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Chapter 1 : Normandie
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The Great Hall abounds with splendor on this, the first night of the rest of your life. You sit in the middle of it all, watching the young pupils chattering, reaching across each other in their excitement to taste the food fit for kings. Tomorrow they will awake with stomachaches and none will grumble when they are offered the standard fare of warm porridge for breakfast. Salazar would have them eat like monks on every day of the year, but you overruled him on this momentous occasion, saying that everyone deserved a feast tonight.
Three years have passed since you gathered your colleagues around you in order to dream and scheme, building palaces on the air and tearing them down when they weren’t good enough for your band of four great minds. You were the natural leader, the man with flaming locks of rust and passionate words. Born of noble stock, you learned how to be a man from the time that you could walk and talk. The horses you rode, the dogs you trained, the hunts that you attended with your father, all combined to weave the cloth of your existence.
And yet, despite your athleticism and joviality of spirit, despite your inherited nobility and learned chivalry, there was something different about you. Your fingertips sparked with electricity, and your hair waved about even when there was no wind. Sometimes you awoke from a dream of flying and found yourself levitating a foot in the air. Your parents did not know what was wrong with you; they took you to famous healers all over the countryside, but none could explain the strange forces at work inside of you.
So you were cast out, in a sense. Your friends deserted you one by one, and soon only your father would look at you without fear. Life became a solitary trial.
It is not in your triumphs, but in your failings that you have found the man you were meant to be. Regardless of circumstance, you always picked yourself up and carried on. After your parents died, you called on the three people who understood your situation, who knew what it was like to be different. You laid the foundation for a tradition designed to carry on through the centuries, a tradition of uniting people who, despite their many creeds, clans, and values, share a common bond.
The students are yawning now, and across the room you see your young son dozing in his pudding. Laughing, you announce that it is high time that everyone went off to bed. As they all file out of the hall, mumbling in sleepy, contented voices, you breathe a sigh of relief.
It has been three years since you first dreamed of creating a school to instruct young witches and wizards. It is only today that the dream has become a full reality.
You, the lion-hearted, chivalrous, brash, loud, ruddy-faced nobleman, are more than the sum of your parts.
Godric Gryffindor, you are brave.
A/N: This story was written for kenpo's Instrumental Song Challenge and HEG's Founders Challenge. The song that I was given is called "Suite française" by Darius Milhaud. It has five movements, each one named after a suite in France. Although the names of the movements have nothing to do with the content of the chapter, I chose to name each chapter after their respective movements. Thank you for reading! :)
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