THE SALAZAR SLYTHERIN

It has been few months now since I came to know about the chambers, a few days ago was my 13th birthday, which made me eligible to hold the wards of the chamber. I was waiting for the weekends to go claim them. These past few months were almost a blur with me juggling different tasks like , combat training with Dumbledore, runes and Parselmagic. Parselmagic for now is only limited to some aspects of it like using parsel tongue to chant the spells then making them non-verbal, this has given me an edge in my combat training with Dumbledore as my spells are becoming better and better at a slightly increased rate than before.

My training with Dumbledore now has moved on to actual combat in which we would rapidly fire normal spells like the disarming charm and pinching hex at each other, for defence we use the standard shield charm mixed with a bit of dodging. This forces me to divert just the right amount of thought to defence, if I overindulge in defence Dumbledore would quickly overwhelm it which would lead to my defeat in our mock duels and if I am even a slight lacking in defence that too would lead to me defeat, rather quickly at that. Till now I have only been able to keep up with him for just 10 minutes, which while pointing to my less than stellar combat powers, also points to the level of difficulties faced by me in an almost perfect stimulation of combat.

Runes have been coming along well for now, I have only been giving time to warding for now which has been a very good learning experience for me. Warding, from what I have learnt, has been the most profound and paradoxical branch of magic—one that demands both creative intuition and rigorous structure. It is a discipline where the unseen becomes your canvas and intent your paintbrush. It isn't just about barriers or shields, as most first-year students or even some adult wizards would carelessly assume. Warding is the art, science, and philosophy of creating magical boundaries—anchored not merely in space, but in meaning, resonance, and law. It is a magical architecture, deeply rooted in ancient theory, arithmancy, and runes, and one whose secrets have filled entire tomes in the libraries of old families and lost towers. It is the craft of the cautious, the paranoid, and the visionary.

At its simplest, a ward is a magical field designed to prevent, detect, repel, or transmute specific kinds of magical or physical interference. But true warding—the kind I study, the kind my ancestors whispered about in old books sealed with blood and runes—goes far beyond that. Wards can alter perception, affect time, siphon energy, disguise truth, even manipulate emotion or memory. They are the first and last line of defense for any self-respecting magical estate, artifact, or sanctum. The oldest wizarding noble houses, like the Starborn lineage I descend from, built their ancestral halls on layered networks of wards so ancient that no living soul remembers who laid the foundations. These wards do not merely *protect*—they *remember*. They *react*. And sometimes, they *judge*.

There are several types of wards, each built from core principles but branching into nearly infinite permutations. *Static wards*, for instance, are fixed in place and usually tied to a physical object or landmark—a door, a threshold, a particular stone. They are ideal for homes and chambers. *Dynamic wards*, on the other hand, can adapt, expand, contract, or even follow a person or object. These are the more difficult kind, requiring layers of spellcraft that allow the ward to interpret its environment and recalibrate according to pre-set conditions. Some aurors and curse-breakers use dynamic wards as walking shields, inscribed into enchanted tattoos or folded into cloak-thread with runic embroidery.

Then there are *triggered wards*, designed to activate under certain conditions: when a particular spell is cast, when a specific magical signature is detected, or even when an emotional resonance—like fear, anger, or deceit—enters the ward's range. These are useful for espionage or sanctum defenses. More advanced still are *sympathetic wards*, which tie their function not to location or action, but to symbolic correspondences—like linking the protection of a child to the beating heart of their mother via blood-runed bonds. It's deeply complex magic, bordering on soulcraft, and not to be attempted lightly.

To create a ward, the first and most vital step is *intention*, purified and focused. You can't simply wave a wand and shout "Protego" and expect to keep intruders out. A ward must be *crafted*, layer by layer, with absolute clarity of purpose. Every aspect matters—what you're warding against, what should happen when the ward is triggered, how it should respond to various magical energies, who is exempt from its effects, what power sources it draws from. This is where arithmancy comes into play. Numerical sequences—magical primes, lunar harmonics, star patterns—are often woven into the ward to give it a skeletal framework, a structure that can bear the weight of long-term enchantment.

