Lockhart of The Kaleidoscope

[Wizarding World-year 1890]

[102 years before the Gilderoy Lockhart become DADA professor at Hogwarts]

The laugh from Salazar Slytherin's ghost echoed through the chamber, twisting in the stagnant air like the hiss of a distant serpent. The cold that clung to the room intensified, crawling into Mercia's bones, and the stone beneath her feet seemed to pulse with a faint, rhythmic vibration—as if the very castle itself were drawing breath in this hidden place.

The ghost of Salazar Slytherin floated a few inches above the ground, his spectral form swathed in robes that flickered like shadows caught between worlds. His features, gaunt and severe, were sharp enough to cut through the darkness, but it was his eyes that unnerved her the most. They were pools of ancient knowledge, cold and calculating, filled with centuries of hatred and ambition. But there was something more—a madness, a void that stared back at her, indifferent to the mortal coil of time.

Mercia shuddered under his gaze, feeling her heart pound faster, though the terror constricting her chest made it hard to breathe.

"I came for answers," Mercia whispered, though her voice trembled, barely more than a breath. "About you, about what you left behind."

Slytherin's ghost tilted his head slightly, his mouth curling into something that might have been a smile but was devoid of warmth, devoid of humanity. His spectral form shimmered, flickering like the last light of a dying star, and as he moved, the walls of the chamber seemed to shift subtly, as if responding to his will.

"You speak of answers, but you do not yet understand the questions," he murmured, his voice low and rumbling, like distant thunder. "Tell me, girl—what do you truly know of me? Of my legacy?"

The shadows around Mercia seemed to deepen, crawling over the walls, shifting like a living thing. Her grip on her wand tightened, though she sensed that no magic she possessed could shield her from the overwhelming presence of this ancient spirit. The air had grown impossibly cold, and the flickering light from her wand barely penetrated the gloom.

"I know… I know that you built the Chamber of Secrets," she stammered, the words coming more hesitantly as she spoke them aloud, feeling absurdly small under Slytherin's gaze. "That you left some dark creature to cleanse the school of those you thought unworthy."

Slytherin's eyes glinted with an unsettling amusement, but the sound that came from him was no longer laughter. It was a guttural, scraping noise that rose from the depths of his hollow chest, like the rasping of ancient stones grinding together. The serpentine statues that lined the chamber's walls seemed to shimmer in the dim light, their stone eyes now glinting with an eerie, malevolent light, as if the souls of long-dead serpents lingered in the carved figures, waiting to strike.

"You think me so… petty," he said, the words dripping like venom. "To leave only a beast?

He glided toward her, his ghostly form barely making a sound, though every instinct in Mercia screamed at her to run, to flee back to the warmth and light of Hogwarts' familiar halls. But her legs felt rooted to the spot, frozen by the sheer weight of his presence.

"The dark creature you talk about is but a mere gatekeeper for something far older." His voice dipped into something darker, something ancient. "What I left behind was knowledge— hidden beyond the reach of those who crawled and scratched at the surface of my vision."

Mercia swallowed hard, her heart pounding against her ribs as Slytherin's ghost loomed over her. The cold now seemed to emanate from him directly, like a presence that chilled the soul.

"What sort of knowledge?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Slytherin's form flickered, twisting into a grotesque shape for the briefest moment—a flash of something not entirely human—before solidifying once more. His eyes darkened, like storm clouds rolling in over a black sea.

"You stand on the threshold of the unknown, child," he whispered, his words a soft, malevolent hiss. "The knowledge I speak of is not the fleeting magic you learn in this castle. What I uncovered lies beneath all of it—the source, the 'Root' of magic itself. The truth of every possible riddle a human mind can concoct. The truth you came here seeking "

The chamber around them seemed to grow darker still, the flickering torchlight dimming as if the shadows were swallowing the very flame itself. From the corners of her vision, Mercia could see something—movement, faint and indistinct. Dark shapes, writhing in the corners of the chamber, like the coils of serpents too large to exist in this world. She could hear the faintest of whispers now, rising from the depths of the earth beneath her feet.

