Welcome to my telling of the story of Salazar Slytherin and the founding of Hogwarts! This will be slightly AU since I really don't know much about 10th century Britain so I have decided to move the founding of Hogwarts to the 12th century. My reasons are simple; the political situation in Britain and Europe was difficult in the early 12th century - with a civil war known as the Anarchy going on in England and Normandy and the Second Crusade happening in the rest of Mainland Europe and the Middle East. This was also the very beginning of the persecution of witches and this whole situation has given me a rather interesting idea for a plot. So, hopefully you can forgive me moving quite a significant date in Harry Potter history by two whole centuries. :P
Warning - this fic will contain some things that could be perceived as Christian-bashing. This is not the case. I am merely trying to portray the attitude to witches and wizards during this time period.
Crusade:
1) a war fought by Christians against Muslims, often in Palestine, in the 11th, 12th, 13th, and 17th centuries.
2) a long and determined attempt to achieve something that you believe in strongly.
The three children hiding in the reeds of the fen paused for a moment. The youngest let out an anxious giggle which caused his older sister to shush him harshly. The other boy parted the reeds slowly and all three sighted their quarry. The boy they were hunting had his back to them. He was kneeling a few yards away from them and making those peculiar hissing noises again. He turned slightly and they saw the adder in his hands.
"Is he talking to it?" the girl whispered, her mouth twitching with derision.
Her little brother plunged his hands into the waters of the fen and scraped together some mud. He looked to his companions for approval and then heaved the mud into the hair. It hit the other boy square in the back of the head.
"Devil spawn!" the eldest boy jeered. He shot out of the reeds and shoved the other boy over so he fell face first into the water.
The other two scrambled from the reeds and joined him. They pinned him down and tried to hold him as he struggled. This was not the first time that they had tried this and it ended the same way as the previous attempts; a great force struck the three of them and they were sent flying back from their victim.
He sat up, quite calmly, spat out a mouthful of fen water and pushed his dark hair away from his eyes. "If I am the Devil Spawn then really you should not antagonise me," he said coolly. "And this is becoming quite tiresome. Leave me alone and find another to terrorise."
"Why should we? You are of ill stock and the entire village knows it, even your witch of a mother!" the girl sneered.
He had turned to leave but her words stalled him. He turned back to face them, a dangerous glint in his eye. He threw his arms wide and began to speak in his guttural, hissing language. His hand moved and he pointed at each of them in turn, his speech emphasising as his finger landed upon them.
They scattered, lobbing a few cries of "Witch!" and "Demon Spawn!" over their shoulders.
He sighed and turned to scan the reeds beside him.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to drop you," he said.
The adder poked its head out and regarded him thoughtfully. "It was no issue," it replied, "but you may want to rethink your insults. I do not understand why the hatchlings left you."
"They do not speak our tongue. To them it was as meaningless as the wind through the fen reeds."
That seemed to satisfy the snake. "Swift strikes to you, Man-hatchling," it said. It bowed its head and then vanished back into the undergrowth.
"Swift strikes to you as well," he muttered in the human tongue before he waded from the fen and made his way back home. It was only a small cottage on the outskirts of the village but to him it could be a castle. He loved the moment when he crested the small hill on the road and saw it. He liked the way the smoke curled from the chimney stack, he liked the chickens milling around the door, he liked the heat pouring from the open door of his father's workshop, he liked the oak tree that cast its shadow over the house.
His mother was bent over her pestle, working furiously, but she dropped everything as he entered.
"Salazar! What happened to you?" she cried.
"Ambush in the fens again," he said flatly. Her brow furrowed with concern and she lifted her cauldron off the fire. Turning her full attention to her son, she began to strip him of his wet clothes. When he was warm and dry again, she took him in her arms and held him close. He wriggled slightly as her long, dark hair tickled his cheek but she didn't let him go and he had no choice but to relax into her embrace.
"Oh, Sal," she sighed. His fingers reached out and played with the locket around her neck.
Neither of them moved as his father entered, a dark expression on his face.
"What has happened?" he asked of his wife.
"The village children attacked Sal in the fens again," she said quietly. His father's grey eyes, the very same flinty colour as his, watched him carefully.
"And did you fight back?" he asked.
"Yes Father. I struck them with magic, but only because I would have died if I didn't," Sal answered, staring at the rushes between his father's feet. His father sighed and took a seat at the worn kitchen table.
"Sal, you can't, even to save your life. What does the first law of the Order of Merlin state?"
"Thou shalt not use the magick of thy birthright to strike thine Muggle kin," Sal answered dutifully. "But Father, they call me a monster and throw mud at my head. I do not antagonise them, I don't even speak to them! I only go to the fens to speak with the adders! They are the ones who follow me there!"
"We have magical blood, Salazar. We are greater than the Muggles but, because of this, we have to be vigilant around them. They are prone to fits of jealousy caused by our abilities and they do not understand us. It is very easy to hate that which you do not understand," his father said.
"And you should not speak Parseltongue where the others can hear you," his mother added. "If you wish to practice, practice with your father."
He sniffed and continued to fiddle with his mother's locket.
There was a crash from outside and his father looked around.
"Slytherin! Show yourself!" a voice roared. His father frowned and reached for his sword belt. Belting it and loosening the blade in the sheath, he stepped towards the door. Sal's mother pushed him off her lap and went to join her husband in the doorway.
"Can I help you, gentlemen?" his father asked. Sal crouched down and, through his father's legs, he saw some of the villagers.
