disclaimer: don't own Harry Potter, yadda yadda yadda

"Salazar," I hear the winds whisper to me as I gallop along the dirt roads. The disappointment in Helga's voice.

"Salazar," they screech through the trees. The horror and shock in Rowena's.

"Salazar," they roar down the plains. The anger and disgust in Godric's.

I am alone. I am too proud, too proud to admit that I was wrong, even to myself. Too proud to be wrong about the value of blood.

Godric would say that I'm not proud enough. Not proud enough to need to be worthy of my pride, but he would be wrong. I'm not proud enough, but that is not the reason. I am not proud of my Muggle heritage. Were I as proud as I am famed to be, I would have fought for the right for people like me to be taught at the school I helped to found. But the most talented, such as my three co-founders, are always pure-blooded. Only the best should be allowed in the most spectacular place of learning that my dear friends and I built up from the ground.

I left.

So noble Godric, my dearest friend, cannot respect me any longer. Good. I am dirt, I do not deserve respect from such a noble, powerful, pure-blooded wizard. So beautiful, wise Rowena's precious blood will never be tainted with my own dirty blood. The integrity of the Ravenclaw blood will not be compromised by the dirt of the Slytherin blood, as much as I wish to become one with the beautiful, clever witch. So kind Helga will never smile at me again, her smile overflowing with friendship.

I love them all, in their own ways. Helga as a sister. Godric, not as a brother, but as something even more. Rowena...words cannot describe my love for Rowena. My pointless, stupid love for Rowena. My love for a woman who is more than I could ever be. How could I not leave, not spare them all from the filth that I am?

I will never have an heir, though I have lain with many women in hopes of drowning my love for Rowena, and will likely lay with many more. Out of habit, I reach for the locket I always carry in my pocket, the locket that Rowena fashioned for me, with my symbol embossed on it, a serpent. It is not in my pouch, and I remember angrily throwing it at the last woman I bedded, her pocketing it as she fled.

How could I have been so stupid? How could I have fallen apart like that? I am cool, I am collected, and I am better than that. But I know that is a lie, just like the purity of my blood. I am emotional, and anger quickly. I am not worthy of being a founder, especially of being the founder of the great house of Slytherin.

I hid behind false pride, false blood, and a false coolness, as well as the real ones of my hand-picked students. I am nothing.