The rain had barely ceased by the time Harry pushed himself out from under the tree. Slipping in mud and grasping at wet, hanging branches. His back ached, and his clothes stuck to him like second skin. The air hummed with humidity and the forest was alive with the sound of nature.
With the image of Salazar's insignia still fast in his mind, Harry pushed through out west. Mumbling small prayers for fortune and luck under his breath as he pushed sloppy bangs out of his eyes. There was no trail to follow and he felt as if he was walking blindly forward. Dark clouds obscured any light that could have lit his way and he soon had to cast Lumos to help guide him.
Though the rain had stopped for the most part, he could still hear thunder rumbling in the distance, lighting crackling between the clouds; causing Harry to push tighter underneath the trees and keep a nervous eye upon them.
By the time he tumbled down into the valley, very literally so, the thunder had passed, and night had fallen. One moment he was walking steadily but slowly forward, the next he was gliding down a mud slide, branches tearing at his robe and pants, wand held in a death grip as he tumbled his way down a steep incline. Disoriented and in pain he came to a stop, wand flying from his hand and landing with a loud plop in a puddle. Coughing, he pushed up on shaking hands and tor his mud-covered glasses off his face to look about, wide eyed and heart pounding.
"Accio wand," he mumbled, hand stretched out. Nothing came. He repeated it with a much stronger voice and felt the wand fly, strong and true, into his hand like it was meant to be there. Fitting in to the curves of his fingers and laying in his palm like it had been molded for only that specific purpose. Harry grasped it tight and let his shoulders sag in relief upon having it back were it belonged. Feeling the magic thrum through him and into it and then resonating right back. His second heartbeat.
After cleaning his glasses, he looked about, coming face to face with tall wet bushes and not much of anything else. Groaning, he glared out at the dark landscape and turned to try and find the top of the gorge he had just tumbled down into. He squinted, yet the dark forms above him only melded into each other and he was left with muddied, dark outlines.
Casting a warming charm, he straightened and pushed through the first couple of bushes; hands stinging from the cold. His wand still thrummed in his grip, and he used that to stabilize himself, calm his mind and push his magic out to grasp ahold of the residue magic of Salazar Slytherin.
He was met with only skittish animal signatures.
"Lumos," he growled and flicked his wand before him with an irate gesture. The wand lit but did little to chase the darkness away. If anything, it only created large shadows that lapped at Harry's heels and caused his eyes to nervously flick about. The light stinging his retina.
He made his way forward with slow measured steps, searching for rock or any sign of where he remembered the insignia to be embedded.
It was a narrow gorge and he soon found himself on the other side, hand touching upon wet mud. He had to choose: left or right. His instincts screamed left and that was good enough for him.
He switched his lit wand to his left hand and trailed his cold right against the mud and branches of the steep valley side. Pushing thick vegetation out of his way as he moved forward.
He flared his magic again and was pleased when he felt a tingle of respondence back. The insignia was near, and with that, hopefully, the house as well.
Harry concentrated hard on the magic resonance he was feeling, trying to follow it to its source. It was evasive and seemed to fluctuate back and forth much like a draft in a room. Pinpointing it was impossible, he would have to proceed cautiously.
The wet weather was cold, but most of all, it was annoying. It crept through his heating charm and wedged itself deep into his bones, chilling him, and setting his limbs shivering. His wand hand shook the most, the light of the Lumos wavering up and down and back and forth; even at times, losing brightness as his concentration broke.
He shuffled forward and felt the mud wall to his right give away to cold rock. Slick and wet from the rain but unyielding to his touch. He was certain it was the type of rock the insignia had been embedded in. Whipping the mud off his hand, he pressed it flat and hard against the rock wall, sending out as much magic through it as he could.
There.
Not too far away at the bottom of the rock wall, just above the grass.
He felt it pulsating weakly through the rock but saw nothing even as he continued getting closer. The feeling was unmistakable: a magical signature. Honestly, he was unable to tell if it was Salazar's or not. It was weak. Not at all a ward stone to hide the valley. Even so, this was his first clue. First trace of Salazar's home.
The insignia was just as small as it had been in his dream. It was engraved into a dark metallic substance that seemed to have been fussed into the rock wall. The Slytherin crest stood stark upon it. Once it might have been beautiful. Now it was old and worn and deep groves of scratches could be seen even in the darkness upon its surface.
Harry crouched down and touched it, sending out his magic like he had done earlier. It reacted, but nothing else. There was nothing but rock and vegetation around him. No traces of a home.
A dead end.
Growling, he stalked his way forward away from the only clue he had. "There has to be more," he muttered to himself, teeth chattering together in the cold.
He threw another warming charm on himself. It pushed the terrible cold out of the way but left him feeling dissatisfied. He had gotten weak since the end of the war. There was no need any longer to push himself or his magic. A peaceful lifestyle. Five years that he was starting to regret.
