Echo lay on the bed in the Room of Requirement, the journal still clutched tightly to his chest. The chaotic storm of reds and blacks in his hair had faded to a dull, despairing grey, mirroring the emptiness in his soul. He had no tears left to cry, only a hollow ache where trust and admiration used to reside. Dumbledore, his mentor, his protector, the man he had looked up to, was a cold, calculating puppeteer. The realization was a poison in his veins. He needed to do something. He couldn't keep this journal, not here. Dumbledore would know. He would know, and then what? More manipulations, more experiments? The thought made him gag.
"Pip!" he croaked, his voice raw from disuse. "Pip, are you here?"
A faint pop and a shimmering figure materialized at the foot of the bed. Pip, no longer in his patched pillowcase, stood proudly in a perfectly tailored, miniature suit of deep emerald green, complete with tiny golden buttons and a crisp white shirt. The fabric shimmered with a subtle magic, designed to be both comfortable and dignified. His ears, still large, were perked, and his eyes, though a little worried, held a newfound confidence.
"Echo called?" Pip squeaked, his voice still small but firm. He looked around the opulent, yet currently messy, Room of Requirement, his nose wrinkling slightly at the discarded, crumpled robes and the general air of distress.
Echo stared at Pip's new clothes, a flicker of something akin to pride cutting through his despair. "Pip, you look… magnificent," he managed, a weak smile touching his lips. His grey hair softened to a gentle, albeit still worried, blue.
Pip beamed, preening slightly. "Echo's generosity is boundless! This suit is so soft, and Pip feels so… so important!"
The brief moment of warmth dissipated as the reality of the situation crashed back down. Echo sat up, swinging his legs off the bed, the journal still in his grasp. "Pip, I need your help. A very important, very secret task."
Pip's ears twitched with immediate readiness. "Pip is at Echo's service! Command Pip, E-Echo!"
Echo held out the heavy journal, his hand trembling. "This book… it belongs to Dumbledore. I found it in a hidden compartment in his desk. I need you to put it back. When you're sure he's gone from his office, when it's safe. Make sure it's exactly where you found it. He mustn't know I saw it. He mustn't know it was ever moved."
Pip's large eyes grew serious as he took the book, his tiny hands surprisingly strong as he cradled its weight. He seemed to sense the gravity of the request, the underlying fear in Echo's voice. "Pip understands, E-Echo. Pip will be very careful. No one will know."
"And one more thing, Pip," Echo added, a new thought forming in his mind, desperate for any shred of clarity. "The Sorting Hat. It was in Dumbledore's office. Bring it to me. I need to… ask it some questions."
Pip nodded, a determined expression on his face. "Pip will retrieve the Sorting Hat, E-Echo. Pip will return as swiftly as Pip can." With another soft pop, he vanished, leaving Echo alone again, the silence of the Room of Requirement pressing in on him.
Hours later, the sun had long since set, casting the hidden room in a deep, melancholic twilight. Echo had spent the time pacing, the turbulent colors of his hair reflecting the relentless storm within. Just as despair threatened to consume him entirely, a faint pop heralded Pip's return.
Pip materialized, looking a little rumpled, but triumphantly clutching the tattered, patched Sorting Hat in his small hands. "Pip is returned, E-Echo!" he announced, a note of pride in his voice. "The book is replaced, exactly as Echo commanded. And Pip has brought the Talking Hat!"
Echo's blue hair brightened with a flicker of desperate hope. He quickly took the Hat from Pip, placing it reverently on a conjured wooden table in the center of the room. He stared at its wrinkled, leathery face, a thousand questions warring in his mind.
"Thank you, Pip," he said, his voice a little steadier. "You did well."
Pip beamed, pleased. "Pip always tries his best for E-Echo!"
"Now, Pip," Echo continued, "could you… Give us some privacy? This is a private conversation."
Pip nodded, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes, but he vanished with another quiet pop, leaving Echo and the Sorting Hat alone.
Echo took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Sorting Hat," he began, his voice low, "you sit in Dumbledore's office. You hear things. You see things. You know things."
The Hat shifted slightly on the table, its tattered brim rising as if in acknowledgment. "Indeed, young Echo. I am a repository of wisdom, an ancient sentinel of Hogwarts's secrets. And I have observed much, over many, many years."
"Then you know about Dumbledore's journal," Echo stated, a raw edge to his voice. "You know what he's been doing, what he thinks of me that I'm… an experiment. A variable."
The Hat was silent for a moment, its stitched mouth a thin, unmoving line. Then, its reedy voice, usually so filled with wry amusement, was plain, devoid of emotion, and chillingly honest. "Yes, young Echo. I know."
Echo felt a fresh wave of cold dread wash over him. "And… and you knew all this time? You saw him manipulating things, pushing me, testing me? And you didn't say anything?"
