sebastian straightened his clothes and delivered his rebuttal with the precise, reasoned intensity of a seasoned barrister dismantling a shaky case.
"First," Sebastian began, raising one finger. "The area you refer to as the 'Dark Forest' is now known as the Forbidden Forest, and it has been strictly off-limits to students for centuries due to the sheer concentration of dangerous magical creatures and—as we saw moments ago—unstable magical rituals. You can hardly fault the current generation of Gryffindors for adhering to school rules enforced by your own successors."
He raised a second finger. "Second, and more importantly: Slytherin students are also Hogwarts students. I passed your test. I, a member of the House you seem so quick to dismiss, possess the specific, difficult criteria of courage and dedication to shoulder the world's burden. By your own founding logic, since I am a Hogwarts student and your student by extension, you are obligated to accept me. Your gate required a specific philosophy, not a particular color of cloak."
He finished, his eyes locked on the founder's. "Just because my courage manifests as focused, strategic cunning, rather than loud, reckless abandon, does not negate its existence. You cannot withhold your legacy from me based on an archaic house feud."
The Memory of Gryffindor stared at the young man, his imposing face unreadable, before suddenly bursting into another booming, earth-shaking laugh.
"Ha! Well articulated, boy! A fine response, indeed!" He clapped his hands together, the sound like distant thunder. "Had you groveled, or attempted some pathetic, feigned humility to earn my favor, I would have ejected you instantly. But you stood your ground. You provided evidence and logic. That requires a genuine, unbowed courage that I can respect."
The giant's expression sobered immediately, shifting from roaring amusement to a focused, lethal seriousness. His magical signature, which had felt like gentle warmth, instantly condensed into an oppressive, palpable energy.
"Forget the house banner. As you correctly pointed out, I am Godric Gryffindor, and my only true requirement is the courage to shoulder the burdens of the world! You have entered my space, so I will grant you my full attention."
Magic coalesced around the founder, solidifying the air. A magnificent, rune-etched magical longsword materialized in his right hand—not a heavy blade, but one seemingly made of pure, solidified moonlight. A plain, polished wooden wand appeared in his left.
He lowered his body slightly into a combat stance, pointing the sword's tip directly at Sebastian's heart.
"You want my inheritance?" Gryffindor challenged, his voice now a low, dangerous rumble. "Then you must attack me with everything you possess! I will assess your worth by your ability to survive my scrutiny."
"I shall teach you the final lesson of war!"
The founder launched himself forward with terrifying, impossible speed, covering the vast distance between them in a single, blurring stride.
"Let me demonstrate the power of the Strongest Melee Mage!"
Sebastian instantly felt the ambient magic of the clearing—the magic that had sustained the Gryffindor Memory—become dense and unresponsive, as if trapped by the founder's imposing will. He was suddenly wading through thick water, facing waves of magical energy that radiated from Gryffindor like an actual ocean storm.
This is the glory of a thousand-year-old magical foundation!
Sebastian's eyes narrowed with fierce excitement. His own wand, made of the far more responsive Holly and Phoenix feather, snapped into his hand.
A Melee Mage? Well, during my excursions East, I did manage to acquire a rudimentary understanding of the magical martial arts of that continent.
Sebastian didn't retreat. He reacted by firing three rapid, high-powered curses: a Blasting Curse, a Stinging Hex, and a potent Stupefy. The three spells were perfectly angled, forming a triangular net that eliminated Gryffindor's primary escape paths.
But the founder did not attempt to escape. He charged straight into the path of the curses.
With a loud clang that defied the silent nature of magic, Gryffindor parried the central Blasting Curse with his sword, sending a spray of emerald light over his shoulder. In the same fluid motion, his left hand snapped his wand up and redirected the two remaining curses—the Stinging Hex and the Stupefy—back at Sebastian with bewildering speed.
Sebastian reacted instantly, manifesting a thick Ironclad Curse just as the deflected spells struck. Both were successfully repelled, but the feeling was utterly wrong.
Incorrect! Sebastian thought, his mind racing to analyze the magical data. The counter-spell wasn't true redirection magic!
There was no signature trail of Gryffindor's magic on the counter-attack, indicating he hadn't used true offensive magic to reflect the spells.
Furthermore, Sebastian was certain this was not purely wandless magic, as the wooden wand had clearly been involved. Most disconcertingly, the spells felt incredibly thick as they struck his shield. It was like striking solid, dense iron with a wooden stick.
What is this version of the Iron-Clad Charm?
Before Sebastian could process the anomaly, Gryffindor was on him, moving with the preternatural speed of a true ghost. The magical longsword flashed out, aiming for a precise, decisive sweep across Sebastian's midsection.
"Don't stand there gawking, boy! I have harnessed the entire magical energy of the Forbidden Forest to sustain this form and this combat! Do not underestimate a founder simply because his name is written in a dusty book!" Gryffindor bellowed, his voice filled with the thrill of battle.
Sebastian twisted his body just enough to avoid the deadly arc of the sword, the razor-sharp edge passing a millimeter from his robe. He then executed a highly complex backwards somersault—a move born from combining magical propulsion with pure, physical agility—creating essential distance between them.
He immediately began to kite, circling the massive figure and launching a relentless barrage of ranged attacks. In any normal wizarding duel, remaining stationary against a superior opponent meant certain, immediate defeat.
Over the next few minutes of high-intensity exchange, Sebastian began to decode the founder's fighting style, and the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. Gryffindor wasn't a conventional duelist.
Sebastian realized that every time Gryffindor cast his defensive charm, the subtle magical structure wasn't simply a single dome—it was a layered magical envelope. It wasn't achieved by casting the Ironclad Charm repeatedly; that would exhaust even a founder.
It was a single charm, somehow engineered to draw on ambient magic and instantaneously solidify into multiple, interconnected, non-verbal layers.
The effect is similar to stacking multiple protective enchantments, but the method is singular!
Sebastian decided to test his hypothesis with his most focused, penetrating curse—a spell designed to pierce through defenses, not overwhelm them with brute force.
"Acies Dei Sine Umbra! (Shadowless Divine Sharpness!)"
A thread of intense, silent blue light shot toward Gryffindor's chest. The founder stood his ground, letting the spell strike him.
Shiing!
The sound was shockingly metallic, like a needle punching through thin steel. The Shadowless Divine Sharpness pierced the outermost magical layer, then slowed abruptly, its energy dissipating harmlessly against the second, deeper layer of defense. It faltered, never reaching the core of the founder's body.
Astonishing! Sebastian felt a cold jolt of realization. This is the very foundation of the legend! No wonder the historical records spoke of Gryffindor casually eliminating enemies in close combat with his sword.
With this kind of magical turtle shell, he could literally ignore the mid-range spells that most wizards relied upon. While everyone else was shooting from a distance, Gryffindor could absorb the shock, charge forward, and destroy his opponent at point-blank range with a simple, devastating, Goblin-forged sword—or, in this case, his pure magical construct of one.
The Memory of Gryffindor laughed—a rich, victorious sound—as Sebastian's most formidable spell disintegrated.
"You understand now, boy?" Gryffindor roared, brandishing his sword. "The legacy I left behind here is not a trinket or a chest of gold, but my unique, signature technique: the Iron Armor Magic Stacking Charm!"
His eyes were gleaming with the intensity of a born teacher. "Feel it deeply, analyze it ruthlessly! You are in the middle of a magical war, and I am your instructor! You must exceed your limits in this very battle and learn this technique if you wish to survive, much less claim my treasure!"
"Slytherin boy, I shall not be gentle!"