CHAPTER 66: THE BURDEN OF THE PEVERELL LEGACY
According to the Pureblood Directory, a rather notorious and elitist tome penned by Cantankerus Nott in the late 1930s, the Sacred Twenty-Eight was a list of families deemed to be of the purest magical blood. Nott's goal was to help these families preserve the purity of their bloodlines, ensuring that their ancient magic remained untainted by Muggle influence. The Potters, the Ollivanders, and the Weasleys—families with deep roots in magical history and significant contributions to various magical disciplines—were conspicuously excluded from this list due to alleged connections with Muggle blood, whether real or imagined.
"The nerve of that man," Hermione had once scoffed, recalling how she first stumbled upon the book during her third year. "He just arbitrarily decided which families were 'pure' and which weren't, without a shred of real evidence. It's absurd!"
Ron had been quick to agree, his ears tinged red with irritation. "My dad always said it was just a load of rubbish. But the Malfoys and their lot still treat it like gospel."
Indeed, several pureblood families wore their inclusion on the Sacred Twenty-Eight like a badge of honor, parading their so-called purity with pride. To them, it was a mark of superiority, a symbol of their unbroken lineage. These families clung to the idea of blood purity with an almost religious fervor, using the Directory as a justification for their discriminatory beliefs and practices.
"That's the problem with these old families," Sirius had once remarked, a bitter edge to his voice. "They believe their blood makes them better than everyone else, when all it really does is blind them to the world changing around them."
The Ministry of Magic, under the leadership of Hector Fawley at the time, saw the Pureblood Directory as a dangerous catalyst for growing extremism. In an attempt to curb the rising tide of pureblood supremacy, Fawley ordered every available copy of the Directory to be collected and burned by Ministerial decree.
"Burning books? Seriously? Did he really think that would solve anything?" Harry had asked Sirius during one of their late-night talks at Grimmauld Place.
Sirius had given a dry laugh. "Fawley was an idealist, Harry. He thought he could stamp out bigotry with a bonfire. But pureblood mania wasn't something you could just burn away."
In the end, Fawley's efforts proved disastrously ineffective. A mere month after the mass book burnings, Fawley was found brutally assassinated, his body hung as a grim warning in the heart of Diagon Alley. The message was clear: the pureblood elite would not be silenced.
"History is full of fools who thought they could control ideas by destroying books," Sirius had said quietly. "Fawley learned that lesson the hard way."
Over the next four decades, the Pureblood Directory reappeared in various forms, republished under mysterious circumstances. It became more than just a book—it was an ideological manifesto that deepened the divisions between the Houses. The teachings within it fueled the flames of blood purism that eventually led to the First Wizarding War.
That Harry knew this particular piece of history was surprising, especially given his and Ron's penchant for using History of Magic as an opportunity to catch up on much-needed sleep. The curriculum, with its relentless focus on goblin rebellions and inter-racial conflicts, did little to prepare students for the harsh realities of their own society's past.
"If you ever get bored, Harry," Sirius had once advised with a smirk, "take a good look at the walls inside Gringotts. The goblins have their own version of history etched into the stone. You'll see their victories there, not the ones the Ministry wants you to remember."
"History is a tricky thing, Harry," he'd added more somberly. "It's written by the victors, but it's rarely the truth."
Harry couldn't help but agree. His own experiences had taught him that history was often twisted to serve the interests of those in power. The truth, it seemed, was often buried beneath layers of lies and half-truths.
As Harry pondered the implications of what he'd learned, he realized how deeply entrenched the ideas of blood purity and supremacy were in the wizarding world. It wasn't just about ideology; it was about power, control, and fear. And those who sought to challenge that status quo often paid the ultimate price.
"But things can change, right?" Harry had asked, a note of hope in his voice.
Sirius had given Harry a long, searching look. "Maybe. But not without a fight."
The concept of the Sacred Twenty-Eight was rooted in ancient history, with origins dating back to 944 CE. In that year, the Wizard's Council—originally composed of thirteen powerful clans that wielded Family Magic—decided to expand its influence. They accepted fifteen other clans into their ranks, clans that, while lacking the same ancient magical traditions, possessed considerable power, resources, and skilled witches and wizards. This unified council was formed with the intent to protect the interests of the magical populace and safeguard its secrets from the ever-encroaching Muggle world.
Together, these twenty-eight clans wielded an unprecedented level of power. In their first official session, the newly formed Wizengamot pooled their combined magical will to perform an extraordinary feat: they altered Reality itself, creating what would come to be known as Wizarding Space. This act of collective magic brought into existence places like Diagon Alley, the Ministry of Magic, and even Hogwarts—realms hidden from Muggles and sustained by the ancient magics of the Wizengamot.
"It's almost like a creation myth," Harry had once mused to Hermione. "Only, instead of 'Let there be light,' it was 'Let there be magic.'"
Hermione, ever the scholar, had nodded thoughtfully. "It's a demonstration of how powerful magic can be when wielded collectively. But it also shows the dangers of that kind of power being concentrated in so few hands."
