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lomonaaerenTitle: Solstice Fires
Pairing: Harry/Salazar Slytherin
Content Notes: Present tense, mentions of incest, ignores the epilogue
Rating: PG-13
Harry leans back on his arms and beams at the sky. It’s the first winter solstice since the Battle at Hogwarts, since Voldemort’s death, and the castle towers over them, as beautiful as ever after their rebuilding project, with brilliant fires glowing all around them and throwing light back to the stars.
Harry knows he’s a little too happy, but it has nothing to do with the Firewhisky other people are drinking. It has to do with the fact that he really feels alive, as if a veil keeping him from the world has been ripped away, and Hogwarts is back, and he can start the winter term there after Christmas and stop taking lessons from tutors in the Ministry.
Someone sits down beside him. Harry squints over, but the person is sitting with their—his?—back to a bonfire, and all Harry can see is dark green robes.
Slytherin, Harry decides, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now except how good he feels. He grins at the other student and shuts his eyes.
“So you’re Harry Potter.”
Harry opens his eyes and turns his head, because that doesn’t sound like a fellow student. Fleur asked some of her French relatives to come over and help with the rebuilding. Maybe it’s one of them?
The person moves, finally, stopping sitting with his back to the fire so Harry can make out his face. It looks vaguely familiar, but Harry doesn’t know why. He has a hooked nose, fierce green eyes, and black hair that has a few tinges of silvery-grey in it. Harry stares in wonder.
“You’re not as impressive as I imagined,” the stranger says doubtfully.
Harry laughs, entertained at the idea that he has to be impressive. “I hope not. The Prophet regularly inflates my fame to absurd levels.”
“You’re not going to ask me my name?”
“I reckon that you would have offered it already if you wanted me to know.”
The man hesitates for a long moment. Then he extends his hand. “Salazar.”
Harry whistles low as he shakes the man’s hand. He does have a trace of an accent, Harry decides, but not a French one. “Well, I can see why you might not want to offer your name.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that most people’s first association would be with Salazar Slytherin, and he doesn’t have the best reputation.”
The man sniffs, as if he finds the idea that someone might not want to spend time around him because of his name absurd. Harry has to agree. The man’s handsome, and Harry now thinks some of the heat radiating around them is from the bloke’s magic, not the fires. “I am not exactly native to Britain, either, although I have lived here a long time.”
Harry nods and flops back onto the ground. To his surprise, Salazar stretches out next to him. Huh. Genuinely impressive people don’t often act as if they want to spend time with the Boy-Who-Lived. They know too much about fame, and they deserve their reputations a lot more than he does. “Came for the celebration?” Harry asks idly, studying the stars hanging overhead.
“For that,” the man agrees, sounding as though it was a new idea, which makes Harry turn to look at him. “But mainly because I wanted to meet you.”
Harry narrows his eyes. “You do have some ideas about me, then.”
“Only in the barest outlines,” Salazar agrees, and rolls to the side, propping himself up on an elbow. Harry finds that the breath has stuck in his chest at the look in Salazar’s eyes. “I felt your magic from a distance, calling to me. It woke me up as from a long sleep. I promise, Harry, I wanted to meet you, but not because you are the so-called Chosen One. I had my own reasons.” He picks up Harry’s hand and presses a kiss to the back of it.
Harry stares at him with a blank, scrambling mind. Then he breathes out. “You can’t just—do that.”
“Why not? Has anyone else ever done it? Would I have to fight someone else for your favor?”
Salazar looks delighted at the thought, which makes Harry eye him even more warily. “No,” he says slowly. “But I’m not a girl. It’s girls whose hands you kiss. And I’ve never seen anyone do it in the wizarding world, anyway.”
“Where I come from, it is a simple courtesy to someone you wish to court. Whether they are a man or a woman or otherwise does not matter. And I very much wish to court you, Harry.”
Harry blinks several more times. Sure, he’s had people giggle about dating him, and Rita Skeeter write articles about people dating him—even when they weren’t—and Cho kissed him in fifth year, and he dated Ginny in sixth year. But no one’s ever spoken to him like this, or acted as though they’d like to “court” him instead of date him.
It’s old-fashioned, and maybe native to whatever country Salazar comes from instead of Britain. But Harry kind of likes it.
