-Chapter One-

In Potter's Shoes

"When Death beckons at your door

Conceive the anguish of the mind

As you quit this beloved terrene,

And leave all earthly things behind (1)

For all of it shall be sharply missed."

I am worth Jade,

The ultimate Dream Stone.

Drift into the Spiritual World.

-X-

(1) Inspired by Robert Francis Astrop's poem in

Original Poems, on a Variety of Subjects, Interspersed with Tales

Slightly modified.

Recurring dreams made him life hell. They were the sole reason why he remembered.

The Dursleys never understood the transition. To them, his behaviour inexplicably changed at the age of four and that was it. Foolishly, they wrote it off as another facet of his magical heritage. His freakishness, dare he call it.

It was, however, so much… more.

His name was not Harry Potter and he certainly did not live with his wretched Muggle family! He was not. He couldn't be.

The sheer ridiculousness of this stupidly elaborate sham still made him want to rage and laugh hysterically at times. There were too many things wrong with this picture for him to begin to take note of.

For starters, he had perished.

The one wizard known as Salazar Slytherin had passed away a long time ago, in an isolated island, unwanted and alone. And yet… And yet, he found himself skipping centuries ahead, to a whole new life under the name of Harry James Potter.

Another life… Another body... It could only be reincarnation.

Bollocks! Salazar didn't want it. Any of it.

He was but a child. Clearly, for reasons that should remain obvious, he shouldn't be a bloody child! Salazar had been a babe once—a lifetime ago! He'd been an infant. But he'd also grown up to be an adult! And like many others, he had been willing to go when his time had come!

Another life? Injustice for the jaded souls. Some perverse version of limbo imposed on him.

Honestly? Reincarnation wouldn't have been this bad if he didn't have any recollection of his past life. Why, his latest memory was of him. Letting. Himself. Go! He recalled not wanting to live anymore! It couldn't get more perturbing than that!

This body was useless! Too fragile, too short, too uncoordinated to be of any use! Perpetually unrelenting, his instincts never stopped screaming at him of the wrongness of his very existence. The sensation of coming to his senses, of suddenly remembering everything you had been but now wasn't could only be described like being forcefully crammed into a teeny, tiny box. There was no space to move or breathe in, whatsoever. The shoe—the body—didn't fit him and that was that.

Pathetic, wasn't it? How someone can be reduced to tears just by existing. Salazar had it tough. The transition was very hard for him. Very hard, indeed. And it was so very hard not to allow himself let go. To give up and just—why not end it? Was there any point in continuing?

Yes? No?

Which one?

Depression-

-despairconfusionlongingsorrowanger-

The worst thing was... He knew he was whining. Salazar knew he should just accept this as his new reality, and he couldn't deny that it wasn't, but he really couldn't. Not when everything was so raw and fresh in his mind.

It was a questionable cycle he had to live through, this depression of his. Miserable and pitiful. With lots of self-doubts and no morale to speak of.

Unheard of in a four year old.

Not so out of place with an old withered soul.

Was this divine punishment? Salazar often wondered. Why would anyone offer a new start to someone who clearly didn't want it? Hadn't the Fates heard his laments concerning his past deeds in his deathbed? Hadn't he sworn off the Dark Magics forever? Abandoned any circles that supported senseless killings? Salazar Slytherin had begged for forgiveness months before he could become a rotting corpse. Dismissing the fact that there wasn't anybody around who could hear the desperate cries of a foolish man… they must have counted for something!

But he was not given his eternal rest. Apparently, he wasn't even worthy of any semblance of peace! The blissful oblivion he yearned for continued to evade him. Like a mirage mocking a man dying of thirst.

The Fates were clearly at fault here, and their lacking sense of humour being their only excuse for his suffering. For he was Harry Potter. And he was only a boy, who the Dursleys treated like a servant—who was the laughingstock of the whole neighbourhood—who was a bloody nobody that no one would ever care for.

Except for the chores. Oh, how could he forget about those! It was the chores what was important to little Harry and the sole reason why people noticed him at all!

(The reason why he existed.)

Petunia especially liked it when he watered her flowers. Never too little, never too dry… She commanded absolute perfection for her garden to outshine her competition. Perhaps predictably, not a single thanks was uttered for all the hard work Harry had done for her. And for his part, Vernon liked it when he was tormenting his nephew into making them breakfast. The more to eat, the better. Their pigsty of a son... Dudley just took great pleasure in watching him getting bossed around and the boy would break out in a smug grin every time Harry Potter cried out in pain, reason be damned.

Yes, that was his family. Those Dursleys, who didn't care for him and would rather have him dead than be happy.

But Salazar had another word for them: Muggle.

Muggles were angry and angsty creatures, fearful of the strangers who dealt with the mystical aspect of life. Muggles were people, but just as inhumane as ever and always seen foolishly charging ahead in vain battles of ego and carnage—

Dursleys. Muggles. They intermingled until the terms were almost synonymous.

He'd seen the way they'd look at him. He'd been on the receiving end of such stares—from birth, for all he knew, in both lives.

Gradually, slowly, like larvae that kept growing and seeping poison into his mind, a storm of emotions started festering inside his psyche and he couldn't put a stop to it in time. Before he could do anything, he was far too gone in his depression to actually want to try anything.

They were just like them.

Everything came to a head when Salazar wouldn't stand for it anymore. Harry may have not known better, but he—he wasn't JUST Harry, now was he? And what Harry had felt, had seen, had lived until the moment of his very awakening, made him seethe.

After all, he'd been Harry Potter. He'd lived as him. Just as mistreated and ashamed of his fate.

Anger. Memories piling up and feeding the blazing pyre.

He remembered clearly, agonizingly, how Petunia got into the hobby of smacking him around with a frying pan and bonked him repeatedly on the head—he remembered himself sleeping in a small cupboard, the spiders and their ilk, his only companions—he remembered how, at three only, he was only given the leftovers he'd cooked for them after getting his hands burned with the boiling water! He'd been gifted no toys and received no affection from them. Utter, utter disdain of his needs—what was someone supposed to think with memories like that?!

