Chapter 28: The Companionship of Shadows

Myrtle drifted down, her pale form lowering like a feather caught in still air. When she turned toward them, both Harry and Hermione stilled.

She had changed.

Her shoulders, once hunched with perpetual shame, seemed straighter now. The timid flicker in her eyes had steadied into something sure. Her glow no longer trembled like a candle about to gutter out — it was constant, radiant. And her mouth, so often twisted in complaint, curved with something almost unrecognizable.

Happiness.

Harry felt his chest tighten. All the years she had been a symbol of loss, of tragedy… and now she looked nothing like a ghost chained to her death. She looked like a girl who had crossed a bridge she never thought she could.

And Hermione whispered, with a kind of reverence, “She looks free.”

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Harry’s voice was cautious, almost tender.
“How are you feeling, Myrtle?”

When she spoke, they both heard the difference. Gone was the meek, whimpering ghost who once hovered on the verge of tears at every word. In her place floated a confident, almost carefree figure — radiant, steady, and strangely alive despite her translucent form.

“I feel… fine,” she said, then laughed — light, incredulous. “No, more than fine. I feel… whole.”

Thessareth shifted, coiling slowly until her massive head lowered just above Myrtle’s own. The serpent’s scales caught the dim light like wet stone, her breath a soft rasp against the air. Positioned there, looming and protective, she made the ghost look less like a lonely schoolgirl and more like a figure crowned by legend.

Hermione lowered her wand, her eyes wide. “Myrtle, you… you sound so different. You sound great.”

Myrtle turned, her pale face lit with something dangerously close to joy. “Perhaps this is myself. The girl I might have been — if I’d ever been more than a joke.”

Harry’s chest tightened. “You were never just a joke,” he said firmly. 

A low, vibrating hiss pulsed from Thessareth, rolling like distant thunder through the Chamber. It wasn’t hostile—but it carried the meaning nonetheless. The air seemed to thrum with it, the stone itself held its breath.

“I see her,” the serpent’s voice resonated, not as sound alone but as presence—thick, old as earth. Harry felt the meaning unravel inside his mind, the way Parseltongue always did.

“She is mine. And I am hers.”

Myrtle glanced up at Thessareth, her glow brightening as if she understood without needing translation. She smiled faintly. “And I see you, Thessareth.”

For a moment, silence reigned again, broken only by the faint trickle of water in the Chamber’s pipes. Then the serpent shifted, coils loosening, and turned toward the looming statue of Salazar Slytherin. At its base, stone parted — the hidden opening that led deeper into the dark.

Thessareth began to move, her vast body sliding with reverent weight, guiding Myrtle forward. Her gaze flicked back only once—to Harry and Hermione.

They followed, their steps cautious but unyielding. When they reached the edge of the opening, Thessareth suddenly coiled again, blocking the descent. Her head lowered, fangs glinting faintly in the dim.

Harry raised his hands slowly.

But Myrtle, who was hovering between the serpent and the students, turned. Her voice was softer now but steady as stone.
“Please,” she said. “Allow them to come with us. They’re my friends.”

The basilisk’s tongue flicked once, tasting the air. Silence stretched, deep and unnerving. Then—slowly—Thessareth withdrew, her coils sliding aside. 

Without another sound, the serpent vanished into the darkness of the tunnel, her massive body carrying Myrtle like a torch through shadow.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look—half awe, half fear. Then, wordlessly, they followed.

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The passage behind the statue narrowed, curving downward into a chamber that was warmer than the rest of the tunnels. The air shifted—less damp stone, more earth, and something older, a faint trace of incense that no torch had burned in centuries. Harry and Hermione followed carefully, their wandlight producing long shadows over the serpent’s coils as Thessareth moved ahead, her body filling most of the path.

The tunnel opened suddenly into a vast hollow—Thessareth’s nest. Bones, old but clean, lay arranged carefully in one corner, not in the chaos of feeding, but like remnants of ritual. The floor bore faint grooves where her massive coils had pressed into stone over centuries. But what drew their eyes was the far wall.

There, half-hidden by serpentine carvings, stood a door. Not grand in any way. Not too obvious. It was nearly human-sized and adorned with green stone and silver inlays that had become tarnished over time.

Thessareth lowered her massive head toward the small, veined door. Her tongue flicked against the stone, a sound that thrummed like memory.

