The corpse of the basilisk lay as still and monstrous as before, coiled in a deathless sleep. The sheer weight of its presence still clung to the air like a lingering shadow.
Harry stepped closer to the hulking creature, his footsteps careful against the cold, echoing stone. The air was thick — not just with the scent of damp stone and something ancient, but with memory. He stopped a few feet from the beast's corpse and stared into its vacant, blinded eyes.
"Don't touch it," Harry said softly, more to himself than anyone else.
Behind him, Dobby froze. "Dobby wasn't going to, sir!"
Harry gave him a tired smile. "I know, Dobby. But still. Even dead, it's dangerous."
He turned his back on the basilisk, casting his gaze around the Chamber. A strange thought tugged at his mind — there was more here. It wasn't just the statue or the lair of the creature. Salazar Slytherin hadn't built all this just to house a monster. Wizards like him — founders — left legacies.
And secrets.
Harry scanned the stone wall behind the great statue. Cracks, uneven bricks, subtle discoloration. He raised his wand and murmured, "Revelio."
A thin outline glimmered on the stone surface — a concealed archway, masked by ancient magic. The wards were still strong, but Harry now wielded a language and a bloodline few others did.
He stepped closer, and hissed in Parseltongue: "Open."
The wall creaked and split down the middle, revealing a narrow passage of polished black stone, glowing faintly with green torchlight.
Dobby let out a tiny gasp. "Master Slytherin hid more, sir?"
Harry stepped in slowly. "Looks like it."
The hallway led to a modest chamber — and yet everything about it screamed wealth, pride, and meticulous control. It was a hidden sanctum. A bedroom, a study, and a sanctuary combined.
The walls were lined with shelves bearing dusty tomes, scrolls, and aged potions in stasis. A heavy oak desk dominated one end of the room, covered in neat stacks of parchment. Across from it, a stone bed with emerald and silver bedding still remained untouched, perfectly preserved by time.
Harry didn't need a sign to know whose space this was.
Salazar Slytherin's private study.
His eyes fell first on the books. Thick, ancient volumes bound in leather, many bearing titles in Latin or runes. Topics ranged from ritual magic, and bloodline alchemy, to parseltongue theory. These weren't casual reading. They were intense, deliberate, and dangerous.
Harry ran a hand near them but didn't pull any off the shelf — not yet.
At the center of the desk sat a different kind of book.
A journal.
Bound in black-scaled leather, it had no title. But Harry could feel the difference. This wasn't Riddle's diary. It pulsed faintly with old magic — not dark exactly, but heavy and ancient, thrumming like a slow heartbeat in the wood.
He flipped it open.
The first page was handwritten in smooth, spidery script:
"To seek mastery of magic, one must first master the self."
— Salazar Slytherin
The journal was a mixture of personal insights and magical theory. It wasn't about domination, or hatred, or blood superiority — not entirely. It was about power. Understanding it. Refining it. The man who wrote this was no fool driven by bigotry. He was meticulous, curious, and above all — ambitious.
Harry turned the page, and there, neatly inked in green-black script, was a bold title centered on the parchment:
The Four Pillars of Magic: A Foundational Treatise by Salazar Slytherin
"Magic is not merely wandwork. It is the extension of the soul into the world."
Beneath the quote, the text continued:
"All magic — whether a child's accidental burst, a duelist's curse, or a ritual centuries in the making — draws its strength from four interwoven elements: Intent. Willpower. Magical Power. Imagination. These are the Four Pillars. Together, they determine not only whether a spell succeeds, but what shape it takes… and what it costs."
Harry sat down at the stone desk, his fingers tracing the ancient script as his eyes devoured the next lines.
Intent
"Intent is the anchor of magic. It is the seed from which all spellwork grows. A miscast spell often stems not from a wrong incantation, but from a conflicted or unfocused intent. Even powerful wizards fail when their purpose is clouded."
Slytherin elaborated:
"Healing charms and Unforgivable Curses are born from opposing intent — one seeks to restore, the other to break. They cannot share the same heart. Thus, clarity of purpose is the first test of a true wizard."
Willpower
"Will is the driving force. It sustains the magic once it is summoned. Without sufficient will, magic falters, fizzles, or misfires. It is not enough to want a result — one must enforce it upon the world."
"Dark magic thrives on will. The will to dominate. The will to endure. The will to survive. Lacking this, no wizard can master it without being consumed by it."