What kind of mockery was this? Salazar Slytherin, a Muggle's slave? Sod that! He was above this. He was better than this!

He'd crush them. No mercy. None at all, he swore.

That, he did. Salazar hurt them as much as he remembered hurting and didn't stop himself there. And as his insecurities grew and mingled with the child's thoughts and memories, his emotions shattered any lingering trace of self-control left in him. The end result had his temper rearing up with a rather explosive comeback.

The founder lashed out and they'd lived, but just barely.

But it isn't enough, is it?

The Dursleys looked as though they'd unleashed a monster upon themselves when he was finished with them. Vernon's spine was snapped in half and more, Dudley's face was melting, as was the rest of his fattened body, and his aunt was screeching from the top of her lungs for mercy as she swelled with a foal in her womb.

He looked at the fear in those eyes.

No, it isn't.

Rinse and repeat. He had his toys now, but they were too broken to be of any use.

So he erased the foal, restored Dudley and healed Vernon. He would later rid them of their memories so they could function like normal human beings and not tell anyone of the horrors he was capable of.

Until the next lesson began, that is.

"Again." His voice was grim, but the bloodthirsty glint of his eyes told them another story. He would teach them the error in their ways even if he had to descend to their level.

He would beat the fear into their subconscious if it came to that.

For the longest while, Salazar was mere husk of the man he'd been. People were always walking on eggshells around him, even the neighbours. He was constantly snapping at everyone and everything and nobody was safe from his wrath. Even the most irrational things set him off. Like Mrs Figg's little pack of furry monsters, just staring at him hours and hours on end like the creepy creatures they were; sometimes even creeping behind his back in order to follow him everywhere he went. Or the distant mutterings he could hear in the neighbourhood, always disapproving and wary of him, the freak.

And the Dursleys. Oh, the Dursleys…!

Needless to say, his dear family had paid greatly for their lack of tack. It was just so easy. Taking his anger out on them was too frighteningly easy. No regret. No guilt creeping into his heart when he took his frustrations out on them after they had made a mockery of him. Of Harry Potter. Salazar always put a lot of care into demonstrating just how utterly powerless they were against him, only to see them cling to whatever remained of their pride.

"Take out the trash, boy!" Their beds stank for weeks, no matter how much they chose to wash the sheets and mattresses. Incidentally, Vernon recalled having eaten two bananas for desert that day.

"Get into the cupboard, freak!" Cockroaches slinked into the house, popped up from the most unexpected places. Dear Aunt Petunia's shriek when she discovered some moving in her hair was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard in this pathetic half-life.

"No! They're mine! You can't play with them!" Toys deserted Dudley like the possessed vessels they were; the puppeteer orchestrating their break outs never really cared for them and allowed them to disappear without a trace.

Petty revenge wasn't above him. Schemes were fluent in his blood. Forgive and forget wasn't him at all.

Episodes like Uncle Vernon dangling out in the backyard like a broken mannequin stuck on the bark of a tree, with only the crack of his arse as his only support, or Dudley having explosive accidents in the bathroom because the pipes broke each time he sat down to relieve himself, were common occurrences in the house.

And those were the pranks.

Of course, the inevitable happened. The neighbours talked and speculated about the mystery behind the various incidents surrounding that strange family living in Number Four. The Dursley's reputation was razed to the ground over and over again, only to magically repair itself again the next morning. Time reset and the day began anew; ordinary, like any other. Common folk couldn't remember any of Salazar's less than mundane exploits, but of course his victims always did.

They resented him for it. He resented them back. They were little more than mice to his cat. They'd grown to be amazingly resilient and Salazar enjoyed the challenge they represented.

(He'd break them. No mercy.)

His uncle's glares and promises of pain were definitely worth the effort put into the pranks and lessons. But Salazar could taste the fear for what it was from a mile away and he was absolutely terrified of his nephew. His uncle never dared to raise his hand against him again. Obviously, there were implications in that—a subtle gesture of submission. As for his aunt, Petunia just tried to avoid him as much as she could, did the chores like she should have in the first place, but she still cursed his name when his back was turned. They'd already tried to call the Bobbies on him and that hadn't worked too well for them.

As for his cousin… Suffice to say, Dudley learnt.

Oh, yes. Terrorizing the Dursleys had been a good method of letting off steam. And while he may have reverted to his self-righteous ways for an extended period of time, truth was he didn't care if he had.

Life was shite and like hell he was going to keep still and take it!

Salazar had always been one to fend for himself. And Salazar had been the one who had vowed to deliver retribution. This poor excuse of a family wasn't getting off lightly when they had wronged him for so many years.

Marge and her beast included.

Yes, he thought viciously to himself. The boy closed the cupboard and locked the door tight after throwing them all in. This is how the tables have turned.

And so, the boy enjoyed the agitated barking and the desperate whimpers of his relatives as they pled for freedom.

Their nephew hummed merrily in the kitchen as he made himself a sandwich.

Just Harry, indeed.

The clocks tick-tocked, birds continued singing and the shimmering sun still rose in the English horizon.

Boys grew.

He was older and, with the passage of time, Salazar knew something had to change.

His mouth knew no filters. He had become rash and eager to jump into silly tiffs with his uncle and cousin. Now that Salazar was bothering to actually try to act more civilized, it occurred to him that he had no control over his temper whatsoever. Presumably, his self-control turned non-existent from the time when he drew his first breath as Harry.

What a scary thought.

And it wasn't just that. There came many shortcomings along with the body. Admittedly, he'd had some time to adjust, but his appearance still struck him as strange even now. His body was so unlike his former looks that in the presence of a mirror even he didn't even recognized who he was anymore.

He was calmer these days. More reasonable. He thought more, accepted more, but he was still not what he used to be. And that unsettled him. Terribly.

This Potter body, even with proper nourishment under his belt, was brittle and unnaturally lean. It went against everything he remembered of himself back in the old days, when he was always towering over people's heads and his physique could handle long-winded fights. At times, the late founder caught himself avoiding his reflection. The mere reminder of him being just a prepubescent boy sent shivers under his skin. Unnerving didn't quite do the sensation justice.

