It was like waking from a dream. There was that disorienting feeling of a rough blurring of reality, when events were just beginning to smooth over to what is real and what is fiction. There was that feeling of relief, as though a nightmare were drifting away, and that intense feeling of foreboding that tends to occur then the dream was better than the real life you are about to face. Fear, that it is over. Fear, that life is not resuming as it should. Those tender blurred lines where, for an instant, fantasy and existence are one and the same, come together to tangle in the morning light like a spider's web covered in frost. It was the kind of experience only the youngest of children and the oldest of beings could feel. One of these moments always ended with the opening of eyes and memories of the dream fading into a shadowed backdrop as reality takes a hold once more. There was only one problem.

He wasn't dreaming.

What the dream included, magic and time travel, was real. That was the only conclusion the young boy sitting up in the bed, eyes still closed and face set in a scowl, could reach. It was supported by several small details:

1) The modern English language escaped his grasp entirely.
2) He was floating, not holding, the glass of water from his nightstand.
3) No 'recent' memories included the small room he was sitting in.
4) There was a Barn Owl tapping at the icy glass plane of the window.

Sleepily- for this boy was unusually hard to wake, especially in such a cold season- the boy wandered to the window and let in the owl with a yawn, blinking sleep-weighted eyes to clear them to face the day. It was with absentminded familiarity that a letter was taken from the owl and opened, before his mind cleared, sharpened, and new memories fell into their places. Facts suddenly made much more sense, and modern English gained a meaning as the boy resorted his thoughts.

He was in his own time again. Over one-thousand years after what family he had gained had died of old age. He was back because his best friend, kind fool that he was, had failed to heed a warning. Again. His darling daughter no longer had him; his friends and family left with a school of magic the boy would never see again.

Oh, Salazar Slytherin, his name by choice, would never see those halls again, nor the school he had helped to create.

Salazar shook his head harshly to clear away the thoughts that were so keen to take root. He did not yet know, Salazar reminded himself, that Hogwarts did not still stand. All he did know was that he was back in the Orphanage, and that the length of time it had taken to wake fully implied that it was early-Spring- possibly near his birthday. The cold certainly fit with that idea. So, before anything else, facts would need to be confirmed and memories restored; it would not do to draw attention to himself.

These thoughts decided, Salazar looked down at the sheet of parchment in his hands. It was of fair enough quality and the weight of the parchment was comforting to the young mage, even if the chill caused by the weather was not. Some things remained the same; at least in the Wizarding World. Allowing a small smile at the thought, Salazar turned over the parchment to read it, and promptly froze in a combination of shock and relief. There, at the top of the page, were words that he had not dared hope he would see.

'Dear Mr. Smith,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Included are: a list of key terms you will need to know (to be memorized before the start of the new term), directions to The Leaky Cauldron entrance to Diagon Alley, and a list of school supplies for the coming year. We expect your response to be sent before August 1st.

Sincerely,

Neville Longbottom
Deputy Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Head of Gryffindor House'

Salazar allowed his eyes to skim the letter several times, but the letter remained without a date. He smirked. The letter had no doubt been written no more than a week ago, ready to be dated and mailed out on June 1st. However, it had arrived now, before it could possibly be needed to be sent, and it had been delivered by owl, not by a professor. With this information in mind, there was only one conclusion that Salazar could draw.

"Hogwarts… You clever school… You recognized my magic and made sure to send my letter early…" The boy shook his head, inky black locks of his hair dancing in front of amused silver-blue eyes. That stated, Salazar strode over to the desk in the corner, and wrote out a response in neat print. It needed to be readable, but it didn't need to be so fancy that everyone became suspicious. Calligraphy, if he remembered correctly, was considered an art form even more in these days than it had been a thousand years ago.

When the letter was finished and shoved into a fresh envelope with the letter from Hogwarts, Salazar cautiously stuck his head out the window to look for the owl that had delivered his letter. He was wary of sticking his head out too far, however, as he was once again a puny, underfed ten-year-old. A hoot alerted him to the owl's location, and Salazar waved the letter, once more smiling privately when the owl flew over and he was able to send the letter off without a hitch.

With this set in motion, Salazar finally crawled back into bed so that he could continue his sleep. All he had to do now was wait for a reply, and something told him that in the meantime, he would hardly be escaping his room.

With that last thought, Salazar fell into a fitful sleep, remembering life as a boy named Steven Smith…

To Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry:

I am inclined to believe this is a hoax. If you are telling the truth, please send a Professor with solid evidence that this is entirely truthful.

Many Thanks,

S.S.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

Harry Potter (c) J.K. Rowling