Chapter 290: So This Is What Kind of Slytherin You Are

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Harry walked lightly in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room, idly toying with the "Slytherin Emerald Machine Gun Bullet Pendant."

Compared to when he had just returned to Hogwarts, at least now he didn't need a cane to walk through the corridors. Snape was truly Snape—though the potion he gave Harry nearly made him want to stage a dramatic "I'll die right here to prove a point" performance, after drinking it, Harry's condition had indeed stabilized somewhat. While he still couldn't throw a proper punch or kick, at least he had regained some mobility.

From the moment he first received the Slytherin pendant, Harry had felt something was off. After all, the first gun-shaped wand in Europe was crafted by Ollivander in 1230, modeled after the Eastern tuhuo staff. The current flintlock design—the standard for gun-shaped wands—had only been finalized after several rounds of upgrades and improvements.

And what era had Slytherin lived in?

Hogwarts was founded around the year 965. When Dumbledore was a student, the school hadn't even reached its thousand-year milestone. In that era, let alone flintlocks, even tuhuo staves hadn't appeared. As for bullets—such things seemed distinctly ahead of their time.

Dumbledore wasn't exactly a history buff or an expert in ancient magical history. Though he was immensely knowledgeable, this particular subject wasn't his forte. As for asking Professor Binns, the History of Magic teacher—sure, he had a long and impressive teaching record, but it was hard to place much faith in him. In contrast, asking one of Hogwarts' ghosts seemed like a more reliable approach.

The Fat Friar loved lively places. Despite the divide between the living and the dead, he remained one of the ghosts most fond of interacting with young witches and wizards. When nearly everyone else had boarded the train home for the holidays, the Fat Friar still lingered in the Hufflepuff common room, humming to himself to pass the time. Ghosts had near "immortality" to endure their posthumous existence, and zoning out had become a staple of ghostly life. So when three figures entered the otherwise empty room, the Fat Friar, lost in his own world, didn't immediately notice them.

"Whoa—whoa!"

Startled out of his reverie, the Fat Friar flailed dramatically in mid-air for a while before finally recognizing Harry, Dumbledore, and Snape. Clutching his chest in mock relief, he let out a long breath.

"Headmaster Dumbledore! What brings you here to find me?"

The Fat Friar eyed the oldest of the trio with mild reproach. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about Dumbledore seemed different from before.

"That's a question for Harry," Dumbledore said with a cheerful smile, showing no hint of guilt for having startled the old ghost.

"Ha—oh, Harry! Is that a rune pendant you're holding?" The Fat Friar turned his head and immediately spotted Harry and the Slytherin Emerald Machine Gun Bullet Pendant in his hand. "Didn't expect young folks these days to be into that sort of thing. Back in my day, these were all the rage."

"It's a pity that today's wizards only pay lip service to 'Merlin's Blessing,' not realizing that this kind of thing is a real good-luck charm."

Harry didn't even need to open his mouth—the Fat Friar had already answered a large part of the questions brewing in his mind.

"You're saying this is a good-luck charm? A rune pendant?"

Harry shook the Slytherin pendant in his hand, his face a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

"Ah, of course," the Fat Friar nodded. "You know, in the wizarding world, the number 7 symbolizes luck and is considered the most magical number. But modern wizards hardly know why that belief exists in the first place."

There's nothing that makes a ghost happier than feeling trusted or knowing that his presence has value—especially for someone like the Fat Friar, who was cheerful by nature.

"When people mention Merlin, what comes to mind? His mastery of prophecy, being the founder of Animagus transformations, and so on. But in our time, what was most widely spread was the legend of Merlin's Seven Sacred Relics. Just like the Deathly Hallows, they were a famous legend back then."

"To fight against demons, Merlin created seven runes, each one containing a different aspect of his magical power."

The Fat Friar fiddled with the bullet belt draped across his chest. "I've always believed in that legend. See this? These are seven sets of seven Merlin's Blessing rune amulets. Back when I was alive, I didn't have much luck. Just carrying seven wasn't enough for me, so I made seven full sets and wore them all at once. And sure enough, my luck really did improve."

"But sadly..." A trace of helpless frustration crossed the Fat Friar's face. "Merlin was a wizard—he could only bless my luck within the magical world. But I had a moment of foolishness... Why did I ever go to the Church? In the Muggle world, Merlin couldn't help me. Even now, when I think about being ambushed, I still get so angry. Hah!"

"Ambushed..." Harry repeated instinctively, but before he could finish, the Fat Friar immediately cut him off.

"I was not tied up like a pig and killed with a single strike! Those Muggles ambushed me—they had no honor, using stun guns to attack me, someone who had done countless good deeds and was on the verge of becoming the Pope's cardinal!"

"But I didn't even say anything..." Harry glanced at the Fat Friar, eyebrow raised. "Feeling guilty?"

"Absolutely not!"

The Fat Friar stiffened, muttering under his breath. If ghosts could blush, he'd have turned crimson with rage on the spot.

