The weight of the green gem in the stone casket felt like a silent heart beating against the air. Allen didn't immediately reach for it. He was a boy who lived by the philosophy that everything—every person, every relic, every ideology—was a shifting kaleidoscope. Salazar's assessment of him was flattering, but Allen knew better than to buy into the hype of a thousand-year-old ghost.
A man who is a hero in the morning can be a murderer by midnight. A wizard who is brilliant in his youth can be a bumbling fool in his dotage, blinded by the very same greed that once fueled his ambition. Character wasn't a static statue; it was a river, and Allen intended to keep flowing.
"This stone," Salazar said, his voice now thin, like wind through dry grass, "it possesses a unique resonance. For the young wizards who stumble into this place and fall victim to my guardians... the gem can mend what is broken. It heals the flesh, yes, but it also mists the mind. It takes their memories of this inner sanctum, leaving them with nothing but a vague sense of a bad dream."
Allen caught the nuance. Salazar wasn't a mindless dark wizard who murdered for sport—that was a fairy tale for the timid. He was an elitist, a man who saw those beneath him as unworthy of even being a footnote in his history.
"A girl died fifty years ago, Professor," Allen said, his voice flat. "A Basilisk doesn't distinguish between a 'mistake' and a kill."
Salazar's phantom shoulders shrugged slightly. "She died in the outer halls. My reach is limited to this core. If the serpent wandered and found a victim who lacked the strength to survive... that is simply the nature of the world. I am not a nursery maid, boy. I am a founder."
The casual cruelty in his tone confirmed Allen's suspicions. Salazar didn't actively seek to kill children, but he didn't exactly lose sleep over it if they weren't 'the right kind' of children. To him, a non-pure-blood life was just a statistic.
"The Basilisk belonged to my heir—or so I thought," Salazar continued, his figure beginning to fray at the edges, the emerald light of the room bleeding through his chest. "But this gem... this belongs to you. It is a key. There are secrets locked within its facets that could tilt the balance of this world. I have spent centuries trying to crack it. Perhaps your generation has the tools I lacked."
He gestured to a stack of parchment beneath the gem. "Take my research. It is a record of my experiments in the breeding of the Great Creatures. It is my gift to the future of Hogwarts. May it be used by someone with the stomach to handle it."
"You're leaving?" Allen asked. He felt a strange tension. For all his arrogance, Salazar was a living bridge to an era of magic that was more raw, more potent than anything taught in the modern classrooms.
"Free," Salazar whispered. For the first time, the permanent scowl on his face vanished. A genuine, almost boyish smile broke across his features. It wasn't the smile of a conqueror; it was the smile of a prisoner who had just seen the gates swing open.
With a soft, shimmering pop, the phantom vanished. High above, the ancient painting—the priceless relic of belemnite ink—lost its magic. The canvas tore, the frame groaned, and it plummeted from the air, shattering into a thousand jagged splinters across the dusty floor. The legend was gone.
Allen didn't waste time. He tucked "Salazar's Gem" into his storage space, feeling the blue Merlin's Gem in his other pocket hum in a sympathetic vibration. Then, he picked up the manuscript.
He flipped through a few pages and nearly choked. It wasn't just a book on magical creatures; it was a manual for biological warfare. Salazar and Hagrid might have shared a love for monsters, but while Hagrid saw them as misunderstood pets, Salazar saw them as engineered apex predators. The notes on breeding Basilisks were detailed enough to make a Dark Lord blush.
If the Ministry saw this, they'd burn the school down just to be safe, Allen thought. He slid the parchment into his system storage, his mind already racing with how to adapt these techniques to his own magic.
A low, tectonic rumble interrupted his thoughts. At the base of the spiraling stairs, the wall began to grind open. A massive circular hatch, resembling the iris of a giant eye, spiraled outward, revealing a dark, slime-coated tunnel.
"The back door," Allen muttered.
He knew exactly where this led. This was the passage the Basilisk used to enter the public Chamber of Secrets—the one Tom Riddle had claimed as his own.
Allen descended the stairs with a predatory grace. He didn't run; he moved like a man stepping onto a stage for the final act. As he emerged from the tunnel into the main chamber, the scene was exactly as he'd envisioned.
