Edmund rubbed his temples as he placed the bound parchment in his hands into the "done" pile, before retrieving yet another one to examine. He was sitting in the Slytherin Manor library, just like any other day. However, the presence of the man beside him was a clear indicator that things were not as normal as they seemed.
As the summer progressed, Marvolo had slowly continued sorting through Salazar's legacy, incorporating the founder's knowledge into his own. All the items left in the Chamber had now been skimmed over at least once, save for the books that were locked behind even more barriers.
Namely, parseltongue and the Slytherin magical signature.
Knowing the monotonous work would take far too much time alone, the dark lord had recruited the only other person he could to help him with it. Which was why Edmund now found himself assigned to the job of assistant librarian.
Not that he could complain overly much.
Marvolo had discovered the Slytherin grimoire long ago, filled to the brim with Salazar's personal spells and information about the remaining Slytherin family assets; including the unplottable island that the manor was being built upon. However, there were still many interesting things that the duo had uncovered besides that.
Some were useful, like the ley line convergence points that Salazar had stumbled on throughout his life. Others were less so, such as the founder's documentation of a revolutionary new way of travel: flying brooms!
That was to be expected.
Even within Slytherin's magical findings, there was a high degree of variance. There were a number of spellbooks solely dedicated to parseltongue curses, but there was also an equal, if not greater amount of experimental journals, such as "The Diminishing Returns of Blood Replenisher in Palliative Care of Chronically Ill Dragon Pox Patients."
Of course, a vast portion of the collection was composed of healing techniques that Salazar had learned from the Order of Asclepius. The theory flew over Edmund's head, but he still knew that many of the concepts being discussed had been completely lost in the modern age.
Disregarding the Order's illustrious accomplishments, there was other fascinating lore that he had learned as well.
The most intriguing nugget of all was Salazar's mention of the Rod of Asclepius, a real artifact instead of the myth it was known as. Originally, it was just a simple wizarding staff, adorned with two intertwining snakes made of goblin wrought silver. However, prolonged exposure to healing magic and parseltongue had imbued the serpents with a consciousness, allowing them to slither around as though they were alive. They became magical focuses of their own, amplifying the healing spells cast through them multiple fold. The more the staff was used, the more powerful it became.
Ironically, however, its increasing fame caused the leaders of the Order to have it locked away for protection, in turn decreasing its power. The only occasions that Salazar had seen it in person was from afar, used as little more than a ceremonial tool during important events. With each year that passed, the snakes lost their magic, until they were practically "dead" once more.
Slytherin's words made it apparent how much he revered the Order, but that was one decision he clearly resented them for.
After Herpo the Foul's actions lead to the destruction of Asclepius' acolytes, the rod was lost, never to be seen again.
'I wonder if it's still out there somewhere,' Edmund pondered.
Shaking himself from his stray thoughts, Edmund refocused on the task at hand.
The next item within his grasp was rather odd, especially compared to its peers. It was thin, not unlike a storybook for children. Although it was a hardcover, its front and back featured only a simple green gradient. 'Snake skin,' Edmund realized as he ran his hands over it, noting its scaliness and uneven texture.
'Nonmagical?' he questioned as he cast a broad use detection charm on it. The magic slid off the material, unable to pierce its shell to achieve its purpose. 'I'll take that as a no.'
He used his knuckles to rap on the skin, finding it to be nonmalleable and tough. Holding the two edges open, he quickly glanced through it, finding nothing inside but blank parchment. 'Just as expected.'
'Well, nothing to it,' Edmund decided.
Gently, he pushed his magic into the book, receiving no response.
Except…
'Was that anticipation I felt,' Edmund startled. 'No, no, no, I'm going crazy.'
And yet, when he opened his mouth to hiss out a word of parseltongue, he could not help the nervous excitement bubbling up within him.
Immediately, the pages flipped rapidly, caught in a nonexistent wind, as a golden light burst out from within. The glow blinded him, blocking his view of the rest of the room.
'Almost like Voldemort's first horcrux,' he thought absentmindedly as Marvolo instantly banished the book from his fingers, sending it flying across the room. With his blurry returning vision, Edmund managed to get his first look at the title that had just formed while it was in midair.
"The Warmage's Chronicles: Salazar Slytherin"
The dark lord's wand made tens of consecutive tight flicks and circles, as he used spell after spell on both Edmund and the book. "How do you feel?" he demanded.
"No different," Edmund quickly reassured.
"The intent behind the magic it emitted was not malicious, but I would rather not take the chance," Marvolo muttered.
Soon enough, however, his look of concern was replaced with greed. He picked up the tiny book from the ground delicately, repeating the same steps as Edmund.
Nothing.
Voldemort frowned. He repeated the steps, and was rejected once more. The dark lord was grimacing by then, as he pressed the lord ring into the first page and channeled his magic into it.