It was too dark for him to continue this search. He contemplated Apparating out of here. He could easily return to the French city he had left but a few days earlier. The problem was returning. The ward around the valley was an unknown: maybe he could get through it, maybe not.
He decided the risk was too high. It would be another day of camping out.
—V—V—
Harry spent five long days traversing through the valley. It stretched about two kilometers long and the only trace of Slytherin was the one insignia he had found on his first day.
The weather had warmed considerably. The rain and its wetness had long since dried up.
He currently sat crossed legged and hunched over the insignia, staring for all he was worth at it.
"Open sesame," he muttered sarcastically, wand tip held against the metallic surface. He had gone through every unlocking charm he could think of. Every incantation for warded places and hidden objects. Yet, nothing.
His two weeks would soon be up, and Hermione would be sending a search party. An embarrassment he could do without. Going back home empty handed left a sour taste in his mouth. The only small hope he could keep holding on to was Luna's parting words.
"I've spent the last years researching everything about Salazar Slytherin. I won't give up here. You're but a weak talisman, I won't be defeated by the likes of you."
Okay, so maybe he had been spending too much time alone. But honestly, it was as if the insignia was laughing at him. Its magical signature fluctuating weakly. Sometimes brightening up and flowing warm and headily through him; other times it was as if it went dark and quiet and he could barely pick up its signature. It was really no wonder he was speaking to it.
"Open up you stupid charm," he hissed, Parseltongue slipping into his speech without his control. The hissing felt natural especially in nature. Almost as if human speech took some sort of value away from his surroundings.
He continued spitting and hissing at the rock. Too tired to hold his wand against it he placed his fingertips tiredly to it and leaned his head comfortably against the cool rock wall.
"Seriously, bloody fantastic," he mumbled, still in Parseltongue. He was tired, hungry for some real food and could die for a warm shower.
Cold fingers slid against the rough groves on the metal that cut deep into skin. He flinched, hissed and tried to draw back, but a pull in his stomach had taken ahold of him much like a portkey activation. The world twisted and turned and for a breathless moment he was suspended in nothing. Then, dumped hard upon dusty wooden floors.
He groaned and gasped, stomach flipping over with the wish to expel its content. Harry curled tight around himself and tried to breathe through it. Not even able to take in his surrounds for the nausea that filled him so completely.
"You are a relentless one, are you not?" came a hiss from all around him. It echoed loud in his ears after the quietness during his days in nature.
Harry froze against the floor, eyes wide on the dusty dark wood. "Who?" he asked in a whisper, curling fingers tight around his wand, taking comfort in its familiarity.
"I am called Nar. I have been listening to you for days now. Such a talkative little brat."
That was kind of insulting, Harry thought.
Swallowing, he sat up slowly, expecting to see a snake he was surprised when he was met with an empty room. "Um, sorry," he hissed to the room. "Where are you?" He looked about gobsmacked; still trying to swallow down the left-over nausea.
"I am right next to you, and all around you. Can you not feel it?" the seemingly snake answered.
He nodded dumbfoundedly, then jumped high in surprise when something scaly and magical brushed against him.
"Invisible?" he wondered breathlessly to the air.
The invisible snake hissed with laughter, close to his ear, causing the hair on his arms and neck to rise sharply. "Not quite. I am a residue."
Swallowing, Harry brought his wand closer to himself as he continued searching for the snake's presence. "Residue? Like a ghost?"
"Mm, a ghost is born from the spirit of the living. I was born from the magic of the living. We are one and the same, yet different."
Harry had read about magical residue before, never to the extent of it becoming a conscious being though. But the magic swirling around him told him something was there, just beyond his eyesight. The same presence as that of the talisman or portkey, or whatever it was that brought him here.
"Whose magic?" he wondered. He had thought it was Salazar's at first, but clearly that did not seem to be the case.
The snake curled tighter around him, neither warm nor cold. "Whose do you think?"
Harry's breath caught in his throat at the question. "Salazar Slytherin?" he answered quietly, uncertain.
"Indeed," the snake replied. The air around the boy vibrated with magic as if the snake's tongue had flickered out to taste it.
He could not see anything, yet he squinted with his eyes as if he hoped to catch a shape. His eyes smarted painfully, and a dull, thudding headache was building between his brows.
"But you said your name was Nar," he hissed back to the snake in wonder.
"I am not Salazar. I was simply born through his magic. At one point in time, we were even the same," the snake explained, a nostalgic tone tinting its voice, if there even was a voice. "Now, Salazar has been gone for many years and I, the guardian, have remained. At first, many visited, both of Slytherin blood and not. Some spoke to me, others did not. Then, the line of Slytherin crumbled and none has since come, except for you."
"None have come?" The Slytherin line crumbled? Harry could not grasp at what the snake was speaking about. Some must have come to visit here after the last Slytherin died, how many years ago that now an was.
"Many have sought. I have watched through the mark that binds this with that of the valley," the snake hissed in reply. "For many years I have watched, and yet none may have passed. Only the blood of Slytherin may enter."
