The Chamber of Secrets had become Harry's second home. The usual dampness was still present, but tonight, the space *felt different.*
The runic walls pulsed with a soft, rhythmic glow.
Salazar stood before him, not a mere portrait but *a presence*.
"Again," the founder stated, his voice, echoing against the cavernous chamber.
Harry exhaled, the soft groan of his ribs expanding pained him, but he obeyed. He lifted his wand, his fingers wrapped tightly around the worn handle, sweat trailing down his temple. His muscles burned from hours of relentless training, but Salazar didn't seem believe in limits.
He was improving.
But not fast enough.
Three humanoid constructs, formed of smooth white stone and veins of twisted iron, lurched forward. Their soulless, featureless faces locked onto him like predators scenting prey.
Harry flicked his wand— "Stupefy!"
A flash of red light shot toward the nearest dummy, but as before, the spell slammed into its chest and fizzled out—absorbed by the runes carved into the construct's surface.
Too weak. Too straightforward.
The second dummy swung a jagged limb at his ribs. Harry barely dodged, twisting his body to the side as he heard the whistle of stone cutting through air. The third was moving in from behind, faster than expected—
His instincts screamed at him.
"Adjust."
Without thinking, his stance shifted.
His feet repositioned, weight shifting slightly onto the back leg. He loosened his grip on his wand, allowing his movements to be more fluid, more deceptive.
Umbra Verto.
The constructs lunged.
Harry let them.
He sidestepped the first, his movement so minimal that the dummy's arm barely skimmed his robes. His wand flicked, and with a swift "Diffindo!", the second construct staggered backward, a deep gash splitting across its stone chest.
The third came for him again—this time, he stepped into the attack.
Aegis Lacero: The Torn Shield.
Instead of dodging outright, he let the construct commit to the strike, watching the opening it created in its stance.
Harry deflected the blow, wand twisting in a sharp arc—then immediately countered. A whispered "Reducto."
The dummy's arm shattered, stone fragments raining down onto the floor.
'Control the flow. Make them react to you.'
The first dummy came at him again, this time faster, a more aggressive lunge.
Harry adjusted—his body tilting forward, his wand moving in rapid succession, pressing his advantage. He barely noticed the way his magic surged more fluidly, his body responding with an almost unnatural ease.
Ignis Imperium: The Commanding Fire.
His spells came in quick, unrelenting bursts—"Expelliarmus!" "Bombarda!" "Depulso!"—each shot calculated, pushing the construct back step by step.
Then something shifted.
His wand moved faster than his thoughts.
His muscles tensed—his grip adjusted without him meaning to. A spell rose to his lips that he had never spoken before.
"Adversum Concutio."
A shockwave of invisible force erupted from his wand, slamming into the remaining dummy like a hammer blow. The construct cracked from within, splintering apart before collapsing into a heap of rubble.
Harry's breath came hard and fast.
Where the fuck had that come from?
His hands were trembling slightly, his mind racing.
That spell—Adversum Concutio—he had never learned it. He knew that for a fact.
And yet… it had felt natural, as if his body had already memorized the movement, the pronunciation, the intent. The thought made his stomach twist.
'That spell had come from Emily.'
He hadn't studied it, hadn't read about it, but it had surfaced like a reflex, drawn from memories that weren't his.
His body knew magic that his mind didn't.
Salazar didn't speak right away.
When he finally did, there was something calculating in his expression.
"The bleedthrough is starting to show."
Harry forced his breathing to slow, rolling his shoulders back as he tried to ignore the lingering sensation in his wand arm—the feeling of something deeply familiar and yet not his own.
Salazar stepped forward in his portrait, his dark eyes gleaming. "You're beginning to understand. But you're still hesitating. What did I tell you about hesitation?"
Harry swallowed. "It gets you killed."
Salazar inclined his head. "Correct. Again."
Harry turned back to face the remaining constructs. His grip tightened around his wand.
This time, he would not hesitate.
Harry awoke to a dull, aching pain crawling through his skull.
His body felt wrong.
He dragged himself to the mirror. And froze.
The face staring back at him was still his, but… altered.
His cheekbones were higher, sharper.
His jawline had lost its youthful roundness, now leaner, more defined.
His eyes—still green, still bright—held a depth that hadn't been there before.
It wasn't drastic, not yet. But the changes were undeniable.
"Your bloodline has always been noble, heir." Salazar's voice drifted through the chamber, carrying a hint of satisfaction. "You are merely… growing into it."
Harry turned away from the mirror, flexing his fingers, feeling the magic humming beneath his skin.
Changing him.
"This was from the ritual," he murmured.
