The Marauders: A Hogwarts Tale

At his request, Raine's wolfen ears drooped, and her tail stilled. Godric noticed her unease and stammered, "I mean… only if you want to. It's not an order or anything." He sighed, ruffling his hair in frustration. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

Raine shook her head, her expression softening as she took a deep breath. Her gaze became distant, her voice laced with a quiet sorrow. "I come from the Frost Wolf Clan," she began, speaking slowly. "We lived in a small village far to the north of Avalon, beyond the Howling Mountains."

Godric leaned forward, listening intently as her voice trembled.

"Ten years ago, when I was just a pup, slavers attacked our village." Raine hugged herself, as if bracing against the memory. "We weren't protected under the Accords, so villages like ours were easy targets. They killed my parents and captured my older sister, Skye, and me."

"By the Old Gods…" Godric's fists clenched tightly, his knuckles whitening. "That's monstrous."

Raine's hands trembled as she wiped away a tear. "They took us to the Slavers' Guild, far from home. It was… a nightmare. Wolf Therianthropes are considered rare and 'exotic,' so we were marked to become…" Her voice broke, her words faltering. "…comfort slaves."

Godric froze, the weight of her words sinking in. His chest tightened with anger and grief.

"My sister Skye…" Raine's voice cracked, but she pressed on. "She shielded me from the worst of it. She… she sacrificed herself to protect me. But when they realized I wasn't as… useful as her, they separated us." Her voice wavered as her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "By then, two years had passed. When I turned seven, I was sold to Excalibur Academy, and I haven't seen her since."

A heavy silence fell between them, thick with unspoken pain and simmering fury.

"Raine," Godric said at last, his voice firm and low, "I swear to you—I'll find a way to change this. Starting here, with Excalibur. My uncle always said that even the smallest flame can grow into a wildfire, one strong enough to burn a forest to ash. And I won't let that flame die."

Raine looked at him, her golden eyes wide and glistening with emotion. "You're… brave, Godric. You wear the flames of Ignis with pride," she whispered, her voice soft with admiration. "But do you really think you—"

"There you are!" A harsh voice shattered the tranquil moment. "You lazy, flea-bitten pelt!"

Godric and Raine both spun around. Raine's face paled with terror. Godric noted her fear instantly. Striding toward them with thunderous steps was a man dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit, complete with a bolo tie and gleaming gold buttons. His slicked-back gray hair and meticulously groomed appearance contrasted sharply with the fury in his dark brown eyes. The wooden bridge creaked and rattled beneath his stomping boots.

Godric recognized him—Peter Creedy, the Academy's caretaker. The man was notorious for his violent temper and sordid reputation, though many overlooked his conduct for his years of service. Godric's wariness stirred, but anger smoldered beneath it.

"So, this is where you slinked off to!" Creedy barked, jabbing a finger toward Raine. "Get off your tail right this instant!"

Raine scrambled to her feet, trembling. "I'm… I'm sorry, Mister Creedy! I was just—"

"Shut your mouth!" Creedy snarled, grabbing her roughly by the collar. Raine let out a small cry, her ears folding back as she flinched. "I'll teach you to slack off!" He raised his hand, poised to strike her.

Godric surged to his feet, his sword sliding an inch from its scabbard with a chilling whisper of metal. "Take your filthy hands off her, Creedy!" he roared, his crimson eyes blazing with fury. "Before I take them from you!"

Creedy froze momentarily, his face contorting with disbelief. "What the hell did you just say to me, boy?" he spat.

"You heard me," Godric growled, stepping forward. "Let her go. I won't ask again." He drew the blade further, the edge glinting in the sunlight.

Before the confrontation could escalate, another figure stepped onto the bridge. He moved with calm precision, his presence cutting through the tension. The man's gray hair was swept back by the breeze, his silver eyes sharp behind frameless glasses. He wore a regal tawny jacket over a crisp white shirt and tie, the picture of composed authority.

"Now, now, Mister Creedy," the man said with a disarming smile, though his tone carried an edge. "Let's not forget the headmaster's warnings about your… enthusiasm when dealing with the slaves." His piercing gaze flicked briefly to Raine, lingering on her trembling form.

