Tears of a Basilisk

Journal entry the twelfth


Last night was more successful than I could have dreamed. I knew that my choice of songs were designed to encourage shy lovers to approach the target of their affections, but I didn't think that they would start dry-humping each other on the dance floor. Even when I asked for a spotlight to be shined on them, they were so absorbed in each other that they didn't even look around. Damn, I'm good. And what a match it will be, Draco's self-assuredness and Neville's humility will balance nicely I think. If they manage to remove more of their heads from their own arses, that match-up could work.


I think that I really needed this journal, seeing as confidants are exceedingly scarce for me. As I've written down some of my memories as Salazar, it opened up the proverbial floodgates. As much as I miss my friends, I cling to the happy memories they provide, since there is a serious lack of such in my time as Harry.


Before I move onto the story of how we met Helga, finishing our happy little group, a funny anecdote just came to mind. After all, how many people can say that they saw a supremely pissed off badger chase a full-grown male lion up a tree, only to keep him up there for hours? See, Helga was working on the grounds carefully cultivating a rare plant which escapes my memory at the point. At the same time, Godric was working on weapons practice, as he always did, and was demonstrating several techniques to his class. Well, Godric decided to get a little showy and throw in some battle magic, mostly to impress the students if I'm any judge. Now, most of the spells his the targets he indicated, but one blasting hex went astray. To be more specific, it went astray right towards the rare plants that Helga was working on. Needless to say, she wasn't very happy with Godric. There are few things that could scare me, but Helga in a rare temper does it every time. As sweet and loving as she is, you do not want to piss her off. Well, Godric put two and two together to get an answer of get-the-hell-away-from-Helga-as-fast-as-possible, which meant changing into his lion animagus. Helga, in response and anger, changed into her badger form and chased that poor lion all over the grounds. Since badgers have trouble climbing trees, Godric decided to scramble into the nearest tree. This solved that problem, but since lions are not aerodynamic and lack the power of flight the only way out of the tree was to climb down, which was a tricky feat considering the extremely pissed off badger waiting at the base of the tree. I don't think I've laughed harder in my life. Just thinking about it makes my sides ache still. Right, that out of the way, let's move on.


The three of us wandered about the countryside, singing, dancing, and using various other skills for money for a few seasons after Rowena joined our band. Not all of our skills were, shall we say, on the legal side of the fence so we spent a few nights sneaking out of towns with various artifacts of importance, writing materials, etc. On one such night, we were taking our leave of a lovely little hamlet that concealed an ancient druidic artifact that I was quite keen on possessing when we stumbled upon Helga. When I say stumbled, I mean literally stumbled, as in falling head-over-arse to the ground. This made more noise than we wanted, so Godric picked up the prone figure in the road and we sprinted to the woods. Medieval humans tended to be scared of the deep dark woods and the things that go bump within, so we were fairly safe there. If we were pursued, well, I am after all one of those things that goes bump. I could actually see the wheels in their head turn when encountered with a pair of glowing eyes that rest at least six feet off the ground. Many would then decide that it just wasn't worth it, soil themselves, and run away.


Once we were nice and safe in the woods, we decided to actually look at the bundled figure that we grabbed out of the road. We were all shocked when the filthy blankets were pulled back to reveal a short girl of about Rowena's age, with golden wavy hair, tan skin that showed at least some dark celt ancestry, and no visible injuries. Rowena and I quickly started to examine her once we realized that her breathing was far too shallow, and after a few hurried moments we found a faint scent of bitter almond on her lips. Whoever she was, she had been poisoned, ditched, and left to die. Now, most victims of poisoning would have died from their ailment thanks to a lack of medical knowledge or proper physicians, but fortunately for her I was quite well versed in poisons and antidotes. They always fascinated me, for some reason, and still do. After scrounging in the forest and examining my stores, I managed to brew the proper antidote with almost not enough time to spare, and we administered the potion with bated breath. At the time, the only counter to cyanide poisoning I knew was only strong enough to stop the poison shortly after ingestion, and could only repair some damage if it was extreme. We all breathed a sigh of relief when her breathing evened out and her colour returned, although it was a mystery why we all were so concerned about a total stranger that, unintentionally of course, almost got us caught by pissed-off locals with pitchforks.


With nothing else to do but make her comfortable, we retired for the night, taking turns on watch of course, until the morning when she finally began to stir. After calming her down and reassuring her that we were not going to harm her, she warmed up to us and told us why she was lying, poisoned, in the middle of the road. To best explain what had happened, I feel I must delve into what I know of the mindset of the medieval woman.


For women, generally, their status and role depended on their success in attracting a powerful mate. Very few women managed to break through this bias, although I can think of several women that blew that concept all to hell. The rest had to try to attract a mate that would be able to at least provide the best environment to raise children, and many women took this one step further and sought to marry men that had high social status. Since most of these men killed each other off in various conflicts, the amount of potential suitors was usually far less than the number of women who desired to elevate themselves in society. For the women who managed to successfully become engaged to such a mate, they protected their position with any means necessary, even to the point of eliminating any perceived competition by any means.