Mirrors were a grim reminder. Salazar Slytherin was something of the past, they always seemed to say. His reflections chaffed him with the evidence of his reincarnation: his unnatural body.

Maybe this is what reincarnation is all about, Salazar thought dryly. The boy in the reflection looked just as severe as he remembered himself being, if not more withered and tired. No innocence could be found in those venomous pools of his. Pity. If things were different, Harry's eyes could have been nothing short of mesmerizing.

Trust his luck to turn its back on him this way. He'd once had an empire at his feet. He'd been someone important—someone just as misled maybe, but important. And now he had… this.

A present by-product of this reincarnation malarkey is that his new identity had saddled Salazar with an abusive home, a bunch of worthless relatives and one relatively shitty childhood. As he possessed the mind of a grown man and not of a growing child, however, he hadn't been as affected as, say, a true toddler while growing up here. And thank Lady Magic for that, but, nevertheless, the point remained: he'd never asked for any of it.

Even after showing off his aptitude in spellcasting, the neglect he suffered through daily was very real. Salazar had to go out of his way to procure the basic necessities, which his family still refused to give him freely to this day. It was only because this act of defiance amused him that he allowed it. And he was trying to be more humane with his relatives, mind.

It would have been much worse, he knew. Light Legilimency prods into his uncle's brain told him more than enough of their resentment of him, highlighted by the obvious hazard he represented to his family.

The reincarnated man in him seriously doubted they'd even given up their spare room for his use had he been powerless. Magic made his demands relevant. Otherwise, in a true Dursley fashion, they would have locked him inside their cupboard after declaring that the small cubicle was inhabitable, even after recovering his past identity. Again, like when he was just Harry and free of his past life, he would have been belittled and thrown away like trash. They were just that kind of people. How they had retained custody of him so far was nothing short of criminal.

Arseholes.

Regardless of that, in many ways, it was relieving to find himself in possession of magic again. It truly made all the difference. The few privileges he had came with his abilities as a wizard.

Magic, the trickiest of blessings. Oh, he was so glad he still had it.

Because of his stupidity, Salazar knew he would have never found solace anywhere during his reluctant stay in Privet Drive. He had scared off too many people, damaged his public image too badly to be considered a true member of the Muggle community. No, he would try to socialize in a few years, make his place in society later, but not now. It wouldn't work out too well if he pushed too much and he actually had no motivation to actually do so.

Looking at his situation from that angle, talking to the random snake in the garden had been a welcomed change of pace. It kept him going in the worst of times and they were useful minions when he was in a tight spot. Angis in particular was the most soothing presence he could have ever asked for. The old snake had taken a liking to him, not only because he could speak to it, but because he was awfully understanding for a cold-blooded animal. It was like the friend he hadn't realized he needed before he had it. The adder had even addressed him as Hatchling, to his never-ending amusement.

"You smell young," Angis insisted, ignoring Salazar's half-hearted protests. "To my tongue, you are one of the hairless monkeys—a hatchling. So Hatchling it is."

Their talks were definitely worth his time. His wayward friend was the first one to notice the ridiculously huge dome of magic leeching energy off of him and also revealed Arabella Figg's status as a Kneazle breeder.

"Foul creatures," the old snake had hissed. Not surprisingly, Salazar agreed with whole-heartily with Angis' description of the furry terrors, remembering how they had liked to feast on his pets a lifetime ago.

But this brought to light a new string of problems Salazar didn't care to deal with.

True, Arabella was not magic, as her weak core couldn't hope to sustain simple spells, but her behaviour was suspicious once you knew what to watch for.

At first, he took to avoid her as much as he could, but her curiosity of him made this task impossible at best. That woman was literally everywhere. She liked to watch him over the fence when he took a stroll around the neighbourhood or simply laid on the garden wasting time. Sometimes, he could even spot her looking at him through the window of her home as he read on his bed.

Salazar deliberately didn't react to her presence the times when she tailed him. The old founder knew the value of discretion and instead of confronting her directly he tried to obtain information through other means.

Like skimming her mind, for example.

Legilimency was an art he'd mastered a lifetime ago, but the skill had turned out to be a huge let down now. The best the boy could accomplish while employing Legilimency was capture feelings, whispers of thoughts that were barely coherent even to the keenest of minds. And, as if that wasn't enough, his Occlumency shielding were equally pathetic or even more so; combined, he couldn't make heads or tails of whatever he could deduce from her. To think, he'd had no troubles with his uncle! If that was not a clear sign of his stupidity, the simplicity of his thought process, he didn't know what would be.

And really. It was bloody ridiculous how different both cases were!

But. There was a small silver lining in all this. Miraculously, Salazar did manage to catch small details from the woman… like the name Dumbledore. Her mind was infested with the damn name, which only added to his growing list of questions and not answered any of them.

It didn't matter. Dumbledore's identity wouldn't be much of a secret soon if he could help it. He'd try other avenues first before turning to violence, as Gryffindor would have done. Unlike that stupid lion, he could be patient when he wanted to be.

And Salazar was also a perfectionist at heart. The boy vowed to retrain himself in the mind magics, if only to master again what had been his pride and joy in the past. Then he would happily dig deeper into the matter and put his suspicions to rest. Or act accordingly, if it were necessary.

The least he wanted was a stalker following him around with ulterior motives in mind.

He was the one who approached her. She wouldn't face him otherwise.

"Aunt Petunia," Salazar's voice was flat and practically dripping with barely concealed spite.

As expected, the woman jumped into the air with a strangled shriek. Jerkily, she pressed herself against the kitchen counter and fixed her bulging eyeballs on him. His aunt was breathing heavily, her body tense like a cornered animal. With reason too. The last time he had interacted with her, he had breathed fire into her hair and singed off her eyebrows.

"You're going to tell me everything you know about Hogwarts."

Not a request. Not an order. Just a statement.

Her face contorted with panic. She didn't even bother to ask how he knew about it.

