After a moment, the Runespoor went limp, its vitality draining completely. Yet not a single drop of green venom leaked from its jaws.
Its body began to dissolve — quietly, gently — dispersing like a dandelion caught in the wind. Flesh and bone shimmered into motes of silver-blue light, which spiraled upward into the air.
Vizet activated the Eye of Insight, tracking the lights with precision. As he focused on them, he called silently.
As expected, they responded.
The silver-blue lights trembled — then streamed toward A Wizard's Practical Guide, merging into one of the pages with a faint hum. Another deposit of ancient magic reclaimed.
Where the knight statue once stood, only rubble remained.
Then, without warning, the stone beneath it glowed again. A new statue rose from the center of the platform, even more imposing than the last.
It depicted an old man seated on a grand throne, a heavy book resting in his hands. Coiled around the throne, thick and menacing, was a giant snake, carved in unnerving detail.
The instant the statue emerged, Vizet's Blackout Spell dissipated, as if stripped away by an invisible force.
Light rushed back into the chamber.
And then the statue moved.
Its granite eyes turned, locking directly onto Vizet.
Those eyes — gray, but gleaming with a strange inner fire — pierced through the space between them, brimming with ancient wisdom and unnerving depth.
Vizet stiffened.
The old man slowly lowered his book. The gray stoniness of his body began to drain away like melting wax, revealing smooth, living flesh beneath. His beard and hair transformed into flowing strands of polished silver-white, gleaming in the light.
Even the statue of the snake came to life, slithering down from the throne and reshaping itself into a curling staircase that coiled at the base.
Then, the old man spoke.
"It's been a long time since I've seen that Magic Eye..."
His voice was calm, unhurried, with the weight of centuries behind each syllable. Time had etched countless wrinkles into his face — but they didn't diminish him. If anything, each line seemed to carry a story, a secret, a legend.
He rose slowly from the throne. His deep dark green robe, rich with silver embroidery along its edges, brushed the floor. The designs shimmered like woven starlight, whispering of forgotten honors.
His silver hair billowed gently behind him — though there was no wind.
"You're the new guardian, are you?" he asked. "What's your name? Just started at Hogwarts, I presume. Which house?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"Ravenclaw. Vizet Lovegood," the old man said, eyes gleaming. "Hmm… I see. Diligent. Sharp. Not just a reader, but someone who applies what they learn. That's rare."
Vizet's heart skipped a beat.
Those weren't words from a conversation. They were thoughts.
The man hadn't been speaking to him.
He'd been reading him.
From the moment they locked eyes, the old man had used Legilimency — a skill Vizet knew well, and feared well. The words spoken just now weren't answers to spoken questions, but responses to what Vizet had thought.
His mind had been read as easily as turning a page.
But how…?
His soul labyrinth — the mental shield he'd built with meticulous effort — had even held Voldemort at bay for a moment. Yet this man had swept it aside like cobwebs.
Who is he?
A ghost?
No. Not a ghost.
The old man's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
"Perhaps," he said, "you've heard my name."
He stepped forward, and the throne seemed to darken behind him.
"Salazar Slytherin, founder of Slytherin House."
Vizet stood stunned.
If this old man truly was Salazar Slytherin, then it made perfect sense that his defenses — mental or magical — had been so easily bypassed.
There was no shortage of Hogwarts history in the library, and Vizet had read extensively. One artifact stood out in many of the older tomes: the Sorting Hat.
It was said that each of the four founders had endowed the hat with unique magical gifts. Among them, Salazar Slytherin had given it Legilimency — the very ability it still used to this day to peer into students' minds and sort them into houses.
If even a fragment of Salazar's Legilimency persisted in the hat after a thousand years, then the original master must have achieved true mastery of the art.
Salazar lightly stroked his beard, eyes still studying Vizet with that same unwavering sharpness.
"This method of constructing a soul labyrinth is... interesting," he murmured. "But it's only that. Interesting."
"And since I stand above the maze," he continued, voice low and deliberate, "its twists and turns mean nothing to me. I see every path. Every dead end. Every hidden door. Your thoughts are laid bare."
He stepped forward slightly, tone darkening. "You're still wrestling with the soul… but you don't yet understand — it is like the body, only deeper... more ancient."
Vizet's eyes brightened with sudden clarity. "Founder Slytherin... Is it appropriate for me to call you that?"
Salazar smiled faintly, as though amused.
"I know what you're thinking," he said. "You're a Ravenclaw. Of course you wouldn't hide your hunger for knowledge."
His voice deepened, rich with gravity.
"Since you've inherited the role of guardian, you will cross the threshold of the soul. You will uncover deeper truths. There's no need to rush the process. It will unfold, as it must."
He gestured slightly toward A Wizard's Practical Guide, where the newly absorbed ancient magic still shimmered faintly within the pages.
"The more primordial magic you wield, the more ancient magic you collect, the clearer all of this will become."
"And as for names," he added, "call me what you wish."
Vizet rubbed the bridge of his nose, a little sheepish.
"Actually… I've been meaning to ask. You keep using the term guardian — there's the Guardian Meditation Method, and now this role..."
He hesitated.
"What is a guardian, exactly? Is it a title, a duty? Am I meant to shoulder some sort of... responsibility?"
Salazar raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? So young, and already you're asking about duty?"
A dry chuckle followed.
"That's not your concern just yet."
He waved a hand lazily, though the confidence in his bearing never wavered.
"There's only one thing you need to do now: learn. Strengthen yourself. That's the only path forward."
He narrowed his eyes, voice lowering.
"Responsibility is just an illusion. But every choice you make — every bit of growth — will ripple outward. Eventually, it will shape the magical world."
His words sounded casual, even dismissive — but the sheer weight behind them made Vizet's pulse quicken. Especially that last sentence. It rang with deeper implications.
"So all I need to do is… learn?" Vizet asked, unsure whether to be encouraged or unnerved.
He glanced at Salazar again.
His thoughts drifted to Hogwarts' long history. The idea struck him like a spark.
Were all four founders guardians once?
If so, Salazar's words would make perfect sense. Their legacy had indeed spread far beyond the school. It had shaped the entire magical world.
"It's all right to take it slowly," Salazar said, folding his hands behind his back. "Just as he once guided us..."
"He didn't burden us with responsibility, not at first. We simply followed our hearts. Built what we wanted to build. That's how Hogwarts came to be."
Vizet looked into his eyes again — those piercing, ancient gray eyes, now filled with something far more complex than wisdom alone.
He couldn't help but recall the old stories. Salazar Slytherin had left Hogwarts after disagreements with the other founders. His beliefs had clashed too violently with theirs.
And from that rift, the seeds of today's pure-blood supremacy theory had taken root.
Salazar's voice broke into his thoughts.
"To this day," he said quietly, "I still believe I was right."
His eyes narrowed, gleaming with unwavering certainty.
"That… is what it means to be a wizard, Vizet."
"A wizard must have the conviction to follow his beliefs. If he cannot stand by them — if he yields to doubt — then he forfeits the right to be called one."
"Ambition," he continued, "is faith in oneself — one's ability. That faith becomes the road toward mastering magic. If your faith falters, the road will split — and each detour delays your ascent to the peak."
"That's why walking your own path — the one you believe in — is more important than chasing some so-called objective correctness."
His words echoed through the chamber.
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