Harry heard the hiss shift—thick, layered with something far older than words. It curled into his skull, heavy and reverent:
“That was his room. My father’s.”

Hermione stepped forward, brow furrowed. “What’s she saying?” she whispered quickly, glancing at Harry.

Harry’s throat tightened. “She says… this was Salazar’s room. Where he spent his time, where he—” He hesitated, watching the basilisk’s great coils tremble. “Where he raised her.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Raised her? You mean… like a—like a child?”

Thessareth’s coils shifted, her massive body settling protectively before the door.
“He would come when the others did not understand. Here, he read. He dreamed. He spoke to me. At night, when I was small, I curled up with him on the bed inside. His hand on my back. His voice echoed in my ears. Here, I was not a pet. I was a child.”

Her large head tilted, and her tongue flicked against the door as if to taste a memory.
“But now… I am too large to pass within. I guard it still. The Evil-Eye one never found this place. He searched, but he did not smell it. I did not allow him to desecrate my father’s sanctuary.”

Harry swallowed hard, then repeated it, his voice almost breaking as he spoke the words aloud.

Myrtle lifted her hand to her mouth, stunned. “Merlin’s beard…” she breathed. “All this time, she wasn’t just guarding a chamber. She was guarding him. His memory.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance. This wasn’t just a serpent’s nest. It was a reliquary — a fragment of Salazar himself, preserved in secret by the creature everyone thought was only a monster.

Behind them, Myrtle hovered close to Thessareth’s head, her glow soft and steady. “Can we… see it?” she asked, her voice gentler than they had ever heard it.

The serpent’s enormous eye turned, veil-thin lids half-drawn. The Chamber seemed to tighten around them, holding its breath. For a long moment, Thessareth’s coils shifted, muscles tense, her head angled toward the hidden door as though waging a battle inside herself.

That place mattered to her — that much was clear. Its scent still clung to her memory, its stones still carried the warmth of the man who had once sat within. And for all her newfound freedom, Thessareth was still Salazar’s child.

Finally, with a sound like stone releasing a sigh, she spoke.
“You may go. But do not disturb what rests within.”

It wasn’t a threat so much as a law. A command written in scales and centuries. They all knew better than to test it.

Harry swallowed and nodded. The prospect of stepping into Salazar Slytherin’s innermost chamber was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. His palm was clammy on his wand, but he forced his hand steady as he approached the door.

Hermione followed close at his side, her face alive with tension and curiosity in equal measure. Myrtle, pale and luminous, hovered just behind them, her expression caught between awe and wonder—as though she herself had been granted entry into something no ghost should ever see.

The door loomed before them, its wood heavy with dust, iron hinges crusted with green corrosion. Harry reached for the handle, heart hammering. He half-expected it to shock him, to repel him, to remind him he had no right.

But it turned.

The ancient handle twisted under his fingers, stiff but obedient. With a groan that sounded almost like a protest, the door creaked inward, releasing a breath of stale air that smelled of parchment, stone, and a faint trace of ash.

Darkness lay beyond. Not the empty kind, but thick, purposeful, waiting.

Harry glanced back at Hermione, then at Myrtle, and finally at Thessareth, whose golden-veiled eyes stayed fixed on the threshold. The serpent didn’t move — but her silence was permission enough.

He lifted his wand.
“Lumos.”

And the sanctum of Salazar Slytherin opened before them.

And Harry knew: they were about to step not just into Salazar’s room, but into the last unbroken memory of what he had truly been.

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They carefully looked into the chamber beyond the basilisk’s coils. Dust stirred at their feet, rising in lazy motes that caught the light of Hermione’s wand.

Harry didn’t know what he’d expected. Some gilded vault of serpents, perhaps — a room that screamed of wealth and power the way the Malfoys’ manor did. But this… this was not that.

The room was the size of two of Dudley’s bedrooms at Privet Drive, maybe three at most. A double bed stood against one wall, its coverlet moth-eaten but intact, the embroidered edges barely clinging to their patterns. Beside it, a modest bookcase sagged under the weight of leather-bound volumes whose spines had all surrendered to the same shade of dust-brown. The scent of old vellum and dried ink clung faintly to the air, as though the books themselves had been waiting for a hand to turn their pages again.

