Voldemort had to admit that Sammael was…interesting to say the least. When he first heard the other man's name, he immediately thought of the old basilisk's stories. Could he really be descended from the original Sammael Slytherin? It was looking more and more like it. Voldemort examined the young basilisk on Sammael's shoulders as they danced smoothly to the instrumentalists. "Your companion," Voldemort gestured with his head towards the serpent. "He's beautiful. I must say I've never seen a snake quite like that before."

"Liar," hissed the basilisk. It took all of Voldemort's Slytherin training to not react to the basilisk's words. After all, he was supposed to be just your average nobleman; not a parselmouth. Sammael didn't respond to his basilisk's muttering's either. He only smiled that brilliantly bright smile.

"Basilisk breeding is a bit of a family tradition," he said, his eyes dancing in amusement. "My father aided me in hatching Besnik when I was a boy. He's been my constant companion ever since. He along with Kai," Sammael nodded towards the phoenix who was still sitting upon Neville's head.

"A basilisk and a phoenix," Voldemort mused. "What an ironic combination."

"On the contrary, I think they perfectly complement each other," Sammael said. "Basilisks live but one long life. Phoenixes' lives are short, but many. One is a killer, but can be used to heal. One is a healer that can kill. Both have intelligence that rivals a human's, and yet neither survive very well on their own."

"But can't they?" asked Voldemort. "Basilisks are powerful beasts, much like dragons. Surely they can care for themselves? As for phoenixes, I've never known that species to be particularly weak, either."

"You misunderstand me Renatus," said Sammael. "I never meant to say they were weak, only that they cannot survive very well on their own. Basilisk's can only be born after forming a bond with a wizard. If that bond is ever severed, their mind begins to slip away, their power wanes, their very magic fades until there is nothing left but a husk. Phoenixes are social creatures, despite not having flocks. Phoenixes can die permanently, should they choose to. And lonely phoenixes often do wish to die."

Voldemort thought on this for a moment as he spun the smaller wizard in a circle. "You speak as a philosopher or, at the very least, an old man. But your youth is evident on your face. How old are you?"

"Twenty-three"

Voldemort stopped dancing abruptly, causing his partner to stumble. "Renatus" caught Sammael by the waist, before he could fall all the way. Besnik hissed in annoyance. The two wizards were pressed chest to chest and Voldemort found himself staring directly into the much younger wizard's luminous eyes. "Are you alright?" Sammael asked him.

"You're barely more than a child," Voldemort said, his eyes wide.

"Now you sound old," joked Sammael as he straightened back up. "I supposed you're far older than I."

"That I am, though I might not look it."

"I'd guess your age to be around thirty."

Voldemort was about to respond when he suddenly remembered he was supposed to be playing the part of Renatus Malfoy, a 27 year old. He cursed himself, for allowing Sammael to distract him. "Indeed" Voldemort decided upon with a smirk. Sammael rolled his eyes. Voldemort took back up Sammael's hand, and began to lead once more.

His younger partner seemed content to remain silent for now, which suited Voldemort. This young man intrigued him. Sammael's views were not very different from his own, if from a more pacifist standpoint. Not only that, but power poured off of him like a waterfall. Glorious, warm grey magic. Voldemort was content to simply bask in that power as he watched Sammael's hair sway in time with their dance, and his robes flutter against his slender legs.

The younger man's companion stared at him from his perch on Sammael's shoulders. "Master," Besnik hissed. "There is something strange about this one. He cannot be trusted. He reeks of foul magic, his soul quivers in pain whenever a light wizard draws near. I do not like the way he looks at you." Besnik's tongue flicked in and out distastefully. Voldemort didn't know he should react, and so prevented from outwardly reacting at all, once more. He wanted to defend himself, but he didn't want to have to explain how he understood parseltongue.