"A mixture of it," Salazar admitted. "The changes will not all happen overnight. But within the next few months, you will notice more shifts. Stronger bone structure, refined features. Some would call it beauty, but it is not about vanity. It is the external manifestation of the internal."
Harry exhaled. "How long will it last?"
"The ritual's effects are permanent. You are stabilizing, but the full transformation will take time. A few months, perhaps."
Harry ran a hand through his hair. It felt… thicker. Healthier. He scowled. "People will notice."
Salazar smirked. "Of course they will. But let them think what they will. You are a Potter and a Slytherin. Power manifests. Do you expect to remain unnoticed forever?"
Harry rolled his eyes, but inside, he knew this was another step toward something inevitable.
The Hogwarts faculty lounge was not a place for students. It carried an air of quiet authority, the heavy wooden chairs and the towering bookshelves filled with aged tomes adding to the weight of tradition embedded in its walls. The enchanted torches burned lower than usual, casting elongated shadows that flickered across the stone, giving the room a sombre, almost ceremonial feel.
It wasn't just a briefing. It was an indoctrination into something larger than them.
Harry stood near the edge of the room, leaning against the stone fireplace his gaze flicking over the others in attendance.
Cedric Diggory sat upright in one of the lounge chairs, posture as composed as ever, looking every inch the model champion. He was dressed in his usual Hufflepuff robes, but there was something about his demeanour quiet acceptance of responsibility that made him appear older than his years.
'Maybe the dragon got to him more than I thought'
Fred and George Weasley were a stark contrast, sprawled lazily in their seats, their identical expressions of casual amusement betraying none of the pure brilliance that emanated underneath their many, many layers of banter. Their presence here meant Hogwarts wasn't just sending fighters—it was sending innovators.
Then there was Su Li.
She sat with a grace that was calculated rather than effortless, her back straight, her delicate hands folded neatly in her lap. There was something severe about her beauty—the kind of sharp elegance that came from years of discipline rather than pride.
Her dark hair, glossy as black silk, was twisted into a careful knot, held in place by an ivory pin carved with intricate Chinese symbols. A few loose strands framed her high cheekbones, softening what would otherwise be an intimidating presence.
She was the smallest among them, but she carried herself with the confidence of someone who had long since learned that size was meaningless in battle.
Susan Bones.
If Su Li was poise, then Susan was strength.
Her auburn hair was a cascade of firelit curls, thick and untamed, falling over her shoulders in waves. It was the kind of hair that refused to be subdued, much like the girl herself.
She had a sturdiness to her presence, not in the sense of physicality, but in the way she held herself—as though she had been raised with the knowledge that her last name carried weight. That she had to stand firm in a world that expected much from her.
Her eyes were a striking amber-brown, like aged honey, warm yet unreadable.
She looked at Harry longer than the others did.
'She had been on Cedric's side this entire time, hadn't she.'
But there was something in the way she observed him now, as though the narrative she had built about him was slowly coming apart at the seams.
Harry ignored it.
At the head of the room, Dumbledore and Flitwick presided over the gathering, the former looking contemplative, the latter more engaged. McGonagall stood stiffly beside them, arms crossed, her gaze sweeping over them with sharp scrutiny.
Dumbledore folded his hands together. "You are not just champions or students," he began, "You are representatives of the British Isles, sent to stand among the finest young witches and wizards of the world."
Harry resisted the urge to scoff.
Representatives of Britain? Wasn't he the boy they had wanted to cast aside not too long ago?
"You will be observed," Dumbledore continued, "not just for your skills, but for your conduct, your diplomacy, and your ability to work alongside foreign counterparts."
Flitwick cleared his throat, his voice far less grand but far more informative. "The French duelling circuits are not like those in Britain. Their style is more fluid—built on movement, adaptability, and environmental manipulation. They do not favour brute force or static defences, but rather, a philosophy of battle that emphasizes control of space. You will need to adjust your approach accordingly."
Cedric nodded, absorbing every word.
Harry, however, was watching McGonagall as she pulled something from a small velvet pouch—a handful of silver pins, delicate yet intricately carved with runic inscriptions.
"These," Flitwick explained, "are enchanted to provide instantaneous translation. While you wear them, you will be able to understand and speak French fluently."
Fred picked one up, inspecting it with an exaggerated hum. "Brilliant. Does it work for swearing?"
McGonagall shot him a look. "Only if you wish to start an international incident."
George sighed dramatically. "There go all our plans for diplomatic chaos."
"The translation magic is essential for all of you. Remember that this is not just about the tournament—it's about fostering alliances and representing our country."
She paused, her gaze shifting to each member of the delegation in turn. "Each of you has a role to play. This is not simply an excursion; it is a test of character, wit, and responsibility."