"Slytherin, where is your brat?" one of them demanded. "He's laid a curse upon our children!"
"I imagine there has been some mistake," his father said.
"No mistake! He chanted at our children in an evil tongue; he is the Devil incarnate!" someone shouted.
"A mistake indeed," his mother snapped. "Our words are Latin; the language of your beloved church! If he had cursed your children then it would have been in the same tongue as your priests!"
He began to tremble. He had not told his parents how he had yelled at the other children in Parseltongue.
"Heretics!" another person shouted and his mother's shoulders stiffened. She pushed past her husband and took a few steps outside.
"Yes, I'm a heretic!" she shouted. "I have always made it clear that I am a Woods Witch, a follower of the Old Gods, but can I remind you that this heretic has saved all of you from illnesses and brought all of your precious children into this world! Do not dare to reject me or my family!"
"Slytherin, take your woman to heel!" the first person said coldly.
"Why? I agree with everything she just said. All of you own weapons or tools made by me and imbibed with my spells. You are all hypocrites; you freely take magical help when it suits you but as soon as it threatens you you will have nothing to do with it!" he snarled. "Leave us be!"
The crowd dispersed, albeit grudgingly so.
His parents waited until they had all left before turning back to the house. His mother grasped his father's wrist and momentarily whispered something to him. He nodded and they suddenly both looked at their son.
Salazar stood slowly and stared back at them. His mother looked like she was about to cry and he had never seen his father look so solemn.
That night, they pulled him from his bed and dressed him in his warmest clothes. When he asked them questions, they did not answer but they did constantly glance through the windows of the house.
Finally, his father sat him down and presented him with a sword.
"I'm a metalcaster, Sal, as you know. I have been trained to imbibe steel and other metals with spells of strength and other qualities and they make for the finest weapons and tools, surpassed only by those of Goblin-make. This was the masterpiece I produced when I had finished my education. I want you to take it."
Sal drew the sword. It was much finer than anything his father had made for the villagers or even the local lord. It was too heavy for his underdeveloped arms but he could tell it was beautifully balanced. The sharp edge of the blade shone when he turned it to and fro and he could see the runes of protection and strength inscribed along the length. Two snakes of vibrant green sprouted from the pommel and twisted together to make the hilt. It was, all together, a beautiful weapon and he wished he had the necessary skill to bear it.
"Father, I can't take this. This is a king's sword," he breathed.
His father chuckled. "I'm flattered you think so, Sal, but the King probably bears one forged by someone with far greater skill than me. Promise me you will learn how to bear it."
He did so.
His mother had had tears in her eyes as she watched this exchange but she wiped them away as Sal sheathed the sword.
"Here, Sal. I want you to have this," she said, unfastening the locket from around her neck. "Think of us when you look at it."
Panic flooded through him at her words. "Why? Mother, what is happening?" he asked. They did not answer, only looked nervously towards the window again.
They led him outside to where his father's horse, a docile chestnut mare, was saddled and laden with provisions. His father lifted him onto her back and his mother pressed her locket into his hand.
"Go Sal," she whispered. "Ride hard and don't look back."
"But... but..." he stammered.
"Go, son! Before the villagers get here! Find other wizards, you will be safe with them. Avoid the Muggles and ask the snakes if you need help!" his father said and then slapped the mare on her rump.
She trotted off into the night, leaving Sal to stare over his shoulder at his parents and the house he had grown up in. Why were they sending him away?!
He reined in the horse a short distance from the house and tied her to a tree. As quiet as a shadow, he crept back along the path. A scream echoed in the still night and he jumped. As they screamed again, he broke into a run. That was his mother!
Pausing at the crest in the path where he could see his home, he bit back a wail of horror. The villagers had swarmed around the cottage and had both his parents restrained. Bright orange flames began to lick at the thatch of the roof and he saw some of the men fanning the flames to spread them faster. His father's forge doors were torn apart and the fire stoked until it too burst forth.
"Burn the heretics and their demon spawn!" a voice shouted and, with that simple command, his parents were tossed inside their burning home like logs on a fireplace. He couldn't move; his feet were rooted to the spot. Why had his parents not fought back?! Why had they not used magic? Curse Merlin and his Orders, his parents had been overwhelmed by this rabble of Muggles and left unable to defend themselves!
He stared in horror at the inferno that had been his home, at the column of black smoke twisting into the sky, at the chickens running in distress from the flames before being caught by the mob and flung into the blaze too, the red maw where his father had once worked at his anvil, at the shadow the old oak tree cast over the villagers - masking and protecting his mother and father's murderers.
They thought he had died too, from their shouts of glee. They had caught his parents but assumed he had still been asleep in the house.
But Salazar Slytherin had lived and he intended to carry on living. His hand opened and he looked at his mother's locket and the red welts in his flesh caused by his tight grip. His thumb stroked the S engraved on the front while his other hand stroked the hilt of his father's sword at his hip.
He would never forget this first of the many atrocities of Muggles he witnessed.
Hope you enjoyed the first chapter!
The Order of Merlin is an award in modern-day Potter but I found a thing on the Wiki saying they were originally laws set in place to protect Muggles and stop wizards using magic against them. Sal's parents were also burned as heretics like most witches and wizards then since the crime of witchcraft didn't really exist.
Leave me a review telling me what you thought and I shall hopefully see you in the next chapter for Sal's next steps down his path.