"Blood of Slytherin?" Harry wondered, confused.
"You carry the blood of my maker. Through you flows the magic that gave me life."
Hot and warm magic rushed over him and into him, crushing him from the inside. Harry crumbled over, arms thrown around himself as if he could grasp at the heat and tear it out of himself. "What are you doing?" he gasped. There were many spells at the tip of his tongue, but none seemed able to pass through. He felt his magic and that of the invasive one, and yet he could not push against it. Could not throw a spell to protect.
"You are a curious being," the snake hissed on, unbothered by the gasping boy before him.
"Curious is one way to describe me. I guess it could have been a lot worse," Harry replied hoarsely. His jaw ached from how tight he held it shut. There was no real pain, just pressure. Immense pressure that sought out every corner of him.
His forehead thudded dully against the floor as he curled tighter into a ball.
"Stop," he begged.
"I do not insult you, young one. You have been touched by a Basilisk, yet you live. Phoenix tears flow through your veins; weak it is, but I feel it, and what a remarkable soul you carry." The snake finally stopped, the magic withdrawing. Harry slumped forward and coughed as his ragged breath drew in dust.
The room had fallen incredibly silent and the previously strong presence of the snake was gone. The boy pushed up on shaky arms and looked about, magic lightly flaring out from him to check his surrounds, it was met with nothing.
Wrinkling his nose, he patted himself down. No pain remained, the pressure and presence all gone. It had been odd listening to the empty air talk to him, to sense something and yet not see it. The snake seemed to be gone now or had fallen quiet. Harry did not specifically care. He had not yet had time to rejoice about finding Salazar's home. The snake had sapped him of his strength and he wished to sleep for a day or two.
His left hand still bled sluggishly from the cut he received from the portkey. He contemplated using a spell to close it, but the exertion felt too much for him right now. It was a small cut, painful, but would close and heal without any extra help.
With gentle and slow movements, he staggered back up and took in the walls that were lined with heavy tomes and filled with old trinkets from a forgotten era. His end goal though, was the rickety chair that stood by a heavy wooden desk. With a simple cleaning charm, it looked clean enough for him to sink into with a sigh. His stomach was still upset from his previous travel and now added on top of that he felt magically and mentally drained from the residual snake.
His first day at Salazar's home was turning out rather abysmal.
As his heart rate slowed and came under his control once again, the boy had time to look about and really take in the room he had landed it.
It was a study. Only one door existed. Made of heavy dark wood and currently very closed. There were no windows to bring in any light, yet there was a natural light that seemed to fill the room with a dusky sort of appearance. The corners were heavily shadowed, but the shelves and desk seemed lit up as if an internal glow came from them.
The chair squeaked loud and clear as he turned it around to face the desk. Grimacing, he shook his head to rid it of the pestilent sound. The desk contained six drawers in total that lined its sides; harry went for the top right one.
The wood slid, unnaturally smoothly out. The drawer was filled with rolled up parchment, a heavy smooth stone and a dagger. The other drawers were filled as well. Everything from old letters, to official looking documents and even old quills and dried out ink. One drawer contained only a thin journal. The pages thick and heavy as Harry flipped through it; everything was written in the cursive form of Parseltongue. A beautiful script.
Harry squinted and the pages and rubbed his tired eyes as he tried to make head and tail of the words. Somehow, he understood them, just like he understood the snake's speech, but it still caused a dull headache to form at his temples. Much like using a muscle one was not used to.
Placing the journal on the desk, he closed the rest of the drawers and moved towards the tall book cases. Like the journal, all books seemed to have been written in Parseltongue. A few though, seemed to be in Latin and French. Impossible for Harry to understand.
The trinkets were things he had never seen before, and thus left alone.
He was pleasantly surprised when the door to the room opened easily, flowing on its hinges without a sound. The rest of the house was narrow walled and lit up in the same dim light as the study. Each room filled with dust and books.
The bedroom was the emptiest. Long, thick drapes dropped down from the ceiling and encircled the soft looking bed. A chest stood in the corner and a long rectangular wooden box was placed on an elevated stand by it.
As Harry went from room to room, he threw cleaning charm after cleaning charm. Trying to lighten up the heavy air. There were no windows that could be opened and the air in the house was stale and left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Since the snake was gone, he took his time to search around, careful of what he touched. Nothing carried any strong magical signature, but even so he took care not to be too reckless.
Smiling, he imagined how his younger self would have reacted and decided it was probably a good thing he had not found this place in his teens. He also pictured Hermione's face when she finds out about it, and it was enough to cause him to chuckle happily to himself. The heavy weight that had been laying across his shoulders for the last year or so lifting slightly. He stood in the man's house who he had been revering so greatly for the last couple of years. The man who had been the reason for Voldemort's uprising, and in turn, the reason for Harry becoming a horcrux. But it was also his knowledge that had allowed Harry and his friends to take down the dark lord.