Her eyes landed first on Cedric.
"Mr. Diggory," she said, "as Hogwarts' official champion, you will represent us in the duelling tournament. Your role is to compete with honour, strategy, and focus. You must embody the best of what Hogwarts has to offer."
Cedric nodded, his jaw tightening. "I won't let you down, Professor."
Next, she turned to Harry.
"Mr. Potter," she continued, her voice softer but still carrying weight, "you will also participate in the duelling circuit, representing not just Hogwarts but our nation. Your circumstances may be different, but your presence on that stage matters just as much as Cedric's. You must remain vigilant."
Harry gave a curt nod.
I've been on a stage my whole life. What's one more performance?
Then, Susan Bones.
"Miss Bones," McGonagall said, her tone shifting slightly, "you are here as our diplomatic representative. Your family's history in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement makes you uniquely qualified to navigate political discussions. You will assist in formal introductions, observe the policies of the French Ministry, and ensure that Hogwarts maintains its connections with other international delegations."
Susan blinked, clearly surprised at the weight of her role. "I'll do my best, Professor."
"You'll do more than that," McGonagall said, her gaze firm. "You have a sharp mind. Use it."
McGonagall's eyes moved next to Su Li.
"Miss Li," she said, "you will serve as our academic liaison. Beauxbatons boasts an extensive archive of magical texts not found in Britain. It will be your responsibility to access those resources and ensure we don't miss valuable opportunities for learning. Your older sister's reputation in duelling gives you unique insight into their tactics. Observe and advise our champions where necessary."
Su Li nodded, her dark eyes shining with interest. "Understood, Professor."
Finally, McGonagall turned to the Weasley twins, her expression softening, but only slightly.
"Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley," she said, "you have been selected as our innovation representatives. You will work with the French delegation on cooperative magical experiments and present some of your more… responsible inventions. This is an opportunity to demonstrate British ingenuity."
Fred grinned. "Responsible inventions only. Got it."
"I'll be holding you to that," McGonagall warned, though there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes. "You will have access to Beauxbatons' experimental labs, but remember—you're representing Hogwarts. No exploding cauldrons."
"What about mildly smoking ones?" George asked innocently.
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "I will pretend I didn't hear that."
Harry ignored them. He reached out, brushing his fingers against the surface of one of the pins.
And immediately, he felt unease coil in his gut.
'Magic can always be traced.'
Salazar's voice curled through his mind.
"Relying on an artifact for translation means relying on another's magic. And when you rely on another's magic, you place yourself at their mercy."
And then, almost as if Salazar had anticipated this exact situation, his voice had offered a solution days ago.
"There are runic methods. Ancient inscriptions that, when properly imbued, allow the mind to adapt to another language as if it were its own. A permanent understanding. No reliance on artifacts. No enchantments that can be tampered with."
Harry reached out, took the pin, and slipped it into his pocket without a word. His expression stayed neutral.
'Better not let Dumbledore ask questions'
He already knew he wouldn't need it. The discussion shifted to expectations, dress codes, and final preparations. But Harry barely listened.
He already knew what he had to do.
Tonight, he would carve the runes himself.
And unlike the others, he would be no one's pawn.
The six students walked through the dimly lit corridor, tension hanging heavy in the air. Torches flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. The silence between them stretched, uneasy and loaded with unspoken thoughts.
It was Fred who finally broke it.
"Well," he said, stretching his arms behind his head, "that was suitably ominous."
George smirked. "Absolutely no pressure on us at all."
Fred nodded solemnly. "Just, you know, the fate of Britain's magical reputation hanging in the balance. No big deal."
Susan crossed her arms, her tone sharper than intended. "I'm sure Cedric will represent us well. He's a real champion—good under pressure, steady."
Fred raised an eyebrow. "Oh, no doubt. Cedric's great. But let's be honest: who do you think people will actually remember after all this?"
Susan frowned. "Cedric is the official Hogwarts champion."
Su's lips curved slightly, her eyes glinting with quiet amusement. "Official? Perhaps. But in the eyes of the world?" She tilted her head toward Harry. "He's not the one who conjured a fire serpent and survived a duel with a dragon in front of the world"
Susan's eyes narrowed. "Harry wasn't supposed to be in the tournament at all. Everyone knows that."
Su's tone remained calm but relentless. "And yet, here he is—alive, undefeated, and far more interesting than Cedric will ever be to anyone watching from the outside. Public perception matters, Bones. You can call Cedric the champion all you want, but the world's already chosen its symbol."
The air seemed to grow colder as Li's words settled in.
