Tears of a Basilisk

Journal entry the tenth


If I were to continue this journal in the same vein that I have been, by all rights I should begin to cover the events of my fifth year. I don't think I'm going to at the moment, however. Just the thought of that Umbridge hag is enough to make me feel queasy enough to lose what little food I've managed to eat, so I think I'll wait until this bad spell has passed. There are times, even in the ravages of my illness, that are better than others, where I feel almost as I should. This is not one of those moments. I knew that I shouldn't have drunk that strange mixed drink at the club last night. Neon pink is not a proper colour for anything, let alone something supposedly edible. Note to self: no matter how hot the person offering the drink is, always look at it first. Then, of course, it did strike my weird sense of humour that a spiked, gothed-up Draco Malfoy was the one trying to get me drunk enough to head upstairs with him. I always suspected he swung that way, but even if I didn't have my impossible dream man to monopolize my libido I would never take Draco up on his offer. Not because of a lack of physical charms, he is quite the nummy treat after all, but because from my vantage point I can see the wistful looks passed between him and Neville, neither picking up on the fact that the other is interested of course. I think I'll get those two together, they would make such a cute couple. The right song to emphasize the feelings that they already have, and to bolster their courage, and they'll be shagging each other silly in no time.


Since I'm lying here mostly incapacitated, I might as well write something. I've only covered the proverbial tip of the iceberg, after all. As a bonus, when I'm writing Sylvain stops hovering over me like a mother hen trying to get me to eat for the moment. He's my best friend, but the attention can get cloying at times. Ahh, one of my favourite songs just came on the radio (yes, I have managed to get muggle electronics to work in Hogwarts, and right now I'm picking up this fab station), and how appropriate that this song should play right when I am in the mood to appreciate it. I'm not the largest Green Day fan, but their song “Good Riddance”, always strikes me right where I live. If you have the chance, get the radio/cd player that I'm sure is with the rest of my yet-unclaimed effects and pop in that song. It might shed some light on some of my more enigmatic moments, to be sure. I might include it in my set tonight, if I'm able to go out.


Ah, inspiration strikes me now, I know what the subject of this entry will be, not counting my earlier random ramblings. I have covered a decent portion of my life as Harry Potter, so in the interest of balance I shall now cover some of my life as Salazar. Before I begin, take everything that you, dear reader, thought you knew about the legendary Founder and forget it all. I wouldn't normally offer such a warning, but I'm feeling fairly benevolent right now and wish to spare you a headache.


Since I've already covered my heritage in a previous entry, I won't insult your intelligence by rehashing it. I was raised by my druid/half elf grandfather from infancy, my mother left me with him right after I was born. This seeming lack of motherly love never bothered me at all, I'm actually grateful that she did such a thing. Maenads are not known for their stability or motherly feelings, the fact that she cared enough for my survival to leave me with someone able to raise me properly proved that she loved me. Growing up with my grandfather was a fantastic experience. He raised me to respect all nature, and the delicate balance of forces all around us. To him, nothing was impossible or set in stone, and he instilled this in me from an early age. He was a loving parent, and I couldn't have had a better childhood.


See, the thing about druids is that they generally have no built in prejudices, the view being that every creature has a right to exist as they feel they should. Yes, there was the occasional sacrifice, but it was purely in the interest of maintaining the balance of life and death. Most druids are able to channel a large amount of life and earth magic directly, and since it would disrupt everything to continue taking and never give anything back, the force of death must be present at times. It's far less bloody than most other organized systems of beliefs, since there is no one entity or force that is worshiped, but rather all of existence as a whole is treated with respect.


Even though I do embrace most of these beliefs, through my blood I also inherited a set of predatory instincts which tended to view the world in terms of hunter and prey. I was not shunned or rejected for my natural tendencies, but rather I was taken aside and taught how to fully appreciate them. There was a place for me in the world, perceived flaws and all, and it was up to me to fully embrace and learn everything I could about my nature. Before I set off into the world to find my own path, I was inducted as a high-level Druid priest, who would ultimately take over the post held by my grandfather upon his passing. Even at Hogwarts, I was still an active druid despite my other obligations.