"It is not my place to interfere with the Headmaster's machinations, nor to divulge the secrets I am privy to," the Hat replied, its voice a flat monotone. "My purpose is to sort, to guide, and to observe. I hold no allegiance to individuals, only to the greater purpose of this institution."
"The greater purpose?" Echo scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. His blue hair flashed with angry orange. "Is that what he calls it? Experimenting on a student? Allowing me to be attacked, to suffer, just to see what happens? Is that the 'greater good' you speak of?"
"The Headmaster believes his actions are always for the greater good, even if they are selfish and apathetic at times and manipulative in others," the Hat stated, still utterly devoid of judgment or emotion. "He perceives a potential threat within you, a power that could, if unchecked, bring ruin. He seeks to understand it, to control it, to ensure it serves what he deems to be the correct path."
"A potential threat?" Echo whispered, the words like daggers to his heart. His hair was a swirling, tormented mixture of orange and black. "He sees me as a bomb waiting to go off. Not a person. Not someone he's supposed to protect."
"He sees you as a formidable force, young Echo," the Hat corrected, its voice unwavering. "A force capable of both immense good and profound destruction. His methods are indeed… unorthodox. And often, they cause pain to those involved. But his intent, from his perspective, remains consistent: to protect the wizarding world from what he perceives as its greatest dangers."
"So, he was just… doing his job?" Echo asked, the absurdity of it all making his voice crack.
"Job has nothing to do with it; he was acting according to his deeply held convictions and his perceived duty," the Hat confirmed. "He believes he is the only one capable of making the difficult choices required for the survival of many. You, young Echo, are a key component in that complex equation."
Echo stared at the Hat, his vision blurring. The plain, honest answers were far worse than any deception. There was no grand conspiracy against him, no purely evil intent. Just a cold, calculating man, convinced of his own righteous path, willing to sacrifice the well-being of one for the perceived safety of many. He was just a tool, a puzzle to be solved, a force to be harnessed or contained.
"So, that's it then?" Echo whispered, his voice barely audible. "He'll just keep doing it? Keep manipulating, keep pushing? Until he gets what he wants?"
"That is his nature," the Sorting Hat replied, its voice a final, unyielding pronouncement. "His conviction is absolute."
Echo closed his eyes, a profound, crushing despair settling over him. The Hat's words, so devoid of comfort, offered no solace, only the bleak, unvarnished truth. The man he had admired was gone, replaced by a ruthless strategist who saw him not as a student, but as a weapon. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do to change it. His hair, a defeated, empty grey, reflected the utter devastation in his heart.
"Pip!" he called out, his voice still hoarse. "Pip, are you there?"
A soft pop, and Pip materialized beside the table, looking at Echo with worried eyes. "Echo called Pip?"
Echo gestured vaguely at the Sorting Hat. "Yes, Pip. I need you to take the Hat back to Dumbledore's office. Make sure he's not there, of course. Just… put it back where you found it."
Pip nodded, his expression serious. He carefully picked up the Sorting Hat, cradling it in his tiny arms. "Pip will be very quiet, E-Echo. No one will know Pip was there." With another soft pop, he vanished.
Echo watched him go, then slowly rose from his crouch. The air in the Room of Requirement felt suffocating, heavy with the weight of his revelations. He needed to clear his head and breathe air that didn't feel tainted by Dumbledore's cold calculations. He needed to escape, even for a little while.
He walked out of the Room of Requirement, his grey hair a restless, turbulent mix of blues and purples. He wandered through the silent corridors, his steps aimless, his mind reeling. He instinctively avoided the more populated areas, especially Dumbledore's office, not knowing how he would react if he saw the Headmaster again. Could he even pretend that everything was normal? The thought made his stomach churn.
Shimmer, sensing his distress, clung tightly to his shoulder, her iridescent form shimmering with concern. Sniffles, a barely perceptible bulge in his robe pocket, remained quiet, an unusual sign of the Niffler's own subdued mood. Echo walked in a daze, barely noticing the intricate tapestries or the stained-glass windows, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of betrayal and fear.
Suddenly, a frantic scrabbling sound erupted from his pocket. Sniffles, with an uncharacteristic burst of speed, shot out of Echo's robes, hitting the flagstone floor with a soft thud. The Niffler, usually meticulous in his pilfering, seemed to have forgotten all caution. He scuttled across the corridor, his tiny black paws a blur, heading directly for a shadowed alcove.
Echo blinked, snapping out of his daze. "Sniffles! What in Merlin's name...?"
He started to follow, but Sniffles was already returning, a triumphant squeak escaping him. The Niffler proudly presented Echo with a small, intricately carved hourglass pendant, shimmering with a faint, golden light. It was attached to a long, delicate chain. Sniffles nudged it into Echo's hand, then rubbed his head against Echo's leg, looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, as if offering a peace offering, a shiny distraction from his woes.