"All right, all right," he said quickly, waving a hand and pretending nothing had happened. "Harry, what did you want to ask me?"

Putting on a benevolent smile, the Fat Friar looked at Harry expectantly.

"This pendant—it's Slytherin's. I noticed its design is very similar to your bullet belt... uh, I mean, your amulet. So I came to ask you about it."

"Slytherin's pendant?" The Fat Friar lowered his head and examined the object in Harry's hand carefully. "Turn it slowly... yes, like that. Hold it—right there. Stop."

Recognition dawned on his face as he nodded.

"Here's something most people don't know." He cleared his throat and plucked a bullet from his belt. "Merlin infused his Seven Sacred Relics with his seven virtues—or you could say, seven righteous powers."

"Hope, compassion, courage, wisdom, justice, faith, and prudence. Each relic embodied one of these powers and contained a powerful, activatable magic. For example, the magic linked to 'hope' is the Patronus Charm. But in legend, the Patronus used by the relic wasn't just for fending off Dementors—it was a bane to all dark magic."

"Think about it—what kind of 'protector' would fail to shield you when darkness descends? If it can't defend you in that moment, it's no true Patronus."

The magic of the Fat Friar's era truly was different. The war against the Abyss had just ended, and the magical world was steeped in martial virtue. Spells back then were more powerful and combat-oriented. Modern spells, while more convenient and refined, lacked the sharpness of those forged in wartime.

'Could Merlin have been an Awakened One too?' The thought flickered through Harry's mind. 'It's a pity I didn't spend more time in the graveyard... so many things I still don't understand.'

Seti didn't plan to let Harry come into contact with the power of the Awakened too soon. Until his body recovered, it was best not to tamper with such forces. At this stage, knowing too much might not be a good thing. Curiosity doesn't just kill cats—it's a danger to people, too.

"Did you see the rune engraved in the emerald?"

The Fat Friar pointed to the bullet-shaped pendant in Harry's hand. "Slytherin's protective amulet was modeled after the 'Justice' relic among the Seven Sacred Relics. Look—same as mine."

"Justice?!"

This time, it wasn't just Harry who was stunned—even Dumbledore and Snape couldn't help but show a noticeable change in expression.

Who was Slytherin, after all? At Hogwarts, he was the man known for turning up his nose at any witch or wizard who wasn't pure-blood. Legend has it that he parted ways with Gryffindor and left the school because of this exact ideology. While the other founders were willing to accept Muggle-borns or half-bloods, he insisted on admitting only pure-blood students.

Much like how Seti fairly discriminated against every Nigo, Slytherin fairly discriminated against every non-pure-blood.

And this was called justice?

The Fat Friar, noticing the trio's varied yet equally complex expressions, wasn't surprised at all. He was long used to people holding this perception of Slytherin.

"Not that anyone ever believes me, but if you ask ghosts who lived through that era—like the Grey Lady or the Bloody Baron..." The Fat Friar paused deliberately. Those two were Hogwarts' oldest resident ghosts. The Grey Lady was secretly the daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw, and the Bloody Baron had been a student of Salazar Slytherin. No one knew the Founders better than them.

"My teacher was Helga Hufflepuff," the Fat Friar said with certainty. "I was probably her last student. She warned me not to venture into the Muggle world, but... I didn't listen."

"It's not quite like you think," he continued in a tone mixed with reflection and complexity. "Even though Slytherin had already left Hogwarts by the time I was a student, I can tell you—he didn't actually discriminate against non-pure-bloods."

He exhaled and added, "What he did do was fairly discriminate against any wizard whose talents didn't meet his standards. According to my teacher, Slytherin firmly believed in an absolute elite education system—not the broad, inclusive approach Hogwarts uses today. The 'Quill of Acceptance' was made by Gryffindor, but without Ravenclaw's modifications to the 'Book of Admittance,' Hogwarts wouldn't even be able to admit more than a dozen qualified students per year."

"Justice... of course it was justice," the Fat Friar said with a shake of his head, speaking as if lost in distant memories. "He truly was just—in his own way."

"Dumbledore."

Snape's voice cut through the air suddenly.

"There's something I've wanted to say for a long time, and before I resign, I need to tell you."

"What is it, Severus?" Dumbledore looked at him, puzzled.

"As Head of Slytherin House, I am telling you this seriously and sincerely—Slytherin House is not a dumping ground for pure-blood trash. I won't be at Hogwarts much longer, but even after I'm gone, I don't want Slytherin House to remain the cesspool it has become."

"Change the admission criteria. Stop approving those idiot children from pure-blood families who never received their Hogwarts letters in the first place. Let them stay home and spare us the embarrassment. Take Goyle and Crabbe, for example—tell them not to come back next year."

"If Salazar Slytherin saw what Slytherin House has turned into today, he'd rise from the grave in fury, Dumbledore."

"Uh... what?"

Dumbledore blinked, stunned—his mind clearly somewhere else.

(End of Chapter)