The same yellow glow appeared again, but noticeably dimmer this time. Marvolo's triumphant expression only lasted for a few seconds before it turned ashen once more.
Rotating the book Edmund's way, he showed him the inky message that had bled into being. The words were in old English, but after browsing the library for the last few weeks, that fact did not phase him. "Lord you may be, but this tome is not meant for your eyes. Only an heir who has not yet finished their period of growth may gaze upon these words. So I have said, and so it shall be."
As soon as Edmund's attention went to it, the letters began to shift, rearranging into new words.
"There's something else!" Edmund pointed out.
But it was for naught.
Just as Marvolo tried to read them, the letters transformed into illegible squiggles.
Voldemort clenched his jaw, shoving the thin journal into Edmund's clutches. "Read."
Clearing his throat, Edmund silently did as instructed. 'My heir. If you have continued reading this after seeing the title, then you are either curious, desperate, or idiotic beyond belief. Within is an accounting of my childhood, and the steps a boy was expected to take before becoming a man in my time. It is the process by which a novice wizard is forged and tempered until it becomes a Warmage. Beware. Tis a brutal practice. Four out of every five children who have attempted this have died on this journey. I would not put another soul through it ever again if it were up to me. And yet, my past is what made me who I am. I would not deprive my heirs of that knowledge. To those brave, or foolish, enough to tread this path, you have been warned.'
"It's a—" Edmund choked as he processed his ancestor's words.
His brow furrowed.
"It's a—" he choked again.
Voldemort sighed in frustration.
"I cannot say more," Edmund said apologetically.
"Keep me informed to the best of your ability," Marvolo dismissed sulkily. "I will not deny your lineage to you as it was to me. But remember, be cautious. I know how the lure of magic affects you, believe me. However, pushing past your limits unnecessarily is not worth it."
Edmund nodded slowly, even as he tried to understand what exactly Voldemort was referencing. What was it that the dark lord regretted so much?
As he tucked the book into his satchel, he noticed that the next page within was glowing, waiting for him to return to it when he was ready.
If you have any thoughts, or things you would like to see happen in the story, please share!
—
As you may have noticed, my diction is decent, while my syntax is awful. Please do not hesitate to point out any mistakes I make with a paragraph comment or a general chapter comment!
—
Thank you for reading!
[BEGIN Excerpt from "The Warmage's Chronicles: Salazar Slytherin"]
I was born sometime in the late 60s or early 70s. I suppose I should be more specific. I cannot be sure when or in what circumstance my words will be read. The 960s or the 970s is what I meant. Beyond that, I did not know the specifics of my birth for a long time. Name days were not considered meaningful for those in my tribe. A child became a man through their actions, not the number of moons they had lived through.
I am getting ahead of myself.
My clan was known as the Gurutzada. A funny word to you, most likely, given the tongue it originates from was largely eradicated long before I was born. The Basque language, sometimes taught to us as the Euskara or Euskera, is the only remnant of the eclectic mix of languages from the southwestern reaches of the continent. It, along with much of our magical culture, was culturally assimilated—not by choice, I assure you—when the region began to be Romanized in the 2nd through 1st century BC.
Basque is also where part of my name comes from. "Zahar" literally means old, for even the Gurutzada had no record of the ancientness of parseltongue.
Gurutzada itself translates to "the crusade." If that does not hint at the beliefs of those I grew up with, then I am afraid, dear descendant, you are likely rather dull.
I was the direct offspring of two clan members, but my heritage was unknown to me until I became an adult. That was simply how it worked. Nepotism was considered a sign of weakness, so each child—whether one of the chieftain or of a thrall—was raised collectively by the entire tribe instead of by separate parents. Discrimination was foolish, as it would only deprive the Gurutzada of possible future warmages.
Unless, of course, someone was unpure of blood.
However, that is not entirely accurate either. It was not the individual's parents being magical that mattered, but rather how much they had been exposed to muggle culture throughout their life. Being pureblood was the easiest way to prove your loyalty to the plight of wizards and witches of our era. But only relying on purebloods proved insufficient for my clan, primarily because of the sheer number of children that did not survive their training.
And so, the Gurutzada raided. They would keep an ear out for rumours of newborns with supernatural abilities and then strike in the darkness. The child's family would be killed, and the toddler would be secreted away, never to know their true history.
We were taught about the atrocities the muggles had committed against us, indoctrinated with hate against those that dared to oppress us. Be warned. Do not fool yourself about the type of man I am, my heir. Although I recognize the tactics the Gurutzada used to warp my mind, it does not make me disagree with their teachings.
Their practices were brutal, yes, but not unwarranted. At least not to me.
