I am Salazar Slytherin

Chapter 1: Witch Hunt

There is nothing more foolish in the human psyche than fear of the unknown. Fear of what one cannot understand seems to predominate all the foolish movements this world has become possessed by and it is exactly what provoked a crowd of villagers to pursue the village soothsayer, a woman named Rowena Ravenclaw, from her home and to me.

I was standing on a path and contemplating the moonlit night while observing a crude celebration of the muggle holiday of Christmas going on in some man's home. The candles burned and the foolish muggle bowed before that effigy of a carpenter stretched across two pieces of wood. Far be it from me to understand muggle faith, but it must be very strong hatred that possesses a filthy muggle peasant to kneel in front of an image of pain and suffering if he does not hate the man being hurt. Yet I am told that it is their image of God, which doesn't surprise me since the God they worship seems to delight only in the pain and suffering of those who his followers do not understand. It was with these words going through my mind that I stood there dressed in the robes and finery of a muggle lord. This man, the peasant, was one of my family's vassals and was mercifully unaware of my presence. I was not in the mood to endure the groveling they associated with us aristocrats (being seventeen and ignorant of muggle ways). I was about to apparate home when suddenly I heard shouting and angry patches of light flickered down the path and then I heard screams and running footsteps coming towards me.

I drew my wand, prepared to do battle with the peasants who were storming up the path following a young woman with long black hair who was seemingly their quarry. Wondering why they were chasing her, I put my hand out and caught her by the wrist from the darkness. She screamed and thrashed and yelled at me to let her go but then she saw my wand.

"Are you one of my kind?" she asked in a small voice. I didn't have time for an interview and nodded.

"Yes, now shut up while I sort this out."

I stepped into the light in my regal clothes and faced the peasant onlookers. They were looking frightened and when they saw me they suddenly went down on one knee. I had sensibly pocketed my wand and looked for all the world like nothing but a muggle lord to them. My appearance must have been the opposite of what they were expecting, for some of them had their pitch forks raised as though expecting a fight. I crossed over to them with my robes billowing out the way they always did when I wanted to intimidate someone and gave the leader a sinister look.

"What are you doing, peasant?" I asked derisively.

The man spoke in a guttural, cockney tinged voice:

"Lord, we were chasing a whore of the devil who masqueraded as a prophet for our village. She told the future and did other things that are not in accordance with the holy spirit, so we are trying to find her that we may send her back to hell where she belongs."

I rolled my eyes at this nonsense. The words about a holy spirit and hell and the devil held absolutely no meaning to me.

"Mere village suspicion," I said silkily, glossing over the man's words as if they were pitiful lies. "Go back to your houses and prepare for the day's work and feel grateful that I do not assign a flogging to each of you as you have disturbed my walk."

"But, my lord..." began the man, but I silenced him with a gesture.

"Silence."

"AND WHO ARE YOU TO STOP US FROM THE HOLY WORK OF WITCH HUNTING, BLASPHEMER?!"

The words had come from a senile old priest. I walked over to him and pulled his bible out of his hands with impunity.

"How dare you speak to a member of the noble Slytherin family like that?" I asked quietly, but putting just enough menace into my words to frighten the old man. I didn't care that he was whimpering and begging for his Bible back. These weren't humans as far as I was concerned, but frail and pathetic excuses for such things, incapable of magic. The priest seemed sufficiently quailed and I shoved his book back into his hands before seizing his long grey hair and pulling his neck back. I pulled out a knife I always carried with me and put the blade softly to his skin.

"Say you are sorry," I hissed poisonously. The old man screamed and began tearfully apologizing. Satisfied, I let go of his hair and put my knife away before telling the entire crowd to disperse, which they did without further complaint. I then turned to the woman (or rather, girl) I had rescued. She was about fifteen, two years younger than me, and stunningly pretty. If my affections were not angled in another direction at that time I might have fallen in love right then. Instead of making a sonnet, however, I walked over and helped her to her feet.

"So you have gotten on the wrong side of those muggles, have you?" I asked lazily, almost drawling in my indifference. She nodded slowly. "Not much of a conversationalist, are you? I don't even know your name, which is bad manners indeed when one is speaking to a lady."

Yes, speaking like a courtier seems to be a specialty of mine. I have been told by muggle lords that I would do well in PARLIAMENT, whatever that means. She blushed.

