A/N: Sorry for the delay in getting this posted! I've been working on my original fiction and reading a lot. You'll see the next chapter go up swiftly after this one. And that's swiftly by the world's standards, not my usual posting ones.

Sorry not sorry for playing fast and loose with British mythology.

Also, shout out to Harry Potter and the Prince of Slytherin by The Sinister Man where it's suggested that Alohomora isn't exactly a standard spell. This makes way more sense than canon.


Hermione closed the last book she had pilfered from the Restricted Section, sighing in defeat. Salazar Slytherin had been here a month, a month, and she was no closer to sending him home than to convincing her coworkers that yes, Muggles had sent astronauts to the moon and no, they hadn't died in the attempt.

The past might as well be Pluto for how accessible it was.

Her brow furrowed in thought. Slytherin had not been what she expected. She huffed. Okay, he had been exactly what she expected, but surprising all the same. Wasn't that the way of Slytherins? He was certainly intelligent and ruthless, ambitious and cunning, handsome and-

Alright, that's enough, Granger. Get it together.

Fit men might run into her in corridors, but they had no business traipsing through her mind. After all, hadn't she spent most of July and all of August avoiding him? Yes, she had. She hadn't spoken a word to him since her departure from the Head's office on the night of his arrival.

Well, that was overstating it a bit. She thought she might have asked him to pass the salt the other night at dinner, and their hands might have touched and that delightful spark had jumped from his hand to hers, but thankfully he hadn't taken that as an invitation to start talking to her. Which was great, really, because her thoughts were mostly focused on her variation of Amortentia. The latest batch had returned the strangest results. Like the original potion, it was designed to smell like the things that most appealed to the drinker. In her case, she smelled the familiar combination of fresh-cut grass and new parchment, which made sense. Years had passed since that day in Slughorn's class, and she took it as a good sign that her love potion did not smell distinctly like Ronald Weasley.

But the third scent was what troubled her. It was woodsy and masculine, and she could have sworn she smelled it before but she couldn't remember where. She was having difficulty deciding if the scent was a sign of success or a harbinger of doom.

She was thinking about calling it Veritamortentia, but couldn't decide if that sounded stupid or not.

Hermione winced at how wishy washy she sounded in her own head. She used to be so bold, so brash. What happened to the Hermione who sent Umbridge into the forest? Who used a borderline-illegal spell to open locked doors? (Yeah, she had never mentioned that little bit to Ron or Harry, nor had they ever asked.) Sure, was so analytical to a point, but this was getting ridiculous.

With a heavy sigh she gathered together her books and made her way to the library, intent on returning with just as many. The students were due back in a week, and she was no closer to a finalized lesson plan than, well, Slytherin was to returning to his own time.

~SSHG~

Elsewhere in the castle, another bookworm was delving into ancient tomes.

"Rubbish." He flipped a page. "Balderdash." Another page flipped. "Oh for the love of Dagda!"

In a fit of pique, which he would never have allowed anyone living or dead to witness, Salazar threw the offending book across the room. It hit the far wall and landed on the floor with a thud, the title A Comprehensive History of Wizarding Britain, 20th edition glaring at him reproachfully. He scrubbed a hand across his face, utterly bemused by the idiocy of his illegitimate daughter's descendants.

It had to be Morrigan's blood. Had to be – there was no way his progeny could be that thick.

First there was Mordred Slytherin, his great-great-grandson, who had taken it into his head to attack the Muggle King. (Who might also have been his father? Acton? Ansell? Arthur? Something like that.) That was just plain idiotic – even in Salazar's own time, there had been far more Muggles than wizards. It just wasn't prudent to attack them. Better to strike from the shadows, where a quick escape was open.

Unfortunately, the idiocy of his line did not end with the bastard Mordred. Before he left for war, he had fathered a child whose own great-grandson, Oswold the Ornery, had led the first raid against the goblin enclaves.

