The Slytherin common room was quiet after curfew.
The green flames burned lower now, casting shadows along the stone floor. Most students had retreated to their dormitories, leaving behind only the crackle of dying fire and the occasional whisper of water lapping against the glass behind the walls. The Black Lake pressed in, always watching.
Harry sat alone, pretending to reread his Potions notes.
He wasn't. Not really.
Something had been gnawing at him ever since class — the way Snape had spoken to him, the way Draco had gone silent during dinner, the way Theodore watched people like a puzzle that never finished itself.
This place had rules, and he hadn't learned all of them yet.
And if he was going to survive Slytherin — no, own it — then he needed more than talent.
He needed knowledge.
Behind the Fireplace – A Forgotten Room
He found the door by accident.
It was hidden behind one of the oldest bookshelves near the fireplace — one that sagged slightly to the right. He'd been tracing the spines of dusty volumes when his hand pressed against a panel that clicked.
A soft groan of stone.
A crack in the wall widened, just enough for a body to slip through.
Harry hesitated.
Then stepped in.
The Hidden Study
The room beyond was small — no more than ten feet square. Dust choked the air. Shelves lined three walls, and in the center sat a desk, half-rotted, with ink stains shaped like maps of forgotten countries.
Books lay in disarray — some eaten at the edges, others still wrapped in leather bands.
But one sat open.
Waiting.
Its pages weren't printed. They were written, hastily, in dark green ink that shimmered strangely under torchlight.
The title, scribbled into the inside cover:
For Those Who Know Where Power Begins.
There was no author.
Harry turned the page.
Magic is not a gift. It is a weapon.What they call Dark is simply untaught.
Learn to unlearn. Learn to destroy gently.
Lesson One: Language That Binds.
Latin is not the root. It is the leash.Strip it. Rebuild it. Break the sound. Bend the will.*
Harry blinked.
The page rippled. Like ink in water.
A Voice
"Interesting choice of reading."
Harry turned sharply.
Theodore Nott stood in the doorway, arms crossed. No torch in hand. No footsteps.
"How long have you been there?" Harry asked.
"Long enough to know you opened the room," Theodore said. "Most don't find it until third year. At best."
"You knew about it?"
"Of course. My father used to talk about it. Said the real education in Slytherin isn't in class."
He stepped in, eyes falling on the book.
"That one's dangerous," he said. "You should be careful."
"It's just words," Harry muttered.
Theodore smiled faintly. "So are spells. So are lies."
He turned to leave.
"You coming, or are you going to sleep with the ghosts?"
Harry looked down at the book one last time… then gently closed it and tucked it under his arm.
"Let's go," he said.
That Night – In His Bed
Harry placed the book inside his trunk, beneath a layer of robes.
He didn't cast a locking spell. He didn't need to. No one else even knew he had it.
But long after the dungeon lights faded, he lay awake — hearing a sentence from the book repeat itself in his mind:
Magic is not a gift. It is a weapon.
He didn't know who wrote it.
But he wasn't sure they were wrong.