A/N — Thank you, Bex, for beta'ing :D

Part One: Origins

Chapter One

Slytherin was born into a struggling time; both food and money were in short supply, and illness was commonplace.

"Mama, no," Salazar groans, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and screwing up his face, even as his mother lifts him from their bed and eases his limp arms through the sleeves of his tunic. He had managed to ignore the loud knocks at the door, and the hurried conversation that followed, but this even Salazar couldn't sleep through.

She makes soft, soothing noises as she works, though she ignores his complaints. "Quickly," she whispers, "we need to leave."

The fog of sleep has lifted, at least a little, and he's more aware of his surroundings; of his mother's medicine bag packed and waiting by the door, and she's already in her travelling cloak.

"I'm big now, Mama," he says, even as he slips his boots onto his feet. "I can stay by myself."

She takes a step back, looking him over with a critical eye. "Yes, you are big," she concedes with a nod, and Salazar feels hope swell in his chest. "You cannot stay by yourself."

"But —"

"Now put on your cloak," she says, running her fingers gently through his hair, "the sun has not yet risen, and it will be cold." With a petulant scowl, Salazar does as he's told, stomping across the small cottage to retrieve his cloak from the chest by the door. "And," she adds, "since you're so big, you can help your mother by carrying her bag."

With a put upon sigh, Salazar hefts the bag, stumbling slightly as he adjusts to the weight of it, and waits for his mother by the door.

Outside, the cold air bites at his skin, stinging his nose and ears, and he huddles into his mother's side. She wraps her cloak around him, and he clings to her side, his fingers already cramping around the handle of the bag.

"Mama, it's dark," he whines, pressing his nose into her side.

"Yes," she says, "but someone needs my help."

With that, the discussion comes to a close, and the only sounds are that of their footsteps and Salazar's ragged breathing. Even within the confines of his mother's cloak, each exhale sends a small cloud of vapour into the air, but the frigid wind serves to wake him fully.

"Where're we going?" he asks, adjusting his grip on the bag once more.

"It's not far." It's not a straight answer, but Salazar nods anyway; at least, with any luck, he'll be inside soon.

But then, Salazar has never been particularly lucky.

His mother's footsteps come to an abrupt halt; they're nearing the far end of the village now, where the cottages begin to fade into forest land, and the trees cast an oppressive shadow over the last few houses.

Salazar swallows thickly.

Rapping loudly on the door of the nearest cottage, his mother gently takes her bag from his numb fingers and unwinds her cloak from around him.

A harried looking woman opens the door before his mother has even finished knocking, ushering her inside quickly.

"Wait out here," she whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of Salazar's head, and then the door is closing and Salazar is left alone.

It's not that he wanted to help — his mother had brought him inside with her once, and he'd had to hold back tears the entire time — but now the forest feels like it's drawing closer. The creatures his mother tells him of before bed feel less mystical and more terrifying when he's left to face them alone.

He wraps his cloak tighter around himself, pulling up the hood, and huddles on the ground next to the door. Knees drawn to his chest, and arms wrapped around his legs, Salazar closes his eyes and tries to focus on abating the shivers that wrack his body, rather than on the forest nearby.

It doesn't really help.

All manner of creatures lurk within the dark confines of the trees, and Salazar gets the distinct impression he's being watched. He knows it's all in his imagination, of course, but that doesn't help him to feel more at ease.

He buries his face further into his knees, whispering vague snippets of lullabies his mother used to sing while she cooked. And, eventually, he falls asleep.

.oOo.

The brightening of the sun wakes him as it turns the inside of his eyelids a bright orange that he can't ignore. His mother still hasn't returned, but at least the warmer air of the morning has somewhat lessened his shivers, and he finds himself relaxing into the wall of the cottage. The forest still feels like a threat, but it's easier to ignore now, with the oncoming day.

He stretches his legs out in front of him, groaning as his cramped muscles are given some form of relief, and blinks lazily as he looks around.

The day starts early for most residents of the village, so Salazar isn't surprised to see only two women heading towards the market, baskets hanging on bent arms, as the talk in hushed voices.

He wonders if perhaps he should head down to the market for his mother; she's still busy working within the cottage, and he has no idea how long that'll take. They'll need food, he reasons, his stomach growling at the thought. It wouldn't be the first time she'd sent him on errands.

It's only when he's pushed himself to his feet, his legs feeling numb and shaky after being still for so long, that he remembers she hadn't left him with any coins.

With a defeated sigh, he leans against the side of the house, resigned to waiting for his mother for however long that might take.

The two women are out of view now, and the eerie stillness this far in the outskirts of the village makes Salazar feel nervous. He lives near the centre with his mother, giving her easy access to most of her patients, and he isn't used to such stillness in the mornings.

That feeling of being watched has returned again, and his eyes are inexplicably drawn back to the depths of the forest.

Standing up straight, he takes a slow step towards the first line of trees. Everything is so muffled, so quiet, this far to the edge of the village, and his vision blurs for going so long without blinking. He finds he can't pull his attention from the darkness between the trees, and his breath comes in short, ragged gasps as he takes another step forwards. Then another.