Instead he said. "I'm very interested in Hogwarts history, you know," Sammael's eyes met his, flicking back quickly from where they had strayed to watch Lord Black attempt to dance with both Severus and their pet werewolf at once. "I never knew that the rivalry between the Lions and the Snakes began despite the founder's wishes. I always heard that Gryffindor banished Slytherin from Hogwarts because of his hatred of Muggles and Muggle-borns." A pained look came across Sammael's face that went so deep it made Voldemort take pause. There was true sadness in Slytherin's eyes.

"This is the common story?" Sammael asked softly, his eyes distant. Voldemort nodded slowly, thinking that Sammael must have a very soft heart to be so affected by ancient history. "I have read in my br—forefather's journal and Salazar the second was often held at arms' length by his aunts and uncle, because of his hatred towards Mundanes and what he considered 'their kind'. But they never abandoned him nor forced him away, they were family, after all. Salazar the Second left of his own accord many times, usually out of anger, but he always came back. Why is this not known? Who has such hated towards the Slytherin Line that they should spread such lies? Salazar the first was known for his pride of how Mundane-born witches and wizards were nearly always able to keep up with their counterparts who were born into magic."

Once again, Voldemort didn't know how to respond. "Honestly, it is the matter of adoption I find most…" he hesitated, looking for the right word. "Surprising, I suppose. Adoption is almost non-existent in our culture. In fact, certain adoption rituals are, frankly, illegal. As a boy I…I knew a Hogwarts student who struggled to be adopted for that very reason. Perhaps if he'd had a chance to put fully accepted into a family by blood and magic it would have been different. Things could have been different. He was raised in an orphanage, you see."

"I intend to fix that," Sammael's face was hard, determined. "Mundanes mistreat magical young, almost without fail. I would have a haven be built for children like that. Perhaps if such a thing existed, young Harry Potter would not have suffered such a fate."

"You know much about him?"

"Very little, I'm afraid. But I am angry for him, not only because he is related to my darling heir, but because he was simply a little boy. It's a waste of magical blood, to trust Mundanes like so." Sammael sneered, but there was lingering sadness on his face. "I visited the house when I heard…so many years later and there were still traces of blood in a small, filthy cupboard under their staircase. Blood that still sung with magic. When the filth saw me, perceived who and what I was, they reacted as though they'd come across some unspeakable creature come up from hell…who was I do deny their delusions?"

"So you admit to it, then?" Voldemort asked, surprised that Sammael spoke of this so freely. A coy smile spread across that pale face.

"Admit to what, Renatus?" Sammael asked sweetly. Voldemort chuckled. Sammael was not obviously sly nor overly cunning like what one thinks of when confronted with a Slytherin, but Voldemort supposed that is what made Sammael so brilliant. He as not obviously sly nor cunning. He was open, he brought you in; you couldn't help but enjoy his company or grow fond of this young man. This was a man who inspired loyalty in strangers.

This man was dangerous. A possible threat. But more than that, this man was family. Voldemort's hands unconsciously tightened on Sammael's waist pulling him ever so slightly closer to himself, though the small wizard didn't make any notice of it. They danced for several more songs, distracted by their conversation that was sometimes political, sometimes friendly banter, sometimes light hearted discussions of the past, sometimes serious thoughts for the future. Voldemort found himself greatly disappointed when Sammael pulled away after the musicians paused in their playing.

"It grows late, and my charge is tired." Voldemort followed Sammael's gaze across the room to where Neville sat slumped on a low couch with the phoenix curled up in his lap. Voldemort watched a fond smile grow on Sammael's face. "I'll have to excuse myself for tonight, Marquis Renatus," Sammael bowed. Voldemort returned the gesture. "I hope to meet you again."

"As would I," Voldemort returned carefully. "It would please me should you lend your assistance in the matters we have spoken of. Should you be free next week, perhaps we could meet at one of our homes? I could offer aid in reaching the werewolf population, I have many friends in such circles, and you could help me with the issue of Dark Magic education." Sammael offered Voldemort a blinding smile, and despite himself Tom Riddle was captivated.