Harry was on his knees, looking pale and broken. Ginny lay like a discarded doll on the cold floor, her life force being drained by the minute. And standing over them was the handsome, arrogant specter of a sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle.
Riddle was mid-triumph, his mouth open to deliver some final, biting insult, when he saw Allen. His expression did a spectacular 180-degree turn from smugness to pure, unadulterated shock.
"Who are you?" Riddle hissed, his eyes darting to the opening Allen had just stepped through. "The Basilisk... where is my servant? How did you come from the Inner Sanctum? That's... that's the Founder's Legacy!"
Jealousy burned in Riddle's eyes like a physical flame. He saw the confidence in Allen's stride, the lack of fear, and he realized instantly that this boy hadn't just survived—he had conquered.
"I don't think he's coming, Tom," Allen said, his voice echoing off the high stone ceilings. "He's a bit... indisposed. Permanently."
Riddle's face contorted. He raised Harry's stolen wand, the tip glowing with the sickly green of a Killing Curse. "I don't care who you are. No one takes what is mine!"
"Expelliarmus!" Allen barked.
"Avada Kedavra!" Riddle screamed.
The spells didn't even have time to clash. Allen was faster—inhumanly so. He didn't just cast; he anticipated. His Disarming Charm caught Riddle's wrist before the dark wizard could even finish the incantation. The stolen wand flew through the air, clattering uselessly against the stone.
Allen didn't stop. He didn't give Riddle a chance to recover or tap into the fading strength he was stealing from Ginny. While Riddle was still stumbling back, Allen reached into his storage and pulled out a jagged, black tooth—the Basilisk's fang he had harvested from the beast's skull moments ago.
He dived toward the diary lying near the statue's foot.
"NO!" Riddle shrieked, his form flickering like a dying candle.
Allen slammed the fang down. The sharp, venom-soaked point pierced the leather cover of the diary as if it were wet paper.
A sound erupted that wasn't human. It was the sound of a soul being torn in half. Ink didn't just leak; it geysered out, thick and black and smelling of rot. It coated Allen's hands, hot and viscous.
Riddle went into convulsions. He clawed at the air, his body turning transparent, then opaque, then shattering into a million points of light that burned out before they hit the ground. Silence reclaimed the chamber.
A small, weak groan broke the quiet. Ginny Weasley stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She looked around, the fog of possession finally lifting, and saw Harry and Allen. Then, she saw the diary in Allen's hand, dripping with black ichor.
The dams broke. She began to sob, a jagged, hysterical sound that echoed painfully. "Harry... Allen... I'm so sorry. I tried to tell you... at breakfast... but Riddle, he wouldn't let me. He made me do it. The roosters... the writing... it was me, but it wasn't me!"
"It's over, Ginny," Harry said, his voice shaking as he crawled toward her. He looked up at Allen with a mixture of awe and terror. "Allen... you did it. You actually did it."
Allen stood up, wiping the ink from his hands with a handkerchief he'd pulled from his pocket. He held up the ruined diary. "Riddle is gone. The serpent is dead. The nightmare is over."
"I'll be expelled," Ginny wailed, her face buried in her hands. "Bill will hate me... Mum and Dad... they'll be so ashamed. I brought a monster into the school!"
Allen knelt beside her, his voice softening into that gentle, reassuring tone that had earned him the trust of half the student body. "No one is going to expel you, Ginny. You didn't bring a monster; you were attacked by one. Dumbledore knows the difference between a criminal and a victim. You've been through more than most adult wizards could handle. They won't criticize you; they'll be grateful you're alive."
Fawkes, the phoenix, let out a low, musical note from the entrance of the tunnel, the sound acting like a balm on their frayed nerves.
"Come on," Allen said, helping Ginny to her feet. "Let's get out of this hole. I think we've all had enough of Salazar Slytherin for one lifetime."
As they walked back through the dark tunnels, past the massive, unmoving coil of the Basilisk's body, Allen heard the heavy stone doors of the inner sanctum slide shut. He felt the weight of the two gems in his possession. He had the legacy of Merlin and the research of Slytherin.
The game had just changed, and Allen was the only one who knew the new rules.