There's a sound from within, only just loud enough for him to hear, but he can't quite tell what it is. He takes another few steps forward, wondering if he should perhaps take a closer look, despite his heart beating rapidly in his chest. The sound is rhythmic and steady, a low rumble in the air, and he thinks it might be —

"Salazar!" His mother's shout startles him, but it pulls his attention from the forest. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Nowhere," he says quickly, turning to face his mother and looking up at her with the most innocent expression he can muster.

"Good," she says. "You know you aren't to venture into the forest alone."

"I know."

He would push further — he hadn't really intended to go into the forest, after all — but she looks tired, a thin sheen of sweat still clinging to her forehead. Her hands are scrubbed clean, a raw red that stands out against the rest of her skin, but there's still traces of grime on her clothing where her apron hadn't covered. It's damp, as if an attempt to clean if off had been made, so it must have been a lot worse before she'd come outside; Salazar tries not to think about it.

"Shall we," she begins, extending her arm, when the rumble from the forest becomes louder.

Salazar flinches back, hurrying to stand behind his mother, clutching her stained skirt in his fingers.

She rests her hand atop his head as a carriage comes into view, and Salazar relaxes now that his imaginings of monsters have been proven unfounded, but he still doesn't step out from behind her.

The carriage is undoubtedly worth more than the riches of the entire village put together, and that thought alone is enough to cause Salazar to sweat with nerves. One of two men steps from the back of the carriage and approaches them, whilst the other remains, posture impossibly stiff.

His clothing is just as extravagant as the carriage, but even Salazar, with his limited understanding of the rich, can tell that the man is not wealthy. There is a subdued nature to his expression, a stiffness to his gait that implies he is simply following orders, and when he bows to Salazar's mother, he bends with a practiced ease that tells of years of servitude.

"Ma'am," he says with another, smaller bow; he addresses Salazar's mother with a stiff formality that Salazar isn't used to hearing, not in a village where everyone knows each other so well. "Are you the healer of this village?"

"I am," she says, dipping into a small curtsey and dislodging Salazar's hold on her skirt.

"Your services are needed," the man says, and the way he speaks gives Salazar the impression his mother's help has already been taken as a given. Salazar allows the man's voice to fade into the background, instead staring at the other stranger, who still hasn't moved.

Salazar is busy planning ways to break the man's concentration — so far, hurling a rock is the best he can come up with, but that's sure to get him into trouble — when he hears his mother speak: "My supplies, they're running low. I need to return to my —"

"No need," the man says, "there will be supplies waiting for you. And," he adds, "should you need more than the household can already provide, someone will retrieve them for you."

His mother seems hesitant still, and more than a little flustered, but she nods in agreement. For as long as Salazar can remember, his mother has never denied a request for help.

They are ushered into the carriage with another bow, and the door is closed behind them.

Salazar has never been inside a carriage before — never even seen one before — but the cramped interior is not what he had expected. The fabrics are soft and obviously expensive, showing none of the signs of wear common to everything amongst the village, but they're dark and confining, and the curtains covering the small windows only serve to enhance this.

The entire back end of the carriage dips, which Salazar assumes is the second man returning to his post, and then, with the crack of a whip, they begin to move.

"Why is no one in here?" Severus whispers; he knows no one else will be able to hear him, but there's something about the extravagance of everything that makes him want to be as unobtrusive as possible.

"Because," his mother says, carding her fingers gently through his hair, "there is no cause for someone so wealthy to seek us out himself." Salazar blinks up at her, confused. "He will meet us within his household, I'm sure," she clarifies.

Salazar nods, curling into his mother's side as the carriage moves over the bumpy road through the forest. The padded seats provide some comfort, but the jerky movements leave Salazar feeling vaguely nauseous and his sleep had been fitful at best.

"Rest," his mother whispers, wrapping her arm around him. She closes her own eyes. "There is nothing to do until we arrive."

With a stifled yawn, Salazar tips his chin down to his chest and burrows further into her side.

.oOo.

The movement of the carriage changes, awakening Salazar. His mother is holding the curtain back, peering through the narrow gap she's created, but she turns when she hears him stir, letting the curtain flutter back into place.

"I think we're here," she says; she isn't smiling, but her dark eyes are warm when she looks at him, and that stills any nerves he might have before they can fully form.

Salazar stretches as best he can in his seat; he still feels exhausted, but he's looking forward to being able to move around a bit.

The carriage comes to a halt.

"Mama, do we —" Salazar begins, but one of the footmen has already hopped down and is opening the door for them. His mother is offered an arm, whilst the second footman picks up her bag.

Salazar jumps down, landing with a muffled thump in a crouch that has his mother glancing at him in irritation. He stands quickly, brushing the dust off his clothes, though it does little to improve their appearance.

His mother pulls him back into her side, and together they follow the first footman towards the house, the other following with the bag.

With one last look over his shoulder, Salazar is left with the distinct impression that everything is about to change, one way or the other.