"She's not wrong," George added quietly, glancing at Harry. "The Prophet's been writing about Harry non-stop since the first task. He's the one everyone's talking about. Even Fred and I can't ignore it, and we've got enough chaos to keep us busy."
Susan's jaw tightened. "That's not fair to Cedric. He's worked hard for this."
"It's not about fair. It's about power. Visibility. Symbols. Cedric might be the Hogwarts champion, but Harry Potter is a story. And stories always win."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Fred and George exchanged glances, clearly enjoying the show.
Susan inhaled sharply, composing herself. "Harry's performance was… dramatic, sure. But that doesn't mean he's the better champion."
"No, but it does mean he's the one who matters."
Susan scowled. "That's a disgusting way to look at it."
"Reality often is." Li said shrugging
Susan opened her mouth, then closed it again, visibly unsettled from her verbal spar with Su Li but didn't argue.
The group continued walking, but now the atmosphere had shifted—less camaraderie, more awareness.
Su Li, walking beside Harry now, studied him for a long moment* before speaking again. "So," she said lightly, "are we going to pretend not to have seen you throw the pin away?"
Harry smirked. "No point lying, is there?"
Cedric looked at him sharply. "You threw it away?"
Harry gave a noncommittal shrug. "Didn't need it."
Su Li's lips curved slightly. "Permanent comprehension magic, then?"
Harry didn't answer, but the flicker of amusement in his eyes was enough.
"Interesting."
Susan narrowed her eyes. "Should we be worried about whatever you're planning?"
Harry smiled. "Always."
Fred and George laughed, their identical grins widening.
"Merlin, I almost feel bad for the French," George said.
Fred shook his head. "No you don't."
"You're right. I don't."
They reached a crossroads in the corridor where their dorms separated them.
Cedric and Susan would head toward the Hufflepuff's common-room, right of Gryffindor's, Su Li toward the Ravenclaw tower.
But as they paused, Cedric turned to Harry. "You're still training, right?"
Harry simply nodded.
Cedric hesitated. "I mean—do you want to train together?"
Harry tilted his head, considering. Then, he smiled—
"No."
Cedric blinked. "Oh."
Susan frowned. "What—"
"I'm not training to just compete in the circuit," Harry said simply. "I'm training to win."
A beat of silence.
Su Li let out a small breath of laughter. "Fair enough."
Cedric hesitated again, then nodded, not quite hiding the disappointment in his gaze.
Susan looked like she wanted to say something, but Harry had already turned.
The corridor emptied, the group splitting off, leaving only Harry, Fred, and George lingering near the staircase that led toward Gryffindor Tower.
For a brief moment, there was silence—the kind that stretched, heavy with unspoken words.
Then, Fred exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Look, Harry—"
"We should've been there," George finished, his voice quieter than usual.
Harry tilted his head slightly, his green eyes glinting under the dim torchlight.
"You weren't." His tone was neutral, not accusing.
But the weight of it still hit them.
Fred grimaced, shifting on his feet. "Yeah. We weren't."
George sighed. "We didn't take a side, but that was its own kind of choice, wasn't it?"
Fred gave a wry, humourless chuckle. "Hard to pick a side when you're dating two of your biggest critics, mate. Alicia and Angelina…" He hesitated. "They weren't exactly on board the 'Potter Innocence Campaign.'"
"And we…" George trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck, "we didn't want to make things worse."
Harry simply watched them.
Fred let out a frustrated sigh. "Look, we're not trying to make excuses. We know we fucked up. You were on your own, and we—"
"We let you be alone," George said, his voice lower.
A beat of silence.
Harry's gaze flickered between them, unreadable.
Then—slowly, he exhaled.
"You did."
Fred and George both stiffened.
Then, Harry shrugged, his expression shifting into something wry, tired—but real. "But I can't really hold a grudge over something I expected."
Fred blinked. "Wait—you expected us to abandon you?"
Harry smirked faintly, but there was no humour in it.
"I expected everyone to."
That hit differently.
The twins exchanged a glance, something unspoken passing between them.
Then—George straightened, his usual easy-going grin returning, but this time, there was something more serious beneath it.
"We're going to fix it, you know."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Are you?"
Fred smirked. "Yeah. It's the Weasley way. We mess up, we make up. We bother you until you give in."
George clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder, squeezing it once before stepping back. "Consider this step one."
Harry snorted softly. "Step one?"
Fred grinned, mischief glinting in his eyes. "Step one involves a secret stash of Ogden's Finest, a very illegal fireproofing charm, and the Gryffindor common room."
Harry arched a brow. "You had me at illegal."
George grinned wide. "That's the spirit, mate."
Fred slung an arm around Harry's shoulders as they walked toward the tower. "Come on, Harry. Time for a proper Gryffindor celebration."