"You seem pleased, little one."
The hissing was softer than before. It came from no particular area of the house. Just reverberating into his ears and into his thoughts. Magical. Even after all these years as a wizard, things about the magical world surprised him, still made him realize there was so much more to learn. He had barely begun to grasp at the basics of the spells and incantations that he used.
It took him some time to untense from the abrupt interruption of his thoughts, and when he answered his voice came out soft and hesitant. "I am." Part of him was defensive after what the snake had done to him earlier. It had been painless, but even so, it had left him shaken and with the realization that the residual snake carried far more magic than he had thought possible at first. "I have searched for the house of Salazar Slytherin for a long time."
The air around him moved and the breeze was felt strongly in the otherwise stale house. "I am pleased you found it. I have not spoken to anyone in over a hundred years."
"That's a long time. Do you feel lonely here?" Harry wondered. It was a small place after all. Five rooms in total. Mostly filled with books.
"Through the connection you came here by, I can see the outside. And as I am but a creature of magic, I can be neither bored nor lonely."
"I see," Harry said, feeling rather sorry for the snake. "Will you be here a long time?"
No answer came for a long while and Harry started thinking that maybe he had been to insensitive with his question.
"All magic lose strength over time," the snake replied finally. "As such I, too, will one day greet thy old friend." The snake's voice had become quiet, low and reverent. Harry glanced down at his hands and took in the sleekness of his wand that was still gripped tightly in his right, contemplating.
"You mean death."
Again, the snake's magic wound around the boy and he tightened up in surprise. "You have been touched by Death," it answered. The voice was so certain. Harry wondered if that was something it had felt when it pushed its magic into him.
"Do you fear death?" Harry wondered. Confused about the aspect of how such a being who could not even feel loneliness could fear death. But the softness in which the snake spoke of it, Harry felt that there was something more in its meaning then just fear.
"I have been told Death is like an old friend and that when one sees it one should greet it as such."
"Then why do you sound so frightened?"
The snake hissed almost angrily. The air vibrating thick and heavy with its magic. "What did you give Death when you greeted it?" it wondered, and Harry swallowed nervously.
"I didn't give him anything."
"You walk in Death's favor, little one. It would be wrong not to revere you for that. Death is said to be but a fickle being. To gain its favor… I have no words to describe the act which you have accomplished."
"It's no act—no accomplishment. I was killed while clutching the resurrection stone, that's all."
The air hummed around him.
The snake must be thinking, he thought, clutching his hands tightly. "I'm just Harry," he said weakly.
"Such modesty," it spit back at him. "It will do you no good in the future. You walk a dark path, little one."
"So I've been told," he answered, eyes burning. "But even so, I'm no one special."
"Your blood says you are of Salazar's; that is special enough for me."
Harry shook his head harshly back and forth, stepping back and pushing close to the book covered wall behind him, feeling small. "That's not possible. I'm a half-blood. I'm a Potter!"
"And from the beginning, you are a Slytherin," the snake hissed. "An heir most likely. You speak as if there are no more Slytherins, then I can only assume you are the last."
"The line of Slytherin is long since dead!" the boy cried, hands grasping and digging deep into his hair as he shook his head.
This couldn't be happening, he screamed internally.
"Yet you are before me. Your blood sent you to me and you speak the tongue of the snake. A gift reserved only for the line of Slytherin."
"That can't be true. Others have spoken the language," Harry tried. He racked his brain for a name, for anything that would make this gift—curse—not special. "The former dark lord, Voldemort, he could speak it as well."
The snake hissed with laughter and the magic tightened sharply around him and the boy's breath caught in his throat. "The false heir."
"Um, you know him?"
"Many have come in search of Salazar's most guarded treasure, and I have watched as each of them failed," it explained. "I watched the false heir. He remained in the valley for many days and nights. A desperate man. He forced his familiar, a white snake, to teach him the language. It came not from the gift of blood."
The ground felt like it had opened up under Harry and dumped him out into the abyss. "I see," he managed to gasp out as he stared wide eyed out over the room before sinking slowly down the wall and splaying out gracelessly against it.
"This can't be true," he whimpered and covered his head with his hands and curled tight around himself.
"Why are you so desperate to reject who you are. As the sole heir all that is Salazar's is yours."
He let the words sink in for long time. The magic of the snake disappeared from his senses after that and the room was left still and cold.
"Why did no one else of the line before me come and claim Salazar's home?" he wondered into the empty room, part of him not expecting an answer.
The snake though, seemed to have remained, for its voice whispered close to him, "For some time, many came and went, but no one ever claimed the last treasure of Salazar's."
"The books?"
"His wand, young one."
It was like a punch to his gut: all air expelled itself from his lungs in surprise. "His wa—wand?"
"You seem greatly surprised. Was it not what you came for?"