Future sessions of the Wizengamot would see the original thirteen clans, the founders of the Wizard's Council, granted the epithet of 'Noble' Houses. By 1217 CE, the Wizengamot voted to fully integrate the newer clans into their ranks, forming a greater stronghold that would become the cornerstone of magical governance. From that point onward, the original twenty-eight houses were recognized as 'Ancient,' signifying their role as the true forebears of the modern Wizengamot.
These were the kinds of facts Harry had to memorize as he prepared for the first-ever Ascension to Noble Lord status in over four centuries—a daunting task, even for someone who had faced down Voldemort.
"The Sacred Twenty-Eight?" Harry asked one evening, as he and Daphne poured over the ancient texts in the Potter library. "The original one?"
Daphne cocked her head slightly, her gaze sharp. "What else could it be? It is the Miraculum Operarius. The first twenty-eight."
"Miraculum Operarius," Harry repeated, tasting the Latin words on his tongue. That which grants miracles.
His eyes wandered to the Potter family hieroglyph, his fingers tracing the intricate symbol. The hyena. It was a powerful, if unusual, totem—one that had been subsumed into the Peverell thestral over the centuries. The Peverells, Harry knew, were his true ancestors, even if the Ministry now referred to his family as the Ancient and Noble House of Potter.
"Harry Peverell," he murmured, recalling how Bodrag, the Gringotts Overlord, had addressed him. It still felt strange, this dual identity, this connection to the distant past.
But as his eyes scanned the ancient texts and the walls adorned with family symbols, the Peverell thestral was nowhere to be found. It was as if the totem had vanished from history, its legacy lost to time.
"Maybe it disappeared before the rise of the Wizengamot," Harry speculated aloud, more to himself than to Daphne.
"Or perhaps," Daphne offered quietly, her voice thoughtful, "it's hidden. Some secrets are meant to be uncovered only when the time is right."
Harry nodded, his mind churning with the implications. There was so much he still didn't understand about his family, about the ancient magics that ran through his veins. But one thing was clear: the legacy of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and of the Peverells, was far more complex than he had ever imagined.
And as Harry traced the outline of the hyena once more, he couldn't shake the feeling that his journey into this ancient history was only just beginning.
But then again, perhaps it didn't matter. The Peverells, after all, had been different from other wizarding families. They had worshipped Death—a force as old and immutable as the universe itself, one that stood in direct opposition to the very essence of magic. Magic was a tool of life, of creation and change, while Death was the finality, the inevitable end that even the most powerful spells could not truly overcome. If anything, the power of Death would have countered the wishcrafting that the Wizengamot had intended.
Wishcrafting. The word echoed in his mind, taking on new significance. The creation of something from nothing, using sheer will and the unique Family Magic that the ancient houses had wielded. It was through this power that the ancients had tamed magic, forcing it to follow rules, to become something that could be controlled, rather than the wild, primal force that could alter reality on a whim.
A primal, invasive force, a darker part of Harry's mind whispered. The ancients had tamed magic before it could corrupt the world, before it could reshape reality into something unrecognizable. They had used it to manifest things that didn't exist before, to create the very fabric of Wizarding Space. But what if someone wanted to go further? To create a magic that was beyond anything known, a force that defied the natural order?
Was that what Salazar Slytherin had sought? Had he been driven by the desire to harness a magic that didn't yet exist, a power so profound that it would rewrite the laws of reality itself? Had that been his true goal when he constructed the enchanted Vasuki's abode deep within Hogwarts—a place shrouded in ancient magic, a sanctuary for knowledge that transcended the bounds of ordinary wizardry?
The words of the snake golem drifted back into Harry's mind.
"Memory. Containment. The worst kind of magic."
It sent a shiver down his spine, bringing with it a flood of memories—of a dark-haired boy, no older than sixteen, emerging from the pages of a cursed diary. Tom Riddle, who had possessed another's body, consuming her innocent soul so that he could become corporeal. Ginny had nearly died, and the memory of Tom, a shadow from the past, had nearly become flesh once more.
How had Voldemort done it? How had he turned a simple memory into something so dangerous, so potent, that it could rival the most powerful dark magic? The question had haunted Harry ever since that fateful encounter, and even now, he remembered the flash of comprehension—and pure terror—that had crossed Dumbledore's face when he had shown him the diary. Whatever Dumbledore had seen, whatever knowledge the diary had revealed, it had shaken him to his very core.
Harry glanced around the chamber, the oppressive silence weighing on him like a physical force. The ancient tomes that lined the shelves, their spines cracked with age, seemed to whisper secrets of their own. This was a place where knowledge had been hoarded for centuries, where dark magic had been studied and perfected.
"Memory. Containment. The worst kind of magic."
Could it be the same dark magic that Tom had uncovered? Was this where he had found the knowledge to create the diary, to imbue it with a fragment of his own twisted soul?