The torches lining the Chamber burned lower than usual, their dim flames casting elongated shadows across the runic walls. The air smelled of damp stone and old magic, thick with the weight of something ancient, something expectant.
Harry inhaled slowly, focusing. He had spent weeks strengthening his Occlumency, learning to control the flickers of emotion that threatened to betray him. Now, he forced his mind into stillness, his face into careful neutrality.
Slytherin's piercing gaze bore into him. A long silence passed.
Then, the founder's lips curved slightly. "Better. You no longer wear your thoughts like an open book."
Harry allowed himself the barest nod.
Tonight's lesson was different.
Salazar was not instructing him on battle, nor was he guiding him through the constringent depths of forgotten magic.
Tonight was about something far more insidious.
Power
"You understand now," he said, not as a question, but as a statement of fact. "The world does not simply revolve around talent or merit. It is built on alliances, leverage, and power."
Harry exhaled slowly. "France isn't just about the tournament," he murmured. "It's a stage."
Salazar smirked, his lips curling in a way that conveyed more amusement than approval. "A stage, yes. But one that has been carefully curated by its ruling class. You are not simply a competitor, heir. You are an outsider stepping into a centuries-old game. And you will either play it well or be played yourself."
He leaned forward, pressing his oil-coloured figure against the frame, the flicker of torchlight dancing in his eyes, casting his features in a flickering shadow of contempt. "You want to know how wars are won, Potter? How true power is maintained? It isn't by the strength of your arm or the flash of your wand. No—wars are won by the manipulation of minds, the bending of wills, the quiet whispers in the dark. Consider Grindelwald—ah, a charming fool, was he not?"
Harry frowned. "Grindelwald?"
Salazar's gaze hardened. "Yes, Grindelwald. The 'great' warlord of Europe. Do you know what he was, Harry? A snake oil salesman with a glint in his eye. His charisma was his weapon, and he wielded it with all the subtlety of a serpent striking from the grass. Most of Europe was enamoured with his honey-coated lies, his promises of order, of a better world. A better world, indeed." Salazar's voice turned bitter. "He sold them the idea of power by magical-blood, by superiority, and those poor fools swallowed it whole."
"Didn't he nearly conquer Europe?" Harry asked.
Salazar's lips curled into a tight, bitter smile. "Conquer Europe? Please. He didn't conquer a thing—he charmed them into submission. He didn't need to fight a battle, Potter. He made them want his vision. He made them believe that the future of wizard kind was in his hands. And in the end, all he did was form a new cult, only with more 'politically correct' branding." He scoffed. "But let's not pretend he was a warrior. No, Grindelwald's greatest victory was in bending the minds of the masses."
Harry, still processing Salazar's venomous words, shifted uncomfortably.
Salazar's eyes gleamed with contempt. "Then we have Dumbledore—oh, the 'greater light.' A saint, a saviour, a coddler of lost souls. How wonderful it must have been to sit in his ivory tower, refusing to step onto the battlefield while his precious Ministry scrambled in desperation. Dumbledore chose to stay above the fray, to let the Ministry squirm, hoping they'd fall into his arms like frightened children. How convenient. And all the while, he built his own cult, gathered followers like a spider luring its prey into a web." Salazar chuckled darkly. "But he never fought Grindelwald. Not directly. His refusal to enter the fray only prolonged the war. And in his absence, the ministries grew desperate, pleading for him to intervene. Dumbledore let them, Potter. He let them beg for him, all while he stood above it all, making sure his little kingdom was safe from the chaos below. Maybe there were other reasons, but it doesn't refute the tragedies he allowed to bypass for an egregious amount of control."
Harry felt a sharp pang of frustration. "So it was all a game to them?"
Salazar's smile cleaved. "A game? Oh, it was much more than that. War is always a game, Potter. The players simply choose which pieces to sacrifice. Grindelwald's charm, Dumbledore's self-righteousness—they were both manipulating the pieces on the board to suit their own needs. Dumbledore, with his holier-than-thou attitude, and Grindelwald, with his poisonous words. Neither truly cared about the people—they cared about power. And when you're after power, you never get your hands dirty. You let others do the fighting. You simply play your hand in the shadows."
"Make no mistake I'm merely dissecting half of what they are. Grindelwald and Dumbledore are still both wizards who could and had wrecked havoc across Europe during their peak, each a one man army, but it doesn't disregard their other ways of power."