Perhaps that explained the slow slide into obscurity that had plagued his line since the 1500s. Salazar considered it unwise to anger the people who guarded your gold, goblin or otherwise. That likely explained his rather frosty reception at Gringotts London last week, when Filius had escorted him to lay claim to what remained of his line's vaults.

There wasn't much, though he had been delighted to find three ancient trunks disillusioned in a shadowy corner. When opened, he found they contained much of his original research from the early days of Hogwarts' founding. While he was glad to have these links to his life, he frowned when he thought of who must have packed them and why. Despite his best efforts, he knew his face betrayed his sadness when he lifted a yellow blanket woven for him by Helga herself. A pattern of badgers and snakes ringed the edge, causing him to chuckle.

He had been surprised when Filius rested a tentaive, comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I know what it is to miss fallen comrades," he said in a grave voice, so different from his customary excited babble. "Time, whether ten minutes or a thousand years, rarely makes a difference to the grieving heart."

It had been that day that Filius recounted the history of the Second Blood War to Salazar, not even raising an eyebrow at the way his friend carefully maneuvered the discussion to Hermione. The time traveler's estimation of Miss Granger had risen as Filius told the tale of three children who took down a wicked wizard with only their cunning, magic, and undying loyalty. (Well, undying loyalty on her part. Salazar had a less than stellar-opinion of her companions, who seemed to be callow boys.)

Salazar had taken quite a liking to the little Charms Master, who was wicked with a wand and a joke. They had bonded briefly over what it was like to face prejudice in the magical world, Filius sharing the same astonishment that Salazar himself was born of mundane parents and bore no ill-will to those who shared similar parentage.

That thought brought him to the true source of his ire. His descendants in the last thousand years might have been misguided or insane, but they were harmless kittens compared to the utter trash that was Tom Marvolo Riddle, the self-styled Lord Voldemort, whose full biography had been added to the most recent edition of the Comprehensive History. A halfblood with delusions of grandeur, Riddle had perverted the ambitious nature of Slytherin house to his twisted own ends. He had claimed Muggle-borns were a blight on the face of magic (read: too powerful and numerous), that they had stolen their magic from more worthy (read: pureblood) witches and wizards, and that their deaths would restore magical power to the victims (read: inbread purebloods whose less powerful of magic was due to their own short-sightedness and arrogance).

Salazar was filled with rage at the stupidity of those who had followed Voldemort. He was an ambitious sort, but he was also proud. He would never have stooped so low as to blame his own failings on children who could not help the way they had been born, especially when he had been the victim of such prejudice for the majority of his life.

Salazar sighed and Summoned the book back to him. It obeyed, albeit somewhat skittishly, and landed in his palm still turned to the page that had enraged him.

It wasn't the deaths that bothered him – he had seen wars in his own time, fought off barbarians of both the magical and the mundane persuasion. Nor was he bothered by the way his line and values had been perverted over time. It wasn't even the hypocrisy of Riddle's actions that bothered him – a cynic at heart, he knew that very few people were truly honest with the world, and even fewer with themselves.

No, what truly bothered Zar was that he had no idea how to go about clearing his name. And until he knew that, he was stuck in the castle with several people who really did not like him.

Well, that was not fair. The staff seemed to be coming around on him slowly. Filius was an enjoyable companion, Aurora Sinistra was interesting to talk to (and an alumna of Slytherin, which helped) and just two nights ago Minerva had offered him the role of Head of Slytherin, should he be unable to return to the post.

Why, even the other night Herm- Mistress Granger had asked him to pass the salt. Her low voice should not have sent a thrill through him the way it did, not for such a mundane request, but he took it as a good sign when his hand brushed hers and he felt that spark again. Now if he could only get her to talk to him outside of dinner.

Salazar rose from his chair, intent on returning the offending book to the library.

~SSHG~

"Oof!" Hermione landed on the floor of the corridor with a yelp, books scattering around her. She had run into something as she left the library, a very solid and handsome something.

Oh bugger.

"We really have to stop meeting like this," Hermione said as she sat up, rubbing her elbow. She'd landed on it fairly hard, but there seemed to be nothing broken.