Petunia had magic inside of her. An insignificant portion, almost inexistent, but it was still there, regardless. Given that he was magical this time around too, it was safe to assume that she was blood. Her features certainly weren't indication enough, as the house keeper always wore a sneer in her face when she was displeased. He also wasn't her favourite person right now, so he never quite got the chance to see her truly smile. And he wasn't talking about those overly sugary sweet dope smiles she reserved only for her Dudders. Perhaps it was his inner child talking, what remained of the original Harry Potter, but he refused to compare her to his biological mother. Like many small blessings, he'd like to think of her as a good person, unlike Petunia.

Anyhow, he was digressing.

Because she was blood, Salazar never got around the hurt and anger that built inside his chest whenever she was within his eye sight. As such, he felt entitled to coerce information from her. Information Vernon wouldn't be able to give it to him, anyways, as the brute didn't have a single drop of magical blood flowing in his veins.

And unlike the Blood Wards, he didn't need a magic conductive item for this.

A strong compulsion later, she was talking, looking as though she fancied cutting off her tongue just to stop herself from spilling her secrets.

Choosing her had been a gamble, but it soon paid off. Petunia was very quick to admit to the existence of another facet of Great Britain at his prompting, although he didn't appreciate the contemptuous tones in which she spoke of his school. Even so, at least Hogwarts was still standing. He had that much to be thankful for at least.

Salazar sat down on one of the chairs of the room. He allowed her the same courtesy to avoid her inevitable collapse; this kind of interrogation was taxing on anyone.

"Hidden, you say?" he said with polite interest and a mask covering up his true feelings on the matter.

She nodded. "Those freaks," his dear aunt spat, "have stayed out of sight as long as I've known of them. Even when they saunter along our streets, clothed with those despicable robes, they're never spotted! Why, it's as if they didn't exist! Like they should have in the first place!"

Well, this was an unexpected development. Concealment wards in his time weren't elaborate enough to hide their buildings from sight, less full-blown societies. Hence the inevitable clashes with the Muggles.

To be honest, he wasn't expecting anything in particular. For years, he hadn't heard a whisper of anything that may indicate the continued existence of the magical community, but he was glad that it hadn't suffered an abrupt end while he was away.

"Everyone's entitled to their opinion, Petunia," Salazar smirked with a soft curb of his lips. "But you can't cuss someone out only for breathing. It's just not ethic, methinks. Why, in some social circles, people would even go as far as to call you chauvinistic."

Petunia's face coloured unpleasantly and she opened her mouth, no doubt to add something rude to the mix. With a refined movement of his hand, it snapped back closed.

His eyes flashed in warning—a brief reminder.

Petunia retreated onto the back of her seat, cowering, and averted her eyes.

"I'm not in the mood to put up with you or your rants," he informed her coolly. "Are you going to cooperate or are we going to do this the hard way, Petunia?"

Her posture remained stiff even when he dispelled the Lip-Sticking Charm placed over her mouth.

The house keeper gulped nervously.

"I'll cooperate," she said.

But her hand twitched. She was eager for the comfort of a knife or anything sharp. His eyes caught the nervous tick instantly and the intensity of his gaze made her freeze in place. Petunia Dursley didn't dare breathe as Salazar's eyes narrowed only fractionally before his expression was replaced by a boyish smile.

He leaned over the wooden table, still keeping distance between the two. She could feel his breathing on her face as he talked.

"Tell me where I can find this magical world, Petunia," he prodded her softly. "I want the exact passage—no lies, no bickering. I don't want to be forceful any more than you do."

She didn't remember the foal or any of his most serious punishments, but he had trained her well. Reluctantly, she gave the location away.

"The Leaky Cauldron," she said.

The woman spoke slowly, taking care of not saying anything to offend him. It was glaringly obvious who had the upper hand here. And not once the woman dared to lie to his face.

Salazar could only stare at her as he processed the information she was providing him.

A pub! Of all ridiculous things, they chose to make a pub the bridge which connected Muggle and magical worlds alike. Wizards had either gotten more original or stupider in his absence.

"That is all?" he asked.

Petunia nodded meekly and wringed her hands together, nervously.

Well, that had been an informative session. He might as well return the favour.

"Mrs Figg is a Squib," he announced airily, not bothering to soften the blow. Petunia's form couldn't be any stiffer than it was now. "Has the same amount of magic as you do. What a pleasant coincidence, isn't it? Her house is filled to the brim with Kneazles, yet you never saw anything unusual in her or her cats. Too ordinary for you, Pet?"

His aunt either disregarded his jab or didn't care much for it because she utterly ignored it. Her knuckles were white with tension and her age all the more apparent.

Salazar watched… and observed, making no move to console her.

"That—that two-faced liar! He would keep an eye on us…? No, he wouldn't… Or would he?! He was to leave us alone if we took care of our end of the bargain! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What do I tell Vernon?! He'll be devastated!" she babbled frenetically, white in the face. Her voice hushed into the faint ramblings of a hysterical woman.

Salazar's interest was picked. Anything that affected his aunt to this extent ought to be from his kin and any information about them was more than welcome. Especially if it was from that bint, Mrs Figg.

"Elaborate," he demanded of her.

"He… That man—! Dumbledore promised us… He wouldn't interfere with our lives if—!"

That name.

"If?" he nudged forward.

Petunia bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, but she couldn't deny the call of his compulsion, which was getting stronger by the second.

"If we took you in… Raised you and cared for you… We would be left alone!" she shrieked, tears stinging her eyes. She hid her face in her hands. "I should have known, though…! I was too naïve! Too trusting! He's the reason my sister is gone and I believed him! And now we have more of those—those… freaks spying on us!"

Spy? What a curious word. Well, it would explain the stalker-ish behaviour he had witness in Mrs. Figg. But, of course, that would mean he was the one being spied on, not the Dursleys.

