Standing before the towering bronze gates, Allen felt the weight of history pressing against his chest. The runes etched into the metal weren't just decorative; they hummed with a low-frequency vibration that set his teeth on edge. Salazar Slytherin's obsession with heritage wasn't just a political stance—it was a magical security system.
"Only those of the blood," Allen whispered, his voice echoing in the vast hall. "A bit redundant, Salazar. Most intruders would have turned back at the spider."
Just as Allen began to pace the length of the door, searching for a seam or a keyhole, the atmosphere shifted. The air, previously stagnant, began to swirl with a thin, black mist. It wasn't smoke; it was a heavy, poisonous vapor that clung to the floor like a living thing.
Then came the sound. Tsk-tsk-tsk.
It was the sound of tiny, rapid footsteps on stone. Allen spun around, his wand illuminating the floor, but the black gas obscured his vision. He knew this scent—musky, ancient, and deadly. It was the calling card of a Basilisk.
In a flash of panic, Allen reached into his storage space and retrieved a small vial containing a single, shimmering unicorn horn. He didn't have time to brew a potion. Using his thumbnail, he scraped a fine dusting of the ivory powder into his palm and swallowed it dry. The bitter, holy magic burned down his throat, providing a temporary shroud of protection against the most potent venoms.
"Where are you?" Allen hissed, squinting through the gloom. The footsteps were circling him now, moving with a speed that didn't match the massive Serpent of Slytherin he had read about in the legends.
A sudden, sharp sting pierced the calf of his leg.
"Dammit!" Allen jumped back, firing a non-verbal Lumos Maxima to flood the floor with light.
There, clinging to the hem of his robes, was the culprit. It wasn't the sixty-foot titan of the Chamber; it was a miniature nightmare. Scarcely eight inches long, the creature looked like a deformed serpent with the mottled, leathery skin of a toad. But the truly bizarre feature was its upper body. It had two distinct, triangular heads, both of which were currently snapping their jaws at him.
It was a Two-Headed Cockatrice, a rare sub-species of the Basilisk lineage that had been thought extinct since the Middle Ages. Its six eyes—three on each head—blinked in the sudden light, reflecting a mixture of predatory instinct and genuine confusion. Usually, its venom would have dropped a man in seconds. Seeing Allen still standing, the creature tilted both its heads in unison, a remarkably human expression of bewilderment.
Allen found himself let out a nervous, breathless laugh. "You're a tiny thing to be so bold, aren't you?"
He knelt down, extending his hand as if offering a treat. The little monster hissed, its dual tongues flickering. It paused, its primitive brain trying to process why this human wasn't screaming in agony. Driven by a hunger that outweighed its confusion, it lunged again, mouths wide.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
The spell hit the creature point-blank. The tiny Basilisk stiffened instantly, falling onto its side like a piece of carved stone. Allen gingerly picked it up, marveling at the iridescent scales.
"You're far too valuable to leave down here for the spiders to eat," Allen murmured. With a flick of his wrist, he transferred the petrified creature into his Pet Space. If the Wizarding world knew a Two-Headed Cockatrice still existed, they'd probably declare this cave a World Heritage site. To Allen, it was just a very grumpy, very rare new roommate.
He applied a bit more unicorn powder to the bite on his leg, watching the puncture wounds knit shut under a quick Episkey. With the immediate danger neutralized, he turned his full attention back to the bronze door.
"Okay, Salazar. I've beaten the spider and kidnapped your pet. How do I get in?"
He tried the basics first. "Alohomora!" The lock didn't even click. He tried a blasting curse, Confringo, which resulted in a deafening bang that left his ears ringing but didn't even leave a soot mark on the bronze. He tried pushing, pulling, and even leaning his shoulder into it, but the door was as immovable as the mountain itself.
"Does it need Parseltongue?" he wondered aloud. He tried to mimic the hissing sounds he'd heard from the Cockatrice, but without the innate gift, it sounded like a leaky steam pipe. The door remained indifferent.
Frustrated and drained, Allen stepped back. Maybe he was looking at the wrong end of the puzzle. He retreated from the hall, walking back into the cavern where the massive Basilisk statue stood.
He sat on a pile of rubble, staring up at the stone serpent. "Why here?" he asked the statue. "If the door is in the hall, why put this giant thing in the spider's den?"
He stood up and began to circle the base of the statue. He climbed onto the tail and worked his way up toward the head. He had looked at this statue a dozen times already, but this time, something was different.
When he had first arrived, the statue's eyes had been solid, rounded stones—blank and blind. Now, they were dark, hollow sockets. It was as if the statue had "waked up" when he engaged with the bronze door.
Allen summoned his broom, the Silver Arrow, and kicked off the ground. He hovered level with the statue's face. Deep within the hollow sockets, a faint, rhythmic red light pulse. It looked like a heartbeat.
As soon as Allen's life force came within a few feet of the eyes, two beams of searing red energy erupted from the sockets.
"Whoa!" Allen flattened himself against the broom handle, performing a barrel roll that would have made a Quidditch seeker proud. The beams hissed past him, striking the far wall of the cave.
Letters began to burn into the rock, glowing with the same malevolent red light:
"PROVE THE PURITY. PLACE YOUR SIGHT WITHIN MINE."
Allen hovered there, sweating. It was a classic Slytherin trap. Or a test. If he was a half-blood or a muggle-born, putting his hands or eyes near that statue would likely result in his immediate incineration. But if the legends were true, the blood of the founders was the only key.
"Fortune favors the bold," Allen whispered. He flew closer and, with a trembling hand, reached out and thrust his fingers into the hollow eye sockets of the statue.
The heat was instantaneous. It felt like sticking his hands into a furnace. He felt a sharp, needle-like prick on the tips of his middle fingers. He didn't pull away. He watched as two drops of his blood were drawn out, vanishing into the stone.
RUMBLE.
A sound like grinding tectonic plates shook the cavern. It was coming from the Great Hall.
The burning sensation vanished as quickly as it had started. Allen pulled his hands back, expecting to see charred stumps, but his skin was perfectly intact. Not even a scratch remained.
"The blood has been accepted," he realized, a surge of triumph washing over him.
He dove toward the passage on his broom, eager to reach the hall, but he slammed into an invisible wall mid-air. He tumbled off his broom, landing hard on the stone floor.
"Ugh... anti-flight charms," he groaned, rubbing his shoulder. Apparently, Salazar expected his guests to walk like civilized wizards.
He stowed the broom and ran back into the Great Hall. The bronze door, which had been a solid, immovable wall just minutes ago, was now swung wide. It didn't lead to a room, but to a long, sloping bridge made of green glass that spanned a misty chasm.
Allen stood at the threshold, his heart racing. The secrets of the Chamber were finally within reach. He took one step onto the glass bridge, his boots clicking softly.
But as he reached the halfway point, the green glass began to glow.