"Sorry, I'm Rowena Ravenclaw."

"An unusual name, but I have found our kind usually has unusual names. It is not terribly long either, which is good, since I prefer most of a conversation not to be taken up with saying someone's name."

"Thank you," she said uncertainly but then added boldly:

"So, who am I speaking to?"

"Oh," I said, feeling a slight red tinge going into my cheeks but pushing it back easily. "I am Salazar Scelestus Sordidus Mendax Slytherin. But Salazar or Lord Slytherin will do, for I am sick of people stumbling over my many surnames."

I was still speaking in the same bored drawl, but in truth I was sick with curiosity about this girl. Where did she come from? Where were her parents? What prompted her to be found as a witch? But these questions would have been terribly ungentlemanly to ask.

"Ok, Salazar," she said shyly and she lowered her eyes. "Since you're of higher class than me I probably shouldn't look you in the eye."

"Think nothing of it. All wizards are equal according to my father...EXCEPT those with muggle blood in them. Those are not truly wizards, though, but unfortunate mistakes," I said, reciting the credo of racial purity I had been made to memorize for so long.

"Well, both my parents were wizards," she said hastily, "but they were chased down by mobs like that and burned. That was really brave of you to negotiate like that, by the way." she said admiringly, fixing me with those huge amber eyes. I had some small trouble keeping my face impassive, but did so anyway.

"I do it all the time. Bantering with crowds is the rule rather than the exception with me," I said in a bored voice, but then added:

"Well, I can't keep you out here in the cold after stress like that. You'll have to come with me back to my manor. Since you're a wizard my parents won't mind that you're a peasant, so don't worry about that. But they will want to know more about you, so expect a few questions. Please come with me."

I sled her up the path.

Rowena was following me with something mixing respect and fear. I was sure she was intimidated out of her wits by my calm, impassive demeanor and nature. I didn't mind this, since intimidating people kept them just as close as I liked them: at arm's length. Only three people ever got closer than that and they were my parents and the woman I was courting: Lauren Natara. Little did I know that Lauren would betray my sacred trust and end up with that pathetic excuse for a wizarding hero, Godric Gryffindor. I pity you sometimes, Lauren. But most of the time I hate you. I hate you for exploiting our closeness like that. I hate you for spitting in my face like some filthy prostitute. Enjoy Godric and his so-called heroism, which is really stupidity, you vengeful siren whore of Hades...

But I am getting ahead of myself. I was talking about Rowena. You see her under me in the picture and I will admit that it's accurate at least as far as the fact that she was always carrying books. But in terms of her personal looks, it is a horrible picture. It captures none of her warmth, none of her openness, her naiveté. All you see in that picture is a stiff librarian: intellectual without the nectar and ambrosia of a beautiful soul. Disgusting and pathetic: the two words I would not use to describe Rowena.

But back to my story. Rowena followed me up that path, keeping her eyes low all the time and speaking only when I spoke to her. I will be honest, it took every ounce of my self control not to turn around and bombard her with questions, but every time I became possessed by such irrational emotional fits I would count to ten. I always count to ten when feeling emotionally vulnerable.

1...who is she...2...where does she come from....3...how was she discovered....4....

Yes, when I got to ten I had simply substituted obsession for reason. Passion for analyzation. It was exactly the same thing I did when Lauren married Godric. I counted to ten and stood there as the best man without even flicking one malevolent glance at them. After the wedding I collapsed in the garden, but I got my short-term results, though. And with Rowena I knew my questions would be answered, so the restraint was easier to keep. It's much easier to keep your mouth shut when you know you'll get your wish. Unrequited desire is the most difficult emotion to conceal and consequently the most difficult emotion to have to stand. But you have to conceal it anyway. Nobody should tell anyone what they're really feeling. It leaves you open for attack.

When we arrived back at my family's manor, I guided Rowena into the sitting room with the tapestries and told the Butler (whom I had forgotten the name of) to go get my parents. He scurried off like a great, white haired insect. He was so thin that at times it looked like he might have tagmata, but that was my imagination. I have far too active an imagination, which I find gets in my way. If I didn't have an imagination, I wouldn't be writing this...

Anyway, the butler arrived back and told me that my parents wished to speak to me before questioning Rowena, so I politely took my leave and left her to her own devices in that sitting room with the tapestries...