Harry felt shame burn through him. Why had he come? Part of him had obsessed over the man so much that he had no real wish to be here other than to feel closer to the legendary man. To understand him more. To understand why he had created such a spell as the horcrux? Why he had driven himself to create the things he had? The spells, the books, all of it were treasure troves of knowledge. Maybe that was why he was here: just to understand.
"I simply wished to know Salazar more…"
"What a loyal heir."
"I told you I'm no heir. I'm Harry Potter."
This was something he would defend to his death. No past ancestor or old blood would persuade him of anything else. A Potter was what he had been born as and it would be what he died as. Slytherin was but a forgotten line, revered and feared in equal measures. It would never bring him peace.
The snake's magic tried to soothingly brush over his as his own agitated magic whipped out around him, causing heavy books to fall to the floor with loud thuds, kicking up left over dust.
"Did your magic not pull you here because it wished to complete its inheritance?" The snake asked, warm magic still cocooning around Harry and trying to calm him. "Humans go through their coming of age at 17 if I remember correctly. You must have waited long to finally gain yours. How painful. How sad."
"It's not…"
There seemed to be no arguing with the snake though. Harry felt tired, drained. Him, a Slytherin? This was not what he had come here in search of. This could not possibly be what had pushed him so desperately to learn more about Salazar Slytherin in the last couple of years.
This kind of manipulation, and from his own magic at that. No, it could not possibly be true.
—V—V—
He refused to speak with the snake for many days after that. Ignoring all attempts by the creature to talk to him. Instead he made sure to contact Hermione and let her know he was alive and well. This was easily enough done with the broken mirror that he and Sirius had so long since used to communicate with.
Hermione had been happy to hear from him, but she had seemed busy. Their conversation was short, and Harry refused to mention anything regarding how he entered the house.
The name Slytherin would never taint his life if he could choose.
After that he busied himself by reading through the thin journal that had been left on the desk. The Parseltongue was difficult to decipher. He could grasp the words and read it simple enough, but sometimes it was as if his mind translated the words wrongly, misunderstanding the meaning and left him feeling confused. Sometimes he had to go back and reread passages again just to be able to digest the correct meaning. It was a slow process. It took him over two whole days just to finish the slim book and a whole other day to summarize the information for himself in an understandable fashion.
The book contained no spells. It was a simple diary. Flowery words to describe Salazar's family situation, and to describe the unwanted fame in which he had risen.
There was no way he could miss it, there was a likeness between Salazar's life and Harry's own. Both had the terrible gift of high expectations put upon them, and yet somehow, Salazar had lived his to the fullest, had walked at the top of wizarding society and flourished. He had not crumbled under pressure, had not broken or bent to the whimsical wants of society.
And here Harry was, barely able to stand looking at another witch or wizard. Guilt had wrecked him, the constant gnawing of what if. What if he had been better, stronger, a greater leader?
Part of him kept blaming his childhood. If only he had been born a pureblood, grown up with magic. If only he had integrated into the system early on, he could have achieved the same kind of greatness. Instead here he was, unable to break away from the guilt that had built within him under his seven years at Hogwarts. Seven years of pressure, of not being good enough; of not being the hero that the world needed. Salazar never had to deal with that, but even so he became the hero Harry could never be. The fact that he is still so revered even hundred of years after his death says it all.
How could Harry ever compete with someone like that? How could he share blood with someone like that? And on top of that, an open dark wizard, the ban of today's society.
He sighed and flipped through his notes. The only thing he could take from the notes was one thing: Salazar had been a great man.
"I'm jealous of a man 100 of years since dead," he grumbled to himself. Maybe searching for a way to accept himself through Salazar was not the right way to go. The more he read the more inadequate he felt. "There is no competing with this man, huh. No wonder he became a founding father of Hogwarts."
It was time to crank open a new book. Hopefully something less biographical.
—V—V—
Harry was rather proud of himself for how he had been able to ignore the residual snake. It had hissed and poked at him and for all its age it acted like a petulant child. After deeming Harry an adequate heir, it had been rather more cautious in its use of magic. There were no more infiltrations of its magic or strong windings—of its scales—around him.
Enough was enough though. Harry could no longer stand it.
"What are you doing? You've been poking the same place on me for the last hour or so."
It hissed quietly, but the magic touch drew away. "What do you carry by your waist? I have felt it since you first entered, and I cannot place it. Show it to me."
Grumbling, Harry reached down into his pant pocket. "That is no way to ask someone for something."
He had only brought three things with him: two trunks and the knife Luna had given. These he showed the snake, or more or less held out for the empty air.
"A summoning blade," it spit, and Harry could practically see how it reeled back in dislike.
Blinking, he looked down upon the small blade. It had a white decorative sheath and a light wooden hilt. Honestly, it looked like a carving knife to Harry. One that his aunt might keep in her garden shack.
"A summoning blade?" Harry wondered, tilting his head and pocketing the two trunks. "What's that? Are you telling me this little knife contains some sort of summons. There aren't even any runes on it."