Then come the *anchoring runes*. These are inscribed physically or magically onto surfaces, suspended in the air with spellwork, or even burned into the ley-lines of a place. Each rune carries a specific function: containment, redirection, absorption, transmutation, nullification. The placement and interconnection of runes determine how the ward behaves. The old Starborn wards beneath my family's keep used over 600 unique runes layered over one another, buried beneath stone and ice, humming with ancient power. When I study them now, I can feel echoes of the centuries—anger, love, loss—woven into their structure.

Powering a ward is its own challenge. The simplest use the caster's magical core at the time of casting, but more sophisticated wards draw from *ambient magic*, *bound objects*, or even *magical creatures*. One famous (and controversial) warding method involved anchoring a ward's power source to a captured boggart, forcing it to emit fear which was then converted into kinetic repulsion energy. The ethics of that are dubious at best. Safer alternatives include lunar stone, infused crystals, or even one's own blood. I have used blood once. It's an unnerving thing—watching your life force drip onto the edge of a spell structure—but it makes the ward *listen* more keenly. Wards built with blood and will are not easily breached.

But a ward is not simply laid and left. Maintenance is essential. Wards erode over time—not physically, but magically. The ambient fluctuations in magical fields, the shifting of ley lines, the bleeding of emotions into enchanted spaces—all of these wear down even the strongest protections. Wards can fracture, drift, or become corrupted. There was a case where an old noble ward designed to prevent entry by "enemies of the family" became so warped by centuries of internal strife that it turned on the family itself, striking down the last heir when he returned from exile. That's why ward matrices must be inspected regularly, especially those layered over complex geographies or spiritual boundaries.

One particularly advanced form of warding I've experimented with is *dreamwarding*—a set of enchantments designed to shield the subconscious mind during sleep. It requires finely-tuned silver-threaded dreamcatcher runes, soaked in moon-charmed ink, and placed at cardinal points around the sleeper's head. With the right tuning, the ward filters invasive thoughts, curses, or even Legilimency attempts while allowing restorative dreams to pass through. My success with it has been mixed—it reacts violently to anxiety spikes—but I'm refining the harmonics.

And of course, there's *inversion warding*, a dangerous but potent practice where a ward doesn't block an effect—it reflects it. A Killing Curse launched into a reflective ward will rebound with lethal force. The problem lies in precision. A poorly constructed inversion ward might ricochet the spell unpredictably, harming innocents or backfiring on the caster. That's why in ancient duels between noble houses, the ability to construct live inversion wards mid-combat was considered the highest mark of magical prowess. During my studies in warding I have also come across the mention of my grandfather, Eryndor Starborn, who was said to have warded an entire battlefield with a layered web of reflective strands that turned enemy fire against itself. I still study his notes in awe.

Ultimately, what I've learned—what I *feel*—is that warding is less a spell and more a *conversation*. A conversation between space, purpose, energy, and law. A well-crafted ward doesn't just sit inert; it *listens*. It watches. It becomes part of the soul of a place. And, if done properly, it remembers you. It will allow your friends through. It will hide your secrets. It will stand long after you are dust and bone, whispering your will to the air.

In all my studies, in all my obsessions, this is what draws me again and again to warding. It's the oldest magic—older than fire, older than wands. It's the promise that the walls we build, when etched in runes and truth, can outlive fear. And in this uncertain world, where shadows rise behind friendly eyes and history repeats with darker tones, there is no magic more vital than the one that guards the door.

All in all my second year has been productive, with all the goals I had set for myself reached and then some more, I could say it went as I had planned it. As the night came to be my thoughts once again drifted to the upcoming task ahead of me, the claiming of chamber wards. I saw the time with a quick tempus and noticed it was about time I move to the chamber and I did, I went and cast any and all charms to help me keep my activities as stealthy as possible.

Reaching my destination was just a matter of minutes, ten minutes exactly. I was infront of the basin with the knife in my hand. After collecting myself a bit I pressed it against the palm of my left hand, to my amazement as soon as the third drop fell in the basin three things happened simultaneously. First the wound which I made healed itself without any effort from myself, which was good, second a feeling appeared at the back of my mind. This feeling was what one would have if they held any wards under there control and the wards which I could feel were numerous, I couldn't even start to decipher the working of them. The third thing that happened was a portrait of a man appearing on the wall behind the desk and chair and who else could it be but the founder Salazar Slytherin himself.

