Chapter 2 : Bretagne
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When you were a boy, your father instructed you to become great, regardless of the cost. He was your hero, the most powerful wizard that you had ever seen, and although he did not express his emotions, you knew that he loved you. Love was not a hot, gushing outflow of passion and light; it was reserved, removed, aloof. He taught you that without ever stating it explicitly. It was in his eyes, a dark grey like yours, and in his smile, which never truly reached his eyes on the rare occasions that it made its way onto his face.
Your father taught you everything that you know. You are a man in his image, molded in the same steely cast, destined to be cold, calculating, ambitious. There was never money in his estate, though once upon a time, your family had wealth beyond a mere boy’s wildest imaginings. Those were the stories that your father told you, the history of gold and how it was taken away from your ancestors by mere common folk, ignorant of magic. It was their fault that the estate was in disrepair, and it was up to you to exact revenge.
You immersed yourself in the ancient tomes of magic that your father kept in his study, wanting to become as invincible and as powerful as he was. He encouraged your progress with a curt nod of his head, and you studied harder. You would bring glory to your family name, and one day the commoners who had caused so much trouble would be punished.
Secrecy and lies. The dark, crumbling halls at night whispered to you, telling you that the only way to be great was to destroy your enemy, and you believed with all your heart. It was the only thing you had to hold on to.
When your ruddy-faced acquaintance from the south contacted you with his wild schemes, you immediately saw the merit in joining his crusade. Here was the opportunity to educate young children just as your father had educated you, to teach them that the circumstances of their birth made them special and that one day, their kind would rule over the filthy commoners who terrorized their parents and burned their grandmothers at the stake.
In the midst of the festivities, you sit silently, contemplating the lot. You were against taking pupils who weren’t of the purest magical blood, but the other three had outvoted you with their romantic ideals. Never mind. They would come to understand, in time, that those born of commoners were not worthy of the school.
Oh, fallen star! You cling so tightly to your pride in tradition and ambition for grandeur, not realizing that it could bring about the ruin of all you have worked for. Do not become the serpent, the master of lies and deceit.
The day is distant when deception will be your downfall, but be warned: The end does not always justify the means.
Salazar Slytherin, you are cunning.
A/N: J.K. Rowling created these characters, I'm just messing with their heads. The second movement of "Suite française" by Darius Milhaud, "Bretagne," is one of dark tone colors and mysterious harmonies. I highly recommend that you listen to the piece. :)
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