The snake hissed in frustration and its magic wound up around Harry's hand, poking the sheathed blade.
"It contains nothing. Its function is simply to summon," it explained. "Where did you find it? An artifact such as this is rare. Not something someone as young as you should carry."
Harry laughed nervously and scratched his nose. "It was a present from a friend."
"It must be some friend if they are willing to gift you something as special as this."
Through the snake's tone, Harry could tell that the snake was greatly impressed. It still only looked like a carving knife to Harry. Small, though the blade was incredibly sharp. And maybe if looked at from the right angle, shone just a little differently than a normal iron crafted knife.
"So, what does it summon?" he could not help himself but to ask. Curiosity was creeping in and he practically itched to try it out. Everyone at Hogwarts learns of summoning circles and summoning crystals, but this was the first time he has heard anything about a blade.
"It is a blood summoning. Old magic. Even at Salazar's time such things were rare and nearly forgotten."
His curiosity of the blade was peaking the more the snake spoke of it. "Okay, blood summoning, but what does it summon?"
The magic around Harry bobbed up and down as if the snake was shifting in place. "Salazar's blood could summon snakes, and I would presume that is what you would summon as well. You are the heir after all, such would only be right."
Harry huffed and held the blade up closer to his eyes. "Right…"
"Magical beings all carry summons of different kinds. With the right incantation or the right artifact, it can be brought forth to serve."
"Like the corporeal Patronus," Harry said quietly and mostly to himself, but the snake picked up on it and hissed in agreement.
"The guarding spell of light wizards. A most effective shield for those who can master it."
"So, this summons would be the same. In that case, my summons would be a stag."
"Blood summoning is not a Patronus, it is a last resort. You should be wary of it. There is a reason it is not used in fights."
Harry was barely listening. The blade was becoming more and more fascinating the longer he looked at it. Like the world was going quiet, urging him to inspect it more, hold it longer.
The hilt was just long enough that his hand could wrap comfortably around it, and both sides of the knife was sharped.
A dagger? Harry wondered. He had never used a physical weapon before, other than Gryffindor's sword, and that had only been due to desperation over 10 years ago.
This one required blood. No chanting or incantation or anything. Just blood. It really made him curious as to what his blood would summon. He hoped it would not be a snake.
His urge was impelled forward, as if there was a guiding hand on his own, telling him to try.
When the blade cut deep into the meat of his hand, it was barely felt. It cut through him like smooth butter and Harry could only stare blankly down at the bleeding. The wound welled quickly with blood, and as it came forth, the blood slowly took shape. Not a drop was spilled, unnecessarily, onto the floor.
The stupor he had been placed in dropped and along with it the knife as well, falling to the floor, clattering lightly upon the hard wood and bouncing away from him. Harry did not spare it a glance, all focus was on his hand. His arm was on fire and he clutched at his left wrist as tightly as he could, but the blood would not stop. More and more came and a thick, long snake was taking form. And as it grew it wrapped around his arm and slithered up towards his head. Warm and wet. Its flicking tongue touched upon his ear and Harry flinched back, eyes stinging with fear.
"Idiot child."
The words were pushed through his terrified senses. The residual snakes magic wounding tight around him, pushing at Harry's own magic that was feeding the summoning.
"Point your wand, child. Direct it. Command it," it hissed. "Cut the connection before you bleed to death."
Harry did as he was told, blood slicked right hand grasping for his wand in his back pocket and aiming it towards the bookshelf before him. "Go. Please, go," he begged, vision greying, and his wand hand shook terribly. He could already feel consciousness slipping away.
The blood snake slithered around his shoulders, quick as a serpent, and down his wand arm. And before Harry understood what was happening a sonic like boom echoed through the room and he was blown off his feet and into something hard and unyielding.
—V—V—
He came to slowly. The taste of blood thick in his mouth. A burning pain was pulsating up into his temple from his left side and his right hand felt numb and far too foreign.
"You are awaking, stupid heir."
The hiss of the residual snake was somewhat nice. It also helped bring back the memory of what had befallen him.
He tried to answer, but only a pitiful groan left him. Moving seemed to be out of the question. Far too much pain was being concentrated in his upper torso for him to push himself up into a sitting position. The best he could do was roll over fully onto his back.
"To summon a blood summons without any incantation and without a direct command. Are you suicidal? What did you possibly think would happen? I told you it was old magic, and yet you go and try it. If I could, I would take that knife from you," the snake hissed, sharp and reprimanding.
Harry was too numb to feel the sting of shame. His head heavy with cotton and eyes far too unfocused to take in the destruction about him. The previously well-kept room was gone. His twisting body felt the edges of broken wood and sharp spines of books digging into him.
"My glasses?" he croaked out, sane enough to realize that all the blurriness around him was not due to a concussion. But even without his glasses, the dark burn of the wall opposite was clear to see. If not his eyes, his sense of smell could certainly pick it up.