They called to me once, too…

The thought wasn't her own, but it rippled through her mind like an echo of something long forgotten.

"The others—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, even that fool Ravenclaw—they feared what lay beneath the surface of our world. They feared what it takes to reach the root. They fear the power it will grant to the person. They fear what that person will turn the world into" Slytherin continued, his voice growing darker, filled with a terrible reverence. "They sought order, structure… protection. But magic is not a thing to be tamed. It is chaos.

Mercia could feel her heart hammering in her chest, her breath quickening. There was something terribly wrong with the air now—it was heavy, thick with an oppressive weight, like a pressure building in the atmosphere before a storm. The very stones beneath her feet felt alive, pulsing with the dark rhythm of the ancient power Slytherin spoke of.

"What… what are you?" she choked out, barely able to force the words through her lips.

Slytherin's ghost leaned closer, his face mere inches from hers now. His cold breath brushed against her skin, and she could see the faintest outline of something far more monstrous hidden beneath the spectral form of the wizard—a darkness that writhed and slithered, a presence older than the castle itself.

"I am the keeper of secrets," he hissed, his voice a thousand whispers at once. "I am the one who saw the truth… the one saw the 'Root', the 'Akashic Records', the 'One Power'."

Mercia felt the chamber closing in around her, the walls seeming to pulse and shift with the rhythm of her own heartbeat. The shadows at the edge of the room writhed more violently now, twisting and contorting into shapes too horrible to comprehend. She could feel it—the weight of something vast and unknowable pressing down upon her, the presence of an ancient, slumbering horror that had been waiting, just beneath the surface of the world, for someone to find it.

The cold intensified, and Mercia's vision began to blur. The whispers in the air grew louder, harsher, filling her mind with dark promises, beckoning her closer to the abyss.

But then, just as she thought she would be consumed by the darkness, Slytherin's ghost spoke again, his voice quieter now, almost soft—though no less dangerous.

"Take what I offer, child," he murmured. "Learn what I have left behind, and you will be more powerful than you can imagine. But know this: once you step beyond the veil, there is no return."

Mercia's breath caught in her throat. The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with implications she couldn't yet fully grasp. Her heart raced, her thoughts swirling in a maelstrom of fear, curiosity, and ambition.

"What will you choose?"

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faintest whisper of wind through the forgotten tomb—a wind that seemed to carry with it the distant screams of those who had come before her.

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The weight of Salazar's final words hung in the air, thick as mist, suffocating the chamber in an oppressive silence. The faint whispers that had once been distant now crawled up the walls, seeping through the cracks in the ancient stone. Mercia could feel them around her—voices she could not understand but that seemed to speak directly to the deepest recesses of her mind.

Her pulse raced, her thoughts churning in a storm of dread and desire. What had Salazar uncovered? What secrets had he taken with him into this hidden place, and what would it mean to embrace them?

Slytherin's ghost stood motionless now, his pale, luminous eyes fixed on her with an intensity that felt almost physical, as though he could reach into her thoughts and lay them bare before him. His form flickered at the edges, a faint distortion in the air, as though his presence warped reality itself.

Mercia took a hesitant step back, her heart pounding as the weight of his offer settled on her. Power. Knowledge. The very things she had longed for since her first year at Hogwarts. The Greengrass family was ancient and proud, but they had never been great. Not like the Blacks before them. They had lived in the shadows of others, always striving, never reaching the heights of true power.

But this… this was different. This was beyond anything she could have imagined. A secret, older than the castle itself, held by one of the most powerful wizards in history. The prospect of wielding such knowledge, of touching the very root of magic, was intoxicating.

And yet, there was fear.

The chamber pulsed with a malevolent energy, a silent warning of the danger that came with what Slytherin offered. The dark figures that writhed in the shadows seemed to press in closer, as if sensing her hesitation, feeding on her doubt.

"What… would you have me do?" Mercia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Slytherin's ghost smiled—a cold, cruel smile that sent a shiver down her spine.