Helga, before she met up with our motley crew, was a serving girl at one of the larger castles, and came from a poor but respectable farming family. I'm sure that she never did anything untoward, such things are just not in her nature nor were they ever. It appeared that the man in question, however, had different ideas and would perhaps gaze at her a moment too long, or request that she serve his table far too often. His fiancée was apparently of the more paranoid sect of status-seeking women, and most likely convinced herself that her position was threatened by a younger, prettier serving girl. Rather than simply get her dismissed from the castle for stealing or such, the fiancée took things to a much higher level by poisoning her goblet of wine, wrapping up her body and leaving her to die some distance from the castle. If the fiancée were to be around today, she would be called a stone cold bitch.


After gathering the story from a shaken Helga, and piecing together the gaps on our own, we naturally extended an invitation to join our happy little band. In some way, we were all misfits or rejects of the societies that we grew up in. Godric would have made a horrible knight, he has far too much honour and integrity for the role. Rowena had the misfortune to be born about a thousand years too early, when her intellect would have been celebrated and not reviled. Helga was an innocent that was stabbed in the back, and could not return to her home area for fear of her life. Hell, I had the most stable and happiest upbringing of the bunch, but no matter how I tried I could never really fit in with the other druids. All the magical creature blood that flowed and still flows in my veins separates me from the pack in many ways, tangible and intangible, and as it was I could not have stayed within my grandfather's circle for much longer than I did. Before I met Godric, I did seek out other members of my various creature heritage, and found them all more or less accepting of me, but I would never be a part of their societies. So, a merry band of misfits we became, and through our travels the thought eventually came that, between us, we had the potential to perhaps make things easier for fellow misfits. This line of thinking, which I will cover in more depth perhaps in other entries, ultimately led to the founding of Hogwarts.


I'm not sure if this is a good sign, but the steamy dreams that I've been having non-stop as of late have been dwindling in frequency. Scattered among the dreams of Sev shagging my brains out are flashes of memories, happy and non, from both of my lives. Even though they occasionally cause me great emotional turmoil, I am grateful for each memory. I couldn't bear the thought of forgetting any of my friends, and I hope that wherever they are that they watch me and feel proud. Who knows, maybe we'll be reunited once more. I know that many would feel pity for the poor dying boy, but it's not like that at all. It would be nice to keep on living, but death holds no fear for me. Been there, done that after all. Besides, it's just another 'harebrained adventure', and one that, in a way, I look forward to. I've made my peace with death a long time ago, and I'll embrace whatever fate throws in my path. It's later than I thought, much thanks to the ever-so-handy tempus charm for alerting me to this fact. Time to start the farce that is the BWL anew for the next day.


For the sake of my mental well-being, I'm not sure if reading this journal in such a rapid fashion is the best idea. I will confess, I did feel pity for him up until this entry. As strange as it may seem for myself to defend him, I refuse to dishonor his memory by pitying him. He didn't seek it in life, and I'm sure he would not want it in death.


His words have been swimming in my brain for days now, pushing out most other thoughts. I've even taken points from my own house in this addled state. I could, with good reason, blame the incredibly powerful and revealing information I've been exposed to, but instead I choose to blame that bloody bird. It hasn't left me alone since the forest. The only positive thing that has happened in regards to that flying sack of potions ingredients is that other people have seen it, therefore lessening the number of people expressing concern for my mental state. Oddly enough, it chose to manifest itself during a Quidditch game between Hufflepuff and Slytherin where a bludger had become rogue. I do not know if it was by accident or design, but right when the bludger was about to strike a second year Hufflepuff seeker that bloody bird dives right in front of it, coming close enough that the student was left with faint claw marks on her forehead. Oddly enough, the bludger decides to follow the bird. Now, after this seemingly heroic action upon the part of the crow, one would think that my mindset would change. Perhaps that would have been the case if the bloody bird, after getting the bludger's attention, had not decided to fly straight towards me. Before I had time to react and get out of the way of bird and ball, that blasted crow veered up just in time, sending the bludger smashing into an unoccupied stretch of bleachers after almost hitting me. I don't care about what limited linguistics crows can accomplish, that bird was laughing. And then, insult to injury, it decided to mess up my newly-acquired robes before flying off to Merlin knows where. At least people aren't looking at me like I'm hallucinating things anymore. It's just hard to believe that the crow's actions didn't have any higher thought behind them. My fellow coworkers may need more proof as to that theory, but for me more than enough evidence is currently in the hands of house elves being properly cleaned.


I think I'll pay Tom a visit tonight. As strange as it may seem, even to us, there is now a comfortable silence during our occasional drinking sessions. It's nice to have a drinking partner who doesn't pester you with inane babble, provides for a very restful environment. It's almost enough to take my mind off of blasted birds. Almost.