An Unnecessary Risk

An Unnecessary Risk

It can unequivocally be said that he was a pleasant little boy, leading a pleasant little life. He loved his mother and father dearly. He watched his brother vigilantly when he wandered out of the house, looking for adventure. And, according to the neighbors, he was the smartest, most sharp-tongued child wizard the small pastoral village had seen for some time.

So when little Salazar's world fell apart, it was in black and white, the absence of all light versus the presence of all light, not the mushy grays of excuses and relativism.

Like many other misfortunes that have befallen the world, it really shouldn't have happened. It could've been avoided, and everyone would have been spared the grief and mourning that accompanied tragedy and death. But, as it was, it did happen. The past is, sadly and regrettably, irreversible. And Salazar lived his entire life with those consequences weighing heavily on his mind, heart, and soul.

His father was ill, his warm and loving father. Red splotches appeared on his skin overnight, and the next morning, his body was cemented to the bed and he could not move. Salazar was in the next room, studying magical theory. General wisdom states that little boys should be spared seeing pain and strife whenever possible, but he couldn't find a way to block out the horrible wheezes and coughs issuing from beyond the wall. Then his mother, her face fixed in lines of worry, bustled in, half in hysterics, her hand clutching a white handkerchief.

Salazar looked closely at it. The thick scarlet hue of blood glittered before his wide eyes.

His mother took his hand in hers and they knew what had to be done. Together, they raced down the road, kicking up a stream of dust as they went. The clouds above crackled with a terrible, sinister anticipation as Mother and Son found themselves pitted against the one thing magic had yet to find an alternative to: death.

It was the plague. Salazar knew. It had ravaged Muggle communities across the continent and was beginning to make itself shown, here, in the isles. Their prayers and religious shibboleths had done little, but his mother - his brilliant, cunning mother - had found a way to banish it. She had been planning, knowing that its arrival was all but inevitable. Magic is a powerful thing, she always said. Yes, very powerful, but still more powerful is life.

She was ready for life, though, and she would fight back. Salazar saw in his mother's eyes that steel glint of cold determination. She guided him into a nearby forest used by Muggles for their hunting purposes. Perhaps it was a rash and illogical decision, he suddenly thought, putting their magical garden in a place frequented by those they wanted to avoid...but isn't that where Muggles were least likely to think it would be? Subtle mind games, his mother had told him. That's how we win, and that's how we survive.

Frantically, she tore at the plants protruding from the soil with, the delicate skin beneath her nails turning brown. Salazar stood next to her, silent, watching as she wrapped the potion's ingredients in her robes before reaching for more.

"Salazar!" He looked at her still youthful face. "He will die unless we act quickly. Run home and set some dragon bile to boil in the cauldron."

Bending over, he gently kissed his mother on the forehead. "Can I tell Father that we are making the potion for him?"

"No. Set not a foot in his room. I shan't have you ill as well."

He nodded and turned for the path. He had not walked five strides when he heard a scream and his heart turned to iron. Not daring to breathe, he slipped behind the nearest tree, a stout oak, its bark rough against his back. Trembling, he pulled out his wand. He rehearsed his repertoire of curses and jinxes before peeking at whatever - or whoever - it was that could have provoked his mother to shriek.

Two burly men - Muggles, Salazar realized with a shock - had her pinned to the ground, where she writhed under their weight, and another stood in judgment above her. "A sinner! A witch!" he yelled, spittle flying from his mouth.

"Oh, sir, never...never!" she cried.

"Do not lie to us, witch! We heard you talking, speaking of cauldrons and potions and dragons, the occult and the black arts."

She struggled against the men holding her down but Salazar could see she was weakening. "No, not I..."

"But God knows differently, and He shall damn you to the deepest bowels of Hell. Once we are through with you, of course. Take her away."

What did she look like now, his proud mother? Stoicism reduced to anxiety and finally to madness at the hands of these...Muggles, these barbarians. Gripping his wand tightly, Salazar jumped out from behind the tree, ready to do whatever necessary to save her.

Then she caught his gaze, and she pleaded with her tear-stained eyes.

Do nothing, my boy. Save yourself.

So he listened and obeyed, as he always did, staring at her as she was carried through the air and out of the forest, her fine dark hair swinging like a mourning veil. When the footsteps were gone, Salazar crawled over to his family's little garden plot, demarcated by a weathered sign reading, "SLYTHERIN." He picked up the abandoned plants, their elongated roots, the dirt still clinging to their ends in clumps, and he ripped them all, grimacing in pleasure as he listened to their fibers breaking and falling to the ground, only to be blown away by the wind.

Clenching his teeth, he got to his feet.

There was nothing left in him but a hatred so pure and fine that Salazar knew he would be filled with it for the remainder of his days.

He stowed his wand away and walked home.