Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author's Note: …at the bottom.


Harry yawned hard against his fist, wincing as his jaw creaked. That had to be the fiftieth yawn so far this morning. It was a little after five in the morning on a Saturday and Harry was following his familiar down the parseltongue passageways, half-listening to the incessant hissing about the Great Snake Man on the wall. Harry's brain wasn't functioning well enough for him to fully decipher the snake's meaning, but he had determined that Rhast had discovered something while he was exploring and it had excited him so much that he'd come to wake Harry immediately to show him. He had been very insistent. Harry hadn't even gotten a shower, which had him slightly grumpy. Ever since leaving the Dursleys, Harry had made a point to take a shower or bath at least once every day – just because it was such a novelty that he could. He never wanted to reek of his own filth again.

"Rhast, at the risk of sounding like Dudley, are we there yet?!" Harry couldn't help but whine.

A wordless hiss of annoyance was followed swiftly by, "Do not imitate the Fat One, master. You know how my venom pools when he is near."

Harry chuckled quietly, but didn't complain any further. They'd been moving downward steadily for most of the trip. If the distance vertically was, in fact, equal to the distance in the rest of the castle – it wasn't always in these passages – he was sure they'd be at the level of the dungeons by now. "Are we at least getting close?" he inquired after a few more minutes.

"Here, master," Rhast hissed as he rounded a final corner and stopped with half his body still on this side.

Harry followed him around and his breath caught as he took in the sight. There, in an alcove about a meter deep, was a large portrait of a man with long black hair and pointed goatee and pale gray eyes. He was handsome, probably in his mid-twenties, and dressed in obviously fine though old-fashioned black robes with green and silver embroidery. Perhaps most telling of all was the pendant he wore around his neck. A silver locket set with emeralds arranged in the shape of an S. But then, who else would have a portrait within the parseltongue passageways.

"Here is my master, Great Snake Man," Rhast introduced.

"I see," the portrait nodded, looking Harry over critically.

Harry stood up straighter, his spine stiffening beneath the judging stare.

"A Gryffindor," Slytherin, for it had to be, noted.

"I'm a major public figure for the 'Light'," Harry defended stiffly, "I couldn't let the Hat put me in Slytherin."

A small smirk flitted onto the painted lips, "Ah, that makes more sense. No heir of mine could actually belong in Gryffindor," he sneered distastefully, "Particularly not one with such a familiar."

"Are all parselmouths descendants of yours?"

"Yes," Salazar answered unequivocally. "It is a family trait engineered by my five times great grandfather and cannot be passed on but through blood relation, even blood bonding will not pass it. You must be born with it and you must possess the ability to be able to pass it. It does not skip generations."

Harry's eyes widened at the idea that one of his parents had secretly been a parselmouth. It had to have been James unless Lily was secretly a halfblood. He pushed those thoughts from his mind for the moment. He'd try to find some books on his genealogy later – or maybe there was a potion for it. For now, he was more interested in meeting Salazar Slytherin, a man he'd come to greatly admire in the short time since he'd entered the Wizarding World. "The rest of the Founders have portraits in the Great Hall. Why don't you?"

"Because I have no desire to spend my time around the ignorant heathens and apostates accepted into the other Houses," he sneered with deep disgust at the mere thought. So, apparently Slytherin was as prejudiced as the legends purported him to be.

"What, ah… What do you mean by heathens and apostates? Are you talking about muggleborns?" Harry asked cautiously.

Slytherin's mouth tightened unhappily, "Please, tell me you are not as ignorant as the last of my heirs to come through here."

"Um…"

Salazar rolled his eyes. "At least you've found me in your first year. I'll have more time to get you properly educated. Get inside," he demanded.

Harry was just about to ask where he was meant to go when the portrait swung open just like the one guarding Gryffindor Tower, revealing a short corridor leading into a larger room of some kind.

Rhast darted inside first, no doubt to make sure it was safe, because he was awesome like that. Harry followed cautiously. It took only moments inside to recognize a potions store room. The impressive part was the mostly full shelves. Either these were some really impressive preservation wards, or this place was maintained by each heir that made it in here. Or both, really. Who knew how long it had been since the last heir had come through here. The room was very large and had what he thought was probably a very impressive selection, though he didn't know enough about potions yet to be completely sure.

On the other side of the room was a door that led into, not surprisingly, a potions laboratory. It looked many times more impressive than the classroom they brewed in, but that wasn't surprising. Salazar was known for having been a potions master, so it made sense that he'd have a really nice lab.