Harry's gaze sharpened as he scanned the shelves, the thought gnawing at him. Tom Riddle had definitely found this chamber. In his twisted, egotistical mind, he had seen it as proof of his birthright—proof that he was the true heir of Salazar Slytherin. And in a way, he had been right. He was a Gaunt, after all, and as Daphne had said, Slytherin himself was a Gaunt.
Here, in this forgotten lair filled with books older than anything Harry had ever encountered, Tom Riddle must have pored over the ancient texts, absorbing the darkest and most forbidden knowledge. It was here, perhaps, that he had learned to twist magic into something grotesque and unnatural. By the time he resurfaced as Lord Voldemort, he was no longer merely a man—he had become something far more sinister, a creature of dark magic, nearly unrecognizable from the boy who had once been Tom Riddle.
Harry's heart pounded as the realization settled over him. Whatever Voldemort had discovered here, whatever secrets he had unearthed, they had transformed him into the dark lord who had terrorized the wizarding world. And now, Harry stood on the precipice of that same abyss, with the same knowledge within his reach.
But he wasn't Tom Riddle. He wasn't Voldemort.
Yet, as Harry stood in the chamber surrounded by the weight of centuries of dark magic, he couldn't help but wonder: What would he do with this knowledge? And what price would he pay for it?
A Dark Lord. A wielder of magics arcane and unknown. The worst kind.
Harry knew the path that lay before him was fraught with peril, one that had claimed Tom Riddle, transforming him into the monster known as Lord Voldemort. Like Tom, Harry had ventured into this hidden chamber, guided by the same serpentine tongue that marked him as a parselmouth. And like Tom, he too was different—set apart by fate, burdened with a destiny not of his choosing. But unlike Tom, Harry had no desire to twist and corrupt the world with whatever vile magics were contained within these ancient tomes.
Still, he could not ignore the reality that lay before him: Tom had learned something here, something that had made him nearly unstoppable. It was only natural that Harry sought the same source, not to wield it as a weapon of darkness, but to understand what he was up against. Ignorance would not save him—knowledge might.
A thought rose unbidden in his mind, one that echoed with the wisdom of ages:
"If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle."
The words of Sun Tzu, a mantra that Sirius Black had often quoted, and one that had made him a legendary Hit Wizard. Sirius had known his enemies, had studied them, and had always stayed one step ahead. Harry realized now that this was his chance—perhaps his only chance—to do the same.
And who knew? Maybe this place, with all its ancient secrets, would help him understand his own Family Magic better. The Potters had a legacy too, one that stretched back centuries, intertwined with the Peverells. If Voldemort had used this place to uncover his dark heritage, then maybe Harry could use it to illuminate his own.
His decision made, Harry took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He stepped forward, the ancient texts around him whispering in the silence, their secrets just out of reach.
"Vasuki," he hissed aloud in Parseltongue, his voice steady and filled with purpose. "I'm Harry of Potter, one of the original twenty-eight that adorns your abode. I want access to the books here and the secrets contained within."
The snake-golem, an imposing guardian with seven serpentine heads, fixed its gaze upon him. Each head stared at him, their emerald eyes gleaming with an unnatural light. Harry clenched his fists, his resolve hardening as he met the creature's gaze. He didn't fully understand why he had spoken the words he did, but his instincts screamed that it was the right thing to do, his voice carrying the weight of his will.
The emerald eyes flashed, burning even more brightly, as if the golem were peering into his very soul.
"PROVE WORTH," it hissed, its voice like the grinding of stone, reverberating through the chamber.
The air around him grew thick with leashed violence, hanging over him like a sword poised to strike at the slightest misstep. It was a palpable force, suffocating in its intensity, and Harry could feel the danger pressing down on him, ready to tear him apart.
Daphne, who had been standing nearby, had sensed the shift in the atmosphere and was now right beside him. Her presence was a small comfort in the oppressive darkness. The girl had good instincts, and for a moment, Harry was glad she was with him.
His wand, now cold as ice in his hand, throbbed with power. The thestral hair within it resonated with his soul, urging him to unleash its full might, to violate this place and bury it beneath an eternal glacier of magic. But Harry held back. He knew that raw power alone would not win him this challenge. If what he had learned about the rules of Ascension were true, then being born into a bloodline or carrying a trait wasn't enough to qualify as an heir in the old days. There had been times when an outsider, someone who showed greater potential, would be chosen over the rightful heir.
And if Harry wanted to claim Salazar Slytherin's legacy, he would have to, as the golem demanded, prove his worth.
"I am a Speaker of your tongue," Harry declared, his voice firm, the words echoing in the chamber. "I have fought and killed the King of Serpents in direct combat. As a souvenir, I carry its blood in my very veins. I have faced death and survived. I have taken the risks, and I have found the Chamber where Salazar left his life's work. I am Harry of Potter, and I claim Salazar Slytherin's legacy as my own."
The words hung in the air, a challenge and a declaration. Harry stood his ground, his eyes locked on the golem, every fiber of his being braced for what was to come. This was no longer about just understanding the past—this was about shaping his future.
Would the ancient guardian accept him as worthy? Or would it deem him just another pretender, another heir who had come seeking power only to be found wanting?
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