Rowena: I loved that name and was devoted to the person. My body craved her at every possible moment of my being and it was hard to hide it from Godric or Helga. Very hard. When your body needs something, it does not give you a chance to resist, although many a time I was reluctant to even try.

She was very beautiful, living up to her name, Slender and fair. Her skin was the palest of beige, contrasting with her hair, which was the colour of night. It fell about her face delicately when she left it down, though she often pulled it into a twisted plait at the back of her head. Many a time I begged her to leave it down, telling her how beautiful she looked when she was like that. She always seemed flattered, but pulled it back anyway. It did, however, leave me in clear view of the nape of her neck, attracting me even more to the prospect of kissing it.

She did love me for a while, this I am sure of, but I did not last. The prospect of having brave Godric protecting her instead of me, a cowardly wizard with no clear intentions seemed to be overpowering to her. Sly she called me more then once, sometimes a joke, but as an insult when we fought. We did only fight once and that was the last time. I was allowed nowhere near her when she went to Godric. He was very protective of her, and his hatred and distrust of me was enough to keep me at the opposite end of the room to her.

You cannot know how much that tortured me. His smug look as they jumped away from each other whenever I came in, and the hatred planted in her green eyes by Godric was enough to drive anyone mad. I stayed away from them as much as possible, becoming a recluse in my small room. I made it myself without any of them knowing it was there. They knew I went somewhere though, Helga calling it my Chamber of Secrets. Rather a pathetic name if you ask me, but it stuck with the rest of them, and was known as that by anyone who came to visit whilst I was in there.

The day she announced to the rest of us that she was having Godric's child I did explode and hit out at him. She was the one that stopped me from killing him. Weak and powerless against her pleading eyes, I stopped in the middle of my incantation, dropped him and stormed off to my chamber to fume by myself.

I stayed in there for longer than anyone knew. I think they forgot about me, and never came looking, or if they did they were not clever enough to find the entrance. And even if the had found the small snake engraved on the copper pipe, they would never have been able to enter, none of them having the gift of Parseltongue.

I take that back. She was clever enough to find that tap, but it was not her fault that she could never get down to apologise. I am sure she wanted to apologise, but maybe it was better that she never found me, as I may have killed her. My wrath had taken over every reasonable thought in my memory and I cursed the day that she was born. Friday, July 13th. All Friday 13th's are now cursed because of my caveman interior. Even the muggles know that it is cursed and fear every time it comes. The thousands of unemployed wizards and witches all over the country now sell talismans, and they make a fair profit.

I did come out eventually, not being able to live on rats, and too utterly stupid to even think of using my wand. She was most definitely pregnant, and it showed. Badly. My deadly scowl, which I am quite proud of, never left my face after that. Mere twitches at the corners of my mouth were the only difference, and they only came when watching my basilisk play. He was young then, a mere two years of age, and was still learning the basics of hunting. His eyes not being deadly enough yet, I was able to watch, though it brought little amusement. I had spent years breeding basilisks for my friends, and they all thought they were brilliant, before they found out that their stare was deadly. When I asked them how they found out, all I received was a blank look and an unblinking stare. Probably because they were dead by then.

She had them in the end. I say them, as there were two. Twins, by the names of Brenna and Laveda. Brenna was an exact replica of her mother and again lived up to her name, raven maid, dark-haired. Laveda on the other hand was a redhead, with her mother's green eyes. She was uncommonly pretty, and I left her to her own devices, but I cursed Brenna because she looked like her mother. Her descendants would all be male's, until one was a female. This child would be in Gryffindor, and she would capture the heart of a true Slytherin and change him. He would learn to love her, until he became all the qualities that I wasn't. All the qualities that Rowena didn't find in me, bravery, courage and truthfulness. His intentions would become immediately clear to her, and if she was not satisfied, I would have failed, and I swear, then I will stop loving her. Then I will stop needing her.

The first part of my plan went well. Everyone agreed that we needed something to choose the houses for the pupils at our school, after we were dead. I suggested Godric's hat, which got a shocked reaction, but nevertheless they all agreed. Fools. I offered to charm the hat so it could choose the houses, and while doing so I put a smaller charm on it to make it know when Brenna's first female descendant came to this school and she would be in Gryffindor.

I scare myself with my own cleverness, sometimes. Now all I have to do is wait for that day when she comes. I will find a way, in someone no one will think of. I have always like the name Dumbledore and my brother was named Albus. Yes, Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts.

I, Salazar Slytherin promise that I will get my revenge.

*

Downstairs they raged. Hermione could hear their voices – her father's loud and blunt, like a club, and her mother's, high and jabbering, just like it always was before she cried. A last cutting remark from her father, and then the door was slammed. The sound of a car revving up and then driving away. Fear flashed through her brain – fear for her father driving like that, dangerous and out of control.

She could hear her mother sobbing in the living room. Hermione could imagine her from all the other times, sitting in a hunched position and crying into a saturated tissue, the sobs racking her body as she desperately tried not to wake her daughter. Cautiously, as if someone was watching her, Hermione slipped out of her bed and went to stand in the threshold of her room. She couldn't go down there. Not after that last time. The image of her mother, almost blue with bruises and a gushing nose bleed would haunt her forever.

But she had to go down – had to comfort her mother, tell her that her father was a pig and not worth her tears. Tell her to forget him, and to hope he never comes back. A deep hate boiled inside her as she thought of her father. She only feared his driving because he might kill an innocent person. She couldn't care less if he died.

Quickly, Hermione strode back to her bed and picked up the box of tissues next to it, and then went down the stairs slowly. She didn't rush, half wanting to hurry back upstairs and hide her head in the pillow and wait for sleep to come. Half of her hated having to comfort her mother in the dead hours of the morning. But the other half didn't mind it – and it was this half that usually prevailed. That half didn't mind going to down to help her mother through it.  

Hermione hesitated in front of the living room door. Apprehension twisted her stomach in a knot. Would she find her mother like she was before? Would she be hurt more? Less? Trying to ignore the questions that plagued her, she pushed open the door.

Her mother was sitting on the sofa, but she seemed alright. No serious bruises or cuts. Hermione walked over and sat next to her, pulled the crumpled and soggy tissue out of her mother's hands, and pushing another, dryer one, into her fumbling fingers, then put an arm around her shoulders. She was used to this, used to her mother crying into her shoulder, used to her mother pouring out problems to her.

For how long they stayed in that one position, Hermione didn't know. All thoughts were wiped out of her head when her mother's voice, calm now, and quiet, broke through the muffling silence.

"I think I should tell you now. Yes, I should tell you. I just…don't know how to put it."

"You know you can tell me anything." Hermione hated these conversations. She wanted it to be the other way round, with her fumbling over words, and her mother as the calm, collected figure that you poured all your problems out to. She hated saying any words that sounded as if she was the mother, as if she was the one giving her mother advice about the world. How could she give sound advice? She knew little about the world as of yet.

"Your father…he hates me ever since he found out…ever since I told him about…Hermione, your not his daughter."

*

Disclaimer: As of yet, I don't own a thing, but I have contacts, so you never know. I do, however, own the plot, and it is mine for the keeping. Unless you ask very nicely.

Well, prologues are allowed to be short. I promise I will do a bit of explaining next chapter.

Redstrawberry900.