A/N: Hi! I'm RandomTopic, formerly Soelle. I just changed my name cause I like RandomTopic better.
So, I haven't updated in... four months is it... Anyway. I needed time to clear my head and get some new ideas. This chapter pretty much just shoves the plot forward which I desperately needed, as well as adds in some very nice interaction.

Thanks for the lovely reviews, everyone. 3 3 3

French:

Bonjour- good day

mon ami- my friend (masculine)

ça va - I'm fine (or, if it's a question, can mean "How are you?" informally)

Note: I am trying to get down a French accent for Seaxulf, but I am horrible with accents, so if anyone wants to help with that, I will welcome any advice you can give.

---

"You've failed."

Seaxulf jumped at the muffled voice. "Ah- B-bonjour, mon ami. I was not expecting you."

"Be quiet," the voice commanded from the shadows. "You've failed me. You told me three years ago you would fix your mistake. But the school has been built. Tell me, why should I let you live?"

Seaxulf gulped. The heat from the fire place seemed far too hot. He was certain it hadn't been so a minute ago. "Because I 'ave not failed," Seaxulf said or he thought that's what he said. The room was getting so hot, he couldn't think clearly.

"Explain."

"I might not 'ave been able to get ze map ze four's school, but Lady Ravenclaw enjoys my company. She said she will take me on a tour someday soon."

"How will that help me?"

Me, he says, Seaxulf thought. He openly admits to not care about my wishes.

Ignoring his thoughts, as survival instincts kicked in, Seaxulf continued, "I can gain 'er trust. Then I could easily complete ze last part of ze plan and ve'll both be victorious."

There was a long silence. Seaxulf contemplated running for his life, but then the cloaked figure spoke. "You are very good at making yourself useful. Very well. Convince Ravenclaw and the other founders you are trustworthy. Then...when everything is in place... you can finish the job."

The hooded head was in his face. A glinting dagger was pressed against Seaxulf's throat. "Or I will.."

Seaxulf woke up.

A redheaded man, a fellow thief, lifted his head up from examining a trinket a curious expression on his face. Seaxulf gave a short shake of the head, and murmured, "Ça va, ça va." The other man shrugged and began turning the sides of his object around.

Seaxulf got up from the chair he had fallen asleep in and left to send a letter.

It was about time he responded to Rowena's last letter...

--

"Master Potter, I request a moment of your time."

Harry turned when he heard his name at the speaker. Salazar stood there. Harry gave him a brief nod and turned to the students he was supervising. "Class, be sure to practice the wand movements Master Bligh showed you." Floating over to Salazar he said, "Sure, let's go."

At Salazar's confusion, Harry elaborated, "'Sure' means yes."

Giving a brief nod of understanding, Salazar waved his hand for Harry to follow. When they reached Salazar's dungeons, Salazar yanked a book (Harry felt slight envy whenever Salazar made an ordinary act elegant; it was inhuman) from the bookshelf and opened it. He set it down on the table in front of Harry. "Read this page."

Skimming, Harry felt his eyebrows raise. "This is a page on necromancy."

Salazar nodded.

"What does this have to do with me?"

Salazar blinked and then stared at Harry's silvery form. "Surely you are joking..."

"No, I'm not." Harry answered shortly. "What does the revival of the dead have to...oh." Realization hit Harry like a ton of bricks to the head. "Oh. Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes, why? I don't want to be alive again. I've been a ghost for years, and I'm quite content."

"But," Salazar's countenance had disbelief written all over it. "You're nothing more then a spirit... why would you want to remain so?"

"Why would I want to live, if there is nothing I can obtain from living?" Harry retorted.

"Why are you speaking nonsense?" Salazar's eyes glittered with frustrated, cold anger. "I am giving you another chance at life! There are people who would sell their souls for such an opportunity!"

"Then do not mistake me for one of them," Harry replied coldly. Without a word, he vanished through the wall.

--

Harry avoided Salazar for an entire week before both silently agreed to forget about it.

One question was one Harry's mind though, and he couldn't help but ask it. When he found Salazar in the dungeons, he questioned, hesitantly, "You're a necromancer?"

Salazar started. He glanced at Harry, and stated stiffly, "Yes. I am."

"Is that why you practice the Dark Arts?"

Salazar blinked. "Yes, it is." He said stiffly. "I've been given a gift; why should I not use it?"

"I don't see why not," Harry said quietly, mulling over this new fact in his head. Salazar admitted to practicing the Dark Arts, but necromancers have more control over that dark magic then most... but wasn't Salazar aware of the risks involved? Especially when what Harry knew of the founders' history from his time...

"Good. Now then, there's something else I wish to discuss with you," Salazar said.

"And...?" Salazar's eyebrow twitched at Harry's impatience. Harry couldn't resist throwing him an amusing smirk.

"Rowena received a letter from her friend, a few days ago concerning a terrorist witch who's been attacking magical communities."

Harry's silvery face stared blankly. "And...?"

Salazar sighed. "Due to our fame and success in creating a safe place for young wizards and witches to attend, we, as in Godric, Helga, Rowena and myself, have been asked to kill this witch."

Harry continued to appear confused, so Salazar sighed and said, "Would you be consider lending a hand?"

"Well, what do you expect me to do?"

Salazar sighed. "I really don't know. What could you do?"

"I'd suggest to give her a cold," Harry mused, "But your personality is far colder than how I could make her feel, so I can't even do that."

Salazar sighed again, and murmured, "There is no hope for you."

"Aw, you wound me Salazar," Harry cried dramatically. Placing his hands over his chest and allowed himself to drift in midair, in a relaxed, rested position.