My parents, Alexandra and Niccolo Slytherin, were good parents because they never loved me. This is a good thing for the following reason: A parent who loves their child lets their judgment get clouded and a parent whose judgment is clouded lets their child learn to have their judgment clouded. But a parent who doesn't love their child is a far more effective mentor and produces a far more competent child. I am horrible in this regard, for I cannot help loving my own daughter. I admire my parents. They had the willpower not to love me. They were blessed because of that.

As I was saying, I went to see my parents. My mother was combing her hair with the fine razortooth I had always thought would one day claw out my eyes when I was a small child. I used to have nightmares about that razortooth comb, but I envy myself for being able to have nightmares about something so simple now. One cannot play with imagined danger when one has experienced real danger and when one has experienced real danger one can only let one's imagination provide a source for one to fall into real danger. In a sense it is just as dangerous as letting oneself be afraid of imaginary danger. But I digress. My mother finished her combing as soon as I came in (she always did) and my father immediately stood up. I inclined my head and put my hand on my head, the typical Slytherin greeting. My father motioned for me to sit. I did so. We were already being polite to each other without having uttered one polite word. I knew something was wrong because my parents were never polite with gestures and not with words except when they were afraid to use words and fear to use words was typically a very serious thing with my parents.

"Salazar," said my mother, pronouncing my name like it was fine silk thread being woven across a womb, "my son."

"Mother," I said. This was all the affection I ever got from them. It was all they would give me and consequently all I would tolerate, a convenient arrangement.

"Salazar, we have just heard from the butler that you brought in a young lady who was being chased by a muggle crowd," said my father in his deep, matter-of-fact voice. I nodded. This was not good. He was being too civil for comfort.

"Do you realize that by doing that you jeopardize your own safety and security as a muggle aristocrat?"

Well, there it was, the accusation. It was an ugly thing when coming with such civility. Honestly angry accusations are beautiful in that you can properly resent them. Civil accusations rob you of your power to detest your accuser and just leave you feeling very small and empty. That was why my father never was kind enough to be angry with me when he accused me. I merely nodded, determined not to let him get the upper hand.

"Yes, sir."

"So, why did you do it?" he asked, but not angrily. He sounded merely curious, or bored. That way I couldn't even have the luxury of replying to his interrogation heatedly. I forced myself to keep looking into his green eyes. Thank God he taught me how to keep gaze with the enemy and not let them leave your sight. While it was horrible to live with him then, it gave me treasures now. Thank you, father.

"Well?" he asked with a disinterested air. I couldn't respond arrogantly if he didn't sound interested, but if I knew he was interested (which I knew he was) then I'd have to respond anyway.

"I brought her back because I didn't want to see those crowds take her. I didn't want another one of our kind to be lost. We are a small breed of humans, father," I said as though we were discussing it over drinks. "We need as many in our ranks as is possible."

I closed my mouth and silently counted to ten. It was taking all my self control not to tell my father to go get stuffed because it was common decency. Oh, what kind of fool was I then? Common decency is such an illusion I might as well have complained that nobody ever touched a rainbow. My father took my words to heart though, and simply nodded his head. I knew I had averted trouble, but all on his grace. I was still the petulant child and he was still the magnanimous father who allowed that over-confident child to slide on his mistake. He was still in control.

Then he said simply to take him and my mother to the girl and I obeyed. It really is a great revenge when someone has treated you badly to wordlessly obey. It tears them apart inside because they know they haven't managed to get to you, which is what they wanted to do. So it was that I wordlessly obeyed my father to let him know he hadn't struck a nerve and took him down to meet Rowena while silently smirking at my simple revenge.

Rowena was still in the sitting room with the tapestries and she was examining just those same tapestries as we came in. I frowned a little at her unabashed, unrestrained curiosity. Who did she think she was, making our house into a private museum like that? There are things that her eyes do not have to see, so why should she insist on looking at them anyway? It was infuriating, but I only counted to ten...

My father coughed softly. He always did that when he didn't like something. As always, it left no room for resentment because it was so polite. Rowena heard him and turned around in shock. I was surprised and horrified to see that she didn't even look one bit afraid.