Wandering beyond the lab, he found himself in a fairly long corridor. There were three visible sets of double doors.

"This one smells of leather and paper, master," Rhast offered of the nearest set.

Harry swallowed and reached for the serpentine handles. He eased one door open and promptly pulled in a shocked breath that the sight of the vast library. It was massive – probably half the size of the main library upstairs.

"My collection."

The voice startled Harry, though he recognized Salazar's hiss. He stepped forward slowly until he could clearly see the larger portrait hung on the wall above a fireplace.

"Of course, I didn't have nearly this many in my life. I had no need to gather copies of those books already in the main library. These books are rare, controversial, and generally 'Dark'," he sneered the word as though it had personally insulted him. "Those of my descendants who have made it in here have all added to my collection. This room contains many books that have been deliberately destroyed by the 'Light' heavy governments that have passed over the last thousand years. This room holds the truth of our history that those in power have tried to erase from our memories.

"These were my quarters when I lived. After my wife died, when I was preparing to leave Hogwarts for good, I sealed my rooms away from the rest of the castle to ensure that the blind fools I had once called friends did not disturb my collection, and to ensure that my children and their children and so on, would always have this at their disposal.

"There is a safeguard to ensure that none of my descendants get greedy," he added with a small sneer that suggested at least some of them had been. "To properly add anything to this library, there is a rune sequence that must be inscribed in it. Once a book has been added, however, it cannot be removed from here. Ever. Not even by the one who added it. You can, of course, copy anything that you wish. The runes that make the book a part of this library also happen to countermand the protection charms that prevent the copying of books. Despite the passage of a thousand years, I have yet to see any literary protection charms that can survive the process. I would, however, advise caution in this. If you are caught with books that were banned and believed wiped out centuries ago, there will be questions. Questions that you will find yourself quite unable to answer regardless of your personal inclinations on the subject."

Harry nodded, doing his best to commit all of this to memory.

"Now, how many languages do you speak?" Salazar demanded.

"Uh… English and Parseltongue," Harry admitted somewhat sheepishly.

Salazar sighed despondently for a moment before continuing in an even firmer voice, "We will correct that. Latin is absolutely vital to any magus. It was our language millennia before some fool shared it with the Forsaken. Old English, as it is called now, should be simple enough for you to pick up. Those will do to begin, and I expect you to be fluent in both by the end of the year."

Harry frowned at the demands. He really didn't like anyone telling him what he was going to do. He'd been looking after himself as long as he could remember, and he was bloody good at it. He had to consider the fact that this was Salazar Slytherin, however, a man he had no reason to less than respect. There was also the fact that he positively ached to learn everything about everything, and Salazar was very clearly offering to teach him. For the chance to have Slytherin himself as his tutor and this library as a resource… Well, he'd do a lot worse than suck up his pride.

So, he only nodded to the portrait with a respectful, "Yes, sir."

Salazar smirked at him as though he knew exactly what Harry was thinking. "Good. Now have a seat. I'm going to give you your first uncensored history lesson. There's no need to take notes today, but in the future I expect you to come down here prepared for it. Once you've learned the basics, I'll set you loose on the library, though there isn't much of it that will do you a lot of good until you've at least learned Latin. Until a few centuries ago it was the official first language of Wizarding Britain."

Harry took a seat in one of the surprisingly comfortable chairs situated behind the large study table, which was situated to face the portrait in a way that made Harry suspect that this was often used as a classroom in which the portrait could teach his heirs.

"The story that I tell you today will be the abridged version. I want you to understand the point without spending hours on the details, so you will listen without interrupting and we will go over your questions after. Also, remember that everything I tell you can be verified by the books in this library, some of which are many thousands of years old.

"Now, this story begins 20,000 years ago. At this time, there was no such thing as what you know to be 'muggles'. Humans were born of Magick. We were her most blessed children, honored above all her other creations with the sharpest intellect and most complete grasp of her gift. For more than five hundred years, humans flourished. We did not, of course, all see eye to eye. It is the way of humanity to covet and to quarrel. Over time, we divided, and built two cities. One city was built in a massive valley, around a lake, and it was called Kreshal. Another city was built in the plains, along a river, and it was called Muggal.

"For hundreds of years, the cities coexisted more or less peacefully. And then, one day, it happened. No one knew exactly what happened, but one day, Muggal just… collapsed. All of the magic in the city failed at the same time. All of the magi of the city lost their magic. The city, having been constructed with more magic than anything, could not be sustained in the absence of their enchantments. The people of Muggal – those that survived the collapse – became the first humans without magic."