Hysteric, Petunia started rambling, paling more and more as she did so until all the blood had deserted her face. She talked about distrust and twinkly eyes. She went to criticize from Dumbledore's reprehensible choice of garments to his lengthy white beard. Because she was vaguely coherent, Salazar peeked into her mind to get a clearer picture of the wizard she was describing as she continued to find fault with his very existence. Until, finally, she stopped and he still didn't have any significant information aside from insults.

Time to put more salt on the wound. "Tell me more about this Dumbledore. He sounds like a mighty meddlesome fellow."

In truth, she didn't have much information about him in particular, but she did have lots of resentment towards his person. Some of the words she used weren't worthy of repeating in polite company. Summing up her long-winded ramblings, however, it was Professor Dumbledore who was Hogwarts' current Headmaster and the sole reason why he was stranded under this very roof.

Instantly, his opinion of Albus Dumbledore plummeted rapidly.

So. This was the man that was in charge of his school and who was also the one responsible for most of his bad luck?

On the wall, the kitchen's white tiles fractured ominously. Dull paintings started rocking haphazardly. Salazar was quite sure that something broke somewhere, probably falling from a shelf or the table, but he couldn't be bothered to look at what it was specifically. The window cracked, small spider webs forming and wreaking the glass bit by bit.

Dumbledore.

Suddenly, he wanted to throttle just about anybody.

"And why," he griped with increasing difficulty, "does he have a say in where I live?"

Petunia didn't have an answer to that question, but her eyes reflected a spark of fear caused by his obvious loss of control.

Salazar still hadn't let go of her mind yet, so he captured the images of a teenager with bright red hair when they muddled into her thoughts. Petunia was broadcasting how the girl's eyes glowed when she lost her temper, how her hair tussled with the sudden concentration of energy cackling in the air. The surge of fear that followed the realization that she had pissed her badly. Apprehension. Wondering if her freakish sibling had finally decided to turn her into an ant, or even worse, blow her up on a whim.

Regret. So much regret and jealousy.

Deep longing, so much it hurt.

Lily.

The jumbled mess of memories and thoughts was enough of a distraction to make him pause.

The boy breathed in several times and tried to put a tight hold on his emotions. He was only partially successful, but at least the kitchen had stopped shaking.

He thanked his spooked aunt quietly and stalked out from the kitchen and up the stairs. Never to look behind as Petunia dropped onto the floor and buried her face in her hands as she cried her heart out.

Salazar was in a daze.

That had been his mother. Lily.

Diagon Alley was an interesting place. Organized, diverge and overall pretty neat in comparison to what little they had in the past.

Although their security left much to be desired. Salazar himself, who was more than a little rusty with the absence of his wand, was able to sneak in past the brick wall by very simple means.

He walked up to the bartender and asked him to open the passage.

It was too easy to sneak past the wall. Concelo was more than a sufficient ward to bypass all scrutiny, especially since no one in the Leaky Cauldron was checking for a boy hiding behind a corporeal illusion.

Honestly, it was kind of pathetic. One would think they'd detect things like that, put up some line of defence against this very kind of thing. Checked or something! It was a very serious oversight, really.

But no matter. He wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Salazar had come for a reason and one reason alone. It was high time he did some research on the magical world. Keeping himself updated seemed like a good way to start his reintroduction into Magical Britain. He wasn't exactly fan of surprises and Dumbledore had certainly given him enough of them lately, with whatever was going on with their neighbour, the Squib.

Petunia never did strike him as overly intelligent, but even she had her moments. Her suspicions were worth considering, even if it was only paranoia talking. Though, that was very unlikely, as Salazar was pretty much convinced that the woman was in fact a very inexperienced spy just waiting to be uncovered.

Not wanting to overthink things just yet, the boy kept the spell up as he leisurely strolled about, with no direct destination in mind. People ignored the ordinary-looking wizard as Salazar pushed through the crowd. It was with a lighter heart that the revived founder took advantage of their unconscious dismissal of him and stared discreetly around in secret delight.

This Magical Britain was unexpected, in the best way possible. Salazar certainly didn't remember his world being this… vivid. Bright. Overall, it was a nice change from the Dark Ages. Muggles had been great nuisances even then.

Wizards and witches walked along the streets of Diagon Alley. They laughed, some chatted loudly without any worry weighing on their shoulders. Several made way to the buildings or peered into the stores, no doubt contemplating prices and the stock shown.

There were even families running amok in the crowd.

Two troublesome redheads, for example, clashed against his frame and left running without so much as to offer an apology. The reason why was glaringly obvious when a middle-aged woman chased after them, demanding for an explanation for some misdeed they did to a shop owner. Something about a Niffler and a coin purse? It sounded kind of naughty.

Salazar shook his head. Some mysteries were best unsolved.

2nd Hand Brooms, Amanuensis Quills, Eeylops Owl Emporium, Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, Flourish and Blotts, Slug & Jiggers Apothecary… This place had about anything imaginable.

Out of all stores, one in particular stood out from all of them: Quality Quidditch Supplies.

At first, it was the multitude of people that was gawking at the goods which made his eyes stray in that direction. But then he heard them talking, sounding every bit as enthusiastic as the fanatics who drooled over Muggle sports. Their excitement was contagious and his curiosity only grew as he examined everything closer.

Quidditch. He immediately associated the sport with Football. Both of them had balls which they had to pass and goalies that had to block in order to prevent the players from scoring a goal, but the comparison didn't seem right in the end. Everything was done airborne and on brooms—that somehow could withstand the weight of a grown person in the air? Incredible. Honestly, he hadn't heard anything quite like it before. Wouldn't they constantly worry about falling to their deaths or did they have a safety net accessible to all players?

Apparently not. The sport was too popular to be anything but awe-inspiring. It attracted the reckless like flies to the honey. The adoring fans standing outside the shop, for instance, talked about the sport like a devout person would describe their religion. And although Salazar personally didn't care if Lucy "Lucky" Karoonda or Shizuka Watanabe were better seekers than the other, the idea of levitating brooms was vastly more interesting than a mere sport. Even the enchanted balls were had their own charm in comparison. Each one of them had their role in the game; the Snitch played a decisive one indeed.

