This is an 'I had this idea and too much time on my hands' one shot. I always felt o bad for Slytherin, being just a club for evil people. So, I thought, what if none of that is true? What if it's all just hearsay.
And thus, this story was born.
Review, sure, but don't hate. I'll send the basilisk after you if you hate. Wait. It's dead. Well, I'll cry, then.
My hand is trembling as I write this, but I cannot stop. Not now. I have heard the whispers, the rumors, from the servants, though I cannot rise from my bed. They say that Salazar betrayed us, that he cared only for those of magic blood, that he swore revenge, and built a hidden chamber with which to enact it.
These are lies.
I am the only one who knows the truth - the others are gone. Salazar is dead, and so is Godric. I have not heard from Helga for many moons, and I fear the same has befallen her. I am alone. Truly alone. My daughter has left me, and I doubt she will ever return, though I have sent someone to search for her. Perhaps writing this all down will ease my mind, not only of the guilt I carry, but of this infernal waiting. I can feel death creeping up upon me, and there needs to be some record of what really happened, if only so that I may pass on with a clear conscience.
I am Rowena Ravenclaw, last of the Hogwarts Four, and this, by my ailing soul, is the whole truth.
Allow me to draw you a sketch of the characters of my companions, now so twisted by demeaning rumors and stories, first. Indeed, it is hard to truly comprehend what became of us without them, and since no one seems to actually remember what they were really like, I find it my duty to see their natures preserved. Not to mention all that nonsense about beards. Neither Godric, nor Salazar ever had a beard in the time I knew them. Which is just as well. They would have both looked horrid in them:
Helga was born to non-magical parents, albeit ones open minded enough to recognise her talents and hide her with my family before they were turned upon and killed by their own kind. Under such circumstances, it would not have been to far afield for a child to turn out resentful, bitter, and vengeful.
But Helga harboured no hatred for anyone.
Not even myself, when I treated her like a servant and looked down upon her with her plumpness, her dirt smudged face, short auburn curls, and the hem of her dress half a metre in mud. She never snapped back at me when I mocked her name (for, truly, how does one come by the name Hufflepuff?), or spoke a single harsh word in all the time I knew her. She merely smiled, and dashed to do as I asked. Animals adored her, fawning at her heels and following her, from deer to cats to bear cubs. She had a pack of wolves that was at her beck and call before she was twenty-one, and a badger that, to my knowledge, stayed with her until the day she died. She knew plants better than anyone, and whenever she was present, they would bloom and grow with fresh vigor, as if trying to impress her. Her healing abilities were the greatest of any witch or wizard I have ever come across. I had expected her to be a burden, in my petulant, spoiled younger years, but instead, she became the sister I never had. Helga was my foil, the simplicity to my complexity. Everything about me was tidy and organised, while she was as wild and free as the nature she loved. I have often wished she were here now, to offer her warmth and her kind wisdom upon the situation with my daughter, oh how I wish. But that is not to be. She is gone now, I can feel it in my bones; but we must come to that later.
Godric was my fiancé. I jest not; we were betrothed as children, the heirs of two old, proud families (the Gryffindors and the Ravenclaws could trace their heritage back almost to Merlin). We never met, of course, until we were of age, and at that moment, all it took was one look from both of us to know that we would never love each other in that fashion. That is not to say we did despised each other, but neither of us could find it in our hearts to drive friendship and liking to the name of love. At least, not in that way. No, Godric was my brother, but never was he my husband. He was more of a warrior, and his magic skills reflected his nature. Oh, he was brave, yes, and there are few men who can claim to be his equal in goodness; and handsome, too, with sun browned skin and red hair. But I was too studious for him, too clever. It would not have been a happy marriage for either of us; but this was not only because of the differences in our characters.
It was also because of the young man he brought with him.
Salazar caught my eye the moment I met him, but I was one of few. He was a thin, green-clad shadow at Godric's side, and that was the way he liked it. While songs of his best friend's heroics are sung to this day, few know of just how noble Salazar really was. He has been so slandered by rumors since his death, that, if I learn the perpetrators ere I die, I shall return as a forlorn ghost to haunt them. Salazar Slytherin was a good man, even if he was a little unnerving with his long, pale blond hair and bright green eyes. And all this talk about his despising all who were not pure-blod? Ridiculous. His grandmother on his mother's side had non-wizarding parents, and he loved her very dearly. To us (myself, Helga, and Godric) his ability as a parselmouth was no different than the way Helga spoke to hedgehogs and wolves. He was very much Godric's opposite, intelligent and serious, and always interested in learning something else, in going beyond what anyone else had done before him. He and Godric were closer than any brothers, and naught could part them, though they never told me how they met.
