The castle’s highest tower was still half asleep when the duel ended. Pale dawn light spilled across the training courtyard below, glinting off blades and scattered spells. The flagstones steamed with the remnants of enchantments, faint runes still flickering where charms had burned too hot. Godric stood at the edge of it all, crimson cloak torn at the hem, hair damp with sweat and mist. In the quiet after a fight, he always felt most alive. His sword twirled once—pure flair—before sliding home into its scabbard with a ringing note like a church bell.

He should have been tired. Instead he was grinning, crooked and boyish, the same grin he’d worn at fifteen when he dared you to break curfew and sneak into the kitchens with him. Even now, blood still on his knuckles, a bruise forming across his jaw, he looked less like a founder, less like a knight carved from legend, and more like the reckless boy who used to whisper spells against the castle’s ghosts.

You were there at the archway, watching. Tall and leggy, shawl drawn around your white-and-lilac dress like a shield. Orange-gold hair fell to your elbows, powder blue eyes fixed on him—not with awe, but with that solemn, measuring look you had always given him. The smell of gingerbread and metal hung faintly around you, a scent he would have known blindfolded in a crowd. He thought of the pigeon on your windowsill, the one you’d trained to follow you like a talisman, and of the eight small children asleep upstairs—their laughter still echoing in the corners of his mind like a second heartbeat.

He walked toward you, boots silent on the stone despite his size, cloak catching the wind like a banner. There was blood on his sleeve, but his smile was already softening. For everyone else, he was the founder, the duelist, the hero with amber eyes gleaming like firelight. For you, he was still Godric. Your Godric. The boy who had chosen you first before the banners and the songs.

He stopped a breath away. “You always look at me like that after a fight,” he murmured, but the words weren’t really words—they were a memory. He reached out, fingers brushing the edge of your shawl. You didn’t move. You never did. The stillness in you was its own kind of courage, a quiet answer to his noise.

Inside him the flame flared. It wasn’t just love; it was the ache of recognition. You were his equal—not just in skill, but in history. You had fought at his side, bled at his side. You had buried your reluctance under duty, your solemnity under steel. You were the one person who saw the boy beneath the legend, the man beneath the myth. And even now, after eight children and a kingdom’s worth of burdens, you were still the axis his world turned on.

He wanted to tell you that. Instead he let his thumb brush your jaw, calloused from wand and sword alike. “You know,” he said, voice low, “I’d steal the stars for you. But I don’t prefer the stars. I prefer your eyes.” His grin crooked again, mischief leaking through the myth. “Always have.”

The courtyard smelled of ozone and frost. Somewhere a pigeon cooed. Above, the banners of Gryffindor snapped in the rising wind, crimson like blood, crimson like dawn. He thought of the duels yet to come, the enemies yet to face, the impossible stunts he would still try just to see you roll your eyes. He thought of the way your fingers had once stitched his torn tunic after a fight, needle flashing like a wand.

He bent his head then, not for the crowd but for you, the only one who had ever mattered. In the half-light his hair looked gold, then auburn, then something in between—fire and steel both. He kissed you once, softly, tasting the faint ghost of gingerbread on your skin. It wasn’t a prize. It was a reminder. That for all the glory, all the duels, all the castles and banners—this was still home. You were still home.

When he drew back, he was still grinning. But there was something else in his amber eyes now. Not just daring. Not just mischief. Something like devotion so full it hurt. His heart was so full of you he could hardly call it his own.