Echo took the object, his eyes falling on the delicate, shimmering sand within. He had never seen anything like it. His blue hair flickered with a hesitant curiosity.
Pip, who had quietly reappeared at Echo's heel a moment ago, now stood beside him, peering at the object. Shimmer, too, hopped off Echo's shoulder and landed on the floor beside Sniffles and Pip, her ethereal form glowing faintly as she examined the mysterious trinket.
Echo, still squatting on the floor, mesmerized by the intricate design, idly spun the tiny hourglass. "What is this, Sniffles?" he murmured, more to himself than to the Niffler. He turned it over and over, his mind still preoccupied with Dumbledore's journal. "I wish there were someone… someone I could talk to about all this," he whispered, a deep, aching longing in his voice. "Someone who would understand, who could give me some answers. Someone… trustworthy."
As the last word left his lips, a sudden, blinding flash of golden light erupted from the time-turner. The air crackled with raw magic, and a deafening CRACK echoed through the corridor.
Echo felt a violent tug, as if he were being pulled through a narrow, twisting tunnel at unimaginable speed. The golden light consumed him, blurring his surroundings into a chaotic maelstrom of colors and sensations. He gasped, his grip on the time-turner tightening reflexively. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over. The light vanished, the deafening sound faded, and the violent tug ceased. Echo was gone. Pip, Sniffles, and Shimmer stood frozen in the deserted corridor, staring at the space where Echo had been moments before. The golden light had dissipated, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone and bewildered silence.
Pip's ears drooped, his large eyes wide with shock. "E-Echo?" he squeaked, his voice barely a whisper. "Where… where did Echo go?"
For once, Sniffles was utterly still, his tiny black eyes fixed on the empty spot, his usual avarice completely forgotten. Shimmer, her ethereal form flickering with alarm, let out a soft, distressed chime, a sound of profound confusion and fear. Their friend, their master, their wizard… had simply vanished.
Echo found himself lying face down on cold, hard flagstones. He pushed himself up, shaking his head, his grey hair swirling with confusion. The scent of ozone lingered in the air, a metallic tang that made his nose wrinkle. He looked around, expecting to see the familiar, deserted corridor, Pip, Sniffles, and Shimmer. Instead, he was in a grand, cavernous hall, lit by torchlight that cast flickering shadows on immense stone pillars. Tapestries, far grander and more vibrant than any he knew in his time, adorned the walls, depicting fantastical creatures and epic battles. The air hummed with a raw, ancient magic, so different from the refined, almost domesticated magic of his own era.
His hair, a frantic, worried blue, dimmed to a perplexed grey. This wasn't Hogwarts. Not the Hogwarts he knew.
He cautiously made his way through the bustling hall, a sea of students, much younger than any he'd ever seen, moving with an unfamiliar grace. Their robes were simpler, their faces alight with a fierce, almost primal energy. He felt an intense sense of displacement, an alarming feeling that every single person here was looking at him, though none actually were. He caught glimpses of banners bearing symbols he recognized from history books: a lion, a badger, an eagle, and a serpentine crest.
Then, through an archway, he saw them. Four figures, impossibly tall and majestic, were conversing animatedly: a woman in a flowing white gown and a kind, radiant smile; a stern, noble man with a sword at his hip; a serene, thoughtful woman with a keen gaze; and a man with sharp, aristocratic features, his dark hair falling over intense eyes, holding himself with an air of undeniable power and cold authority.
Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin.
His grey hair flared with a chaotic mix of red and black. He had been sent back in time. Not just a few years back, but centuries. To the very founding of Hogwarts. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through him. How? Why? And how was he going to get back?
He turned to flee, to find somewhere, anywhere, to hide and process this impossible reality. But as he spun, a deep, commanding voice cut through the clamor of the hall, making him freeze.
"You there! Boy! What is your purpose here? I do not recognize your face, nor your… peculiar attire."
Echo slowly turned, his heart hammering against his ribs. Standing before him, impossibly close, was Salazar Slytherin. His eyes, the color of ancient emeralds, narrowed as they raked over Echo's modern clothes and his wildly fluctuating hair. Echo knew, instinctively, that a lie would be pointless. This man, he realized, wouldn't be fooled. His instincts, sharpened by years of fighting and surviving, screamed at him to be honest, as terrifying as that prospect was.
"I… I don't know, sir," Echo began, his voice trembling slightly. His hair was a frantic, desperate yellow. "I was in my time, at Hogwarts, and I touched an artifact. A time-turner, I think. And then… I was here. I believe I've been sent back in time."
Salazar's brow furrowed, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. He studied Echo intently, his eyes boring into him. "A time-turner, you say? A dangerous plaything, if true. And you claim to be from 'your time,' from a future 'Hogwarts'?" He scoffed, a dry, dismissive sound. "Impossible. Such a device of that power… You would need ancient magic, blood magic even, to wield it across so many centuries. And this 'Hogwarts' you speak of… it is barely more than a dream yet to be fully realized."