Salazar piqued my interest in a fashion that Godric did not. He was my intellectual equal, and just as skilled with magic as I was. In fact, if I believed in such things as love at first sight, I would have attributed it to that. As it was, I was undoubtedly fascinated by him the moment I laid eyes on him, which ended up being jut fine.
For the exact same thing happened to Helga and Godric.
It all would have been very fine indeed, had not something terrible happened just days later.
The war broke out.
Looking back, I should have known from the beginning that Salazar wasn't made out for it. He was no fighter - Godric was, perhaps even a better swordsman than he was a wizard. Godric handled the war well. He was a soldier, and an inspiration. No, Godric had no problem with the war.
But it broke Salazar.
He went missing once, halfway through. His two companions were found dead in the forest, shot down by the magic-haters, but there was no sign of Sal. We spent several long, horrid nights searching for him. I don't think Godric rested once during that time, and I felt as if my heart had been pinned beneath a rock. Helga fussed over everything, as she always did when she was worried. We found him, finally; injured, unconscious, and barely breathing, but alive. Godric's joy was so immense that, when we finally (through Helga's skill) brought Sal around, it was all he could do to choke out: "Next time, you ride with me." Before merely pulling his friend into his arms and crying. That was the only time I saw Godric cry, while he lived. I suppose it was for joy at having found Sal again, but that moment, so heartwarming at the time, is harsher now.
Because we didn't find Salazar. At least, not all of him.
The realisation only hit us later, near the end of the fighting, when an arguement erupted by the campfire one night.
"I don't want to believe that it's the only way! You're talking about... About murdering a whole society!"
"And how is that different from what they've done to us?" Salazar snapped back. "Diana, Cedric. Are you saying we should let their murders run free, Godric?"
"Lovegood and Diggory where soldiers! They knew what they were doing!"
"They're dead!" Sal snarled, moving gracefully to his feet. Godric was already standing, shoulders tense.
"So are many others! We can't swear revenge for everyone we lose, Salazar!"
"You don't know! You weren't there!" That quieted Godric up awful quickly. Salazar paused only long enough to gather his cloak from where he had been sitting. "This war is never going to be over, Godric." He whispered. "Not for me." And with that, he swept off into the darkness. I remember the look of horror on Godric's face, the way he started after him. I remember Helga grabbing his arm, pulling him back.
"No, no... Helga, stop it! Don't you see? I can't just let him go like that?" But Helga was always the wisest of us all.
"Weren't you listening, Godric?" She asked him softly. "He's already gone."
He improved, slowly, as the battles ended, and with patience on all of our parts, but he never entirely trusted non-magic folk again, not even his own family. He did not, however, as are the rumors now, extend this distrust to magic users born to such people. Helga was as dear a sister to him as she always had been, and he held nothing against his grandmother. But should his great grandparents be brought into conversation, he would shoot to his feet and storm from the room. We learned quickly and well what would set Salazar off and what would not, and were careful to warn others when they risked overstepping the threshold of his fragile temper.
Helga was the first one to mention the school aloud. I suppose we had all been mulling the idea about in our heads for awhile - I know I had - but it was she who first announced that it should be a good idea, and it did not take long for the rest of us to agree. It was reclusive Salazar who found us a place away from prying eyes, and concealed it for us. It was nature-loving Helga who tended the grounds and convinced the animals to grant us passage. It was I, who so loved to read and plan, who designed the castle. And it was Godric, in many ways the strongest of us four, who built it. Well, Stumpy helped him.
Stumpy was the house elf that Godric liked to insist was his page. He adored that creature more than anything, though none of us could ever (not even Salazar, which was saying something) clean from him what possessed him to name the poor thing 'Stumpy.' It was a fitting name, for the elf was thick and wrinkly, very much resembling an old stump. It toddled along behind him and squeaked and twiddled, and worshipped the ground he walked on. It was quite partial to Salazar as well, though refused to give it orders. Salazar never did like the idea of serving creatures. Perhaps he could have been a real revolutionary, if he had lived long enough. But, to Stumpy, I was 'Lady Ravenclaw,' Helga was 'Mistress Hufflepuff,' Godric was 'Master Gryffindor,' and Salazar was 'Lord Slytherin,' and that never got a chance to change.
Now, I wish to speak of the chamber that everyone so goes on about. This supposed 'secret room' that Salazar 'housed his revenge in.' Poppycock. The separate rooms was Helga's idea after a small argument. She thought that, perhaps, if we had places we could go - solitary places that the other three could not find, we could use them to cool off, to think. We knew these places existed, just not where they were or how to get to them, at least, not until it was much later.