"They are just above your head. If you reach over your head, they will be right there."
Harry did as was told and fumbled the glasses onto his nose with shaky fingers. The sight was rather disastrous. Not only had he blasted a hole straight through one of the bookshelves, he had also burned and most likely destroyed dozens of books in doing so. About him scattered torn and burned pages and a few books that had remained whole laid in disorganized heaps upon the floor. He sighed and groaned and looked down upon himself.
His right hand was the worst. The throw-back of the spell had left it raw and with deep bruises already forming by his thumb and point finger. It shook horribly. He could barely bend the fingers, and the idea of grasping a wand with it right now left him feeling nauseous.
His left was bloody, but other than that, the wound that had been caused by the knife had already closed and become a red angry line.
He felt dizzy and his eyes had difficulty focusing on the sight before him. Rolling over, he pushed up on his elbows as best as he could and staggered up onto unsteady feet. "Wand?" he wondered, as his head lolled slightly upon his shoulders with lethargy.
"I advise replenishing your blood first."
That seemed like a good enough idea for Harry. In his trunk there should contain a box of vials for emergency situations. He might even, if he was lucky, find a healing salve for his hand.
His trunk was easy enough to enlarge without a wand and the small rune encrypted box of potion vials was pulled out carefully with his left hand, which he had wiped to the best of his abilities.
After chugging the blood replenishing potion, he felt how the lightness in his head cleared and the numbness in the body creep away to be replaced with a gentle warmness. Next, he pulled out a jar of a deep orange-y substance: Hermione's latest addition of healing salve. It was a slightly messy process of getting his hand covered with it and then kneading into his bruised and swollen hand.
Sighing, he leaned back heavily against the wall where he still sat sprawled in the mess his dumbness had earlier created. The knife still laid on the floor, having been sent clattering away into a corner. His wand, however, still remained lost.
With slow movements he brought his newly healed, but still aching, right hand up and stretched his hand out. The Accio just at the tip of his tongue, but he was unable to say it. Unable to demand his wand to fly back. A phantom pain was flaring up, hot and painful. In the end, he decided the best thing to do was to search physically. The phantom eyes of the residual snake helping him out.
A bright red crack zig-zagged its way down the core of his wand once he found it. It hummed unpleasantly in his hand and sent his usually calm magic into an agitated fit. The air around him warming and cooling in sharp inconsistent increments, and a strong gust sent loose, burnt papers flying in all directions.
"I broke it," he said, voice quiet and resonating with sadness.
He let his magic continue whipping about him violently. His eyes were only for his precious wand. Sad eyes taking in the deep red crack. Much like the lightning bolt on his forehead that had once stood out so starkly, now faded with time.
"To use such a dark spell with a light wand core. It is amazing it still held, foolish heir."
Nodding, he cupped his hands around it and pressed it tight to his chest. An apology bubbling up through his tight throat and pushing through into a soft croaking sound. "I'm so sorry."
"Not much can be done for you wand now. If it would have shattered upon the use of dark magic, the back-lash could have killed you."
"Thank you," Harry whispered to his wand, trailing gentle fingers over the crack. Some part deep within him knew the damage was unfixable, his wand had used up the last of its magical strength containing the destructive force created by the dark magic passing through it.
"If you had not been so foolish and so rash in testing out blood magic, your wand would still be whole," the snake chastised, and Harry felt the weight of his actions weigh heavily down upon him. His agitating magic still whirling around and refusing to settle down.
In a way, he was grieving.
Another failure; another useless sacrifice. How could people have ever seen him as a hero when he couldn't even protect his own wand?
"I'm a failure as a wizard." His eyes stung painfully, tears welling up into them and blurring his vision; his throat thick with the feeling of a large ball was pressed tight into his airways. The world felt heavy. Breath and life, and just about everything at this moment felt too much too handle.
"There is only failure in giving up, young one," the snake reassured. Scales sliding up against Harry's side and a magical tongue—not quite felt but sensed—flickered out over his face. "There is still the wand of Salazar Slytherin."
The words were true enough, but even so Harry had a hard time accepting them. Right now, quitting felt better than continuing this suffering. This constant bitter hate with himself. Past regrets pilled so high he could hardly see a future worth living.
He shook his head and refused to answer the snake, just remaining on the floor with his wand cradled tightly in his hands; eyes, blank and empty, staring down at it.
"You cannot remain here forever, young one. Face that bitter past you fear so much and move forward." The hissing voice was agitated, and the words came out heated and harsh.
Harry let it wash over him. "I don't care."
It hissed with acrid laughter. "If you do not care, why not take the wand; claim your inheritance. If you will not face the past, then why not walk in it like you so desperately want. Face your cowardly self and plow a new path!"
With a last sharp brush of its magic, Harry felt it flee the room. Leaving him alone, just his broken wand and crushed spirit as company.
"Face my past? Don't make me laugh."