Echo swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "I… I can only tell you what I know, sir. I recognize you. You are Salazar Slytherin, one of the four founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In my time, your name is legendary."
Salazar's expression remained impassive, though a subtle shift, a tightening around his eyes, suggested a burgeoning interest. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, hissing tone that sent a shiver down Echo's spine, yet also resonated with a strange, dark familiarity.
"§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§" (You speak of future legends, boy. But what blood flows in your veins to bring you to me, now?)
The words were Parseltongue. Echo recognized it instantly, the sibilant, ancient language that had always felt strangely natural to him, ever since he'd discovered his own connection to snakes. Without thinking, his surprisingly steady voice responded in the same hissing tongue.
"§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§" (My blood is my own, though it thrums with an ancient power I do not fully understand. I am Echo. From a time long after yours. And I carry a magic that burns as fiercely as any dragon's fire.)
Salazar's eyes, previously narrowed in suspicion, now widened fractionally, a jolt of raw recognition passing through them. A slow, almost predatory smile spread across his face, a chilling sight. He had heard the boy speak, clearly and fluently, in the tongue of serpents. His own tongue.
"Parseltongue," Salazar breathed, the word a mere whisper, yet it echoed with profound significance. His gaze, now tinged with a dark, triumphant pride, swept over Echo's face, searching, assessing. "A true descendant, then. The bloodline endures. Tell me, Echo," he commanded, his voice now imbued with a chilling authority, "what is your true purpose, coming here, to this nascent castle, this distant past?"
Echo hesitated, his yellow hair flickering with doubt. "If I tell you, sir," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "you'll think it's ridiculous. Or an insult to everything you stand for."
Salazar's smile didn't waver. "Tell me anyway, boy. My curiosity, unlike some, is rarely insulted by truth, however fantastical."
Echo took a deep breath, the words tumbling out in a rush, a torrent of years of frustration and isolation. "My magic, sir… It's different. It has a dark affinity, a hunger. There's a dark beast, always there, but it was practically born after I received a Dementor's Kiss. It lusts for knowledge, for power in all its forms. It makes my magic not work as it should. I need grand, theatrical gestures just to do the basics, things other wizards do with a flick of their wrist. I had to invent a whole new casting method, a 'gather and release' technique, just to cast spells normally. My wand," he held it up, a gnarled, dark piece of wood, "it's cursed. It has a basilisk horn core, and it amplifies everything: the darkness, the chaos. I had to invent a new way to whip my wand around, a whole new way to make potions work for me. I almost can't do anything right."
His voice cracked, the raw emotion evident. "I lost my friends in one day because of it. Everyone in the school hates me for my magic, my lack of control, and this new type of magic I invented, Beast Magic. I just want to be like everyone else, sir, normal. But I can't seem to do that. Even some teachers, even the Headmaster, they look at me with suspicion, or like I'm a case study, an experiment." He looked directly into Salazar's emerald eyes, a desperate plea in his own. "Why, sir? Why can't I just be normal?"
Salazar listened, his expression unreadable, a deep stillness emanating from him. When Echo finished, the silence in the bustling hall seemed to stretch, heavy with the weight of the young wizard's confession.
Finally, Salazar spoke, his voice low and resonant, cutting through the echoes of Echo's despair. "'Normal,' you say? You yearn for 'normal'? Look around you, boy. Do you see 'normal' in this hall? Do you see it in the eyes of Godric, who craves glory? Or Helga, who nurtures all life? Or Rowena, who seeks endless wisdom? No. 'Normal' is a cage. It is the ambition of the small-minded, the desire of those who fear their own potential."
He took another step closer, his gaze intense, piercing. "You speak of a dark affinity, a beast within. I say to you, boy, that is not a curse. It is a gift. A raw, untamed power that few possess. You complain that your magic does not work 'like it should'? Perhaps it works exactly as it should for you. Perhaps the problem is not your magic, but your attempt to force it into the narrow confines of others' expectations. To be 'normal' is to be unremarkable. To be remarkable is to embrace what makes you different, what makes you powerful."
Salazar's voice softened, though its underlying strength remained. "You lament grand gestures, new methods, a cursed wand. You see these as hindrances. I see them as an innovation. You have been given a unique canvas, and you complain that it requires different brushes and different strokes. Foolishness. The 'dark beast' you speak of, its lust for knowledge and power – that is the very essence of ambition, the drive to carve your name into history. Do not fight it, boy. Learn to harness it. Learn to bend it to your will, not break it, attempting to conform."