And I will be honest: the three of us knew he was keeping a baby basilisk.
It was his companion, his comrade; like Helga's badger, Godric's... Stumpy, and my own raven. Something he could talk to when he needed to, without being judged. And while I am being honest, I will add something else:
It was us who left the basilisk in the chamber, not Salazar. He was gone by then, but not the gone most people think.
Here is where this tale becomes so hard to tell, for Salazar did not leave us willingly. There was no great fight, no dissension. He died.
Godric killed him.
It wasn't supposed to turn out like that. We were discussing what would happen to the school when we died. Godric's hat was doing well enough with the sorting (Salazar liked to joke that it was smarter than Godric was), but there was this hankering feeling in all of us that we should leave a way for the school to be protected in case of danger. Perhaps it was foolish of us. Godric was enamoured with the myths of King Arthur, and the way he had promised to return if England ever needed him. He thought perhaps we could do something similar for the school and the castle we all loved so much.
Bur Salazar was against it.
"I have no intention of 'rising from the grave' for anything!" He announced. "The way I see it, there's my skin, and then there's me, and when I'm dead, there will just be me."
"But-" Godric started, but Salazar folded hi arms the way he always did when he was being stubborn.
"No 'buts,' Godric. I've followed you this far, but I refuse to become involved in such magic. It's too dangerous."
"It may work." Helga put in. She was sitting by the fire, polishing her favourite goblet. I was across from her, reading.
"Look, it's not even that complicated!"
"Complicated! That's not the problem! Godric, don't you know what horcruxes are? We run the risk of creating them!"
"But we won't! You and Rowena won't let that happen!"
"You can't be certain of that. Yes, Rowena, at least, is very skilled, but this may even be beyond our combined power." He looked to me for help then. Well, I had never been able to deny him anything. So, fingering the diadem atop my head, I felt compelled to speak.
"It is a very ancient magic. We have no way of knowing exactly what it will do." Salazar nodded thankfully to me.
"It's possible. Look," He carefully drew his sword from it's sheathe on the table. "You can use your locket..." Salazar's hand moved to the pocket he kept the locket in. It had belonged to his father's mother, on the wizarding side of his family. He never talked about them - he and his father had not got on very well, but he hung on to the necklace for the sake of it being a family heirloom. Still he was not convinced.
"I still don't like it, Godric. We're dabbling with forces we don't understand!"
"Salazar, please! We can do this!" He reached over and grabbed Salazar's arm. Sal jerked away.
"No! You always rush into things! I will not be a part of this!" He tried to get free and leave the room, but Godric refused to let go. Salazar let out a hiss that normally frightened other people, prying at Godric's fingers, Godric still trying to pull him back. Helga set her cup aside - actually, she dropped it on the floor - when she leapt up to try and part them.
That was when it happened.
Godric, always the one for physical strength, gave a hard jerk on Salazar's arm, and Salazar stumbled forward, almost falling.
Almost.
Because Godric had forgotten he was holding his sword.
The blade had gone straight through Salazar's chest, and his blood was seeping over the ruby-encrusted hilt. Helga's hands flew to her mouth in a silent gasp, I remember my book falling to the ground with a muted thud when I dropped it in shock.
But neither of us could equal the looks of horror and heartbreak on the men's faces.
Salazar's green eyes flicked from the sword in his chest to our faces, first Helga's then mine, and he mumbled our names as he did so, as if trying not to forget them.
"Helga... Rowena..." The, the his gaze moved to Godric's, and the two just started at each other for a long moment, brown eyes and green ones. Finally, Salazar, his voice almost gone now, broke the silence again. "God... Ric..." He wheezed, before murmuring, with the most pain, sorrow, and betrayal that anyone has ever spoken, "Why?" Then, it all left them, and he slumped to the ground, Godric sinking to his knees to hold him, eyes still wide, shock still etched into his face.
His last words. Our names.
Awareness seemed to come back t o Godric, and he pulled the sword out, quickly, tossing it across the room as if it were a live snake. He rolled Salazar over, cradling him in his arms.
"Salazar! Sal! Gods... Gods...!" He suddenly seemed to remember we were there, and looked desperately at Helga. "Hel! Do something!" But even with Helga's skill, all it took was one look at Salazar's pale, still face, and the blank green eyes to know that there was nothing to be done. Helga's hands did not move from her mouth.
"Godric..." She whimpered. "I... I can't... He... He's..." But Godric was shaking, and in no position or temperament to be rational. Salazar's blood was still warm on his hands, and his voice was cracking.