It may surprise most that I was against the separating of Houses, but in order to make the best of things I created the Sorting Hat, with my friends' approval. Many people have remarked that the Hat seems to have a sentience of its own, and many theories have been spun about the Hat's true origins. My grandfather, while half-elven, was still mortal, and after a long life was faced with death from old age. Rather than sit around and wait to die, he sought me out at Hogwarts. He told me that his path ultimately led him here, and he offered his services in any way to the welfare of the school. My grandfather had one of the soundest minds I have ever encountered, and his judgment was always fair, balanced, and well-reasoned, so I proposed an idea to him, and he accepted. As I stood by his death bed, I readied the spells I needed and, at the exact moment of his mortal death, I bound his essence and mind into the old hat I wore in my Bardic days. Long story short, the Sorting Hat is none other than my grandfather, who even today remains sound of mind and judgment. Don't believe me, just ask him. When he was placed on my head as Harry Potter, he knew things about myself that I would only learn in my second year, but I begged him to silence, only to reveal what he knew if directly asked.


Well, now that my early origins are largely covered, let me move onto other events that, in either version, changed the wizarding world for all time. After I left my grandfather, I decided to become a wandering Bard, singing for my supper. This was a fairly cushy job, since I would have no problem getting food and room and board at the many keeps scattered over the country. It was in one such keep that I met Godric for the first time.


A common misconception is that wizarding society as it is known in Britain was established just after Merlin's time. In reality, due to the hostility of the locals and the fact that it was the Dark Ages, many wizards were still underground of sorts. Wizarding society blossomed with the Renaissance, but in order to gain prestige many of the more powerful families created fictional ancient family trees to gain that ever-elusive status. These fictional accounts became the foundation of wizarding culture, where only a couple of institutions are truly as old as they say. As far as I know, only Ollivander's and Gringotts have this status.


In reality, few wizards openly practiced their magic, and many wizarding children were born and raised with no knowledge of their origins or skills. These poor souls would often get hurt or even killed when they would occasionally perform accidental magic, the best case situation being exile. People have always feared what they don't understand, and this was the basic rule of survival at the time. Druids were one of the only ethnic groups to openly perform magic, but since it was viewed as a religion it was more accepted than most. Not to mention that no one wanted to be the guest star at a sacrifice or piss off people who could wipe out your food source.


So when I met Godric, he was a squire for this extremely crude and vulgar knight, and had no idea about what he was capable of. I could tell, from his fearful body language, that he had already manifested some type of magic, and lived in a state of constant dread that it would be found out. He was only a few years younger than I, but the haunted look in his eyes was enough to send a shiver down my spine. While singing for my supper, I watched him closely. Not many humans, even magical ones, piqued my interest like he had, and for some reason I felt drawn to him. Well, one night I headed down to the kitchens to get some of the local spiced wine and I encountered Godric's master, who was completely pissed on the same wine. He was trying to get one of the serving wenches to come up to his room, and kept bragging about how he would soon dispose of his unfaithful, filthy excuse for a squire. I don't think that was a direct quote, but it has been over a thousand years after all. Fear for Godric stabbed through me, and in that moment I decided what I should do.


No, I did not pull off some daring escape, grateful prisoner in tow. Instead, the next day I approached the knight and wove a story about how the roads were so dangerous, but I was unable to afford hiring the services of a full knight for escort. I offered a fair sum to the knight in exchange for acquiring Godric's services as a permanent escort and guard. He quickly took my money then laughed in my face about what a horrible deal I had made, that he was half-trained at best and more likely to slit my throat in my sleep than protect me. I of course knew otherwise, but I put up with his rant and took my new ward up to my room. He was scared to death of me at first, I found out later that he believed that I knew about his freakishness and bought him for the sole purpose of torturing him. I laughed in his face and, with a wave of my hand, cleaned and repaired the sorry state of his clothes. He then fainted promptly. Upon waking, I told him my story, and that I rescued him from his old master because I saw something of a kindred spirit in him. We left the keep in the traditional escort/master manner, but once we entered the forest our roles became that of equals, and he soon became by first and dearest friend.