Upon closer examination of the Snitch, anyone could see runes engraved in the golden metal. Many of the scribbles escaped his comprehension, however, so many that he resolved to look into this sport to placate his rising curiosity. The broom, on the other hand, was supposedly spelled to be this way and no runes were used in its creation.

Was it possible?

How did one spell something to fly? Was the broom weightless, lighter than the gushes of air? No, it wouldn't be like that. It wouldn't serve its purpose that way, if people were constantly swept in the currents of wind. It would need to be malleable to the wishes of the player and be capable of withstanding the meanest of storms at the same time.

Rowena would have loved to know the workings behind such artefacts, Salazar thought, squinting behind his glasses.

In fact, he wasn't embarrassed to admit to be mildly curious as well. He could see the uses in such transport, more discreet and cheaper than travelling in a Muggle airplane. Although it remained unknown to what speeds the broom models could go. It varied from one model to the next, like any fancy technology available to the market.

The boy had to hit the bookstore soon. He was too uninformed for him to be comfortable with the difference between this timeline and his. Salazar was raiding the first library he saw after acquiring the necessary money. History was a priority and spellcasting promised to be an interesting read.

He would have to ask the goblins. The greedy creatures were bound to know where all the gold was kept and Salazar was in desperate need of a few extra Galleons and pounds in his pockets.

If he was lucky, there could be something left of his family fortune. Hopefully. Providing that the Potters had some blood relation with him.

Was he being intentionally obtuse? Maybe. Knowing the goblins though, they'd be reluctant to come to the aid of a ten-year-old… But paying them a visit was a must! He refused to think that he had no money to his name. There had to be a bank or something similar in the Wizarding World to store their savings. His birth parents in all likelihood had some Galleons stored somewhere. He just had to find the place.

Not even his aunt knew how her sister had handled her finances when she was alive. For all he knew, there could be a sealed will somewhere.

He hoped there would be, or he would be robbing his uncle blind in the next months.

And there it was. His rotten luck—acting up again.

Taking the part of Harry Potter had come with too many disturbing surprises. The name held a weight he hadn't anticipated. And what a mistake that was.

After asking around, he'd been redirected to Gringotts, believing him to be a Muggleborn teen, and once there he had dropped his ward to enter the bank.

In hindsight, he should have done it inside. It was common courtesy, however, as it was widely known, even in his time period, that the goblins didn't appreciate trickery of any kind in their dealings with wizardkind as a whole. Sadly, his clever disguise fell into that category, so he had to remove it before entering.

And, as it so happens, someone noticed him on his way in and promptly laid their grabby hands on his arm before he could enter the facility.

Because they wanted to meet their celebrity.

Of course.

Imagine his surprise, when a stranger started shaking the limb as if a wraith had taken possession of their body.

He could remember that man clearly, even now. The man in question was covered only with tatters hanging loosely on his skinny frame. A terrible smell was coming out from the layers of cloth and had made his eyes water instantly. And, not to mention, with his silly gesturing, the stranger had truly made an impression on Salazar, but not the kind he was hoping for.

He's positively nutty, was the first thing that came to his mind.

The man offered him a crooked smile, which let the startled boy see many holes where there had been teeth.

"Harry… Harry!" The stranger pulled him closer, staring with wide eyes. "You do have the scar, you lucky little tyke! You should let me have a go at him sometime, you know? Everyone wants to be our saviour—true, true!—but it's not polite to hoard all the glory, you know! Why, I recall how my family opposed him multiple times… I was responsible for that bruise the prick had in the arse! Ah, goods times, good times… I remember. I really do! It was a nasty hex, that one! Quite proud of it, actually!"

Salazar looked around. He gritted his teeth and contemplated hurling a stinging hex at the madman in order to make his escape.

It was no good. People were watching and he was reluctant to drop his cover.

"Sir… Sir, you're hurting me…" he said instead, as any child would have done in his situation.

"Oh, nonsense!" the man exclaimed. "See this is why I told you to preserve those dragon scales. Stick them all over the chest and they'll keep the body feeders at bay! The Antipodean Opaleye scares them away!"

"Body… what…?" Salazar muttered.

But the man babbled and babbled on as he attracted unwanted attention Salazar certainly didn't want at the moment.

The crowd closed in on them. Salazar felt like he was part of a circus show and nobody had let him in the secret.

Worse, they were talking about him.

"Harry Potter! In Diagon?"

"That's him! Yes, yes!"

"Oh my… Mr Potter, it's an honour to finally meet you!"

People stopped and pointed and gaped, fixated on his still inflamed scar on his forehead.

"You look just like your father… That awful scar, my dear poor boy—"

They tried to touch him. They wanted his autograph, some of his hair; even bear his progeny, if what he'd heard was right. None of them seemed to notice the slightly maniacal gleam in his eyes as they cornered him.

"My daughter would like to meet you sometime…"

"No!" Salazar backed away.

"Please let me…!"

"No!" Salazar snapped. "Unhand me! Didn't you hear me, you dumb oaf? Let go of me!" He pulled at his arm in panic, but the man didn't in fact let go of him. The bloody tosser actually put more effort into grounding him in place.

Throwing caution to the wind, Salazar brought his fist up and punched him directly on the face. The man stumbled awkwardly, his grip loosening as he slurred curses under his breath. The hand that had held him captive was now nursing his cheek.

The woman who had come up with the unusual proposal of having his offspring with her was the first one to jump him.

Shocked beyond words, Salazar side-stepped her and, as she face planted on the ground, he ran into the safety of the bank. The boy pointedly ignored the calls that trailed after him. Fortunately, no one had the stupid idea of following him into goblin domain, but that didn't stop his agitation from showing.

One goblin peered at him as he entered. Took a long look at the scar on his forehead and turned tail on another direction after arching a bushy eyebrow. The creature soon came back with another of his brethren and approached him.

"You're Harry Potter, are you?" one of them sneered at him.

Perplexed, Salazar blinked.

"You're the fifth person claiming to be him today," the goblin elaborated curtly. He lured him out of the room and shoved a small dagger into his hand. "We shall test that claim now, wizard. Cut your palm."