He paused, a flicker of something almost akin to empathy in his ancient eyes. "And as for losing friends, and the scorn of others… that, too, is the price of greatness. Those who walk the path of power often walk alone, for their light, or their shadow, is too intense for lesser beings to bear. They fear what they do not understand, and they condemn what they cannot control. Let them. Their opinions are dust. Your potential is eternal."
Salazar leaned in, his voice a low, compelling whisper. "The Headmaster, the teachers… they see a power they do not comprehend, a force that defies their neat categories. And rightly so. You are a storm, Echo, not a gentle breeze. Embrace the storm. Command it. Do not cower from it. Your path is not to be 'normal,' but to redefine what 'normal' means for yourself. Find your own rules, boy. And then, make the world follow them."
Echo felt a profound jolt, a sudden, blinding clarity that resonated deep within his magical core. Salazar's words were a revelation, a mirror reflecting a truth he had desperately tried to ignore. He wasn't cursed; he was simply different. And that difference, far from being a weakness, was his greatest strength.
Without thinking, Echo lunged forward, throwing his arms around Salazar Slytherin, a man who, in his own time, was seen as a villain, but who, in this moment, had offered him more understanding and validation than anyone else ever had. Salazar, rigid with surprise for a moment, slowly returned the embrace, a faint, almost imperceptible warmth emanating from his powerful form.
"Thank you, sir," Echo mumbled into the ancient robes, his voice thick with emotion. His grey hair, which had been dull with despair moments before, now blazed with a fierce, determined red, shot through with vibrant, hopeful green. "Thank you for understanding."
Salazar gently pushed him back; his emerald eyes, still sharp, flickered with something akin to curiosity. "Such an unusual display of emotion, boy. But you are welcome." He studied Echo's face, a slight frown creasing his brow. "I sense a shift in your… magical emanations. A newfound resolve, perhaps?"
Echo nodded, pulling away completely, though a lingering sense of gratitude warmed his chest. "Yes, sir. Your words… they mean more than you know. I just… I wish people in my time could see me as you do. Not just liking me, but… tolerating me. Seeing past the 'threat' and acknowledging the 'potential,' as you called it." His red and green hair pulsed with the intensity of his feelings.
Salazar raised an eyebrow, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. "And in what way do you see me?"
Echo took a deep breath. "I know your secrets. I know about the Chamber of Secrets, the Basilisk you left there to purge the school of those you deemed unworthy. I know of your desire to exterminate Muggle-borns, to ensure the purity of wizarding bloodlines." He saw Salazar's eyes narrow, his posture stiffen, a dangerous glint entering his gaze. "And I don't agree with any of it, not one bit. I think it's horrific and wrong. But… I understand why."
Salazar's expression remained stony, but Echo pressed on, the words tumbling out, propelled by a sudden, urgent need for honesty. "The era you were born into, sir… it was a time of true darkness for wizards. The witch hunts, the burnings, the terror of Muggles who feared what they didn't understand. I've read the history books. I've seen the records of how many families were wiped out, how many children were lost. And your parents, sir…"
A quick and involuntary shiver ran through Salazar Slytherin's tall frame. For a fleeting moment, his eyes held a shadow of ancient grief, a pain that transcended centuries. The memory of his parents, dragged from their home, their magic useless against the mob, was a wound that time could never fully heal.
Echo continued, his voice softer now, tinged with a deep empathy. "Anyone who witnessed such horrors, who lived through that kind of persecution, who saw their very bloodline threatened… anyone would start to cast suspicious glances at outsiders. They would develop a fierce, almost fanatical desire to protect their own, to ensure their lineage survived, even if it meant extreme measures. And I'm starting to get that way myself, sir. Not with Muggle-borns, never with them, but with anyone who seeks to control me, to manipulate me, to treat me like an experiment rather than a person. I understand the fear, the desperation that can drive someone to such extremes." He looked directly into Salazar's eyes, his own shining with a complicated mix of respect and firm disagreement. "I respect your work, sir. The legacy you left, the strength you embodied, and the sheer ambition to build something so lasting and powerful. But I don't agree with your beliefs. Not about blood purity, not about the Chamber, not about the Basilisk. I believe in a world where all magic, all people, can coexist. But I understand the path you took, given the horrors you lived through."
Echo's voice softened further. "I just… I just wish people in my time could offer me that same understanding. They don't have to like my choices or even agree with my methods, but if they could just tolerate me and understand that I'm trying to do what's right in my own way… that would be enough. That would be everything."
Salazar remained silent for a long moment, his intense gaze fixed on Echo. The bustling sounds of the hall faded into the background, leaving only the profound weight of their conversation. He considered Echo's words, his assessment of the past, and the raw, vulnerable honesty in the young wizard's voice. A complex mix of emotions played across his aristocratic features – a flicker of ancient pain, a ghost of the pride he held for his own convictions, and, surprisingly, a burgeoning respect for the courage before him.