Salazar's eyes gleamed with a knowing look as he continued. "Remember when I told you that if Britain had you on a pedestal, France would be worshipping you? It's because of Grindelwald's legacy—his influence across France, his brand of dark magic, his vision for power. Grindelwald understood the depths of the magical world better than anyone, and France, for all its condemnation of his actions, recognized the threat he posed and the power he wielded."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You see, Harry, Grindelwald didn't just target individual witches or wizards. He set his sights on entire institutions, whole nations. Beauxbatons, for example. They may claim to be the epitome of grace and tradition, but behind their beautiful facades, they had to comprehend the true nature of power. And France—France became a battleground, both in magical knowledge and influence, where the strongest elements of dark magic grew in strength."
Salazar's lips curled into a faint smile, though his eyes remained piercing. "And as much as Britain celebrates you—worships you as their 'Boy Who Lived,' they fail to understand the true nature of your victory. They see your survival as a triumph of light over dark, but they don't see the underlying forces at play. They don't see that your defeat of Voldemort has put you on a path where power, in all its forms, now looks to you."
Salazar's voice softened, but there was no kindness in it. "The thing is, Harry, France doesn't know what they want from you—not really. They see the potential in you, and that's what draws them. A boy who survived the one curse that meant death—a curse no one should have been able to survive. Then the first task. Any doubters in thinking your survival was a fluke will have been cleared of their doubts. No child should be able to conjure such a spell, yet you did. You turned the impossible into reality, and in doing so, showed the world a basilisk of fire, burning through everything in its path. You've earned yourself another title—Dragon Slayer—and it's one they'll remember, for better or worse .They see you as a possible answer to something they haven't figured out yet. Grindelwald, for all his madness, brought France something—something new, something sharp. But he also tore it all down. They know the damage he did, but they also know the potential he unleashed. And now? They want to see what you can do with that. What change you can bring to their world, whether it's in the name of progress or destruction. You don't fit neatly into any mould, Harry. And that's exactly what they're hoping for."
Harry's brow furrowed as he absorbed the meaning of Salazar's words. "So... they don't even know what they want me to do yet? They just want to see what happens if I... take the reins?"
Salazar nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. "That's right. It's a gamble on your potential, Harry. They don't know if you'll lead them to something better—or worse. But they'll watch and wait, all the same."
Harry's brow furrowed further, the words about the basilisk lingering like an itch in the back of his mind.
"About that spell… Serpens Ardor. How did I even summon it? You said it was your magic—tied to your bloodline, tied to Parseltongue—but I've never done anything like that before. I wasn't even trying to cast it at first. It just… happened. And then, somehow, I controlled it. Everything I know is telling me I shouldn't have been capable of that, I should've died along with the dragon."
Salazar's gaze sharpened. "You were desperate."
Harry blinked. "What?"
"Desperation is a powerful catalyst," Salazar said, folding his hands behind his back. "Many wizards experience bursts of accidental magic in moments of extreme fear or need. Apparition at a young age, vanishing dangerous objects, or even conjuring protective barriers—all signs of a magic core responding instinctively to danger. What you experienced was not entirely different… just on a far more dangerous scale."
"But controlling it?" Harry pressed. "That wasn't just instinct. I knew what to do."
"You were in a heightened state of focus," Salazar said dryly. "In such states—when adrenaline courses through your veins and your senses are heightened—it becomes easier to command your actions with precision. Your mind narrows to the singular goal: survival. And, unlike most wizards, you possess something they do not."
"My bloodline?"
"Yes." Salazar's eyes glowed faintly. "Serpens Ardor was created for my bloodline. The magic recognizes you, Harry, just as the castle does. You didn't consciously summon it, but it responded to you in your time of need. It is yours to command, but only under certain conditions—desperation, instinct, or mastery. You lacked the last one, but desperation served you well enough."
Harry considered this for a moment. "But it fizzled out at the end. Why?"
Salazar gave a thin-lipped smile. "Ah. Now you're asking the right questions. That happened because you didn't summon it with enough magic to sustain it."
"I ran out of magic," Harry realized. "That's why I couldn't keep it going."
"Precisely," Salazar said. "The spell is taxing—a true Serpens Ardor would consume vast amounts of power. Your core, though growing and adapting, is still that of a child. You called upon more magic than your body could provide, and it simply burned out once it had taken too much." He paused, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "That was your first mistake, though an understandable one. Had you been older, with a fully developed magical core, the spell's size and power would have been… considerable."
Harry leaned back, processing the explanation. "So, I can't just cast it whenever I want."
"No," Salazar said firmly. "Not yet. And you shouldn't." His tone dropped, serious. "To summon Serpens Ardor at full strength would require immense reserves of magic. If you attempted it now, you would collapse before it could fully form—or worse, the magic would consume you entirely. The version you summoned was a shadow of its true form, nothing more."