On the wall, half-cast in shadow, hung a portrait—Salazar Slytherin himself. But unlike the fierce, sharp-eyed likenesses that filled Hogwarts’ myths, this figure was asleep. His head bowed, hair loose around his shoulders, robes softened by time. There was no glare, no menace. Just weariness. A man at rest.

Near the far corner, a sturdy and unpretentious desk sat, its surface scarred by quills and years of work. Ink stains blotched the wood like constellations, and a single high-backed chair remained tucked neatly beneath, as though its occupant had simply stepped out for a moment and intended to return. A simple lantern, long extinguished, rested on its side.

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“This is it?” he whispered. “This is Salazar Slytherin’s sanctum?”

Hermione stepped closer, her wandlight sweeping across the room. Her voice softened with wonder.


“It’s… ordinary,” she said.

Myrtle hovered forward, her glow brushing the edges of the bedframe. “It looks… lonely,” she murmured.

Harry’s throat tightened. He thought of Voldemort, of the snake-like grandeur the Dark Lord would have demanded in his chamber—obsidian walls, trophies of conquest, and spells carved in gold. And yet here was Salazar: a bed, a desk, a bookcase, and a portrait too tired to even keep watch.

Another myth fractured. Another truth revealed.
Salazar Slytherin was not the tyrant the world painted. He was a man. A brilliant, frightened, lonely man who had built a room not for glory, but for retreat.

And Harry found himself thinking—not for the first time—how easily Voldemort would have hated this place, if only he had known it.

For a moment, he almost pitied Slytherin. He had left behind not a vault of treasures, but a bedroom—private, unassuming, and now swallowed by centuries of dust.

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The moment Harry’s foot crossed the threshold, the floor pulsed beneath him. A ripple of ancient magic surged outward, rattling the dust from the shelves. It wasn’t violent — but it was heavy.

From the portrait on the wall, the man stirred. His head lifted slowly, eyes sharp even though painted, and when he spoke his voice carried like stone splitting under pressure — deep, resonant, old as the Chamber itself.

“Who is here?”

Harry froze. Hermione’s breath caught sharply beside him. This was not what they had expected when they opened the door. Not dust and silence, but a voice. A founder.

Before Harry could find words, Hermione blurted, “It’s us!” Her tone was so bright and urgent that Harry had to glance sideways just to confirm it was her speaking — not an overexcited first-year who thought Christmas and her birthday had arrived at once.

The painted figure leaned forward, frowning. “I cannot see clearly from here. Step closer.”

Cautiously, they did. The glow of Hermione’s wand stretched across the modest room, spilling over the bed and desk until it reached the portrait. And as Salazar Slytherin’s painted gaze fell on them, his brow arched high in surprise.

“A boy, a girl… and a ghost,” he murmured. Shock rippled across his stern features before settling into curiosity. “My sanctum breached after all these years. This should be interesting.”

Harry tried to speak, but his mouth went dry. Beside him, Hermione’s lips parted, but no sound came out. The reality of it — standing before Salazar Slytherin himself, even in pigment and canvas — was almost too large to process.

“Well?” the portrait barked suddenly, voice snapping like a whip. “Has a cat stolen your tongues? Speak up, children.”

Harry swallowed hard. “My name is Harry Potter. This is Hermione Granger. And that—” he gestured toward Myrtle, who hovered nervously at the back—“is“Myrtle.”

Salazar studied each of them, his painted eyes narrowing, then softening. “If you are here, then Thessareth must have allowed it. And she does not suffer fools. Very well — I will grant you the benefit of the doubt. But…” His voice sharpened again. “What puzzles me is your auras.”

Harry blinked. “Our… auras?”

Salazar leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Both of you. White on one side, black on the other. Partitioned. I have never seen such an imbalance. Normally, the colors blend—as all souls are mixed. But you…” He shook his head slowly. “Your auras are at war, barely contained by your bodies.”

Hermione, curiosity overcoming her nerves, stepped forward. “You… can see auras?”

The founder’s painted lip curled in disdain. “What a stupid question, girl. Any twelve-year-old with proper training can see them.” He jabbed a finger toward her from the portrait. "The more important question is why you have not yet taken action to stabilize your magic. Left unchecked, your magic will eat you alive.”

Harry’s stomach flipped. This was easily the strangest conversation he had ever been part of—and he’d spoken to centaurs, and they only speak in planet-name divination.

