Chapter Text
30th July 1992
Just before I left the Muggle's home, I felt something break. It was a powerful magic, the likes of which I have never felt before. It was, for all I could tell, a shield charm—but one of such ancient craft that a mere Protego could never hope to match it. It was incredible to witness that level of power at all. Mark me, it had always been there, but now that it is gone, I feel its absence.
Sirius Black is freed and he and Lupin are looking into the adoption options though they said that would be undoable for now so I am living with the Squib for now.
Seal my memories, seal my soul, seal my story, seal my life.
While Dumbledore, Sirius Black, and Lucius Malfoy fought over who would be best suited to raise Harry, Salazar himself stayed out of the way in Arabella Figg’s house. They were having breakfast; Salazar had cooked pancakes with fruit and yoghurt, and they maintained small talk while they waited. Today, even though it was the day before his birthday, Salazar wasn’t really excited about it. Hermione still wasn’t talking to him, and Neville and Draco hadn’t written to him either. It was rather lonely in the house. Even with Mrs Figg offering to let him take one of her cats to keep him company, it wasn’t enough.
“I think Hermione hates me,” Salazar said, looking into his orange juice and sighing.
“I’m sorry, Harry. I thought you two were becoming great friends.” Arabella looked to be trying to comfort him, but she didn’t really know how without doing the things one usually does for children. “Do you think she’ll change her mind?”
Salazar leaned back and looked at a ginger cat that was floating a few feet off the ground to steal a strawberry. “I don’t know. She found out something about me, and I think it broke her trust.” Salazar didn’t go into it.
Hermione had found out that he was Salazar Slytherin, the evil, Muggle-hating dark wizard who wanted to purge the school of Muggle-borns. 'Purge' without context does sound a lot like 'kill', and saying, “Don’t worry, Hermione, I changed my mind about wanting to kill you,” is a lot less forgivable than, “I changed my mind about wanting you to go to my school.”
He patted the cat and fell into his own thoughts until they heard a loud CRACK in the living room. From the dining table, Arabella Figg and Salazar could see the elf.
“Dobby?” He waved a greeting.
“Harry Potter!” the elf shouted, stumbling forward and flipping over the chair he had appeared in. “It is a great honour to be able to see you again, sir! You were so kind to Dobby, sir, so very, very kind.”
Salazar wondered how poorly the Malfoys were treating Dobby if basic medical attention was worth a front flip over a chair.
“Umm, who are you?” Arabella Figg asked with a lot of amusement as one of her cats tickled his large ears.
“Dobby, ma'am. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf,” he said, bowing again to the old woman. As she went to pick up the dishes, he ran in and grabbed them. “No, no, allow me, please!” He began to gather the plates and started washing them.
“Harry, what’s going on?”
Salazar looked to her and took a deep breath. “House-elves are under a powerful curse. They were created by evil mages who saw that Muggles had slaves and, instead of thinking that it was disgusting, they thought, 'These people have too much free will,' and created a slave race.” He gestured to Dobby, who at this moment was levitating the dishes and putting them into hot water. The elf tested the water with his ear and yelped in pain.
“Not that I’m not pleased to see you again, but is there a reason you are here?”
Dobby finished cleaning and packed away the dishes. “My master ordered me to come to you and give you these.” He handed him a stack of letters. There were about twenty of them, and flicking through them, Harry noticed that they were written by Draco, Hermione, Neville, Daphne, Susan, and one from Ron Weasley.
Albus was not fighting to take Harry in for himself; he was fighting for the Weasleys to be allowed to adopt him.
“Dobby,” Salazar said, holding up the letters. “Why did you take these?”
Dobby suddenly looked nervous and dragged Harry away from Arabella Figg. They moved to Harry’s bedroom, and Dobby placed a Quieting Charm on the door.
Before he could tell Salazar anything, the elf started banging his head against the door. “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!”
Salazar wrapped the elf in his arms and dragged him away from the wood. “What are you doing? Stop, stop, stop!”
Dobby suddenly stopped; he froze—actually, Dobby was apparently under orders to obey him.
“Don’t punish yourself. You can move.”
The elf unfroze and started shaking, before bursting into tears. Whatever the Malfoys had done to this elf went far beyond even the normal amounts of apathy to their existence that others had. Helga Hufflepuff had brought elves to work in the kitchens and treated them with great respect. While the Head of Hogwarts had a lot of power over the elves, the expectation was safe and healthy working conditions. If Dobby punished himself without having even done anything yet, it meant that he was under far stricter conditions.
“Dobby wanted to warn you, sir, but Dobby can’t, so Dobby punished himself,” Salazar thought about that as he let the elf go.
“Well, Dobby, you already punished yourself, so you might as well tell me now,” Salazar reasoned.
Dobby grinned with all the joy of an elf whose existence revolved around loopholes. “You are the son of Lily Evans, sir, the witch who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”
Salazar was pleased that at least some people would rather recognise the greatness of a Muggle-born rather than credit a baby. Dobby was crying, dabbing his eyes with the pillowcase which had at least been washed since the last time they met. Perhaps it was Narcissa’s way of making accommodations for the boy who was Draco’s friend; she certainly didn’t care about the elf.