Harry flinched when Rhast coiled around his body and chair twice before settling his head on Harry's shoulder where he could observe the painting. The snake had wandered away almost immediately after they'd entered the room, doubtlessly to continue exploring. Harry had been so captivated by Salazar's story that he'd not been paying any attention to his familiar's approach. Either Rhast was exercising rare tact or he'd heard Salazar say that he didn't want to be interrupted because he said nothing as he settled himself.

Salazar's eyes followed the snake, but he didn't let it interrupt the flow of his story. "The first thing the Muggals did was to travel to Kreshal and beg for aid in determining what had happened to them and how to fix it.

"They were not… well-received. The people of Kreshal were terrified that they, themselves, could be next. The Muggals were ordered to make their camp far from Kreshal's gates. The magi did offer food and potions to the Muggals, who you must understand were nearly helpless, having never even begun to imagine how to survive without their magic. The magi refused to get too close to them or use their magic on them. While the city of Kreshal almost unanimously went into a state of fervent prayer in hopes of avoiding the Muggals' fate, they also searched for an answer as to what had happened, how, and why.

"The answer came from the diviners – those who could commune with Magick herself. It had a much different connotation then than it does today, sadly. Though they did not know precisely what had happened, they did learn that the Muggals had displeased Magick very greatly and for that they were punished. It is believed that they had tried to enslave Magick herself, though I have been unable to find anything confirming it.

"And so the Muggals were banished from the vicinity of Kreshal and forced to muddle their way through learning to live without magic on their own. Roughly eighty percent of them perished within the first year, but the remainder persevered and learned to live without magic. They learned, but they did not cease to covet what they'd lost. While the majority of the survivors had resigned themselves to their lot in life within a few generations, there was a sect that did not. They scavenged everything that they could from Muggal and taught their children about what they had lost. They groomed them to be fanatics.

"Over time, it is suggested that the Muggals tried many times to regain their magic. Eventually, about ten generations after they were forsaken, they were partially successful in one of their attempts. There was a magus that helped them. It is believed that he was kidnapped as a baby and brainwashed to their heathen dogma.

"They conducted a ritual using a powerful convergence of Ley Lines and an incredibly intricate array of runes. The ritual required the sacrifice of thirteen magical infants, stolen from their cribs. Over the course of the ritual, the infants were slaughtered, their blood poured directly from their bodies over thirteen Muggal women, who were even then fertilized by thirteen Muggal men. Nine months later, in the course of another ritual, the infants were cut from their mother's wombs. The mothers were the sacrifices the powered that ritual.

"Those infants were the first thirteen 'muggleborns' to exist. When the Magi discovered what had happened, they were enraged. They slaughtered every member of the cult they could find, but the infants were hidden too well and were never found. It is believed that all muggleborns today are in some way descendant of those first thirteen. After that, the magi did everything in their power to erase all evidence of Muggal and all memory of magic that the Forsaken yet possessed, including the memories of stories passed down through generations. Eventually, of course, the magi would move freely among the Forsaken again, but the Muggals themselves never remembered that they had once been one people.

"Sadly, the cult was never entirely wiped out, though they did learn to be much more careful – to hide from the magi. They have had many names throughout history, their most recent to my knowledge, the Illuminati in the late eighteenth century. Tom, my last heir to come down here, believed that this cult was becoming a very real threat to the magical world. He believed the Muggals were becoming advanced enough in their technology that a cult of them intent on our destruction could actually prove a danger to us. After some of the books he installed here in the library, I must say that I am beginning to fear the same.

"That is why you will learn our true history. While our Light dominated government is content to pretend no danger exists, there remains a group of Muggals who have not forgotten our history and are still seeking to destroy us. We who have the power they covet."

When Salazar did not continue, but stared at Harry patiently, he figured it was time for him to ask questions. "It's horrible the way the muggleborn began," Harry agreed, "but why do you hate their descendants so much?"

Salazar smirked humorlessly, "Oh, that is the truly horrific part, my young heir. You see, the Muggals' ritual did not simply return magic to them. That is impossible. The Forsaken cannot develop their own magic. They stole ours." He paused for a moment, his face grave, letting that statement sink in. "For every heathen born from the loins of the Forsaken, one of our children are born with an empty magical core."