The hair in the back of his neck stood. "Why?" he asked.

"To verify your identity," said the goblin, looking utterly bored.

Salazar frowned warily and accepted the goblin-made dagger.

Seemingly apathetic to his distress, the goblins whisked him away into a secluded office as soon as his identity was confirmed by a strange-looking urn, taking their damn time as they did it.

Luckily, Gornuk, the teller assigned to him, explained in curt tones what the fuss was all about.

The answer wasn't to his liking. At all.

Apparently, defeating a Dark Lord at the tender age of one was a praiseworthy feat to be worshipped about. According to the goblins, there'd been several people trying to get into his vault ever since the end of Voldemort's tyranny.

Definitely not what he'd expected when he had first come here.

But the surprises didn't end there.

He had titles to spare. Lord Potter. Heir of Griffindor. He still was somehow related to one of the Peverell brothers, but not an eligible candidate for the title of heir. As Harry, he was now the owner of seven well-off vaults and several properties across the globe. And not a hint of Slytherin blood flowed in his veins.

Emancipated at ten.

Even more disturbing, when Salazar inquired about the Slytherin fortune, the goblin in charge of the Potter account only jeered derisively and stated it was none of his bloody business.

The former Slytherin Head insisted. After that, Gornuk was very clear about the fate of the Slytherin line and their empty vaults.

"None of them are remarkable or worth mentioning, Mr Potter." And promptly changed the subject.

A goblin telling him that the Noble and Most Ancient House of Slytherin was no longer of importance struck something deep in his chest. Salazar could only nod dumbly.

Time passed slowly when you were in company of the goblins. Their procedures were stressing and prolonged unnecessarily. What is more, you had to sign lots of papers, which you had to read with great care, lest you ended up agreeing to something else entirely.

A normal child would have been tricked easily by these greedy creatures. Salazar, however, understood the fine print. That much was clear when he started demanding the removal of clause number twelve. Donate one twelfth of his liquid assets to the bank for the maintenance of his vaults, his arse.

The boy sat stiffly on his seat and complied with all proceedings. He let them take his blood, once they had sworn on their honour as warriors that they weren't going to use it for anything else.

He was sure that Gornuk was inwardly hopping mad with him for pushing for that vow, but the creature was very mild in his reaction as far as anyone could see. Salazar's newfound fortune made him an important client to the bank. Gornuk understood that much and he was as compliant as his species' pride allowed him to be so as not to come across as rude.

By the time everything was in order, Salazar rushed out from the bank after recasting more concealing spells than he had applied at the beginning of this journey.

It was a very rich, but decidedly dazed Salazar Slytherin who exited Gringotts. His recently-produced key vaults weighed very little in his pockets, yet that didn't diminish the impact of the sudden awareness of his established heritage.

Being emancipated wasn't all bad; in fact, it played in his favour, but…

Around his middle finger in his left hand rested a white gold, unremarkable ring. It was a far cry of what it really was. There was no crest, no anything that could indicate that the ring was anything worthy of a Lord, whatsoever.

That, however, could change depending on the wearer's intentions and at the moment, Salazar was keeping this development under wraps as long as he could. And he had made sure that the goblins kept it that way as well. Gornuk was honour bound to comply with his wishes, as decreed by the latest treaty between wizardkind and goblinkind, which had been written down at the end of one of many conflicts between the two species.

The thing, however, weighed heavily in his mind as he hurried along, all too aware of it constricting his finger.

He had no desire to expose his lineage to the world. As Harry Potter, he had already too much on his shoulders already, that much was clear. If word got out that he was Lord Griffindor besides Potter, the measly worshipful loons he had stumbled upon in Diagon Alley would pale at what could come next. The Lordships were merely decorative titles, Gornuk insisted, but Salazar doubted that titbit would matter to anyone with a sheep mind-set.

When the time was convenient, he would announce it, but until then…

Recalling the disaster earlier that day, Salazar shuddered violently. Whist a lifetime ago he would have rejoiced at the amount of followers he probably had, he was now, quite frankly, thoroughly creeped out. He had to reassess his situation thoroughly. He was clearly not the nobody he'd expected.

Speaking of which… Salazar briefly had considered using Potter Manor as shelter from the world before utterly dismissing the option. The Blood Wards would detect his disappearance almost immediately and he wasn't prepared to confront the caster just yet. Staking everything on the privacy of the Fidelius would be a foolish move on his part—at least for now. He was still weak, loath as he was to admit it. One stalker was more than sufficient and the current one was harmless to boot. He'd be crazy to exchange that with a strong wizard/witch capable of subduing him anytime they wanted.

Know thy enemy. Salazar was beginning to see a pattern with the Muggle expressions.

But his decision didn't mean he wouldn't visit the place and begin researching into his ancestry. Just because he was still weak now didn't mean he would remain so for long. Family magic would be a huge boost, if there was a grimoire lying around in his family home.

He had to admit that it was a huge plus that he was the Secret Keeper of the Potter residence. Even the goblin that had mentioned the location during the Will's reading had forgotten instantly about it, confirming the effectiveness of the active charm.

The will in itself was interesting enough. The name Dumbledore showed up as one of the witnesses to its creation. When asked, Gornuk confirmed that he was the sole living witness to outlast Voldemort's regime.

There was no mention of him being his magical guardian, and despite that the man had taken the role upon himself and placed him with the Dursleys, even though James Potter had insisted quite adamantly on the contrary.

Dumbledore. Mighty meddlesome, indeed. The old coot was sitting at the very top of his black list right now.

It was a testament of his willpower that Salazar hadn't blown up Gringotts during the hearing. The rudimental Occlumency shields this body had managed to build so far and the strong goblin wards surrounding the building had also helped greatly there. Still, he was thankful none of the prideful creatures around detected his small lapse in control. That would have made for an ugly discussion and he had no desire to provoke a fearsome warrior race unnecessarily, nor he had time to explain himself.

The boy didn't stop moving until he was back into his room in Little Whinging, panting and huffing.

