Flashback.
The world had been much quieter then, untamed and wild, with rolling hills that stretched endlessly and forests so thick that sunlight barely touched the earth. The air was crisp and cold, carrying the scent of ancient magic and untouched lands.
Harry—then not “Professor Evans,” nor the Master of Death in the full capacity he was now—stood in the middle of a clearing. He adjusted his robes, feeling distinctly out of place in the heavy fabric that clung to him.
“Well,” he muttered to himself, gazing around, “this is… primitive.”
The sound of footsteps—light and purposeful—drew his attention. Emerging from the treeline was a woman with fiery red hair tied into intricate braids, her green eyes sharp as the edge of a blade. She carried herself like someone who commanded respect without demanding it, her wand loosely gripped in one hand.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice laced with suspicion but calm.
Harry tilted his head, his lips curving into a faint smile. “That depends. Who are you?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I am Rowena Ravenclaw. And this is my land.”
“Your land?” Harry mused, glancing around. “Funny, I don’t see your name on it.”
Her wand twitched slightly, and Harry had the distinct sense that he was one word away from being hexed into oblivion.
“Relax,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just a traveler. Passing through, really. My name’s Harry.”
Rowena’s gaze didn’t soften, but she didn’t hex him either. “You’re not like the others,” she said after a moment, her tone calculating.
Before Harry could respond, another voice cut through the clearing, deep and commanding.
“Rowena! Who is this?”
A towering figure stepped into view, his broad shoulders clad in heavy leather armor. His beard was thick and untamed, his piercing blue eyes locked onto Harry.
“Godric,” Rowena replied without looking at him, “this… traveler claims he’s just passing through.”
Harry chuckled softly. “And you’d be Godric Gryffindor, I take it?”
Godric’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “And how would you know my name?”
Harry hesitated for the briefest of moments. He’d met all kinds of powerful witches and wizards in his time, but standing before the founders of Hogwarts was… surreal.
“Let’s just say I’ve heard stories,” Harry said, his tone light. “You’re famous where I come from.”
“Famous?” Rowena echoed, her brow furrowing. “From where?”
“Far away,” Harry replied cryptically, offering them his best enigmatic smile.
Before they could press further, the air shifted. A chill swept through the clearing, and Harry turned to see a pale, stern-faced man approaching, his dark robes billowing around him.
“More intruders,” the man said, his voice cold as the winter wind. “First the muggles, now this one.”
“Salazar,” Rowena said, her tone holding a note of exasperation. “He’s no muggle.”
Salazar’s eyes flicked to Harry, and Harry felt the weight of his gaze as though the man were dissecting his very soul. “No, he isn’t,” Salazar murmured, his voice thoughtful. “But he’s not entirely honest, either.”
Harry smirked. “And you’re Salazar Slytherin. Always suspicious, aren’t you?”
Salazar’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re far too comfortable for someone who just wandered into our lands.”
“Perhaps because I mean no harm,” Harry replied smoothly.
“Or perhaps because you’re hiding something,” Salazar countered, his voice like ice.
Before the tension could escalate further, a warm, melodic laugh filled the air.
“Oh, stop glaring at him, Salazar. You’ll scare the poor man away.”
Helga Hufflepuff emerged from the trees, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders and her smile radiating warmth. She carried a basket of herbs in one hand, a wand tucked behind her ear.
“Helga,” Salazar said, his tone irritated, “this isn’t the time for—”
“Nonsense,” Helga interrupted, brushing past him. She extended a hand to Harry. “I’m Helga. And you are?”
Harry took her hand, smiling despite himself. “Harry. Nice to meet you.”
“See?” Helga said, turning to the others. “He’s perfectly polite. No need to threaten him.”
Godric crossed his arms, his expression skeptical. “We don’t know who he is or why he’s here.”
“Then why don’t we ask him?” Helga said simply, turning back to Harry. “Why are you here?”
Harry hesitated, glancing between them. The truth was… complicated. He’d been wandering through time and space for so long that he barely remembered why he ended up in this particular moment. But something about these four drew him in, something that felt like destiny pulling at him.
“I was… curious,” he finally said. “I’ve heard of you—of all of you. The things you’ll build, the legacy you’ll leave behind.”
Rowena’s eyes sharpened. “What do you mean, the things we’ll build?”
Harry smiled faintly. “You’ll see.”
For a moment, the four founders stood in silence, exchanging glances.
“Well,” Helga said brightly, breaking the tension, “if he’s going to stay, he might as well help. What do you say, Harry? Do you know anything about building?”
Harry chuckled, a genuine sound that felt strange after so long. “I think I can manage.”
And so began Harry’s strange and unexpected relationship with the founders of Hogwarts. As they worked together to build what would one day become the greatest magical institution in the world, Harry found himself drawn into their lives—into their dreams, their struggles, and their vision for the future.
But even then, as they laid the foundations of Hogwarts stone by stone, Harry couldn’t help but wonder: was it fate that brought him here? Or something more?