Okay, so since a lot of you guys didn't like the original names, which was just going to be "The Heir of Slytherin", I've decided to take a reader's suggestion ( as you can see) and call it Thick Walls, Thicker Bonds. And so I thank the one who reviewed that!

And, yes, for those of you who asked, this plot is going to be VERY different from the Snarry one. For one, this isn't a crossover (the other one is) also, in the Snarry fic, Sammael is transported to exactly 4 years after he vanished in his original timeline. In this story, it's been ten. FADAH!

Sammael's magical orientation, unlike in the other story, will be Grey leaning towards Dark.

One last thing: This IS a sequel for the people who randomly picked this up. So if you haven't already, I suggest reading through my other story "The Son of Salazar" so that you can get a good idea of what's going on. Don't worry, it's not that long, only 10 chapters. Thanks to all of you who followed the story so far, and HELLO to the new peoples!

May the gods be ever in your favor,

-James

It was storming out, lightning cutting through the dark night sky just outside the window. The main source of light came from Kai, who sat perched on the back of a plush chair. Besnik was clutching onto Sammael's body, wrapped around him tightly, moaning. Sammael stroked him, but made no move to get up. His stomach lurched, and Sammael forced down the bile that was clawing its way up his throat.

"Let's never do that again," Besnik pleaded pathetically. Sammael couldn't help but chuckle as his phoenix agreed vehemently. He recognized this place, he saw it often enough in his nightmares. He was back here, Number 4 Privet Drive. His eyes were pulled over to his old cupboard, he briefly wondered if his old things were still in there. He was about to wander over there, when the lights suddenly flicked on, blinding him.

"Who the hell are you?" spat a purple faced, overweight man with wadded up fists. Uncle Vernon, Sammael realized, he's gotten fatter. "Answer me! I know you're one of those freaks," Sammael flinched at the use of his old name. "And I'll have you know we don't put up with your kind here. And like we told that old guy YEARS ago, the boy ran away! He's probably dead by now!" A vicious gleam in Vernon's eye made Sammael sneer. Besnik shifted under his robes as Sammael began to reach for his wand.

"Let me kill him, Mael," pleaded the basilisk. "This is the one you've told us about?" he continued. "The one who used to hurt you?" At Sammael's nod, the basilisk pleaded once more. "Let me kill him." Kai trilled in agreement. Sammael was going to refuse, but then Petunia came down the stairs.

She screamed. "Not one of you!" she wailed, clutching at her night gown as though Sammael were some kind of monster. Sammael stroked his familiar.

"Go ahead," he said. "I won't stop you."

***1047***

Dumbledore was a man who always had a plan for everything. It had gotten to the point where his followers were convinced he was omniscient. Dumbledore, for his part, did nothing to discredit these rumors. His plans never failed him…all except for that one.

He'd set it up so carefully. He'd seen the potential one Tom Riddle had had. This young man with such a large, powerful dark core. It was easy, after Grindlewald, to spread the rumors that all dark magic was evil. He prevented anyone from the wizarding world from adopting Riddle, and then watched as his fear of death—kindled from the many, many bombings he'd had to witness as a child—mold him into a Dark Lord.

Dumbledore had planned on ridding the wizarding world of this "threat" himself. Though, after Tom had studied the Dark Arts for years, he'd come back to Hogwarts in hopes of being a teacher. When that door was closed, he'd tried to go into politics, though Dumbledore was ready with the media on his side, and he'd quickly spread fear for "Dark Lord Voldemort". So in retaliation, Voldemort raised up followers, mainly his old school friends and their families, and lead them against Dumbledore and his Order. But then things started going wrong.

While Dumbledore and Tom were evenly matched, the Order and the Death Eaters were not. Voldemort's men were more powerful by far. Dumbledore needed a new player.