"You speak with a wisdom beyond your years, young Echo," Salazar finally said, his voice softer now, less commanding, more reflective. "And you have indeed touched upon truths that many, even in my own time, dared not acknowledge. The world was a brutal place for us, then. We built these walls, this sanctuary, not merely for study, but for survival. To protect our magic, our very existence, from the ignorant and the fearful."
He paused, then continued, his emerald eyes holding a deep, ancient understanding. "Your empathy, your ability to see the genesis of such… extreme measures, even as you condemn their outcome, is a rare quality. Most would simply see the monster, not the man shaped by monsters. And your own struggle, the need for 'tolerance' as you call it, reflects a similar predicament, albeit in a different age. You possess a power that defies easy categorization, a 'beast' that frightens the comfortable. They seek to tame what they cannot comprehend, to suppress what they cannot control."
Salazar took a step back, a hand coming to rest on the hilt of his sword, a gesture of quiet authority. "Perhaps, young Echo, your journey here is not merely an accident of a 'time-turner.' Perhaps fate, in its infinite complexity, deemed it necessary for you to hear these words from one who understands the burden of misunderstood power. You seek 'tolerance.' I sought 'purity.' Both, in their own ways, are defenses against a world that seeks to diminish what is extraordinary."
He looked around the nascent hall, then back at Echo, a faint, almost wistful smile touching his lips. "You do not wish to be a villain, even as you wield the tools that others would brand as such. That, in itself, is a unique struggle. Do not let their fear define you, boy. Define yourself. Command your beast, not for conquest, but for purpose. Forge your own legacy, one that honors your truth, even if it defies the expectations of your time. And remember," he added, his voice regaining a touch of its former imperiousness, "a true leader does not beg for understanding. A true leader earns it, or, failing that, demands it through the undeniable force of their will and their power."
Echo stared at him, a whirlwind of emotions warring within him. Understanding, gratitude, and fierce resolve, he hadn't known he possessed. Salazar Slytherin, the feared founder, the architect of a dark legacy, had, in this impossible moment, become an unexpected beacon. He hadn't offered absolution, but he had offered validation, a sense of belonging in his own unique struggle.
"Thank you, sir," Echo said again, his voice firm and no longer trembling. His red and green hair pulsed, not with despair but with a fierce, burning determination. "I will. I will redefine 'normal.' I will forge my own legacy. And I will not let their fear control me."
A flicker of approval, almost imperceptible, crossed Salazar's face. "Good. Now, young Echo, this 'time-turner' of yours… You have glimpsed the past, a past that shapes your present. Do you truly believe you should return to a future where such profound truths remain hidden from those who judge you?"
Echo hesitated, the question hanging heavy in the air. His mind flashed to Dumbledore's journal, the cold, clinical observations, the fear in Frieze's eyes, and the endless judgment. He had come here seeking answers, and Salazar had given him something far more potent: a new perspective, a sense of self-acceptance. But the future, his present, still awaited him, with all its unresolved conflicts.
"I have to, sir," Echo said, his voice tinged with a newfound resolve. "My friends… Pip, Skate, Frieze, Hagrid, even Granny Ethel… they're in my time. I can't leave them. And there are battles to be fought, wrongs to be righted. I need to face Dumbledore, not as his experiment, but as myself. As the wizard I am meant to be."
Salazar nodded slowly, a knowing look in his eyes. "A commendable loyalty. Very well. Then you must find your way back. But do not return unchanged, young Echo. Carry this understanding with you. Let it be the shield against their judgment, and the fire that fuels your own path." He then looked past Echo, his gaze sweeping over the bustling hall. "However, before you depart, there is one more thing. A small gift to my descendant forging his own path."
Salazar reached into the folds of his elaborate robes and pulled out a heavy, ornate silver necklace. At its center hung a large, perfectly polished emerald, cut into the shape of a serpent's head, its tiny, ruby eyes glinting in the torchlight. The chain itself was intricately wrought with serpentine designs, each scale meticulously carved.
"This," Salazar announced, his voice imbued with a rare solemnity, "is a symbol of my lineage, a piece worn by the true heirs of Slytherin. It is a mark of ambition, of power, and of a will unbent by the fears of lesser men. You, young Echo, embody that spirit, even if your path diverges from my own. You, who have not merely found a new way to wield magic but have truly created a new form, Beast Magic, are worthy of carrying this legacy forward." He held it out, the emerald glinting invitingly.
Echo stared at the necklace, his red-and-green hair flickering with awe. "Sir, I… I can't. This is… this is a piece of history, something of immense importance to you, to your name. I can't possibly take something of such greatness."
Salazar's hand remained extended, unyielding. "Nonsense, boy. Greatness is not in the object itself, but in the hands that hold it. It is precisely because it is a symbol of greatness that I offer it to you. You are a true heir, Echo, in spirit and in blood, destined for your own form of ambition. Take it."