Harry's Patronus — strong, brilliant — surged to mind again. It wasn't born of peace. It was his will to drive the Dementors away. His refusal to break.
Slytherin continued:
"Of all the pillars, will is the most dangerous. For it can be forged by cruelty as easily as by courage."
Magical Power
"This is the reservoir. The raw energy within a wizard is tied to blood, soul, and often lineage. Some are born with vast stores; others build it slowly, through discipline, through pain, through trial."
"One can have perfect intent and unshakable will — but without sufficient magical power, their spells collapse like a bridge without stone."
Harry thought of Neville. Of how his early magic had been clumsy. But some — like Dumbledore or Voldemort — were born blazing.
Imagination
"The most overlooked. Imagination is what gives shape to power. A Transfiguration spell without a clear mental image yields chaos. A Patronus without memory is but a mist. Magic without imagination is a sword with no edge."
Harry's brow furrowed. He'd always relied on instinct. But now he wondered — what might he achieve if he imagined harder, deeper?
Slytherin's final lines on the page struck like prophecy:
"The Four Pillars are not separate. They are limbs of the same beast. In dueling, it is Will and Power. In healing, Intent, and Imagination. In ritual, all four must sing in harmony. The greatest magic is born when they align like stars — for then, the wizard is not merely casting a spell… he is becoming it."
Harry sat back in stunned silence, the flickering torchlight casting Slytherin's words in trembling shadows.
This wasn't just theory. It was a lens — a way to see magic, not as a tool, but as an extension of the self. It explained everything. Why did spells fail when he was distracted? Why wandless magic had worked when he was angry or desperate. Why Dumbledore's magic felt effortless — because the man had mastered every pillar.
And why Voldemort's spells hurt the world — because his intent and will burned like poison.
Harry exhaled slowly.
If this was the kind of knowledge Tom Riddle had once read and twisted for his own ends…
Harry closed the journal slowly, reverently, as if the act of shutting it might break some invisible thread of magic. The weight of what he had just read sat heavy in his chest — not burdensome, but anchoring. Enlightening.
This wasn't theory taught in classrooms or even hinted at in the Restricted Section.
This kind of knowledge... he thought, couldn't be found in any book — not really. It had to be lived, wrestled with, and earned through the fire of experience. Only a magical titan like Salazar Slytherin could have written something like this.
His eyes drifted back to the room. More shelves lined the chamber walls, thick with age-darkened tomes, their spines marked in old runes and embossed serpents. Knowledge forgotten. Forbidden. Or simply hidden.
He couldn't take them all. Not yet. It would take time — study, care, secrecy. But one book, bound in dark emerald leather and etched with a silver-eyed serpent, caught his eye. Its spine read:
On Basilisks: Origins, Bonding, and Magical Utility
Harry hesitated only a moment before sliding it off the shelf and slipping it gently into the enchanted pouch at his hip. Then, with equal care, he placed Slytherin's journal beside it. That book… was a lifetime's worth of study in itself.
He looked once more around the room — the quiet stillness, the half-burned candles, the faint smell of parchment and stone. I'll come back, he promised himself. Soon. One book at a time.
A glance at his watch made him blink. Dinner.
He made his way back through the chamber, past the still, decaying bulk of the basilisk. The light filtering through the snake scale gave it a ghostly sheen. He averted his gaze — he'd faced it once before. That was enough for one day.
"Come on, Dobby," he whispered. "Time to head back."
The elf, who had been standing respectfully quiet near the entrance, nodded fervently and snapped his fingers. In a blink, they were both gone.
Back in the castle corridors, the sounds of the evening had begun — footsteps echoing from the Great Hall, laughter bouncing down staircases, the occasional bark of Peeves somewhere above.
Harry's stomach rumbled in protest.
He quickened his pace. The memories of the chamber lingered, but already he was folding them away into the part of his mind he used when planning — organizing what to do next.
As he entered the Great Hall, golden light poured over the long tables. The enchanted ceiling showed a twilight sky streaked with stars. Students were already halfway through their meal, but heads turned as Harry walked in — not with awe or whisper this time, but recognition. Familiarity.
Hermione waved him over. Ron shoved a plate of roast potatoes his way the moment he sat.
"Thought you were off brooding somewhere again," Ron grinned.
Harry smiled faintly, already filling his plate. "Not brooding. Just… exploring."
He didn't elaborate.
Some secrets were too heavy for even the best of friends.