Glasses tinkled against each other as Salazar set back to work. Low murmurs joined in the sound, as well as shuffling parchment. The world was foggy and blurred as Harry's silvery eyelashes blocked his sight, but his eyes snapped opened when a spot of bright, neon orange entered his sight.

Wisps came from the side of the room where Salazar was. Curiosity still burned as strongly as when Harry heard the name Nicholas Flamel from Hagrid, and he darted to Salazar's shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

Harry peered over Salazar's shoulder, looking into the glowing orange batch of... whatever it was.

"Brewing a potion."

"Which potion?"

"I'm not certain yet. This is an experimental potion which requires absolute concentration!"

"Relax, it's not like I'm going to make it explode."

Salazar sighed and added a few, small newt eyeballs.

"How long are you planning on staying here?"

The question was so abrupt, Harry didn't realize it was directed towards him until he noticed Salazar stare at him expectantly.

"I don't know," Harry admitted. "But I have no where to go. Hogwarts is my home. Do you want me to go?"

"We told you, the school's name is..." Salazar automatically corrected him, before the question sunk in. "Do I want you to go? Why do you ask that?"

"You asked if I was going to stay. It was a hint."

"It doesn't have to be. It could have been an innocent question asked of curiosity." Harry snorted, but Salazar tactfully ignored him. "Regardless... I imagine these halls would be rather empty without your presence."

Harry smiled.

---

It was a sea of color; blues, reds, yellows, purples, even colors such as neon green were present in the crowd of people. None could see Harry, even if they gazed right at him in the sky, the sunlight disguising his transparent form from above.

Harry released a sigh, now used to lack of feeling of his ghostly form. It was peculiar, even uncomfortable, to feel nothing, but knew in his mind how objects should feel.

Months ago, Salazar asked Harry to recount the moments of when he had just woken up dead. Salazar noted how strange it was for Harry to have felt pain when he was dead, and therefore could not feel; ghosts were limited to hearing and sight as their senses. Touch, taste and smell were lost to ghosts. Harry still had his magic, which no ghost ever retained, but it wouldn't have let him feel pain from his death. Concerned, Salazar mentioned to the other founders, and Rowena theorized Harry had still been clinging to life, and the pain was an echo from his body.

Harry's eyes once again followed the crowd. A small village had been constructed in the few, short years after the school began. Once the word was out of a safe, pure wizarding town, magical people poured in. All feared the fate of the stake, the death sentence muggle unjustly handed out like tickets to a popular play.

Harry entertained himself by watching a young wizard slowly trek to an open store. A pretty witch bumped into the wizard, and both fell to the snow covered ground. The girl stuttered, cheeks pink in embarrassment, but the boy laughed it off and the two walked into a store together.

This is boring.

Harry's thoughts shifted to what else he could do. The founders were teaching classes, and as much fun as it would be to interrupt Salazar's class with some inanity for a reason, Harry didn't know if Salazar actually looked up curses for apparitions. Harry wasn't certain, but he didn't want to take the chance.

None of the other professors wanted to stop and talk to a dead person... Helga, maybe. But she was too sweet to bother. That was the problem with nice people, Harry thought. They're so nice, but it's so boring because you feel guilty for bothering them.

Harry sighed, and continued watching the passer-by. Or at least, he would have continued doing so, if he had not caught the feel of disgust.

Disgust was a feeling Harry was accustomed to. He felt it, saw it, heard it, breathed it everyday when he lived with the Dursley's. They wore it as a badge, proof Harry was insignificant and inferior. So he had learned to recognize the signs and avoided the Dursleys whenever they felt too much of it.

It had been a useful thing to recognize. Death Eaters felt disgust when they were around muggle borns, so that made them easy to pick out in a crowd for Harry, even if his friends were baffled.

The signs were coming from a tall woman. Her blond hair was in a bun, her face tight and her petite nose was scrunched up, distaste turning her features into something ugly. Her strong body (too strong in the time where women should be small, dainty and fragile) edged away from passing wizards and witches, and turned a cold shoulder to vendors wishing to sell their products, or to gain something far more valuable.

Disgust was written on her skin.

But why? It was a magical village for magical people; it was a sanctuary. Why would she feel disgust?

Perhaps... one of her children or siblings was a wizard, and she resented to have come there. Yes, that had to be it.

But just in case... Harry trailed her from above, hoping the sunlight and the height would keep him hidden. He found he had no need to worry; few people looked up, and if they did, it was to the castle or a passing owl. The woman simply walked around the village. She would browse shops and occasionally chat with a vendor, asking about the village in general and typically being a new, curious witch who wanted to know more.

Harry was not fooled. The disgust was still in her form and in her every movement.

Harry had just decided to report this to Salazar, when a large crowd hid the woman from view, and Harry lost her.

Harry swooped down ("Oh my! An elderly lady exclaimed, before a younger man hurriedly moved them forward) and looked around frantically. He had lost her! How could he have lost her? He was the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, for pete's sake!

A murmur passed through him, jolting his mind to his fourth year, the buzz that had grown in the Great Hall when Dumbledore called out his name. But the murmur had a concerned note to it. Harry was still at the village, and a girl in front of him was asking "Are you alright, sir? Do you need help? Are you sad you're a ghost, sir? There are ghosts up at the castle. You can go there. They'll help you."

"Yes," Harry croaked. "I'll go there. Thank you." The girl smiled, and it was genuine. It startled Harry. He didn't know why.

When he arrived back at the castle, he knew why. No one had smiled at him like that since Draco had died.

Harry wished that he could have died normally right then.

---

A/N: Once again, I welcome any corrections to my grammar/spelling or history. I have no beta. Please comment on my writing tone, sentence structure (I've been trying to make it more complex, but it's hard for me to really tell), voice, character, audience, plot (developing), POV. I will take any critique with an open mind.