The air did not answer this time. There was just the rustling of broken pages.
—V—V—
He still carried his wand everywhere he went. As he shuffled in and out of the rooms of the small house, it was held reverently in either one or both of his hands. Since the accident he had not once used it. Any magic he had performed had been small and light enough to be done wordlessly. Waving his hand, face impassive as he accomplished the small tasks that needed to be done.
The burning flame of his will—his passion, was small and flickering. Maybe it would burn out any day now?
There was no more talk with the residual snake, which was good. Harry had no interest in making small talk. No interest in drilling down into his failures and into his weaknesses and bringing up the painful memory associated with the summons.
Mostly, he spent his days reading through the long shelves of books with disinterest eyes that were glazed over, words filling him but doing little else. He read of spells which he had no interest in trying; learned of long incantations whose goal he could hardly care less of. It was just routine. Day in and day out he read and shuffled from room to room.
The thought of Salazar's wand flickering to and from his senses. He knew where it was: on the high stand by the chest in the bedroom. Yet he kept away from it. Rarely glanced its way.
Face the past… Face your cowardly self!
The snake's words still reverberated throughout him. A challenge he did not wish to rise to, and yet it was as if a small part of his inner spirit still demanded it. Still urged him on to take the step. Show the snake that he was more than a coward, more than a failure. And to claim the Slytherin title just to make it swallow its ever-hissing tongue.
Shaking his head quickly back and forth he tried to dispel the thought. "Not good. Not good," he whispered to himself and tried to focus back down on the book before him.
It was a useless endeavor. Salazar's wand still called to him, and the snake's words still goaded him on.
He had only ever used Salazar's room to sleep, the few times he finally succumbed to it. Other than that, he had kept far away from it. Like it was some sort of sacred ground.
The rectangular box still stood on the stand and was a beautifully decorated cherry one. The light reddish hue of the wood was dim enough not to stand out much, but easy for the eye to catch on. Harry trailed his hand over it, feeling the rough work of the carved decorations.
It opened smoothly with a small hatch and inside upon velvet laid Salazar's wand. Longer than Harry's phoenix core and set in deep mahogany wood. On the handle, twin serpents twined their way up the handle; their snouts laying snug upon the narrow body of the wand.
Grasping the phoenix wand tight, Harry reached out with hesitant fingers towards the decorated snake mahogany. Trembling lightly, they traced up and down smooth wood and felt over the well-integrated design with a curious touch. Taking in the slight rise of the snakes and allowing himself to fascinate over it.
The wand hummed.
His phoenix responded and sparked heatedly and hot in his hand.
Harry gasped and stared down at it, unconsciously curling the fingers of his right hand around the snake wand and lifting it up to hold the both wands next to each other.
The reaction was violent. The phoenix wand sputtering out more sparks and finally with a loud bang, lit up in bright hot flames that lapped up Harry's left arm. It crackled and hissed, and his hand burned, painfully. The wand crumbling beneath his grip, falling away and taking the heat with it. Harry could only stare. Heart pounding, heavy and hard against his ribs as his mind went blank in fear.
His wand was slowly disintegrating before him.
"No!" he shouted, hand spasming to try and tighten its grasp upon it. To hold tight what was so precious to him. Yet it withered and disappeared, leaving only grey ash to flow about him in gentle waves.
So focused on his wand was he that he did not have time to react or even notice the Slytherin wand cracking along the middle and splintering with a very reminiscent boom of the blood snake.
This time though, there was no hard surface he was thrown against, or any harsh push or pain at all. The room around him simple fell out and he left him suspended, confused and sluggish, in a dark cold emptiness.
Hello! He tried to shout. Anything would do, word after word tried to leave his lips and yet nothing echoed back to him. Only the steady darkness and the sensory deprived feeling of suspension.
Was this death?
No. Had he not promised himself to prove the snake wrong. To face his past. To change!
I'm the heir of Salazar Slytherin. I refuse to die, he growled mentally, straining the small part of his magic that he could still feel deep within him. I'll take that cursed name and live!
The magic from within him shot forward, up and out, bright and strong and so alive. It was everything Harry remembered from the first time he had done magic. The first time he had gripped his wand. This was everything magic was supposed to be, and everything he had slowly forgotten.
This was resonance. His wand and him.
Power so strong it felt like he would crack. And still he reached for it, desperately grasping.
"I refuse to die, even if I have to live a thousand lifetimes over. I still have things to do!"
His voice shocked him. It came out so strong, so loud, and the darkness around him ate it up and not a single echo of his words were left.
"Those are some good words," an amused deep voice answered. "Very well, live by them. Now awaken, Hadrian Slytherin, the last heir of Salazar. Take me and command me. Prove to me you are worthy of my power."
The darkness pressed in and so did his magic. But he was not ready, there was still so many words he wished to get out. Wished to ask. And yet the heavy pressure never relented, and Harry felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into unconsciousness.
