Aintzane: Toad of Glory, Slytherin's Heir

Toads, Salazar Slytherin thought seriously, were the way to go. Toads were faithful. Toads were clever. Toads would go off and do their own thing and never mind what you thought of it, but they always came back if you'd treated them properly. Toads were very sensible that way.

He sighed quietly to himself and dragged his thoughts back onto the road he'd meant them for. His mind kept wandering lately. Minds had a tendency to wander from deathbeds, after all; perhaps they were practicing, since they were probably about to leave....

And there he went again. How irritating.

Salazar turned his head and fixed his eyes on the small toad watching him from the little table by his bed. "There, now, Little One." He raised a shaky hand toward her. "You've done all you can." A weak smile. "You're still here, aren't you? Good girl...."

Yes, she was. Little One was still here, still by his side when his own children were scattered and his friends turned to bitter enemies. The other toads were gone as well, for now. They might return after he died, to eat the flies. That would be well. They could do him the kindness of keeping the flies off his body for a while and fill their bellies at the same time. Very sensible. Toads were like that.

Little One should have the... lion's share. He imagined she looked worried at the strange sound his weakness made of laughter, at that thought.

Her name wasn't really Little One, of course. It was Aintzane. Probably most people would have laughed, to hear of a toad named for glory. Salazar didn't particularly care what they thought, any more than he'd cared for anyone else's opinion when he named his first one Iratze in reference to the Virgin. She'd sat on a hen's egg for him until it hatched out into a basilisk, and he had cared faithfully for her other offspring ever since.

He realized his hand had fallen and, with effort, raised it again until he could touch the toad's head with his fingertips. "Your great-great-great-great--" He stopped, lips moving over numbers but the raspy whisper faded to silence, and finally gave up on counting the generations properly for now. "Your foremother hatched out the basilisk for me, d'you know that?" A chuckle. "Of course you do. I've told you before."

Little Aintzane's only response was a mournful croak.

"Oh, don't worry... don't worry about me. Comes to us all in time, and you've stayed, at least. Not like the rest."

Seven children, three old friends among the mightiest witches and wizards of the age -- not that he hadn't been the best -- and he was left to die with a toad for comfort.

He didn't really mind. He'd always quite liked toads. It hadn't been as well known as his connection to serpents, of course -- after all, he'd been famed as the Serpent-Tongue, and snakes did make a better symbol -- but he had. Frogs were all right, too, but especially toads. You couldn't hatch a basilisk with a frog.

He'd even managed to master the Animagus transformation as a toad, but he hadn't been able to sit on the egg himself. It turned out that toads simply couldn't manage intelligible Parseltongue, and no matter how firmly he tried to impress it upon them, his snakes couldn't seem to keep in mind once he changed forms that they were _not_ to try to eat the toad.

It had been utterly impossible to hatch anything under such circumstances, so he'd had Iratze do it where he could guard her safely from that sort of interruption. And it would, of course, have been utterly absurd to be envious of a pet toad.

Toads were the perfect pet. Friendly, faithful, sensible... it was almost best of all that superstitious Muggles found them repugnant.

Salazar heaved a sigh. Muggles. And their unfortunate ability to produce magical children.

It wasn't that he considered it an abomination, exactly, as some did -- there was nothing intrinsically more unnatural about two Muggles producing a witch or wizard than there was about two chickens and a toad producing the King of Serpents. At least, that was what he thought about it intellectually. He had to admit the idea was uncomfortable to think about in almost the same way Squibs were.

But educating the Muggle-borns? It was ridiculously impractical, whatever the other three thought -- and they thought differently, indeed, vehemently enough to ask HIM to leave! Oh, they'd been very polite, but after all he'd done for and with them --

Aintzane gave another distressed croak and hopped out from under his hand onto the bed, where she quickly scurried into the hollow between his neck and shoulder.

Hmph. Their touch causing warts, indeed. He'd never had a wart in his life, unless you counted what they'd called the school, of course. Hogwarts. It was a good name.

The Muggle-borns, however, were still a menace. To begin with, they hampered the educational process. Any sensible wizard or witch would begin teaching their child how to channel magic safely before it could start causing accidents; he supposed the Muggles couldn't be blamed for not being able to teach magic, but Muggle-borns still had a ridiculously high incidence of accidental magic -- granted that was the best way to find them -- and dealing with it was far more trouble than they were worth.

Little One snuggled against his collarbone, and Salazar sighed again, less discontentedly. He would now actually admit, very grudgingly, that Godric had had a point when he'd countered the argument that Muggle-borns and their accidents were responsible for at least as much hatred as trained wizards who engaged in combat or conquest with the suggestion that perhaps there would be fewer accidents if more were caught early and properly taught.

He wouldn't admit it to Godric, of course, even if the man actually had the temerity or decency to show up....

Well, if they were still on such terms that Godric would show up, maybe he'd be more willing to tell him. But they weren't, after all.

Of course, he still wasn't sure it would really work. There was only so young they could start, after all, and most of the time the Muggle-borns either died or got themselves under control on their own. Personal attention wasn't necessary.

Even without the accidents, they held back the other students. Naturally enough Muggle-borns never knew anything when they started, and worse, they always thought they did know things that turned out to be more of those absurd Muggle notions about magic. And then they were offended at being corrected!

And that didn't even begin to deal with the possible results of their parents knowing where to find a large concentration of genuine witches and wizards, whether they thought of this as a good or a bad thing themselves. No good ever came of wizards getting too involved in Muggle affairs -- not that it ever stopped them. Look what had happened to Merlin.

What had happened to *him*, when his so-called friends chose the Muggles' children over him....

So he'd left the basilisk there, concealed in the plumbing. He wasn't in a hurry. He could wait. But... just in case something went wrong....

"Little One," he said. "Aintzane." His voice was almost as much of a croak as hers; he probably didn't have very long. Salazar stretched out his hand again and fumbled for his wand, but his fingers encountered only the flat tabletop. Finally he remembered he had used it earlier and located it in the bed, next to his ribs.

Awkwardly, he brought one hand up to hold the toad gently in place and touched the wand-tip to her back. He wasn't sure he could hold it steady otherwise.

Aintzane gave a puzzled croak.

"It's all right," he reassured her. Then he drew a long breath and exerted himself to focus. This would be a difficult spell to improvise. "Aintzane... I give to you and your descendants this gift and burden... for my sake, find your way back to Hogwarts and if my basilisk is lost or harmed or subverted, make a new one if you can. You will have the will, intelligence, and instinct to accomplish this."

He laid the wand down again and stroked her with his fingers. "Don't worry too much if you don't manage it, of course. It's a long journey for such a little creature."

Then Salazar lay back and tried to cast his mind ahead. There was a little of the Sight in his blood, though he had never shown much of it -- but it was said that impending death could strengthen even the smallest such gift.

He saw very little for a while, only blurred images that could as well be his own imagination or a poor imitation of the world through a toad's eyes. There was much impression of travel, of course....

Once there was a basilisk in his view, but she coiled around a Parselmouth whose eyes were blank and milky, then turned into a woman and held a little child with dark red hair. Another time, a little wastrel-toad was watched over by a badger.... Salazar decided this was all probably symbolic in some odd way. Well, nothing like having a Hufflepuff for a friend, so long as no one with a prior claim persuaded her to turn on you.

It would be, he realized, long and long before a toad of Aintzane's line made it back to Hogwarts -- but finally, he caught a glimpse of another little one, many generations on, being carried into the castle.

Relieved, he lay back on the bed and died.

After a while Aintzane tried hopping up to bump his chin. When this failed to rouse him, she gave a sad little croak and sat on his throat until the flies began to gather.