Harry's mouth fell open as the tragedy of that fact sunk in. Squibs. For every muggleborn, there was a squib born. He could feel the wrongness of it right through his bones. Magical people born without access to their magic because some muggle child had gotten it. A muggle child who would have been perfectly content going through their lives completely ignorant of magic. Instead, a magical child was born into the magical world without it. Unable to ever fit into his own world.

"In the second half of my life, I did some research into recovering the magic from a muggleborn in order to restore the magical core of a squib," Salazar went on after a long pause to allow Harry to appreciate the situation. "I was never successful, but I still believe it to be possible."

"…but," Harry frowned after a moment of silence. "If you hated muggleborns so much, how come you built this school where they'd be taught?"

Salazar sneered and looked away as though it wasn't a topic he liked. "I didn't hate them," he admitted reluctantly. "I was raised in an old Dark family. I grew up knowing the truth about the origin of the heathens, but my family did not hate them. We hated how they came about, but did not blame the children descended from that ancient ritual. That rosy disposition lasted until my wife birthed my second son a squib. My beautiful, brilliant, perfect child should have grown into a powerful wizard. But he didn't. My son was deprived of magic while some unworthy Forsaken spawn was out there growing up with my boy's magic. Some heathen animal would grow into the powerful wizard that my son should have been. He'd probably attend Hogwarts, where we would teach him to use the magic he stole from my son so that he could come into adulthood and live a life as though he were as good as us. As though he was better than my son."

Harry watched the man rant, his gray eyes burning red in his fury. It was easy to see the madness in him at the moment. When he became very angry, he kept switching between English and Parseltongue as though he didn't even notice what he was doing. Then he paused, took a breath, and turned very, very cold.

"I refused to see it happen. When the others proved unable to appreciate my perspective – none of their children were born without their magic! – I left. My Callea had died by then, but her sister looked after my children. I left Hogwarts, and I tracked down every heathen child within two years of my son's age and I slaughtered them. They didn't deserve to live with the gifts that didn't belong to them."

Harry blinked and stared, wide-eyed at his ancestor. He'd tracked down and killed who knew how many toddlers and infants in cold blood. He really wasn't sure how to feel about that. Part of him sympathized with the man, and he honestly couldn't summon that much emotion over the dead muggleborn kids. He didn't see the point in killing for its own sake, but that wasn't what Salazar was talking about. Harry never really planned on having kids of his own, but if he did… If his kid – his family – was hurt like that… Harry could honestly see himself doing the same thing.

"Have I frightened you, child?" Salazar inquired, and Harry looked up to see the portrait looking entirely composed and calm once again.

Harry shook his head thoughtfully. "No. I was just thinking that I'd have probably done the same," he admitted. It was amazingly liberating to be able to say something like that aloud to someone. Well, someone besides Rhast, who really didn't understand why anyone might have a problem with something of that sort.

A rather malicious smile curled the portrait's lips. "What is your name, child?"

"Harry Potter."


Lord Voldemort watched through the eyes of his host as Harry Potter appeared right through what looked like a solid stone wall. With a brief, discreet glance around that failed to locate Quirrell's disillusioned form, the boy turned and strode smoothly away toward the Great Hall, where breakfast would be served in a few minutes.

Twice before Voldemort had caught Potter in a place that highly suggested he'd just stepped out of one of the Parseltongue passageways, but this was the first time he was certain of it. It seemed incredible, but there was no way to doubt what he had just seen. Harry Potter was a Parselmouth. Not only that, but he'd already discovered and begun to use the passageways. The only way that was possible was if the boy had a pet snake. No other way could he have divined their locations this quickly and still managed to be in contention for the top score in every class.

It must have been a tiny thing for it to have avoided notice. Well, tiny or…

But, no. Surely, not. There was no way that Potter of all people…

Except that, of course, there was. Of course. If Potter was a Parselmouth… But why on Earth was he a Gryffindor, then?

This would certainly bear more investigation, he was certain, but not just yet. He didn't have the time to let himself get distracted. He had to focus on the Stone first. Later, after he'd secured it, then he could learn more about the boy who "vanquished" him.

Maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't have to be enemies.


Author's Note: It's short. I know. Sorry. Rest assured, this is not the beginning of a trend (hopefully), but rather a fluke.

Yes, I know Slytherin's Library is somewhat cliché, but it's actually part of the plot and not just a handy device to give Harry access to Dark Arts books.

As always, huge thanks to all of my reviewers. You guys keep my muse fed and happy.

***Next Chapter: More Hermione, Neville, and Fluffy!***