For those poor souls that have actually read the fictional Hogwarts, a History, let me tell you that there was no rift at all between any of the founders, and that the circumstances of our parting of ways were tragic on all accounts, and were caused by exterior forces that we were fighting against as one. I miss them terribly. They were all fantastic people, and true friends in every sense of the word. It is for their memories, and the welfare of the children, that I do what I do. That is one of the most striking differences in my lives as Salazar and Harry, that I had friends and family that truly cared about me as Sal, and as Harry my first true friends were an owl and a basilisk, and I had no family to speak of aside from a talking, albeit wise, hat.


I think I'll pick up this tale at another time, not only to give you, the reader, a chance to regroup but to allow me to organize my thoughts. Damn pink drink, my head is still swirling. I think Draco, for all his horny intentions, will fall victim to more than one Canary Cream today.

Why is it that as more of the puzzle pieces are revealed, that more and more gaping holes follow? About the only thing that appears to be accurate about the historical Slytherin is the almost inability to come right out with a straight answer.

I've already headed up to the Headmaster's office to speak with the Sorting Hat at this point, only to have yet more confirmation. I wish I could take everything he says at face value,but old habits are hard to break. Everything that he has revealed to date is more than enough to shake up the entirety of the wizarding world, but this information goes beyond any of our wildest dreams. To have first hand accounts of the Founder's days, written by one who had no reason to lie, is a treasure equivalent to the still-enigmatic Slytherin family tree. On that subject, Tom and I have stumbled upon an aspect of the tree that hasn't been referenced yet. Out of frustration one night, Tom began speaking in Parsel at the wall, I think demanding that it reveal the information we were looking for, and to our surprise several names and branches that were unintelligible began to clarify themselves. With further experimentation, we might be able to use the tree to it's fullest potential. I can't help but think that, in a perverse way, he would be proud of us, that his faith was not misplaced. I think I'm beginning to understand why these journals were left to me, precious few others would be able to appreciate them for what they are. Not only are they an insight to one of the most fascinating and mysterious figures ever to exist, but they are invaluable sources of information with riddles hidden within riddles.


As much as I detest the thought of agreeing with Alastor Moody, constant vigilence provided at least a partial answer to the feeling that I have had recently, of someone watching and following me. I was headed into the Forest one night to gather some night-blooming flowers needed for several of my more esoteric potions, when my hyper-awareness alerted me to another presence nearby. I continued about my task absentmindedly, focused on trying to isolate where the presence was. If I could find something, then I would be able to convince myself that I wasn't ready for St. Mungo's quite yet. Slowly, I raised my head to stare at a tree branch roughly a meter away from where I stood, where I encountered my elusive watcher.


Beady black eyes stared at me and then with a flick of its head it flew away, flying low enough that I could feel the breeze from its wings on my scalp. I, Severus Snape, a powerful wizard with observation skills honed by many years of spying, had a stare-down with a common crow. Perhaps I should start looking at those brochures for St. Mungo's after all. To add injury to insult, shortly after the bird left I heard a cawing from above my head, and when I looked up that blasted bird did something most commonly associated with pigeons and cars in cities. For a brief moment, as I angrily wiped the mess off my nose, I would almost swear that the cawing it made as it flew away for good sounded like laughter. A combination of my late nights and the whiskey are to blame, I think, for this incident. It's just a bloody bird after all, and not even a magical one. Snap out of it Severus, you have other things to focus on than bird-induced paranoia. Such as another whiskey shortage, yes, that will take my mind off that blasted bird. If I see it again, Merlin help me but it will end up as a set of spare quills if I have anything to say about it.