"I have no obligations," Sammael side. "I'd invite you to my home…but I doubt it'd be to a Malfoy's taste." Sammael said with a self-deprecating grin. "I must say that I've no love for excessive display of wealth; I live in a small cottage in Hogsmeade."

Voldemort was surprised. "Surely you could afford a palace should you wish it!"

"Of course, but why? It is just I and my heir, and we don't take up that much room. Besides, I already have Hogwarts. Why would I need another castle?" Voldemort nearly shook his head, but stayed himself. It made sense in a Slytherin sort of way to not want to draw attention to themselves with gaudy décor or sparkling castles.

"I should like to see your home," he said instead. He was rewarded with yet another smile. "I do not mean to seem eager, but would tomorrow suffice? I've plans for the rest of the week." Sammael thought for a moment.

"In the morning, I'm taking Neville to America. There's a rather large wizarding city, I want to show him the gardens there. We should be back by lunch, however. Would one o'clock be an agreeable time? If you know where the Three Broomsticks are, we could meet there for lunch, then make our way back to our home?"

"That sounds excellent." Sammael extended a hand to shake, but Renatus turned it over and pressed his lips to the vein on Sammael's wrist. Sammael, taken aback by his forwardness, turned bright red while he wondered about the strange culture of modern day, seeing as how no one even glanced twice at Renatus' actions. Bright blue orbs peered up at Sammael through long lashes. "It seeks to mate with you," the basilisk hanging on his shoulders hissed into Sammael's ear. The younger man felt his face heat up even more.

Voldemort was amused at how innocent young Sammael seemed to be. "I look forward to meeting you again," Voldemort said bowing, his voice kept a low, private murmur. Sammael only nodded again, as he backed away. He crossed the room, somehow looking flustered yet graceful at once as he hurried to wake his heir.

Voldemort watched as Neville slowly woke up, then smiled at his caretaker. Kai fluttered his wings, then leapt up to sit upon Besnik, who was still slung over his master. Longbottom slowly stood, subtly trying to stretch out the kinks in his back from his nap. Sammael brushed his fingers lovingly through Neville's hair, Neville flushed and pushed the hands away, making Sammael laugh.

Voldemort continued watching the two of them until they disappeared into the Malfoy's fireplace. Lucius suddenly appeared by his shoulder. "He's certainly a unique personality, my Lord," Lucius said quietly. Voldemort didn't respond, he didn't need to. "It would be profitable to sway him to our cause, not only for his wealth, but his obvious power and influence."

"He will be swayed to no cause but his own," Voldemort said dryly. "He believes himself too strongly, the mark of a man who has seen all opposite sides and found naught but absurdity. He must have run into Dumbledore."

Lucius stifled a grin, keeping his face at a perfect Malfoy mask, but Voldemort knew Lucius was amused. "But his cause is similar to ours, is it not? It's simply that he seems sympathetic to Muggle-borns that is the only difference."

"Yes," said Voldemort, eyes still fixed on where he last saw Sammael. "And yet it seems that we have been mistaken all these years." Lucius had to try very hard not to gape in surprise. "I always did think it a waste of magical blood, that the main fault of theirs was their ingrained ideals left over from their filthy parents. Perhaps if we take them away soon enough as Sammael has suggested, or even discover what ritual the Slytherin Line employs, we can dissolve that problem easily enough."

"You desire Pureblood families to adopt Muggle-Borns?" Lucius asked.

Voldemort shook his head slowly. "Not all of them. There are too many. Not adopt, but rather claim them, then let them stay in the houses Sammael wants to provide. It will provide the Lords with more power, it will protect our heritage, and it will further separate us from them." Lucius didn't feel the need to ask who "they" were.

Across the room, Severus was leaning against a wall, watching Remus and Sirius spin around the dance floor, giggling like the idiots they are. Severus had to admit he was in a very good mood as well. It was purely because in one night, Sammael Slytherin did more to influence the Dark than Dumbleore did in a lifetime of fighting against them. With the sly open obliviousness only a true Slytherin could ever master, Sammael made the purebloods reconsider their opinion on blood purity, muggle-borns, equality in magic, equality of creatures and even the silly rivalry between houses.