"But my core is changing," Harry said, his thoughts racing. "Dumbledore said it's adapting. Expanding. Does that mean…?"
Salazar nodded. "In time, yes. As your core grows, so will your capacity to control spells of that magnitude. But be cautious. Just because you can summon something does not mean you should. Serpens Ardor is not a toy, and it is certainly not invincible."
"And what if I lose control?" Harry asked quietly.
Salazar's eyes darkened. "Then it will become something far worse than a fire serpent. It will become your undoing."
With a sharp clap of his hands, Salazar seemed to dismiss the weight of his own words, the tension evaporating on command.
"Now revise to me what you are aware of in the current French Ministry"
Harry's fingers curled slightly at his sides. "The Delacour's rule France," he said, recalling what little he knew. "But they aren't purebloods. They have Veela ancestry."
"A contradiction," Salazar mused, tilting his head. "France has long been obsessed with purity, yet it bows to a dynasty mixed with a bloodline deemed lesser. Tell me, why do you think that is?"
Harry frowned. "Because the Delacours have power despite their heritage. Influence that even the pureblood families can't challenge directly."
"Precisely," Salazar murmured. "The Delacours do not rule by birth right. They rule by control. Their veela ancestry is not a hindrance—it is a weapon. Beauty, charm, persuasion—all traits that are dismissed as superficial until they sway laws and topple dynasties. They have cultivated an empire by turning their perceived weakness into their greatest strength."
Harry's mind churned, piecing it together. "And the Rosiers? They don't accept it."
Salazar's smirk widened slightly. "Very good. The Rosiers are one of the last truly ancient bloodlines in France, tied to its magical roots long before the Delacours ever seized power. They see themselves as the rightful rulers, and yet, they are excluded—forced to play the role of noble puppets, bowing to a family that should, by their standards, be beneath them."
Harry's thoughts flickered back to Cassiopeia Rosier at dinner, to the sharp edge in her voice when she spoke against the Delacours. "Then why don't they just take power back?"
"Because they cannot," Salazar said simply. "At least, not yet. The Delacours have the people. They have the Ministry. And more importantly, they have a narrative. They are the symbols of progress, of unity between magical and non-magical bloodlines. To challenge them is to challenge modernity itself—a battle that even the purest of purebloods cannot win without losing the people."
Harry exhaled through his nose. "So the Rosiers are waiting."
"Yes," Salazar confirmed. "They bide their time, gathering support in the shadows. They seek a moment of weakness, a crack in the Delacours' rule."
Harry was silent for a moment before he asked, "And where does that leave me?"
Salazar chuckled, low and knowing. "Ah, heir. That is the question, isn't it?""
Harry sat cross-legged on the stone floor of the Chamber, absently twirling his wand between his fingers. The weight of everything—the duelling tournament, the politics of France, the unsettling changes in his magic—pressed against his mind like an iron vice. Across from him, Salazar Slytherin regarded him with sharp amusement, his dark eyes gleaming in the flickering torchlight.
Salazar's gaze lingered on Harry, his dark eyes glinting in the flickering torchlight.
"You are tense, heir," Salazar said, his voice almost indulgent. "You always are when you seek answers."
Harry exhaled through his nose. "I don't like going in blind," he admitted. "You've given me the rules of the game, but I still don't know the players. I need more."
Salazar tilted his head, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. "Then it's time you inherit something long overdue."
He waved a hand, and a hidden compartment in the stone wall shifted. Dust and ancient magic swirled in the air as a leather-bound book floated gently toward Harry. It was aged but intact, the spine decorated with intricate silver embossing. The cover bore no title—only a single, elegant R pressed into the corner.
Harry hesitated. The memory of Emily Riddle's diary rose in his mind like a curse wound too tight. His fingers curled instinctively, but Salazar's voice cut through his thoughts.
"It is not that kind of diary."
Harry glanced at him, skeptical. "Then what is it?"
Salazar's smirk deepened. "Emily Riddle was many things, but above all, she was meticulous. She kept records—not just of spells, but of people. Of politics. Of power."
Harry's gaze dropped to the book, something shifting in his chest. "It's her… records?"
"This was her weapon," Salazar said, his voice calm but pointed. "Not a journal of teenage musings, but a detailed map of power—people, alliances, and tactics. Within its pages, you will find the names of her enemies, the flaws of her rivals, and the structure of institutions most would never dare question. If you are to survive the arena of France, this is your first true advantage."
Harry reached out, brushing his fingers against the worn leather. Warmth. Not the sickly pull of a Horcrux, but the lingering echo of magic used—a mind that had written, rather than preserved. He flipped the cover open.
No ink bled from the pages. No illusions warped the text. Instead, he found notes.