"Professor Norgram," Creedy growled, releasing his grip on Raine with a shove. She stumbled back, her arms clutching herself protectively. "With all due respect, this doesn't concern you. I am the Academy's caretaker, and this slave is under my charge." He turned his glare on Godric. "And this boy just threatened me!"

Professor Norgram's smile remained, but his eyes hardened like tempered steel. "On the contrary, Mister Creedy, as a member of the faculty, I have every right to intervene—particularly when Academy regulations are at stake." His voice was calm but carried undeniable authority. "Perhaps we should discuss this matter further… in private?"

Godric looked between the two men; his sword still partially drawn. Finally, he exhaled sharply and slid the blade back into its scabbard. "Professor, I can explain—"

Norgram held up a hand to silence him. "Not now, Mister Gryffindor. We'll speak at another time." His gaze softened slightly, though his tone remained firm. "And besides, don't you have a class to attend? You wouldn't want to keep Professor Serfence waiting, I assure you."

Raine took a cautious step back, her golden eyes flicking nervously between the men. "I… I should go," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll be seeing you, Godric." She quickly turned and hurried away, her movements brisk and tense, like a hunted animal escaping a predator. Creedy's cold, venomous glare followed her retreating figure, a silent promise of retribution.

Godric stood rooted for a moment, his fists clenching as he watched her leave. The sight of her fleeing under Creedy's oppressive gaze stoked the flames of his anger. With a measured breath, he turned to Professor Norgram and gave the man a brief nod of gratitude before heading back to the pavilion to retrieve his belongings.

As he passed Creedy, Godric's crimson eyes locked with the caretaker's, defiant and unwavering. He let the moment stretch, tension crackling like a taut bowstring, before muttering just loud enough to be heard.

"This isn't over, Creedy. Not by a long shot."

The caretaker's sneer deepened, but he said nothing, his fists trembling with barely restrained fury. Godric kept walking, his resolve solidifying with every step.

****

Godric raced through the winding halls of the castle, his boots pounding against the stone floor as he dodged past clusters of students. The echoes of his hurried steps reverberated off the towering walls, drawing curious glances. Outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, his friends waited, the air between them notably lighter.

"Where in Hecate's name is that boy?" Rowena huffed; her arms crossed as she tapped her foot impatiently. "If we end up late and in detention..."

"Perhaps our bold little lion cub got lost again in this labyrinth of a castle," Salazar drawled, lounging casually against the wall. He twirled his sleek obsidian wand between his fingers with a smirk. "Or maybe he's off saving yet another damsel in distress. It seems to be his specialty."

"Oh, hush, you!" Helga gave Salazar a playful nudge, though her expression softened when she spotted a familiar flash of crimson hair barreling toward them. "Look, there he is now!"

Godric skidded to a stop in front of them, slightly out of breath. "Sorry I'm late," he said, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. "I… got held up."

Salazar's sharp eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Godric's face. "Held up, you say? You look unusually rattled. Care to share with your dear, inquisitive friends?"

"It's nothing," Godric said quickly, brushing past the question with a wave of his hand. "Let's get inside before Professor Serfence has our hides."

Helga and Rowena exchanged glances, but before either could press further, the doors to the classroom creaked ominously open. Salazar straightened, flicking an amused glance at Godric as they filed in. Inside the classroom, a chaotic scene unfolded. A group of Third Years were attempting advanced spells, their shaky wandwork betraying their inexperience. Rowena cringed as she watched, her instincts screaming that disaster was imminent.

"Hey, guys! I think I've got it this time!" a boy called out; his grin far too confident for what he was about to attempt.

Salazar leaned toward Helga, his voice low and laced with amusement. "Ten Platas says this ends in tragedy."

Before Helga could reply, the boy's wand began to spark violently. His grin faltered, and his friends froze in alarm. "Bollocks! Everybody get down!" he yelled, diving for cover.

A burst of wild magic erupted from the wand, streaking across the classroom like an angry comet. The chaotic spell crackled with raw energy, its unstable trajectory ricocheting off walls and ceiling beams. Each impact sent sparks raining down, and the air filled with the acrid smell of singed wood.