Then the basin levitated and disappeared from my view along side the knife which it came with. The portrait hissed in parsel tongue as soon as the basin disappeared, "Ah looks like the chamber has chosen a master at last, would you mind informing me who you are and what is the condition out there." I was a bit shocked but the look on the portraits face compelled me to go along with this, "Greetings, my name is Marcus Starborn. The current year is 1933, the conditions outside of this chamber are good for now. Much has changed in the centuries since your passing, my lord Slytherin," I began steadily. "The magical world has grown vast and complex. In the late 1600s, the Statute of Secrecy was enacted—wizards now live hidden from Muggles entirely, and open interaction is forbidden by international law. Hogwarts remains, a beacon of magical learning, though not without conflict. The lines you drew between bloodlines have deepened over the years—some revere your views, others resent them. The great houses still stand, but politics have grown more entangled. Tensions between Muggle-borns and pure-bloods persist, though open violence is rare—at least for now. Europe is stirring with unrest, both magical and non-magical. Dark families whisper of reclaiming power, and some say a storm is brewing. A wizard named Gellert Grindelwald has begun to gather followers on the continent—preaching a new vision where wizards rise to rule over Muggles. His ideas are dangerous, and though Britain remains quiet for now, many believe war is inevitable. Your legacy lives on, Salazar—respected, feared, and debated—but far from forgotten."

Salazar Slytherin's painted eyes narrowed, glinting with a strange mixture of pride, disdain, and something older—contemplation rooted in centuries of silence. His voice, when it came, was rich with the lilt of ancient English, sharpened by conviction. "So the tide has turned as I foresaw," he said slowly. "The veil between wizard and Muggle drawn tight, not out of strength, but out of fear. That the world would require secrecy rather than dominion speaks of weakness allowed to fester. And Hogwarts still stands… but you say it is divided, not strengthened by its houses? That my name is debated, questioned even? Hmph. It is no matter. The wisdom of time often escapes the impatient. But this Grindelwald—he understands, does he not? That magic was never meant to cower, that we are not equals with those who burn what they cannot grasp. Perhaps he is reckless, but such ambition is the mark of those who shape eras. As for blood… it is not purity I valued, but power guided by inheritance—knowledge passed down like flame through a noble line. If that truth has been twisted, then let it be reclaimed. Tell me, young one… in this age of shadows and silence, do *you* stand with strength, or do you merely endure it?"

I met his gaze without flinching, the weight of his words pressing against the core of who I was. "I stand with strength," I answered firmly, but not without thought. "But not the kind that tramples blindly. Power without purpose is just destruction in disguise. I've seen what happens when ambition burns too hot, and I've read the histories—how many wizards justified cruelty in the name of greatness. I carry the blood of an old house, but I won't let lineage alone define me. If magic is a flame, then it should light the way—not consume it. Grindelwald speaks to the restless, yes, but he forgets that ruling without wisdom invites ruin. I believe in the strength to protect, to preserve, and to shape a future where wizards rise—not in arrogance, but in mastery. If your legacy is to mean anything more than division and fear, then it must evolve, not calcify. I'm not here to endure—I'm here to learn, to build, and if I must… to fight." All of this was said in parsel tongue.

Salazar's portrait leaned ever so slightly forward, the candlelight of the chamber catching on the subtle brushstrokes of his high cheekbones and piercing eyes. His expression, once stern and reserved, now shifted into something more inscrutable—an echo of curiosity beneath layers of ancient pride. "Hm," he intoned, voice deep and deliberate. "You speak with the fire of youth, tempered by experience uncommon for your years. That is rare. Many come from noble lines but carry only arrogance, not understanding. You, Marcus Starborn, carry both weight and will… and that makes you dangerous—in the way a sharp blade is dangerous. It is not power alone that elevates a wizard, but the clarity of how he wields it. I have heard many justifications for compromise, for mercy, for balance. Few can speak of such things and still command the respect of power itself. If you believe my legacy must evolve, then prove it not with rhetoric, but with consequence. Carve a path others will follow not through fear, nor heritage, but through mastery. Be the heir the world does not expect, but cannot deny. The Chamber accepts you… for now. But know this, boy—magic remembers, even when men forget. The blood sings through you for a reason. Do not waste it." After that the portrait went silent indicating that this conversation was now on rest. I checked the time and saw it would be good for me if I went back to my dorms and embraced Morpheus for today, and I did just that.