At least Salazar sounds like he’s being honest, and he doesn’t act shy or coy. Harry doesn’t have to guess at his intentions. He finds himself smiling.
“I can’t promise that everything will work out the way you want it to,” he says. “I never thought that I might be gay. And I’m not a pureblood, and I think you probably are.” He glances dubiously at Salazar’s clothing, all of which seems to be well-made and flowing in a way that speaks of magic worked into the cloth. “That might annoy you.”
“I promise you,” Salazar whispers, leaning forwards, “your blood will not annoy me. You are a compendium of your experiences, Harry. You are fascinating. That only makes me more interested in you, in courting you, and coming to understand you more for yourself. And don’t forget the way your magic sang to mine. I am interested in exploring that, as well.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone’s magic singing to anyone else’s. Can you explain that?”
Salazar draws him towards one of the fires, making it spring up with a wave of his wand. “You can feel the heat from where you stand, yes?” he asks, tilting his head. He’s closer to the fire than Harry is.
Harry nods. He’s about a meter away.
“But the closer you come, the hotter it is. I could hear the song of your magic from a distance. It drew me, the way that the warmth of these fires would draw someone wandering in the darkness and the cold. And I followed the song. I knew it came from someone whose magic would resonate with mine, someone who, despite his young age—when I discovered who you were—has been through experiences that complement mine.”
“You were expected to be a savior?”
Harry can’t be sure, but he thinks there’s a wry expression on Salazar’s shadowed face. “You would not believe how much.”
Harry smiles. It would be nice to spend some time with someone who shares that experience, which definitely isn’t something that he’s ever had before. Viktor Krum has a similar level of fame to Harry’s, that much is true, but he doesn’t understand the savior thing, either.
“Tell me more about this courting you want to do.”
*
Salazar hopes that he’s hiding his relief as he studies Harry. He’s handsome, and he hasn’t allowed his experiences to taint his joy. The way he looks at Salazar now, with curiosity and interest, is better than any reaction Salazar could have predicted.
When Salazar first woke into this strange world, on the middle of the island in the Hogwarts lake, he had no idea why he was awake. If he wasn’t summoned to England’s need, then what caused him to open his eyes? If he was summoned, then why wasn’t a member of the bloodline dedicated to protecting the secret and waking him when it was time with him?
It took Salazar two years to work out what had happened. The bloodline that was supposed to wake him when he was needed died out, or else betrayed their trust; Salazar is still not entirely sure what happened to Rowena’s children. And it wasn’t England’s need that awakened him. It was the song of such magic such as he never expected to find.
Salazar never heard it in the time when he was born, which is one of the reasons why he agreed so easily to sleep through the centuries until England needed him, in imitation of the legend of King Arthur. Perhaps he would open his eyes and find someone he could court and marry and have children with in a later time, someone who was worthy.
One of Salazar’s ancestors actually made it a law that members of their family could only marry Parselmouths. Salazar understands the precaution in theory. Parseltongue is likely to be passed on only when both parents speak it; it might show up in a child without that, but it is too great a gift to leave to chance.
But even before Salazar went to sleep, Parselmouths were rare, and members of his line had turned to marrying cousins and half-siblings. The thought disgusts Salazar. He sired a child with a second cousin of his not because he wanted to, but because the Lord he served made it a condition of helping with the magic that would allow him to survive the sleep without aging.
And now he knows that the child he sired went on to sire others who degenerated in the same manner, through incest and ignorance, until one of them nearly destroyed England.
It only makes sense, in Salazar’s worldview, that he reward the man tapped by fate with getting rid of that blot, the one Salazar should have been awake to defeat. And one of the first things he learned about Harry Potter is that he is a Parselmouth.
Salazar is not sure about their precise degree of relation, but it is distant enough to satisfy even him after a thousand years.
He will court and marry someone more worthy than anyone he knew in his own time, and he will make sure that Harry wants for nothing. What the Slytherin bloodline took from Harry, he will restore. The thought pleases him as much as the song of Harry’s magic seduces him.
And when he tells Harry the truth…
Salazar is sure that he can love Harry enough, and make Harry fall in love with him enough, that he will be able to convince Harry to remain with the ancestor of his great enemy. Magic that woke him from a thousand-year-old enchanted sleep is worth any price.
Harry, Salazar thinks, as he watches those brilliant green eyes flash in the firelight, is worth any price.