Look at me, getting off track again. Perhaps my absentmindedness will be the only thing you remember from my words. Alas, reminiscence makes me nostalgic.
Where was I?
Ah yes.
At approximately ten years of age, I vividly remember a commotion among the ruling elders. A rather unusual raid had occurred at the time. Rather than assailing a village of muggles, the Gurutzada had chosen to attack a community where magicals and nonmagicals lived together. As far as I have been told, their coexistence was harmonious, but there was no telling when the stability would be disrupted. To the tribe, it was inevitable that conflict would break out between the two groups. Peace was a false hope.
In the moor that would come to be known as Godric's Hollow, a small West Country village in England contained the greatest population of young witches and wizards that the Gurutzada had ever come across. As was tradition, the inhabitants were slaughtered, including the magicals sympathetic to their muggle counterparts. No one over five was kept alive, considered far too much of a liability to be worth it.
Except for one boy, similar in age to my own. A boy named Godric Gryffindor.
With no formal training and only a poorly matched wand and wooden sword at his disposal, he managed to take down three warmages of the clan before he was apprehended. Usually, this would mean torture and execution for the perpetrator, no questions asked. However, the raw potential that Godric exuded led to an exception. The boy would be raised as one of the Gurutzada's own.
Not that the decision was widely supported. Many in the clan refused to interact with Godric, who was more than happy to return their hostility to them twofold. His unrelenting and boisterous attitude only made him that much more unpopular, both among the adults and the young.
I, however, shared none of my tribe's loathing for him.
I was envied for my parseltongue capabilities, while Godric was hated for his very nature. Both of us were familiar with the sensation of being outcasted for our prodigious talent, and we found common ground in that. Our friendship developed quickly, strengthening to the point of brotherhood in a matter of mere months. Whether or not we relied on anyone else in the Gurutzada, we always had each other's backs.
I trusted him.
After all, how much did it matter that muggles raised him for the first ten years of his life? I found the answer to that question sooner than I anticipated.
[END Excerpt from "The Warmage's Chronicles: Salazar Slytherin"]
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- (Scene Break) -
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Flourish and Blotts was the premier store in magical Britain for all the book related needs a person could have. With multiple floors, each boasting over half a million unique tomes, it was no surprise that this was the case. Although it was not readily apparent, this also meant that the shop was heavily involved with conservation efforts for rare and remarkable books that could not be found anywhere else.
A massive unseen section of the store was an archive dedicated to protecting the knowledge within from being lost to the world. Luckily for Edmund, this also included copies of all the published editions of the Daily Prophet since the newspaper's inception.
After working in the Slytherin library for so long, Edmund had become an expert in all types of sorting-related charms. With a faint murmur and a twist of his wand, a small stack of weathered pages was filtered from the piles of clippings all around him.
Taking a seat at the sole desk in the crowded room, Edmund began to read.
*-*-*-*
PHILOSOPHER'S STONE DESTROYED ACCORDING TO STATEMENT BY CREATORS NICOLAS AND PERENELLE FLAMEL!
...
June 17, 1748
*-*-*-*
And yet...
Things were not as simple as they seemed.
*-*-*-*
THE FLAMELS REAPPEAR AFTER THE DEMISE OF THE DARK LORD! NOT SO DEAD AFTER ALL!
...
October 22, 1767
*-*-*-*
The man who had left the calling card with the "F" inscribed on it had not been difficult to find. He had made no attempts to hide his face, nor had he glamoured it in any way. To Edmund, Flamel seemed oddly uncaring about his continued existence being revealed to the world.
Or maybe, meeting with him had made the risk worth it...
Either way, Edmund had been unnerved by the man's interest in him. The first step to understanding what he was up against was studying; that was exactly what he had been doing since the encounter.
Anyone who did the slightest bit of digging into the Flamels' past would easily discover that they had a tendency to "pass away" whenever a new party seemed interested in stealing their most prized possession, only to resurface a few decades later. A century could go by after their "death," and many historians would still remain unconvinced about their passing.
The information Edmund had come across fit the conversation he had participated in with Flamel perfectly. It explained why he had known his wife for so long, why he had many children who passed away before him, and more...
'But if he can be trusted, that doesn't explain why Perenelle Flamel is dead,' Edmund thought to himself. 'More importantly, what does he want with me?'
The only link he could think of between them was the information that Marvolo had given him when he first woke up. That begged the question that if Flamel knew of him because the philosopher's stone was used to protect him when he arrived in this reality, why had he waited so long to approach him?
It could be that there had been no opportunity till now to do so. However, Edmund's gut told him otherwise. 'Something's fishy. But what?'
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—
As you may have noticed, my diction is decent, while my syntax is awful. Please do not hesitate to point out any mistakes I make with a paragraph comment or a general chapter comment!
—
Thank you for reading!
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