So the reason I was not uploading for 2 days.
I was not fell well and got some crazy bad luck...Like in these 2 days.
I had a breakup, I lost 10 bucks somewhere :(, got some crazy fever and failed in my exam!!
That's all
;)
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As I said before at every 10 membership I will drop bonus chapter. It does not matter if it is free or not.
Once again thankyou all and those who are supporting me on patreon.
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Only few slots are left...sorry forget to tell you that in previous chapter....Hahaha
And In this you will get all the chapter of all my fanfics.
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The voice was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a silence that felt heavy and profound, like the pressure of deep water. The air in the corridor, which had been filled with the gentle, calming aura of Luna's presence, was now charged with the ghost of a primal hunger. Kaelen's mind, which had been a quiet, still lake, was now a maelstrom of high-speed analysis.
He catalogued the phenomenon with the immediate, detached precision of a master potioneer identifying a rare ingredient. It was not an auditory event; the sound had not entered his ears but had manifested directly within his consciousness. It was not a ghost; the energy signature was biological, ancient, and reptilian. It was not a passive echo of the past, but an active, predatory presence, its intent communicated with a chilling, monosyllabic clarity: Kill.
He had felt it. Luna had not. This was the first, most crucial data point. The phenomenon was selective.
"Kaelen?" Luna's dreamy voice pulled him from his analysis. She was tilting her head, her large, silvery eyes studying him with a serene curiosity. "You've gone quite pale. Did the Plimpies say something rude?"
Kaelen turned to her, the analytical storm in his mind instantly concealed behind his now-perfected mask: the calm, gentle smile he reserved only for her. The shift was absolute, a testament to his terrifying self-control. "No, Luna," he said, his voice soft. "The stones are just singing a more interesting song than I anticipated." He pushed himself off the wall. "I believe I have some research to attend to. It was a pleasure speaking with you."
"You too," she replied, smiling, before turning her attention back to the window, her mind once again on the invisible creatures of the castle. She was his sanctuary, but even a sanctuary could not be allowed to see the workings of the god it sheltered.
He walked away, not towards the library, but back to the Slytherin dungeons. His mind was a flurry of new directives. The game had changed. Lockhart's incompetence, the trio's blundering, even his own burgeoning empire—they were all secondary concerns now. A new piece, a major piece, had just appeared on the board. A monster. And he, for some reason, was the only one who could hear it.
That night, the Slytherin common room was a tomb of quiet study. The emerald fire cast long, dancing shadows on the stone walls, reflecting in the black, glassy surface of the lake outside the windows. Kaelen sat in his usual throne-like armchair, a heavy tome open on his lap. He had summoned Nott and Daphne an hour earlier. They sat opposite him, silent and expectant. They had learned that when he was this still, this quiet, the gears of a truly terrifying plan were turning.
Finally, he closed the book with a soft, definitive thud. The sound was like a gavel falling, calling the court to session.
"There is a creature at large within the castle walls," he began, his voice a low, precise murmur. He proceeded to spoon-feed them the situation, walking them through the cold, hard logic of his analysis, ensuring they, and the reader, understood the full, terrifying scope of his mind. "I encountered a unique magical phenomenon this afternoon. A disembodied voice, speaking with predatory intent. My initial analysis has ruled out ghosts, poltergeists, and standard magical echoes. The energy signature was biological and ancient. Furthermore, it was a selective phenomenon. I perceived it. Miss Lovegood, who was present with me, did not."
Nott leaned forward, his eyes alight with a feverish, academic glow. "A targeted psychic broadcast? Or a language only you can comprehend?"
"Both are viable hypotheses," Kaelen confirmed, giving Nott a slight, approving nod. "The words spoken were simple: 'Rip… Tear… Kill.' This suggests a being of low, primal intelligence, but high magical power. The voice itself felt… serpentine." He let that last word hang in the air, a baited hook.
Daphne's eyes, which had been coolly appraising, narrowed with a sudden, dawning comprehension. "Serpentine," she repeated, her voice a soft whisper. "The Chamber of Secrets. The legend is that Salazar Slytherin sealed a monster in the castle, a beast to purge the unworthy."
"A legend I had previously dismissed as a fairy tale to frighten first-years," Kaelen said, his smile acquiring a sharp, predatory edge. "However, in light of this new data, the legend requires re-examination. A secret chamber. A monster. A serpentine connection." He steepled his fingers, his gaze intense. "This is our new primary objective. We will identify this creature, locate its lair, and determine the nature of its control mechanism."