Pairing: Harry/Salazar Slytherin
Content Notes: Present tense, mentions of incest, ignores the epilogue
Rating: PG-13
Harry leans back on his arms and beams at the sky. It’s the first winter solstice since the Battle at Hogwarts, since Voldemort’s death, and the castle towers over them, as beautiful as ever after their rebuilding project, with brilliant fires glowing all around them and throwing light back to the stars.
Harry knows he’s a little too happy, but it has nothing to do with the Firewhisky other people are drinking. It has to do with the fact that he really feels alive, as if a veil keeping him from the world has been ripped away, and Hogwarts is back, and he can start the winter term there after Christmas and stop taking lessons from tutors in the Ministry.
Someone sits down beside him. Harry squints over, but the person is sitting with their—his?—back to a bonfire, and all Harry can see is dark green robes.
Slytherin, Harry decides, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now except how good he feels. He grins at the other student and shuts his eyes.
“So you’re Harry Potter.”
Harry opens his eyes and turns his head, because that doesn’t sound like a fellow student. Fleur asked some of her French relatives to come over and help with the rebuilding. Maybe it’s one of them?
The person moves, finally, stopping sitting with his back to the fire so Harry can make out his face. It looks vaguely familiar, but Harry doesn’t know why. He has a hooked nose, fierce green eyes, and black hair that has a few tinges of silvery-grey in it. Harry stares in wonder.
“You’re not as impressive as I imagined,” the stranger says doubtfully.
Harry laughs, entertained at the idea that he has to be impressive. “I hope not. The Prophet regularly inflates my fame to absurd levels.”
“You’re not going to ask me my name?”
“I reckon that you would have offered it already if you wanted me to know.”
The man hesitates for a long moment. Then he extends his hand. “Salazar.”
Harry whistles low as he shakes the man’s hand. He does have a trace of an accent, Harry decides, but not a French one. “Well, I can see why you might not want to offer your name.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that most people’s first association would be with Salazar Slytherin, and he doesn’t have the best reputation.”
The man sniffs, as if he finds the idea that someone might not want to spend time around him because of his name absurd. Harry has to agree. The man’s handsome, and Harry now thinks some of the heat radiating around them is from the bloke’s magic, not the fires. “I am not exactly native to Britain, either, although I have lived here a long time.”
Harry nods and flops back onto the ground. To his surprise, Salazar stretches out next to him. Huh. Genuinely impressive people don’t often act as if they want to spend time with the Boy-Who-Lived. They know too much about fame, and they deserve their reputations a lot more than he does. “Came for the celebration?” Harry asks idly, studying the stars hanging overhead.
“For that,” the man agrees, sounding as though it was a new idea, which makes Harry turn to look at him. “But mainly because I wanted to meet you.”
Harry narrows his eyes. “You do have some ideas about me, then.”
“Only in the barest outlines,” Salazar agrees, and rolls to the side, propping himself up on an elbow. Harry finds that the breath has stuck in his chest at the look in Salazar’s eyes. “I felt your magic from a distance, calling to me. It woke me up as from a long sleep. I promise, Harry, I wanted to meet you, but not because you are the so-called Chosen One. I had my own reasons.” He picks up Harry’s hand and presses a kiss to the back of it.
Harry stares at him with a blank, scrambling mind. Then he breathes out. “You can’t just—do that.”
“Why not? Has anyone else ever done it? Would I have to fight someone else for your favor?”
Salazar looks delighted at the thought, which makes Harry eye him even more warily. “No,” he says slowly. “But I’m not a girl. It’s girls whose hands you kiss. And I’ve never seen anyone do it in the wizarding world, anyway.”
“Where I come from, it is a simple courtesy to someone you wish to court. Whether they are a man or a woman or otherwise does not matter. And I very much wish to court you, Harry.”
Harry blinks several more times. Sure, he’s had people giggle about dating him, and Rita Skeeter write articles about people dating him—even when they weren’t—and Cho kissed him in fifth year, and he dated Ginny in sixth year. But no one’s ever spoken to him like this, or acted as though they’d like to “court” him instead of date him.
It’s old-fashioned, and maybe native to whatever country Salazar comes from instead of Britain. But Harry kind of likes it.
