Disclaimer: Slytherin does not belong to me… this is merely an entertaining interpretation of the snaked tongued lord.

Childhood

Many years have passed since my sister Salome and I left the village of our childhood under tragic circumstances. The perfect revenge on my village would be to return and show them exactly how Salazar Slytherin made his way in the world. Those I would like to confront are probably long dead...my name forgotten the memory faded from the small country village life.

Perhaps it is better this way...

Blood heritage is strong whether mage or muggle. I was born into shame and poverty, but I refuse to feel any mortification over who I was born to be. The greatest power we hold as mortals is not who we were born as but who we grow into. I am proud of my family...some say there's nothing to be proud of. But I am wise enough to now greatness when I see it, even when it is covered in the stench of poverty.

The fact we were an old wizarding family was the least of our problems. We were cursed.

Even now my quill shakes as I write, the memories I hold of my childhood home are not pleasant ones.

I feel a smile of smug satisfaction tug relentlessly at my lips; I am now called Lord Salazar Slytherin. I want for nothing; I give orders instead of being commanded. Yet my life started as a lowly peasant.

I close my eyes and I can almost see the one room hut we lived in. A small fire sat in the middle of a dirt covered floor; there was only one door and two little windows. Two small straw fill pallets with moth eaten blankets one each for my sister and I.

As outsiders and magical misfits, we were not readily welcomed into the village. Instead our hut was situated near a stinking horrible bog. The bog is a terrible place to raise a family, sickness was more likely to afflict us there.

Why? We were different. And the stupid muggles thought we were cursed.

My poor father, Jarl Slytherin was the community's undertaker. He was the devil's messenger according to the muggles. His employment dealt with cold, unfeeling death and as village mythology would have you believe that death's inevitable stains would never wash away. We were cursed, tainted with death.

He was good man, my father, kind and wise beyond his education. He taught my older sister Salome and I all the practical day to day magic he could.

I can almost hear you say. Why would a talent wizard live in poverty and work as an undertaker? Simple answer: war.

Europe was being strangled by the war in the 'Holy Land'. Tens of thousands sort fame and glory in Jerusalem and thousands found their deaths. It was a pointless sacrificial war; a waste of human blood and a recipe for human misery. It proves what mongrels we are–the human race.

My mother, Imogene, was a healer. Many a time she was accused of witchcraft...Rightly so, she was after all a witch. But we know; you and I, witches are not evil.

It was my mother who fuelled my interest in healing; it was she who taught me all the wild plants to use in remedies.

I grew up with only my older sister Salome for company. My stubborn father would not have me work with him alongside his silent corpses and my mother would only teach me in private about the healing lore, so that I might retain some dignity to my name. Both were pointless exercises.

Salome...if I close my eyes I can still see her. She had always been a graceful tall willowy girl. She had dark eyes, framed in perfect long dark lashes and long raven black hair that remained loosened to the middle of her back. Despite her parentage, the boys of the village would fall over to have her notice them. However none of them were good enough for her.

All I ever wanted was to belong. I wanted to have friends and to be liked. But children are often very cruel beings. Evil little buggers... really. Cruel. Manipulative. Vicious. They never missed an opportunity to let me know I did not belong; that I was different from them–an outsider.

I used to hate it when my mother sent me into the village to pick up supplies without Salome. I used to wrap myself so tight in my green woolen cloak and my eyes half shut, in the hope none of the village children would see me.

It was all a game to them, a game where they were the winners and I was the undoubted looser.

I was always such a proud little thing and they knew to sneer at me was a sure way to anger me. They would make me so angry that I would lash out at them. They'd make such a commotion that the craftsmen would come out from their little shops to see what the noise was. I was sure to be beaten then. For of course I was the trouble maker, even though I was half the age of the other boys!

I remember the first time I came home from a beating (without the supplies my mother had sent me for). The first thing I remember was my shock at seeing my father look up from where he was standing at the fireplace; then I felt my shame at my muddy tear stained face.

Father was a wise man–it seemed he already knew what had conspired in the village. He beckoned me to him with a long bony finger and I remembered thinking as I shakily made my way over to him like an obedient puppy, how old and tired he looked.

"Ah, Salazar," he sighed as he pressed his thumb against my dirty cheek, "Do you know how precious you are?"

I looked at him with dumb fascination and nodded.

"I've buried many children your age." My father ruffled my hair and let out a ragged chesty cough and sat down on a pallet. "Life, my boy, cherish its lessons." He lifted me up onto his lap.

"But it hurts," I protested I could still feel the sting in my buttocks.

My father laughed dryly. "Yes. Sometimes it hurts. A wise man takes the good with the bad. What is it you have learned today?"

"Not to go into the village," I answered quickly. At the time my answer sounded quite wise. I never wanted to see the blacksmith again.

My father smiled indulgently, "You must never hide from your fears, Salazar, no matter how afraid you are. Glynn and his friends would have won then and precious boy, you do not want that."

"So I should punch Glynn harder next time?" I asked and even now I cringe at how hopeful I must have sounded.

My father sighed heavily.

"No silly," Salome said coming in from the cold and closing the hut door closed behind her. "You should not react. That way the bullies loose and you come home in one piece."

"Salome…" my father growled warningly.

Salome flashed father a winning smile. "He would have never got it by himself."

I was baffled. "You want me to pretend it isn't happening?"

My father traced the delicate line of my nose. "My boy, I think you've got it!"

I crossed my arms against my chest angrily. "But I don't want to ignore them. They called me horrible names!"

"And do you believe everything they say, Salazar?" My father said setting me down and patting my head.

Salome snorted impatiently. "Of course he does, Father."

For a long while Father gazed at both me and my sister. "Come here, too Salome, I want you to hear this too," my father beckoned my sister and he took both her and my hand in his large work calloused hands gently.

"Neither of you have anything to be ashamed of." Father's hands tightened briefly before he continued. "You were born into this world with gifts. Both of you can go beyond the life your mother and I could provide for you. No one has the right to make you feel inferior. You're both very special and besides..." Father laughed lightly, but I could see the light of fear in his eyes and I knew he was deeply afraid. "You're my children."

This was my favourite memory of my father. I was seven years old.

It only took a few severe beatings before I realized I had to be sly in dealing with my foes. They would taunt and I would walk past blithely, smiling insanely. They would grow bored and leave me alone to conduct my business in the village.

My eyes were always peeled for revenge. Glynn was my main target; he was the ring leader of the village bullies. I would wait until the opportune moment when no one would notice, the undertaker's scrawny son.

Once I tipped fine sand into one boy's bucket full of drinking water. I had hidden shoes; move objects...the hilarity of the scenes. My enemies did not know what had hit them. And they could never blame me in front of their masters. So they were punished for my pranks and I skipped home merrily, jubilant in my success.

I thought I was so very clever...