He'd targeted the Potters, knowing that one Severus Snape held great affection for the wife. With a well-placed Imperio, he fed Sybil Trelawney a 'prophecy' once he was certain that Severus was just outside the door of his unwarded room. Aberforth had caught Severus halfway through, as Dumbledore had planned.

Before they released Severus, however, Dumbledore had Imperioed him as well. Through Snape, he had then put a compulsion on Voldemort to eliminate the 'competition' himself. Then he'd convinced Lily to perform a blood ritual on her son, not telling her that in order for this ancient magic to take hold, the caster had to die.

And die she did, by Tom's wand. And then Voldemort was 'defeated' by Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. Dumbledore planned to raising this child up with Muggles, to teach him to be meek and obedient, and then he'd step in and save young Harry from the muggles, take him to Hogwarts and play the part of the grandfatherly Headmaster to use the Boy Who Lived's fame to bolster his own.

But then he found out about Tom's Horcruxes from Slughorn. The thrice damned fool.

And then Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had to go and get himself killed. Well, at least, he was presumed dead.

When the BWL was absent from the Welcoming Feast, that fateful year that the entire wizarding world had been waiting for, Dumbledore, Severus and Minerva had paid the Dursley's a visit, only to find that the boy's magic was all but faded from the house. He hadn't been there for years. The Dursley's would only say that the boy disappeared. When Severus used Legilimency on them, he confirmed with great confusion: the boy had literally vanished into thin air. God knew where the boy was now.

When Voldemort managed to steal the Philosopher's stone that year, rumors spread like wild fire. The Dark Lord was back. The Dark Lord would rise again. The Dark Lord was simply biding his time. And so, they Wizarding World turned to the only other child that the prophecy could have meant, since it obviously wasn't Harry Potter: Neville Longbottom.

Neville was hailed as the Prophecy Child, now that the Boy Who Lived was dead. If it were any other child, Dumbledore would have jumped on this opportunity. It would have been perfect. He would have just raised up this child the way he would have with Harry, he as certainly meek enough, after being raised by the abrasive Augusta Longbottom. There was only one problem: The boy might as well have been a squib!

He had difficulty with the simplest of spells, he couldn't stay on a broom to save his life, he had the lowest scores in Defense Against the Dark Arts that had EVER been seen at Hogwarts. The only thing he was even remotely capable at was Herbology. But what kind of Hero was a gardener?

The boy wasn't even a Gryffindor! He'd been sorted into Hufflepuff.

Dumbledore, for the first time since Gellert, had no idea what to do. He'd been alerted by his people in the Aurors that morning that the Dursley's—the family he'd trust the BWL to—had all been found murdered.

But it was how they were murdered that worried Dumbledore. The son had been killed with the Killing Curse, but the parents…they were found by the police as stone statues. They'd been looked into the eyes by a basilisk. Only a parselmouth could control the King of Serpents. And there was only one known parselmouth living, as far as Dumbledore knew.

But the worst news was that Voldemort was just as surprised, according to Severus. The Dark Lord also had people in the ministry, who'd reported this back to him. According to Snape, Tom had frozen in place for several moments before breaking into manic laughter and ordering his Death Eaters to find the one who killed them, and bring them to him.

So if it wasn't Lord Voldemort, who was it?

***1047***

Neville was out in his garden early that day, the sun was barely peeking up from behind the horizon. He was always out in his garden as much as he could be during the summer, so that he could avoid his gran. His gran who would always remind him how much of a disappointment he was. How sorry of a replacement he was for The Harry Potter. How she wished that Frank Longbottom, his father, had been spared in place of Neville. That one stung the most, honestly. Partly because Neville wished it, too.

When Neville was younger, he used to dream about his parents waking up and being fine. When Gran would take him to St. Mungos to visit, he'd always close his eyes, right before he'd open the doors, and make a wish. He'd wish to fine them healed, sitting in their right minds talking quietly.