At least Salazar sounds like he’s being honest, and he doesn’t act shy or coy. Harry doesn’t have to guess at his intentions. He finds himself smiling.
“I can’t promise that everything will work out the way you want it to,” he says. “I never thought that I might be gay. And I’m not a pureblood, and I think you probably are.” He glances dubiously at Salazar’s clothing, all of which seems to be well-made and flowing in a way that speaks of magic worked into the cloth. “That might annoy you.”
“I promise you,” Salazar whispers, leaning forwards, “your blood will not annoy me. You are a compendium of your experiences, Harry. You are fascinating. That only makes me more interested in you, in courting you, and coming to understand you more for yourself. And don’t forget the way your magic sang to mine. I am interested in exploring that, as well.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone’s magic singing to anyone else’s. Can you explain that?”
Salazar draws him towards one of the fires, making it spring up with a wave of his wand. “You can feel the heat from where you stand, yes?” he asks, tilting his head. He’s closer to the fire than Harry is.
Harry nods. He’s about a meter away.
“But the closer you come, the hotter it is. I could hear the song of your magic from a distance. It drew me, the way that the warmth of these fires would draw someone wandering in the darkness and the cold. And I followed the song. I knew it came from someone whose magic would resonate with mine, someone who, despite his young age—when I discovered who you were—has been through experiences that complement mine.”
“You were expected to be a savior?”
Harry can’t be sure, but he thinks there’s a wry expression on Salazar’s shadowed face. “You would not believe how much.”
Harry smiles. It would be nice to spend some time with someone who shares that experience, which definitely isn’t something that he’s ever had before. Viktor Krum has a similar level of fame to Harry’s, that much is true, but he doesn’t understand the savior thing, either.
“Tell me more about this courting you want to do.”
*
Salazar hopes that he’s hiding his relief as he studies Harry. He’s handsome, and he hasn’t allowed his experiences to taint his joy. The way he looks at Salazar now, with curiosity and interest, is better than any reaction Salazar could have predicted.
When Salazar first woke into this strange world, on the middle of the island in the Hogwarts lake, he had no idea why he was awake. If he wasn’t summoned to England’s need, then what caused him to open his eyes? If he was summoned, then why wasn’t a member of the bloodline dedicated to protecting the secret and waking him when it was time with him?
It took Salazar two years to work out what had happened. The bloodline that was supposed to wake him when he was needed died out, or else betrayed their trust; Salazar is still not entirely sure what happened to Rowena’s children. And it wasn’t England’s need that awakened him. It was the song of such magic such as he never expected to find.
Salazar never heard it in the time when he was born, which is one of the reasons why he agreed so easily to sleep through the centuries until England needed him, in imitation of the legend of King Arthur. Perhaps he would open his eyes and find someone he could court and marry and have children with in a later time, someone who was worthy.
One of Salazar’s ancestors actually made it a law that members of their family could only marry Parselmouths. Salazar understands the precaution in theory. Parseltongue is likely to be passed on only when both parents speak it; it might show up in a child without that, but it is too great a gift to leave to chance.
But even before Salazar went to sleep, Parselmouths were rare, and members of his line had turned to marrying cousins and half-siblings. The thought disgusts Salazar. He sired a child with a second cousin of his not because he wanted to, but because the Lord he served made it a condition of helping with the magic that would allow him to survive the sleep without aging.
And now he knows that the child he sired went on to sire others who degenerated in the same manner, through incest and ignorance, until one of them nearly destroyed England.
It only makes sense, in Salazar’s worldview, that he reward the man tapped by fate with getting rid of that blot, the one Salazar should have been awake to defeat. And one of the first things he learned about Harry Potter is that he is a Parselmouth.
Salazar is not sure about their precise degree of relation, but it is distant enough to satisfy even him after a thousand years.
He will court and marry someone more worthy than anyone he knew in his own time, and he will make sure that Harry wants for nothing. What the Slytherin bloodline took from Harry, he will restore. The thought pleases him as much as the song of Harry’s magic seduces him.
And when he tells Harry the truth…
Salazar is sure that he can love Harry enough, and make Harry fall in love with him enough, that he will be able to convince Harry to remain with the ancestor of his great enemy. Magic that woke him from a thousand-year-old enchanted sleep is worth any price.
Harry, Salazar thinks, as he watches those brilliant green eyes flash in the firelight, is worth any price.