Salazar let himself in the house and completely ignored his aunt when they crossed paths on his way to his room. Petunia didn't dare ask and he wasn't about to give away the information; that was how things worked, for the lack of a better term. Salazar only allowed himself to think about what transpired in Diagon Alley after he had regained some semblance to calm.

But seriously. He? Defeated a Dark Lord? Irony at its best! Ha!

"The world's gone mad," Salazar groaned and buried his face in his hands.

He needed answers. Desperately. Right now.

Fortunately, he knew just who he had to ask and Angis was all too willing to help him out with this task.

The next day, the old snake was wrapped itself snugly around her fragile neck.

"Her fear tassstes great," commented Angis joyfully, sticking out his tongue. Bobbing slightly, the forked appendage was quick to snatch up the woman's tears, which were two uneven rivers on bare skin.

"I know," Salazar hissed, watching from another chair.

The Squib shuddered violently.

"You're not Harry Potter! You can't be him!" she shrieked.

"But I am," Salazar smirked.

"Liar! You speak to snakes!" Mrs. Figg insisted rather stubbornly.

Salazar smiled. Under the light of the crescent moon, his expression came across as rather sardonic. "Oh dear… It seems like there's been a misunderstanding. Everyone calls me Harry Potter, madam. That's my given name! I've lived in this neighbourhood my entire life! You're my neighbour, though, you should know."

But Mrs. Figg was already shaking her head.

"From your expression, I assume that you wanted me to turn out very differently," he said. Casually, he offered her a piece of cake, not offended in the least when she didn't take him up in the offer.

"You-? What are you getting at?" her voice cracked. Mrs. Figg twisted inside her bindings, but froze instantly when Angis grew frustrated with her and snapped at her.

"Please don't hurt me," she pled, glance going to the reptile and then to him. "I didn't do anything to you!"

Salazar ignored her.

"You're a busy woman, Mrs. Figg," he said with a mien of false awe. "Your interest in me is very annoying, as is your affection for your pets. They're a pesky bunch, those creatures. I was willing to overlook them, until you crossed a line I cannot ignore."

Mrs. Figg whimpered, "Keep my cats out of this!"

"But they aren't just cats, are they, Arabella?" Salazar interjected smoothly. Green gleamed darkly, directly at her. "You know exactly what they are."

"Brood eaters," Angis coiled further with a disgruntled hiss.

Mrs. Figg recoiled. "I don't know what you're talking about. My cats are cats. You're going in circles. Clearly, you're out of your mind!"

Salazar arched one of his eyebrows behind his glasses.

"Kneazles," he said, with the conviction of someone who just knew they were right. "Kneazles, woman. You breed them with cats and sell them to any wizard that's interested in half-breeds for pets and familiars."

"You're mad, boy. You're mad, you hear me!"

Denial. Well, he wasn't about to let that deter him. "And you… Mrs. Figg, you are a Squib."

The woman looked as though she had been slapped. She let out a funny noise from the base of her throat. "No… No, I'm not…"

"I must say… you must be the most incompetent spy I've ever met," he said, watching as he dropped the bomb on her. "Anyone with the right instincts and an ounce of intelligence would have figured you out sooner or later. I must been truly blind not to do so earlier."

Arabella Figg looked as though she was going to be sick.

"You're wrong..." she told him feebly. She couldn't look at him in the eye. "I am not spying on anyone..."

"Liar," Angis denied immediately.

Salazar sighed.

"I hope that you're comfortable," he said, dragging his chair closer to his prisoner. Mrs Figg flinched at the loud screech. "Your capture was an impulsive decision of my part. I'd like to assure you that I don't kidnap people on a daily basis, but things made this a necessity. You have information I need and hopefully you'll see my side of things when we're finished with this session."

"Session?" she squeaked with a dry mouth.

Salazar nodded. "We'll be completely honest with each other. You more than me. Look at it this way, Mrs. Figg," he said cheerfully. "We are in your house," he tilted his head, "alone..." His voice lowered to the sultry tones he used when he was threatening someone. "You are defenceless against my magic, Mrs. Figg. Even better, Dumbledore hasn't come to rescue you yet, so you can't hope for his intervention."

"Who are you?" her voice shrilled, meeting his gaze in an effort to appear more dignified.

"I took care of your pets," he said, smiling. Her eyes grew, horrified with the news. "We're truly alone at the moment. Nobody will interrupt this conversation."

Salazar ignored Mrs. Figg's reaction, proud of this small victory.

"A tragedy, really. I didn't know they would react that badly to the sulphur. They must be out of town by now..." he hummed.

"You dared—why would you—who—who are you?!" she yelled at him.

Salazar paused and looked at her. He couldn't help himself and chuckled at her stormy expression.

"I'm Harry Potter, ma'am," he bowed slightly, almost mockingly. "I live next door. It's a pleasure to finally meet you properly."

She glared.

"Impostor," she spat. "Harry Potter is only a boy! He's not supposed to know about magic! He's no Parselmouth! He's a little boy about to go to Hogwarts and discover the mysteries of magic!"

"Oh, I see you have a schedule," he drawled. "Where were you all these years? I've never been 'only a boy'. And if you really think you're right, you've only deluded yourself by thinking contrarily."

She huffed and turned her nose up.

Salazar rolled his eyes.

"I'm assuming that you're only a pawn in a bigger picture here," he said softly, "but, I'll give you a fair warning, Mrs. Figg… You do not want to test my patience. I won't hesitate to force the information out of you if anything else fails. And I promise you in advance that it won't end pleasantly for you that way, my dear."

He let that sink. The Squib gulped and Angis expressed his approval verbally.

Salazar produced a creased tabloid from his pocket and held it up for her to see. It was the Daily Prophet, inall of its sensationalism glory.

Mrs. Figg took it with shaking hands.

"POTTER NOT DEAD! ALTERCATION AT GRINGOTTS! DUMBLEDORE IN DENIAL!" she read aloud. She froze and gaped at him.

Salazar's eyes glinted.

"Mind loosening your tongue now, Mrs. Figg?"