But that was never what he'd find. It would be the same, visit after visit. Year after year. Around the time he was ten, he'd come to accept that he would never get to have a real family. It would always just be him and Gran. But then, then Neville started having the most wonderful dreams. He would dream that a handsome, no beautiful man would come and take him away. He dreamed that this man would adopt him, that they would be a family.

He dreamed that this man would be powerful, so powerful that some of it rubbed off on Neville, and the man would teach Neville everything he'd know and then Neville would become powerful too. And then, then he'd get to show all of those people who looked down on him how wrong they were. He'd show Dumbledore. He'd show Gran. Heck, he'd even show that snot-nosed brat in Gryffindor Ronald Weasley how wrong he was, for saying that Neville was weak.

It's funny, Neville thought, the only ones who never snubbed him were the Slytherin's, who were supposedly evil. Them and his friends: Cedric, a seventh year who had been the champion last year during the Triwizard Tournament. (That had gone so well, that they were talking about doing it again this year.) and Neville's best friend, a Ravenclaw a year younger than he, Luna Lovegood. Sometimes he'd dream about his friends. He saw Luna with a weird tiara on her head. He saw Cedric asking the handsome man who'd adopt Neville where he'd gotten his scar.

Cedric thought that Neville might be a seer, and Luna had agreed that the Jujunbugs were living his his brain…which Neville thought to mean she thought so as well. Neville, for one, hoped that he was in fact, a seer. Because it meant that it would be soon. Every day Neville woke up early to head out to his garden, but he'd be watching the drive as he worked, hoping to see that man walking up. He always held his breath when he got a letter, and was always sorely disappointed when it turned out to be a letter from Luna or Cedric.

Maybe he wasn't a seer after all?

***1047***

Lord Voldemort was most pleased.

Lucius had reported in early this morning with the new that Harry Potter's family had recently been murdered. The weapon of choice? A basilisk. As far as Voldemort knew, the only basilisk still alive was his old friend Eadlin, who was currently sleeping in the Chamber of Secrets. That serpent had told the most wonderful stories about Salazar himself. Salazar, and someone named Sammael who Salazar had loved. However, Eadlin hadn't been fully coherent. She was old, and her mind was going. Which was understandable, after all if she truly had been Salazar's familiar, she would then be almost a millennia old. Even still, she hadn't been able to tell Voldemort, Tom at the time, who Sammael was. Was he a lover of Salazar? A friend? A son?

According to Eadlin, Sammael was just as powerful as Salazar. Sometimes, he would seem more powerful. Salazar apparently died because of him, though he hadn't been able to get that full story out of her either. In the end, Tom ended up just having to send her back to sleep: she kept escaping the Chamber and petrifying students. She always felt terrible about it, she was a sweet old gal, she just didn't remember how to not petrify people.

Tom didn't even know that was an option. And so, while he'd learned much from that beautiful basilisk, it raised more questions than answers.

And yet, there was apparently someone else who could control a basilisk. No one was around, so Voldemort allowed a tiny, rueful grin. They could control a basilisk even better than he could. Of course, if the basilisk was able to fit into that tiny house, it must mean that their basilisk was smaller, therefore, younger. Voldemort had tried to hatch a basilisk of his own, but he'd never been able to manage it. The toads would always hop off of the egg. When he'd tried a sticking charm, it had crushed the egg. Perhaps this person would help him hatch one of his own?

There was almost no doubt in his mind that he and this person were at least distantly related. And if there's one thing that the boy Tom Riddle had wanted more than power, more than immortality, it was family. Of course, Voldemort was no longer that boy, but he still had a special place in his mind for that particular fantasy, even though he hadn't visited it in years, after he'd turned 15 and he accepted that he'd never get adopted.

He sat back in his throne, wondering what this person was like. Was it a man, or woman? How old were they? How powerful were they? Would they be content to follow Voldemort? Not likely, not if they were truly a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.

He have to call in Severus later, have him report anything his spy had learned from Dumbledore. Perhaps the old coot would know more about this mysterious new participant of their game.