Students shrieked in panic, diving beneath their desks for cover. Chairs toppled, parchment scattered, and the din of chaos echoed off the stone walls. The volatile spell picked up speed, its movements erratic and impossible to predict.

At that moment, Godric stepped into the room. The sharp crackle of magic caught his attention immediately, and his crimson eyes darted toward the shimmering bolt of energy hurtling straight toward him.

His three friends, already crouched for safety, snapped their heads toward him, their faces pale with alarm.

"Godric, move!" Helga shouted, her voice a desperate plea.

But there was no time to react—or so it seemed.

Godric's gaze locked onto the spell as it barreled toward him with blinding speed, a storm of light and sound. At the last possible moment, he shifted his weight and dodged backward with practiced precision. The spell zipped past his head, so close he could feel the heat of its energy brushing against his skin.

He then straightened as if nothing had happened, his expression calm and composed. There was no sign of panic, no flicker of fear in his eyes—only a quiet confidence that seemed almost unnerving. The spell then bounced off the wall behind him, headed for the blackboard. But just as it threatened to collide, a precise wave of a wand dissipated the chaos mid-air.

Standing at the front of the classroom, his expression a mixture of irritation and grim amusement, was Professor Serfence. His jet-black hair was slicked back, and his sharp black eyes scanned the room with cold precision. Dressed in elegant robes of onyx and white, he cut an imposing figure.

"A little early to start redecorating my classroom with your classmates' entrails, don't you think, Mister Finnegan?" he said, his deep voice dripping with sardonic disdain.

"P-Professor Serfence, I was just—" the boy stammered, his face pale.

"Save your excuses," Serfence snapped, silencing the boy with a glare. "They're about as useful as a two-legged centaur. Now, sit down before I send you home in pieces for your parents to reassemble."

The students scrambled to their seats, a wave of unease rippling through the room. Godric and his friends followed suit, settling into their usual spot near the front.

Salazar absentmindedly rubbed his fingers together, a faint tingling sensation prickling his skin—a residual trace of something... unusual. The air where Godric had dodged the spell still seemed to hum faintly, as though charged with a strange, volatile energy.

"Curious…" he muttered under his breath, his emerald eyes narrowing in thought. He cast a sidelong glance at the boy as he took a seat.

As Serfence strode to his desk, his gaze fell on something that made his lip curl in disdain—Godric's sword, propped neatly against the desk.

"Mister Gryffindor," Serfence said, his voice a sharp lash. "I thought I made myself perfectly clear: your little toy has no place in my classroom." He gestured toward the weapon with deliberate contempt. "And yet, here it is. Care to enlighten me?"

Godric stood slowly, his jaw tight, the fire from earlier in the day still simmering beneath the surface. "With all due respect, Professor, this sword is no toy. It's a gift from my uncle, and a part of who I am."

"A gift?" Serfence arched a skeptical brow, his sneer deepening. "How sentimental. But tell me, Mister Gryffindor, how exactly do you intend to defend against the Dark Arts with a primitive slab of sharpened metal?"

Salazar leaned forward, his smirk growing as he sensed the tension thickening. Helga shot him a warning glance, while Rowena's hand hovered near Godric's arm, ready to intervene.

Godric's crimson eyes blazed with defiance. "Magic isn't just about wands, Professor," he said firmly. "True strength comes from within. This sword isn't just a weapon; it's an extension of my will, my purpose."

"Foolish boy," Serfence scoffed, his voice echoing through the room. "Your mundane-loving, sentimental drivel has no place here. Wands are the pinnacle of magical focus—refined instruments of precision. That barbaric relic belongs in a museum, not a battlefield."

"Godric, please…" Rowena whispered, gripping his arm gently. "This isn't the time or place."

But Godric didn't waver, his resolve unshaken. The tension in the room crackled like a live wire. Students fidgeted in their seats, wide-eyed, as they watched the confrontation unfold. Professor Serfence's eyes narrowed, daring the bold young Gryffindor to push further.