Hesitantly, Echo reached out and took the necklace. The silver felt cool against his skin, the emerald warm with ancient magic. He carefully placed it around his neck, feeling a profound connection to the formidable wizard before him.
"Thank you, sir," Echo said, his voice choked with emotion.
Salazar nodded, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "Now, about that wand of yours." He gestured to the gnarled piece of dark wood that Echo still held. "You speak of its basilisk horn core, like my own, of its chaotic amplification, of your need for 'gather and release' and elaborate gestures. Tell me, boy, if its core is indeed a serpent's horn, why do you not speak to it as you would a serpent?"
Echo blinked, his red and green hair shifting to a bewildered blue. "Speak to it?"
"Indeed," Salazar affirmed, a subtle smirk on his lips. "You are a Parselmouth, a speaker of the serpent tongue, just as I am. Your wand's core is the essence of a great serpent. Command it, boy. Speak your spells to it in Parseltongue. Let the magic flow from your will, through your tongue, and into the very heart of the basilisk horn. Eliminate these 'internal issues' you lament. A serpent does not fight against its master, but responds to its will. Treat your wand as you would a loyal, if untamed, companion. Eliminate the unnecessary flourish and let the raw command of your blood guide your magic."
Echo stared at his wand, then back at Salazar, a slow, dawning realization spreading across his face. "I… I never thought of that," he admitted, a note of awe in his voice. "I've always treated it like any other wand, just… a difficult one. But to command it… to speak to it in Parseltongue…" His blue hair brightened, sparking with renewed determination. "That could change everything."
"It could, if you embrace its true nature, and yours," Salazar confirmed. "Now, before you depart, is there anything else you wish to impart from your 'future' regarding my… legacy?"
Echo hesitated, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "Actually, sir, there is one more thing. I… I found the Chamber of Secrets. And I met the Basilisk you left behind." He winced slightly. "And I know this might sound a bit silly, and I truly hope it doesn't insult you, but I… I named her Pretty."
Salazar's impassive expression wavered. His eyes widened fractionally, and a faint, almost imperceptible tremor passed through his lips. Then, a dry, low chuckle escaped him, building into a genuine, if brief, smirk. "'Pretty,' you say? For a creature of such magnificent, lethal power?" He raised an eyebrow. "Tell me, young Echo, does this rather… simplistic naming scheme extend to your other creatures as well?"
Echo grinned, relief washing over him at Salazar's unexpected amusement. "It does, sir. I have a Demiguise I call 'Shimmer,' a Niffler named 'Sniffles,' and a whole bunch of others.'"
Salazar's smirk deepened. "Fascinating. And what of the founders of this esteemed institution? Have you, in your future, bestowed any of our names upon your… 'creatures'?"
Echo's grin widened further. "I have, actually. I named a Griffin after Godric."
"Gryffindor, the fierce Gryffin, fitting," Salazar mused, a flicker of approval in his eyes.
"And a Thunderbird after Rowena," Echo continued.
"Ravenclaw, the majestic Thunderbird. Also fitting," Salazar acknowledged, a slight nod of his head.
"And Helga's name," Echo added, a mischievous glint in his eye, "I gave to a Graphorn."
Salazar's composure almost completely broke. A guttural sound, somewhere between a snort and a laugh, escaped him. He actually clapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with silent mirth. "A Graphorn? For Helga? Truly, young Echo, your sense of irony is… unparalleled." He cleared his throat, regaining a semblance of his stern demeanor, though the corners of his eyes still crinkled with amusement. "And tell me, boy, have you bestowed my name upon any of your... 'companions'?"
Echo shook his head, his red and green hair pulsing with earnestness. "Not yet, sir. I haven't found the right one. I want to make sure it's a creature worthy of honoring you and your name."
Salazar's expression softened, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. "Then I shall await that day with great anticipation, young Echo. Now, you must return to your own time. The threads of fate have been stretched thin enough for one day." He pointed to the space where Echo had appeared. "Focus on that object, the 'time-turner.' Focus on your time, on your friends, on the future you wish to forge. Let your will guide the magic, as you will soon command your wand."
"Thank you, sir," Echo said one last time, his voice thick with a renewed sense of gratitude and respect. "Truly, thank you for everything." He bowed slightly, a gesture of profound deference, before turning to face the shimmering space.
As he did, a translucent, vaguely familiar figure floated past an upper archway, a wide, mischievous grin on its face. It was undeniably a young Peeves, the poltergeist, though in this era, he seemed less overtly chaotic and more simply playful, perhaps still finding his true calling in torment.
"Hi, Peeves!" Echo called out, a genuine smile touching his lips at the unexpected sight.
The younger Peeves paused, looking down at Echo with wide, curious eyes. Of course, he didn't recognize the boy, but the friendly greeting was unusual. He waved back, a faint, almost innocent chuckle escaping him, before continuing on his way.
