The Locket
Salazar Slytherin never forgave. He never forgot.
He remembered the terror.
He remembered the arrow's whistling as it arced through the air and buried itself in the boy's leg.
He remembered the boys cries to keep running, don't get caught, I'll escape, I'll be fine.
He remembered the savage delight the dogs held as the ripped into the boys flesh.
He remembered the noise, the shouting, the screams of agony, the howls.
The blood, a crimson rose blossoming in the pure white snow.
He remembered the peasants swarming around the boy's ragged form, dragging him away.
He remembered the boy's tortured screams.
He remembered the look his brother have him before finally passing on, released from his ever-lasting agony.
I'm sorry. I love you. But don't be sad, live, for me. Please.
He remembered creeping down in the dead of night, when the darkness was all-consuming and absolute, and taking the only thing that was left of the boy.
A locket.
He remembered, and his anger simmered and boiled until it became a roiling white-hot furnace.
The boy.
His brother.
He remembered, and he resented the ignorant fools that quenched the life of a child with a beautiful, rare, magical gift.
He remembered, and he cherished those children who were blessed with the gift.
He remembered, and he carried the locket with him always.
Fin