The elf was also skinny—far too skinny. Elves would eat when hungry unless ordered not to, and they were bound by unbreakable magical contracts tied to their very lives. Helga’s students had been the ones to find out that if an elf disobeyed a direct order, they would die; it was tied to their existence. Which meant that this conversation was probably the most important thing in this elf's life.
“Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later... Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts,” he said with full seriousness.
Salazar was almost going to ask why, but considering this bit of information was worth slamming the elf's ears into an oven door, it was probably too much to ask follow-up questions. Besides, Salazar could figure it out.
“I will think about it, Dobby.” This filled the elf with some relief; he apparently took that as confirmation that he will not go back to Hogwarts. That’s not what he meant, but it is what he wants Dobby to believe so he remains calm. “What are your other orders about me?”
Dobby stood up straight and started to deliver a friendly, rehearsed speech. “Draco Malfoy would like to formally invite you to Malfoy Manor for Harry Potter’s birthday on the 31st of July.” Salazar found it amusing; clearly, the elf had heard those exact words and repeated them.
“It would be my honour, Dobby. I’ll just…” But Salazar’s arm was grabbed and they disapparated.
Arabella Figg rushed in and sighed. “We need to send a message to Dumbledore right away.”
The elf apparated not to Malfoy Manor, but instead into another Muggle house. As soon as they arrived, there was a scream; Salazar saw Hermione Granger scrambling out of her bed, dropping her book. Salazar took a step back against the wall as Hermione raised her wand, pointing it at both of them in terror.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” she shouted.
“Hi, Hermione. Ummm…” He didn’t know how to explain, so he just pointed to the elf.
“Draco Malfoy would like to formally invite you to Malfoy Manor for Harry Potter’s birthday on the 31st of July,” Dobby stated, as if he hadn’t just invaded a house.
Salazar groaned and grabbed the elf by his pillowcase. “Dobby, you can’t just break into people’s houses and not explain anything.”
Dobby looked entirely innocent. “Dobby hasn’t broken anything, sir, and Dobby will explain.” He awkwardly turned while in Salazar’s grasp and smiled. “Draco Malfoy has asked me to invite Harry Potter and Hermione Granger to Malfoy Manor for a birthday party for Harry Potter. He will be turning twelve!”
Dobby grinned, but Hermione looked furious.
“Get out!” she yelled.
With a loud pop, Dobby disappeared, leaving Salazar behind.
“Damn it, DOBBY, GET BACK HERE!”
The elf did not return. While Hermione slowly lowered her wand, Salazar shifted awkwardly. “Sorry about the elf. House-elves are very literal.”
Hermione lowered her wand the rest of the way and sighed. “You never wrote back.”
Salazar reached into his bag and pulled out the letters, which were tied together with string. On top was a small note that simply read: Sorry.
Hermione rolled her eyes, then stepped forward and opened her bedroom door. “I’m not having an old man in my room. Let’s talk over some tea.”
With that, they headed downstairs to finally have a proper talk.
Hermione’s home in Hampstead Garden Suburb was lovely. It was a large, two-storey house; Hermione’s bedroom was on the first floor, along with the kitchen. While her family weren’t rich enough to have a dedicated library, there were bookshelves packed with volumes throughout the house. It felt organised and clean, yet lived-in—as if Hermione’s parents were the kind of people who weren't obsessed with keeping the place spotless, but were simply too busy to ever let it get messy.
Hermione wasn’t dressed for bed, nor did she look as though she had just woken up. It was mid-morning when Dobby had more or less kidnapped Salazar, so she was dressed in casual clothes: jeans and a pink jumper, though she clearly had no intention of leaving the house. Moving through the room, Salazar noticed photos of Hermione and her parents on display.
“You know, there is a potion used by wizarding photographers to make photos move,” he noted.
Hermione put the kettle on. “Interesting.” She sat on the kitchen stool and watched him carefully as he examined the books. “I’ve read a lot about Salazar Slytherin.”
Salazar didn’t turn around.
“History has painted him as the villain,” she continued. “Every book credits one of the other founders for a great achievement, as if he weren’t even there.”
“The founders worked as a team. All four of them achieved a great deal.” Salazar appreciated Hermione’s shrewdness.
“The only thing I can’t understand is the Chamber of Secrets.” She poured the tea and passed the sugar. “That’s the one thing I can’t justify.”
Salazar added one teaspoon of sugar and stirred. “Do you want me to explain it? I’m a known liar, after all. You didn’t talk to me at all after our lesson; I didn’t think you wanted to know.”
“I do want to know. All I can do is listen and judge for myself whether your information is trustworthy. But I know Harry Potter, and you are Harry, so I think that’s a start.” Hermione sat down at the dining table with her tea, and Salazar followed.
“Very well, Hermione, I will answer your questions honestly or not at all. But no lies,” Salazar promised. Hermione decided that would be good enough, at least for now.
“First question: are you Salazar Slytherin?” Hermione’s heartbeat sped up. This was it—not just the Heir, not Voldemort, but actually Salazar.
“Yes, I am.”
Hermione took a deep breath, releasing months of tension and finally letting it go. This was it: ancient magic, dark magic, the weird connection to the school, the fierce self-confidence, and the power and influence radiating off him. Her best friend was Salazar Slytherin, and she had to figure out what that meant for her.