A mind dissecting the world and leaving behind the pieces.
"France is a nation built on lies."
Harry frowned at the first sentence. Emily's handwriting was clean and deliberate.
"Unlike Britain, where power is a patchwork of ancient houses and opportunistic Ministry factions, France is ruled by a single dynasty—the Delacours. They do not hold this power by strength of bloodline or tradition. No, they rule because they have mastered the art of rewriting reality."
Harry's stomach tightened. He read on.
"The Delacours do not destroy their enemies—they erase them."
"Their Ministry is built not to govern, but to control. Opposition is not confronted—it is forgotten. Those who challenge the Delacours are erased from records, their names stricken from history, their accomplishments attributed to others."
"The greatest weapon in France is not the wand. It is the pen."
The text shifted, underlined in dark strokes.
"Control the archives, and you control history. Control history, and you control the future."
Harry closed the book halfway, the weight of it settling in his chest.
A machine of memory.
He turned the page, his eyes catching a catalogue of subheadings—lists of names, the duellists Emily had studied during her time in the circuit.
"Not yet," Harry thought, closing the book firmly. He would read that later.
"Is there anything else?" Harry asked, glancing at Salazar.
Salazar's gaze lingered for a long moment before he exhaled slowly, his tone soft.
"Power is a heavy thing to carry, Harry. But so is the weight of the mind. Even the strongest falter under the burden of their own thoughts."
With a faint movement of his fingers, the air shimmered. A small, ornate box materialized in front of Harry, floating gently downward. Its surface was beautifully crafted, carved with intricate, shifting designs.
The moment it touched his palm, a faint hum of magic rippled through his skin—delicate but undeniably powerful.
"Open it," Salazar instructed, his tone unreadable.
Harry did.
The moment the lid lifted, music swelled—not loudly, but enough to fill the chamber, curling around his ribs like a phantom touch. It was sorrowful, aching, yet soothing all at once. The melody rang familiar.
"Lacrimosa," Harry murmured.
Salazar's expression remained impassive, but something gleamed in his eyes. "It chooses the first song based on what lingers in your soul. The first memory it latches onto. Fitting that it would choose a requiem."
Harry swallowed, the weight of memory pressing against his ribs. He hadn't thought about that night in years—velvet seats, an opera house bathed in candlelight, the haunting choral voices that had lingered in his mind long after the curtains fell. He had been too young to understand why it moved him, only that it did.
Salazar's voice broke through the melody, quieter now, almost contemplative.
"Although my past with Muggles has been… tumultuous, I hold no hatred for them. Not truly. It is their ways—their ignorance of the world's deeper forces—that frustrate me. But their arts…" He paused, tilting his head slightly. "Ah, those I admire."
Harry blinked, caught off guard.
"Magic is power, yes. But what is power if it cannot move the soul? When I still walked the world, I had little patience for their scribes and scholars, but I would listen when I could. Music, poetry, creation—these things remain long after empires fall. Even I, confined to this portrait, have heard echoes of their brilliance through the centuries. Chopin, for instance. A man with no magic to his name, yet his fingers alone could command the world to listen. The delicacy of his Nocturnes, the way his hands conjured something beyond simple notes—it is something even we, with all our power, cannot replicate with wands."
The music settled into a softer refrain as Salazar's tone shifted back to the present.
"That is why I give you this."
The box shimmered in Harry's palm. With a flick of Salazar's fingers, it shrank, compressing into a small charm no larger than a knut. A fine silver chain materialized, letting the charm hang lightly in the air before it dropped against Harry's collarbone.
Harry reached up instinctively, his fingers brushing against it.
"It's bound to you now," Salazar said, his tone calm but deliberate. "If it's ever… misplaced, it will return to its rightful place."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Misplaced?"
Salazar's lips curled slightly. "Yes. Whether by accident, force, or... circumstance, it will always find its way back to you."
Harry's fingers brushed over the charm again, a slight unease settling beneath his ribs. "So it's stuck to me forever?"
"Not quite," Salazar said with a glint of amusement. "You may remove it whenever you wish. But should you need it, it will be there—where it belongs—always waiting for you."
Harry frowned, but something about the way Salazar emphasized waiting made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He felt the charm hum faintly against his skin, as though it were alive, listening.
"What is it really for?" Harry asked.
Salazar's gaze remained steady, unreadable. "For when you need it most."
The melody resumed—soft, lingering in the chamber like a final, unspoken promise.
Harry ran his thumb over the charm once more, feeling the magic hum beneath his fingertips. He couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just a keepsake or a token of comfort. It was something more. Something waiting to be revealed.
But Salazar didn't offer any more answers, and Harry didn't ask again.