“My teacher,” he corrected himself hastily as Salazar’s painted eyes narrowed at the word “lord.” “Only the most powerful witches and wizards I’ve ever heard of can see auras. And even then, it isn’t taught. People are just… born with it.”

Salazar scowled, confusion shadowing his sharp face. “Nonsense. Of course, it can be taught. How else are you meant to distinguish between allies and enemies? What has become of my school?” His voice grew heavier, weighted with anger and grief.

Neither Harry nor Hermione could answer. The silence that followed was thick, like the dust that is filled in this room after centuries.

At last, the founder’s portrait straightened, his voice ringing with finality. “Then I will teach you. Both of you. Every day, you will return here until you can see and temper your auras. You are walking disasters waiting to happen otherwise.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command.

And Harry and Hermione, still trembling beneath the painted founder’s gaze, nodded.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As they made there way outside the room

Harry turned, his gaze falling on Myrtle, who still hovered just inside the doorway. She looked as though she didn’t want to disturb the air, as though stepping too far in might break the fragile spell of remembrance that clung to this room.

Harry turned, his gaze falling on Myrtle. The words pressed against his throat, heavy, wrong, and yet needing to be spoken. He opened his mouth, closed it again. For a moment he only swallowed, jaw tight, as if dragging the thought out of the shadows would make it real.

At last, his voice scraped out, rougher than he intended.

“Myrtle… I need to ask you something. A favor.”

Her pale form tilted, eyes wide. “A favor?”

“Yes.” Harry’s chest tightened. He forced himself to hold her gaze. “If I ever become… a threat. To Hogwarts. If something twists me, or uses me, the way Voldemort twisted her—” he glanced toward Thessareth’s coils outside, “—I need you to promise me. Promise you’d kill me before I could hurt a student. Or a professor. Anyone.”

The words hung in the dusty air, heavier than the years pressed into the stone.

Myrtle’s mouth opened, then closed. Her glow wavered. For once, there was no trace of her old whine, no hint of childish complaint. Only the stunned silence of a girl—and a ghost—being asked to carry a burden no one had ever trusted her with before.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Myrtle’s glow flickered like a lantern in a draft. She stared at him as though he had asked her to move mountains.

“Kill you?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Me?”

Harry nodded, firm even as his chest ached. “You’re the only one I trust with it. You’ve been where I haven’t. You know what it’s like to be powerless, to be… caught in the crossfire. You’d know when I’d stopped being myself. And you wouldn’t let me hurt anyone.”

For a long moment Myrtle said nothing. Her hands twisted together in front of her, her ghost-light dimming, brightening, dimming again. Then she floated closer, her expression different than he had ever seen — not weepy, not self-pitying, but steady.

“Harry,” she said softly. “All my life, and even in death, people laughed at me. They mocked me. They pushed me aside. No one ever… trusted me. Not with anything.” Her eyes glistened. “And now you ask me to carry this? To end you if you fall?”

Harry swallowed, but nodded again.

Myrtle straightened, her glow steadying into something brighter than it had ever been. “Then I swear it. On my name. On my death. If you ever become a danger to Hogwarts, I will do what must be done. Because you asked me. Because you trusted me.”

For the first time, Myrtle didn’t look like Moaning Myrtle. She looked like a guardian.

And in that dim, dust-filled sanctum of Salazar Slytherin, Harry felt that perhaps he had not asked in vain.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione’s breath caught.

She had known—ever since the images in the Death Chamber had shown them shadows of what Harry could become—that it had unsettled him. She had seen the weight in his eyes, the quiet tremor in his silence. But she hadn’t realized the extent.

Hearing him say it aloud—if I ever become a threat, promise me you’ll kill me—struck her like a blow. For a moment, she simply stared, her mind spinning between disbelief and a deep, aching understanding.

Her throat tightened. The words leapt to her lips—Don’t say that. It’ll never happen. For half a heartbeat she wanted to smother the thought, to shield him from it, from himself. But when she saw the steadiness in his eyes, she swallowed the protest. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted truth, even if it cut.

So she did the only thing she could.

She reached for his hand…

Her fingers curled around his—warm, steady, and grounding. It wasn’t much. But it was everything she could offer: her presence, her strength, and her silent promise that he wasn’t alone in this fear. That she would carry it with him.

Hermione held on, her eyes soft with shock, sorrow, and fierce loyalty all at once. And in the stillness of the Chamber, her grip said the words she couldn’t: I’m here. Always

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