Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I'm sure it wouldn't be such a hit story, since I suck at making actual plotlines. In other words, no, I'm not the billionaire J. K. Rowling, and I don't own Harry Potter.

This is just a little story of mine that I randomly started typing up to alleviate my boredom. It's my first story, but be as harsh as you want with reviews – it helps me get better when people give me honest tips. I might in the future make a real story out of this if I feel the desire to, but, at the moment, it'll remain as one-shot.

-S-e-r-p-e-n-t-

I hate them.

No… hatred isn't an adequate enough description. I despise them. I want them to suffer, to drown in their own vomit, to bleed from their eyes. I always did have such a good imagination when it came to their torment. My utter loathing of them only helps.

Ah… loathing. Now that was a word that could suffice. Yes, I loath them.

Stupid muggles. If only Godric could see me now.

The thought made me pause, pondering the strange word. Godric was already a familiar one, usually accompanied by the derisive thought of Gryffindor. Golden blonde hair, handsome masculine features, and red robes. Sometimes a lion.

But muggle… that is a new one. I'll have to write it in the notebook once I filch another pen. The last one broke after I landed on it when Vernon bodily threw me in this wretched cupboard.

But back to the notebook. It's something I've been working on since I was four. Roughly two years now. It contains the most precious things that I own: my memories.

Well, not exactly my memories. It's difficult to explain – I don't even fully understand it. They're distant, vague… different. They're mine… but they're not. No need to try and rationalize it, though. I figured that out the last time I obsessed over the theory. I still have the marks from when I accidentally spilled the coffee all over Vernon. I swear, it's been three weeks and I still have those bloody bruises. Stupid brute.

Going off topic. I have to stop rambling.

I've named the memories my 'otherself'. I know what you're thinking: freak. Weirdo. Escaped mental patient, even. Petunia certainly would agree with you. I wouldn't blame you. But I don't look at it as 'freakishness' (I'll never understand why Vernon is so fond of that word). I like to view it as being… eccentric. Magical, even. It reminds me of those old Egyptian tales that I've read in the library at school. Reincarnation and what-not. And it doesn't feel strange, or abnormal, or… or freakish. In fact, it feels right. So very right. It means I'm better than them. I'm better than those disgusting, filthy, muggles.

There it is again. What a strange little word… Must be some sort of insult. Otherself doesn't seem to like muggles. And if the Dursleys are muggles, then I don't think I much like the sound of them myself. Otherself always was the intelligent one. He knows so many things…

And so many people. Rowena, Helga, Godric – only a few of the names popping up in my head, those three certainly being the most prominent. I personally like Rowena the best. She has a softer feel to her name whenever I – er, rather, otherself – mentions her. Rowena Ravenclaw. Deep brown hair, dark blue, and an unlikely mix of stern yet motherly features. At least, I think it's motherly - I'm not exactly the expert when it comes to experience on that part. Sometimes I think she rather fancied otherself – or he fancied her. Or maybe both. Whatever.

Helga's nice, too. She's blond, and smiling, and rather chubby, but in a very fitting way. She's fussy and demanding, like a mother hen clucking over her chicks. I like her. Otherself thinks she's acceptable – the bloody git's always so uptight and formal. Or maybe that's just me. Or maybe both of us.

I'll never understand how this 'reincarnation' thing goes. Annoying as hell.

Then there's Godric. Godric is… well, he's Godric. Charming, boisterous, courageous, and reckless. An utterly annoying prat that you couldn't help but love – in a completely unplatonic way, or course. Otherself isn't like that. Godric's more of a best friend kind of guy. Easy to let your guard down around, easy talk to, and easy to want to smack him upside the head for that bloody idiocy of his. Good old Godric.

Good old backstabbing Godric.

But that doesn't matter now, really, since I killed him and everything. He betrayed me, I kill him, and voila – forget and forgive, and all that rot.

No, no, no, wait a minute. Otherself killed him, not me. I really must stop mixing us up all the time. He did it. Him (Us? Me?).

There always was another name that came up every now and then, but a bit rarer than those three. It was… calmer. Darker. Familiar. Oh, so familiar. Different from those three, a bit static-y and distorted, but firmly there. Almost like a puzzle piece that didn't really belong.

Salazar Slytherin.

Now, who in the world would be torturous enough to name their son Salazar? Oh, the horror.

Yes, that's me – breaking the whole big dramatic and unveiling moment with my rather moronic humor.

Like I said, Salazar is always a tad bit darker than the others. Not evil; not really. Just… shadow-y is the best description I can come up with at the moment. No, he's not some shade of gray – whoever spends enough to time to ponder the philosophy of the nature of black and white and how they inevitably mix to create the much debated shades of gray has too much time on their hands and can sod off. To be thoroughly blunt, I really don't care. Screw philosophy.

Once again, I'm rambling. I must be hungry; Vernon's kept me locked up in here for a new record of three days. That whole randomly appearing on the roof thing must have really pissed him off.

Back to Salazar. I think that might be who otherself is – who I am. Now that I really, truly think about it, it sort of makes sense. There is no otherself. It's me. It's just me. Harry Potter… Salazar Slytherin.

Harry Salazar Potter Slytherin.

…ew. No. I'll stick with Harry.

I can hear Petunia's screechy voice now, and huffy pounding footsteps steadily drawing closer to my humble abode. Vernon, no doubt, coming to give me a few 'words of wisdom' (or stupidity, in his case). Good thing I figured the whole big mystery out now. I won't have much time on my hands later until I get busted doing something abnormal again. He'll probably cuff me about the head a couple times, shove me into the wall, and scream at me until his voice goes hoarse. Then, predictably, Petunia will come and snap at me to weed the garden or some other utterly menial task. Routine life. Routine, boring, stupid life.

But not for long. I can feel it. It's coming – I'm not quite sure what, but I know it's there. Growing. Longing to burst free. I could feel it when I turned Mr. Henderson's toupee blue, and I could feel it when I appeared on the roof. Whatever it is, it's coming, and I know that I'm going to be better than them. I've already waited five years already. A couple more won't hurt.

Not long now…

-S-e-r-p-e-n-t-

Harry may seem a bit ooc here, but that's because of the whole him and Salazar's spirit merging thing. This is different from all the other 'Harry is Salazar reincarnated' fics I've read, because usually Salazar has completely taken over Harry. In this one, they kind of… merge. If you've ever heard of Kurama from Yu Yu Hakusho, you'd understand what I'm rambling on about.

Love it? Like it? Think it's horrible and deserves to burn? Whatever! Just review.