"I would have you fulfill the journey that I began.You must strive to reach and control the One Power" he murmured, his voice smooth, like the hiss of a snake. "I would have you take the power I left behind, and with it, restore the true order in the wizarding world. The others—the weaklings who run this world now—have forgotten what it was meant to be. They have allowed it to decay."

His eyes gleamed with a dangerous light, and the serpentine carvings on the walls seemed to shift subtly in the darkness, their stone coils twisting ever so slightly.

"But you," he continued, stepping closer, "you could change all of that. You could take your rightful place. I can feel it in your blood—you are a true descendant of Slytherin. Not by name, but by spirit. You crave truth. You deserve it."

Mercia swallowed hard, her hands trembling. The words he spoke resonated deeply within her, striking at the core of her ambition. She had always felt different, set apart from the other students at Hogwarts. She had never been content to simply learn spells and recite incantations like the rest. She had wanted more. And now, here it was—offered to her by the very founder of her house.

But still, the cold sense of dread gnawed at her. She glanced at the stone sarcophagus behind Slytherin's ghost, its surface adorned with intricate carvings of serpents and ancient runes. This was no ordinary grave. It radiated a power she could feel in her bones, a darkness that reached back through the centuries.

"Why me?" she asked, her voice shaking. "Why now?"

Slytherin's eyes darkened, his expression shifting from amusement to something far more serious.

"Because you are the first," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "the first to find me. The first to come here, drawn by the call of your blood. I have waited for centuries, watching, waiting for the one who would be worthy."

The shadows seemed to ripple with his words, and the faint whispers that filled the chamber grew louder, as though they were urging her to step forward, to accept what was being offered.

"You have the strength to do what must be done," he continued, his voice growing more insistent. "To finish what I began. It took me my lifetime to reach the akashic and could only comprehend a fraction of it's knowledge.You must reach it again and then start from reading where I left and then must pass that knowledge to your chosen successor who must also reach the root to read it from where you left off and this chain must go on until one day there will be someone who will become the 'All Knowing'."

The darkness in his voice was palpable now, a black tide rising around her, threatening to pull her under. Mercia could feel it wrapping around her, seeping into her mind, clouding her thoughts with promises of glory and control. The allure of it was overwhelming.

But in the back of her mind, a voice—small, but persistent—warned her of the cost.

"What if…" she began, her voice faltering. "What if the others founders are right? What if it really is a bad idea to give one human that much power? What if this power… is too dangerous?"

Slytherin's ghost sneered, his pale eyes narrowing.

"The others," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt, "were cowards. They were afraid of what true power could accomplish. Afraid of what we could have created. I am offering you a gift, Mercia. A chance to rise above the mediocrity of the world you were born into. But if you are too weak to seize it… then you are no better than the fools who followed Gryffindor."

The temperature in the chamber dropped further, the cold biting into her skin, making her breath mist in the air. The oppressive weight of Slytherin's presence bore down on her, filling the room with a dark, malevolent energy. The serpents carved into the walls seemed to twist and writhe in the dim light, their stone eyes glinting with malice.

Mercia's head spun. Her hands felt numb, and her heart thundered in her chest. She had come here seeking answers, but what she had found was far beyond anything she could have imagined. The knowledge Slytherin offered was terrifying—and yet, it was also exhilarating. It promised a power that could reshape the world. But at what cost?

The shadows at the edges of her vision shifted again, the dark, formless shapes moving closer, as if waiting for her decision. The whispers had grown louder, a cacophony of voices urging her onward, telling her to take what was rightfully hers.

Slytherin's ghost leaned closer, his cold breath brushing against her ear.

"Make your choice, child," he whispered. "You stand at the crossroads of history. Choose power, and the world will be yours. Choose fear, and you will be forgotten, lost to the ages like so many before you."

The chamber seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with tension. Mercia's pulse raced as the weight of the decision pressed down on her. She could feel it—this was the moment that would define her future, the moment that would determine whether she rose to greatness or was consumed by the darkness that surrounded her.

For a long moment, she stood frozen, her mind caught in the web of Slytherin's words, torn between the terrifying allure of power and the gnawing fear of what she might unleash.

And then, with a slow, deliberate breath, she made her decision.