"I do apologize, Mistress Granger," Salazar said, offering his hand as he regained his feet. She took it with some trepidation, wincing a bit when her hand touched his. Attraction sparked between them almost visibly – she thought if she closed her eyes, she might see the after-images of golden sparks flying from his hand to hers when they touched.

She closed her eyes.

She saw the after-images.

"Bollocks," she swore.

"I beg your pardon, but my apology was offered quite sincerely," Salazar said, drawing himself up to his full height. He wasn't quite as tall as Harry, nowhere near as tall as Ron, but he still managed to tower over Hermione quite impressively.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry," Hermione said swiftly, forgetting her resolution to not talk to the man who had ruined her life. "That wasn't in regards to you, well not to your apology anyway, but- oh, bollocks." His eyebrows had climbed so far up his forehead that they were in shouting distance of his hairline.

"You must think I'm crazy," she muttered, turning to gather her fallen books.

"No, not crazy," he said just as quietly, helping her. She managed to get six of the books tucked in one arm and held her empty hand out for the remaining eight.

"I think not, Mistress Granger," Salazar said, keeping the books to himself. "May I escort you back to your rooms?"

Hermione eyed him warily. In the last month or so, since his arrival, he had been nothing but a gentleman. Well, on the occasions she had deigned to talk to him.

"I suppose," she said, turning and gesturing for him to follow her. He did, a few paces behind her just like that day he had exited the Room of Requirement.

"Are you prepared for the new term?" he asked, startling her.

"No," she said ruefully. "I've been busy with other research."

"Oh? Do tell." She threw a glare at him over her shoulder.

"Minerva asked me to research methods for returning you to the past." Salazar stopped walking, and much to her surprise so did Hermione.

"And what did you find?" he asked, voice carefully smooth.

"Nothing. As far as I can tell, any time this has happened the person was supposed to be in the future. I don't know who says anything is supposed to happen, really, but that's what all the authors said anyway."

He chuckled. The sound sent shivers of pleasure down her spine. She quickly spun and walked away from him, trying to outpace her desire.

She turned to find Salazar following her silently, his brow furrowed in thought.

"You only looked in books?" he asked. She snorted.

"Of course. What else am I going to do, go to the bloody Room and ask it to-" she stopped dead in her tracks, and Salazar missed colliding with her by scant inches. "Oh, oh I am thick. Why didn't I think of it sooner?" She started running toward the seventh floor, the sound of Salazar's chuckles following her the whole way.

~SSHG~

When they reached the room, Salazar was a bit out of breath. Hermione barely looked winded, despite the load of books in her arms or the distance they had run. She paced in front of the blank space where the Room of Requirement's door usually appeared, and frowned when nothing happened after the third turn.

"Bollocks," she said, setting her books down against the wall and crossing her arms in consternation.

"Is the room not cooperating?" he asked, mimicking her actions.

"That's a nice way of putting it. I asked for it to give us a place to send you home."

"Perhaps you might let me try it?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "After all, I did design it."

She turned to him, wide-eyed. "You designed it? All the histories say that Rowena Ravenclaw did!"

"Rowena helped, yes, but the idea and intent behind the room were my own." He turned his attention to the wall. "The world was a dark place then. I intended for the room to be a safe haven for the children, should the castle ever be attacked." He shot a covert glance at Hermione, who was looking at him with an expression dangerously close to admiration.

"Oh," was all she said before gesturing for him to get on with it. He nodded his thanks before pacing thrice before the wall.

I need to find out why I'm here, and if it's possible to return to my own time.

Salazar smirked when an ornate oak door appeared in the wall. It reminded him of the door to the castle on his parents' lands, back in Eire.

Inside the room was a comfortable couch, a roaring fire, a coffee table with a stack of parchment on it, and three portraits. His breath caught when he saw the figures within the frames.

"Hello, old friend," the aged face of Godric Gryffindor said. "It has been much too long."