Remus was smiling brighter than he had in years. Severus knew instantly when Sammael realized Lupin was a werewolf, and was surprised when, instead of disgust towards his friend, the Slytherin Lord smiled as though pleased. Here, among supposed enemies of peace, among supposed terrorists, Remus found acceptance of who he was, when all he ever found at the hands of the Light was persecution.

Severus had never been so glad he changed sides.

***1047****

"Soooooo?" asked Neville. Sammael turned to look at his heir, pausing in the process of removing his decorative outer robe. Lord Slytherin paused, waiting for his heir to continue his line of thought and only grew more confused when Neville simply stood grinning at him as though he'd uncovered some great, long veiled secret.

"Yes, my heir?" Sammael asked crooking a small smile at the boy as he shrugged, freeing his arms from his robes and handing it off to one of his elves. "Did you need something before you go off to bed?" he tilted his head pointedly towards the stairs that lead up to the bedrooms.

"No," Neville said slowly, still grinning. "I was just wondering what you thought of Malfoy's cousin. You know, the hot blonde you danced with all night." Sammael found himself flushing, and scowled at his heir while trying to ignore the rush he felt in his stomach. "He seemed nice, intelligent, not to mention rich."

"I do not need to marry for money," Sammael sneered, for the first time looking like the Slytherin stereotype Neville have long stopped expecting to see from him. It only confirmed his suspicions.

"Mael?" Neville asked in mock innocence. "Who said anything about marriage?"

With a flick of his wrist, Sammael's wand flew into his hand from his holster and with a graceful swish Neville yelped when his rump was suddenly smacked by an unseen enemy. "Listen here you scamp," Sammael said, his eyes flashing dangerously, though Neville could see him suppressing an embarrassed grin "Marquis Malfoy shall be visiting on the morrow, and should you step out of line—"

"Yeah, yeah" Neville airily brushed aside Sammael's concerns. "I won't embarrass you in front of your boyfriend."

"He—" Sammael's face was so red by this point he was practically glowing. "We—he—I—there isn't—" Sammael shot another bolt of magic at Neville, chasing the Hufflepuff up the stairs. "It isn't!" he protested loudly. "Be off! To bed with you!"

******1047*****

Voldemort let his glamour drop as soon as the last guest had left, and there was none but the Malfoy Lord and Lady left to see him, as the Heir had gone to bed a few minutes prior. With a polite goodnight, he left to his quarters. Once alone with his thoughts, Voldemort dropped his head against the wood of his bedroom door and stared up at his ceiling.

Sammael Slytherin was…breathtaking. Driving him to distraction. Even after the gorgeous adonis had left, "Renatus" could think of nothing else. He had attempted to mingle, and dance with a young lady of high birth and renowned intellect, but after spending the better part of the evening with the young, charming Lord Slytherin, she really didn't have a chance of holding Voldemort's attention for long.

But that was just the problem, wasn't it?

Slytherin.

Even as he tried to talk himself out of pursuing such a bad idea, a little voice in the back of his head murmured reassurances and encouragement. Sammael's family had been separate from the majority of England's magical populace as far as he could gather, which would mean that their family trees split apart presumable as far back as Sammael the first and Salazar the second. Furthermore, Sammael and Salazar II weren't even true blood brothers.

Ironically, despite Sammael and Voldemort being, perhaps, the last two in the line of Slytherin, they might be the two of the most distantly related men who attended that ball. After all, half of Voldemort's line came from muggles, and the Gaunts had been well…yeah…

Voldemort gave a helpless sort of laugh, scrubbing at his eyes as he imagined for the umpteenth time that night, the feeling of his hands on Sammael's trim waist. He could always blame this unfortunate infatuation on his mother's side.