"Hey, Salazar," she said with such a light, happy tone that I almost fainted. How could she be so open about her feelings as that? She was about to enter a pitched battle of wills and she was already exposing her emotions to my parents! My father did not appear to notice this strategic mistake. He never appeared to notice anything, but I know he did.

"So you are this unfortunate whom my son rescued," said my father with not so much as a twinge of disdain in his voice, but with it flickering in his air. He crossed to the center of the room and gave mother a chair before conjuring one for himself. I stared at Rowena with something mixing shock and admiration whirring through my mind. Of course, I didn't stare outwardly, but just looked at her as if she were a bit of moss on a boulder. On the inside, though, my mind was whirring with amazement. I did not understand how Rowena could look so utterly unperturbed by my father's obviously disdainful question. She just looked at my father as if she was expecting him to say more.

"Well?" he asked, giving it the polite and bored note he always did. Rowena inclined her head with something that I thought was confusion.

"Well, what?" she asked, sounding genuinely confused. My mouth would have been open at this point over her audacity. What was she playing at, putting on this act? She couldn't really be confused, could she? She wasn't that thick, so what was her game? Nobody would actually attempt to get this close to an enemy's emotions unless they were supremely confident in their abilities...and if Rowena thought she was a match for my father, she was very brash indeed.

"Well, are you the unfortunate girl my son rescued?" asked my father and I was surprised to see a slight twinge of anger go into his eyes. I suddenly felt slightly lost when I saw this. My father had taught me everything, he had taught me how to mask an emotion and even make it into another one. He had taught me how to deceive the enemy so that even you would believe what you were saying is truth even if it was falsehood. He had taught me that impatience was the opening for demons and that as such it should never be shown even if one felt it. So why was he disregarding all his own teachings and letting his impatience show? The very thought of weakness in my father, the man I had sparred silently with and always lost to for the past few years, terrified me.

"Oh, I thought you knew that," said Rowena politely, and she curtsied. "Yes, I am."

"Good. And your name?" asked my father, this time in the same disinterested note. Whatever I had seen in his eyes was gone now, but the fact that it had been there had been petrifying. It was like watching someone getting eaten by a Basilisk. You saw that helplessness and knew there was nothing you could do about it. You knew there was no way for you to protect that overwhelming vulnerability which showed its beauty only in the hour of death, so you just watched....That was what it felt like watching my father show his emotions. It was like the world was coming down around my ears and all I could do was watch...

"Rowena Ravenclaw," answered Rowena matter-of-factly, without blinking even once. I was surprised at how casually she could say her name. There was something she was doing which made me so uncomfortable I had to count to twenty and I realized what it was: She wasn't fighting him. She wasn't accepting the battle of wills. This was beyond bad form, this extended to the level of extreme insolence. If she was stubbornly refusing to accept a challenge for a battle of wills it indicated cowardice and I would be damned if I EVER trusted a coward. My father's voice was still bored and drawling.

"So, Miss Ravenclaw, what were the circumstances that led to your detection by the muggles?" he asked through pursed lips. I nearly leaned forward in my chair, but then realized how foolish I would look. I merely counted to ten and waited for Rowena to answer the question I had so long wished I could ask, but knew that it was an opening for attack and danger. Rowena's eyes filled with something I almost didn't recognize, but knew I could never experience again no matter the depth of my misery. Flowing down Rowena's radiant but despairing and magnificent face...were tears.

And then it all burst out. She wept and wept and wept and told a story so sad I will not repeat it in writing. The despair she poured into the room's aging atmosphere made the walls and carpets and tapestries scream in pain, for so much emotion did not usually flood their hearing. I only looked at my father in wonder as the story unfolded.

His eyes darkened. His face went from boredom to cold, impassive power. Every ounce of his air was pulsing with an emotion so powerful and so untouchable that I suddenly realized that indifference was not the best shield to keep out the demons of openness and despair. No, the best defense against the machinations of this world is something at once more horrible and more powerful than the greatest of curses. The best defense against hostility and attack, as I realized that night...is hatred.

My parents sent Rowena on her way when she had finished. They gave her a substantial amount of gold with which to get herself through life. When she left that night, I never thought I would see her again...but I did. I saw her again, but as an older and wiser man who had left the indifferent, ineffectual teenage walls of defense behind for a much stronger and more fortified position emotionally. My hatred defended me. My malice coordinated all my attacks. But my control still reigned supreme.