"You have to! You can! You can heal him! Please, please! Just do something! Anything!" His wild, desperate eyes shifted to me. "Rowena, surely there's a spell! Surely!" But all I could do was shake my head and stare in horror. After a while, Godric gave up begging, and merely sat there, holding Salazar to his chest and rocking back and forth on the stone floor in such a piteous fashion that it stirred Helga and I from our stupor. There was no method to undo what had been done, but we did our best.
We did the spell.
We had no way of knowing if it would work with Salazar already gone, but we did our best. It seemed to give Godric some comfort, and he conceded to letting go of Salazar's body after it was done. Helga and I decided it was best to keep Godric away from him, and so, after a little searching we found the entrance to the room he had built as per Helga's suggestion. Helga did a rather excellent impression of a parselmouth, and the door opened. We hid his body in the chamber, making sure to avoid eye contact with the king-cobra sized basilisk that slithered around our ankles. When we had placed our doleful burden within a hidden room behind the giant statue of Salazar's maternal grandfather (who he had actually liked), it slunk up between us, and laid it's large, triangular head upon his chest, it's strange eyes closing, perhaps so as not to bewitch us. As we watched sadly, one single, dribbling tear dripped down the scaly face. I had not been aware that basilisks had the power to cry, and I do not think that Salazar did either. It was a pity that, while he lived, he never learned his serpentine companion could weep.
That was the beginning of our end.
After that, I wore only black, and Helga spent more time with her animals than other people.
But it was Godric who never truly recovered.
He'd wake up, screaming, and Helga told me of his talking in his sleep. He became pale, and worn, sickly beneath his light brown skin. He wandered the castle like a ghost. He could no longer teach, and he spent most of his time shut away from the rest of us. What he did with the sword, we never knew, but he ceased to carry it, condemning its part as an instrument in his best friend's death. It was like that for months afterward, and for the first few weeks, Helga and I watched him like hawks, for fear he would hurt himself. By the seventh week, however, he seemed calm enough that we let our guard down.
A fatal mistake, as it turned out.
We heard a girl scream before we heard the thump, and the shouts of students. We both lurched to our feet and went as fast as we could to meet them. I had been feeling out of sorts recently, so it was Helga in the lead when I reached them, all clustered around the astronomy tower. I pushed my way through the crowd, gasping and holding my complaining stomach. When I reached the front, my first instinct was to turn away.
Helga was on her knees beside Godric, touching his face and feeling for a pulse. He was sprawled on the stones in a pool of blood, his head unnaturally cocked to the side. He wasn't moving, and his brown eyes were just as blank and open as Salazar's had been.
He was dead. The drop had broken his neck.
I stumbled over to Helga and held her when she cried, trying to be soothing. But the truth was, I felt no such matter. The astronomy tower was encircled by a railing to prevent this sort of thing. We had been aware of the dangers a tower of that height had posed. Without telling Helga, I later sought out the girl who had screamed, and her stammering testimony confirmed my fears. Godric hadn't fallen.
He'd jumped.
Neither he, nor Salazar, were older than forty at the time.
This time, it was Helga who wasted away in grief. There was nothing I could do for her, for I was not functioning so well myself, and Stumpy vanished the day Godric died. Eventually, she simply vanished into the forest, and never came back. I became so ill, that I could not take care of the school anymore, much less alone. I left it to the faculty we had hired, and returned to Ravenclaw Manor two months after Helga vanished.
Five months later, my daughter was born.
This is the truth of what became of the founders of Hogwarts. This is why we left the school. There was no plot for revenge, no villainy. Merely a tragic accident, and the repercussions that followed. Salazar was the victim, not the perpetrator, and damned be all that call him so. I do not know if I shall live to see my daughter return; I pray that it is so, but my health is failing. My grief is becoming to much for me, and I will soon join the other three in death; I do not know if we will truly rise again should Hogwarts be in need, but I actually hope it maybe so, for there is something I must tell Salazar.
Something that he died without knowing.
If anyone ever come across this, I want you to know this - any whom you meet claiming to be the direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin ask them his daughter's name. If they do not give you the name I write now, they are liars. For Salazar had only one child, and, as of the time I write this, to my knowledge, she has no children of her own.
Her name is Helena Ravenclaw, only descendant of the Hogwarts Four, and this, by my ailing soul, is the whole truth.
Also, I hope to be getting back to work on my other stuff soon. I've been having a some troubles over here, but I'll try to get the next Joker Town chapter up as soon as I can. I know what's going to happen, I just have to write it.
'Til then, bon voyage.