He felt a surge of genuine, exhilarating purpose. The goosebumps he felt were not of fear, but of ambition. This was a far greater prize than the Philosopher's Stone. This was a living weapon, a legacy of Slytherin himself. And it was speaking to him.
"Our roles are clear," he continued, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Theodore, your work on soul magic continues, but I am adding a new directive. I want every text you can find on magical beasts with petrification abilities, and any architectural plans or journals relating to the castle's original construction. Focus on the plumbing. The voice was moving within the walls."
Nott nodded, already scribbling notes on a piece of parchment with a self-inking quill. He was no longer a reluctant ally; he was a fervent acolyte.
"Daphne," Kaelen turned to her. "Your task is more delicate. The legend is pure-blood lore. I want you to access your family's private library this Christmas. Search for any mention of Salazar's 'noble serpent' or the Chamber. I need to know the original story, uncorrupted by a thousand years of schoolboy gossip. You will also use your social connections to listen. An ancient monster does not awaken by accident. Someone has opened the Chamber. I want to know who."
Daphne's expression was serious, her mind already navigating the intricate web of pure-blood politics and family secrets. "It will be done."
"My role," Kaelen concluded, "will be to analyze the voice itself. I need to understand the language."
The next afternoon found him in the library, not in the shadows of the Restricted Section, but sitting at a large, sunlit table in the main reading room. He was surrounded by a precarious stack of books: A Compendium of Common Magical Tongues, Beasts of the British Isles, Hogwarts: A History. It was the perfect cover for his true purpose.
He saw her enter, a whirlwind of bushy brown hair and organized purpose. Hermione Granger. His project. She was scanning the shelves, her brow furrowed in concentration, likely searching for a book to counter some new absurdity from Lockhart's latest lesson.
Kaelen waited until she was within earshot, then spoke, his voice pitched at a perfect, conversational volume, as if he were musing to himself. "Fascinating. The entry on the Runespoor is entirely inadequate. It lists their language as a crude form of hissing, but fails to differentiate between the dialects of the three heads."
It was the perfect bait. An obscure fact, a criticism of a textbook, and a subtle intellectual challenge.
As he had predicted, Hermione stopped dead. Her internal programming, the insatiable need to know and to correct, overrode her social caution. She walked over to his table, her expression a mixture of annoyance and undeniable curiosity.
"The dialects aren't covered in the standard edition of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them," she said, her tone automatically instructive. "You'd need a more advanced text, like Malecrit's Monograph on Serpentine Magical Species, to find a proper analysis. He argues that the left head is the planner, the middle is the dreamer, and the right is the critic. Their language is a complex interplay of those three distinct philosophical states."
She had, of course, read it.
Kaelen looked up from his book, his smile polite and faintly teasing. "Ah, Granger. Of course, you would know. I was merely noting the… pedagogical gap in the standard curriculum. A pity, really. To oversimplify such a complex creature." He gestured to the chair opposite him. "Since you are here, perhaps you could settle a small academic debate I was having with myself. I've found references to a language known as Parseltongue, the ability to speak with snakes. But every text I find treats it as a historical curiosity, a dead language tied to a few obscure dark wizards. Have you ever found any reference to it being a living, inheritable trait?"
He was watching her carefully, analyzing her every reaction. The question was a scalpel, designed to probe her knowledge without revealing his own intent. He was using her magnificent, rule-bound mind as his own personal search engine.
Hermione frowned, her mind instantly shifting from a state of rivalry to one of academic problem-solving. "Inheritable? That's an interesting question. The historical accounts, like the ones about Salazar Slytherin, imply it was a bloodline trait. But there's no modern precedent. Most magical linguists believe the ability died with the last of the direct Gaunt line." She tapped a finger on her chin, a gesture of deep thought. "Why are you so interested in snakes, anyway?"
"They are a symbol of my house," Kaelen replied smoothly, his smile never wavering. "It seems a matter of due diligence to understand the creature whose skin I wear. Don't you agree?"
Before she could answer, he gave her a small, dismissive nod. "Thank you for the insight, Granger. Your knowledge is, as always, impressively thorough, if a bit… textbook-bound." He returned his gaze to his book, the conversation over.
He had everything he needed. She had confirmed the language was tied directly to Salazar Slytherin and a specific bloodline. The voice was not a psychic broadcast. It was a real, spoken language. And he was the only one in the castle who could understand it.
The implications of that fact were staggering. The power it represented was absolute.
He sat there, the sounds of the library fading into a low hum. The goosebumps that rose on his arms were not from the dungeon chill. They were from the cold, thrilling touch of destiny.
He was the heir. Not of some forgotten pure-blood name, but of 'Salazar Slytherin'
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