He closed his eyes, picturing Pip, Sniffles, and Shimmer, the deserted corridor, the modern Hogwarts. He felt the familiar pull of the time-turner still clutched in his hand, a dull thrum against his palm. He poured all his newfound resolve into the intention, into the desire to return. His red and green hair pulsed with a brilliant, focused light.
A sudden, blinding flash of golden energy erupted around him, accompanied by the familiar, deafening CRACK. The air shimmered, distorting Salazar's image into a swirling vortex of colors. Echo felt the violent tug again, the sensation of being pulled through an endless, twisting tunnel. He held onto the emerald necklace tightly, a tangible link to this extraordinary encounter.
A few minutes later, Salazar Slytherin returned to the bustling hall, his usual composed demeanor slightly ruffled, a faint, unreadable expression on his aristocratic face. Godric Gryffindor, ever observant, immediately noticed his friend's return.
"Salazar! Where did you disappear off to so suddenly?" Godric boomed, his voice cutting through the general chatter. "One moment you were here, the next you vanished like a wisp of smoke!"
Salazar paused, weighing his words. How could he explain a time-traveling child from centuries in the future? "I... I had something akin to a vision," he finally said, his voice smooth, betraying nothing of the internal debate.
Rowena Ravenclaw, her keen eyes narrowed, looked at him with surprise. "A divination vision? From you, Salazar? I never expected that. What did you see?"
A subtle smirk played on Salazar's lips. "I saw a boy, a descendant, who will name magnificent magical beasts in honor of our names, carrying our legacy forward in his own unique way."
Godric's eyes widened with interest. "Indeed? And what are these beasts, pray tell? Do tell us, Salazar!"
Salazar met Godric's gaze, a glint of amusement in his emerald eyes. "For you, Godric, a Griffin. Fierce and noble, as befits your spirit."
Godric let out a hearty laugh, slapping Salazar on the back. "A Griffin! Excellent! A truly fitting tribute!"
Salazar then turned to Rowena. "For you, Rowena, a Thunderbird. Majestic and wise, reflecting your endless pursuit of knowledge like a vast storm."
Rowena smiled, a rare, gentle expression. "A Thunderbird. How wonderful. A creature of immense intellect and power. I approve."
He then looked at Helga Hufflepuff, who had been listening intently, her kind face alight with curiosity. "And for you, Helga..." Salazar's voice faltered slightly, a flicker of something close to a struggle for composure crossing his features. He cleared his throat. "For you, my dear Helga, he will name a... a Graphorn."
There was a beat of silence. Then, Godric burst out laughing, a thunderous, unrestrained sound that echoed through the hall. "A Graphorn! Oh, Salazar, you jest! A massive, horned beast for our gentle Helga?" He wiped a tear of mirth from his eye.
Helga, however, didn't look offended. Instead, a broad, proud smile spread across her face, her eyes twinkling. "A Graphorn! Why, how perfectly delightful! Such a strong, protective creature! I am truly honored!" She beamed, completely missing Godric's renewed paroxysms of laughter and Salazar's almost imperceptible, relieved sigh.
Then, just as abruptly, it was over.
Echo found himself sprawled on the cold flagstones of a deserted corridor, the faint scent of ozone still clinging to the air. He pushed himself up, shaking his head, his red and green hair now a calm, resolute blue.
"E-Echo!"
A tiny, relieved squeak made him look down. Pip, Sniffles, and Shimmer stood before him, their expressions a mixture of shock and overwhelming joy. Pip, still in his emerald suit, threw his arms around Echo's leg, his tiny body trembling. Sniffles, after a moment of stunned stillness, began to frantically dig at the flagstones, as if trying to re-bury the shiny, golden time-turner that lay innocently beside Echo. Shimmer, her ethereal form shimmering with relief, landed gently on his shoulder, nudging his cheek.
"Pip thought Echo was gone forever!" Pip cried, his voice muffled against Echo's robes.
Echo knelt, pulling Pip into a gentle hug. He smiled, a genuine, unburdened smile that reached his eyes. "I'm back, Pip. I'm back. And I'm… different." He touched the emerald necklace around his neck, feeling its comforting weight. "Very different."
He looked at the time-turner, then scooped it up. It shimmered innocently in his hand. He would need to be far more careful with it in the future.
"Come on," Echo said, his voice imbued with a new sense of calm authority. His blue hair shimmered, a steady, unwavering light. "Let's go somewhere we can talk. I have a lot to tell you all."
As they walked, Echo felt a profound shift within him. The crushing weight of Dumbledore's manipulation still lingered, a bitter taste, but it no longer held the power to paralyze him. Salazar's words had given him a shield, a new framework for understanding himself. He wasn't an experiment; he was a storm. He wasn't cursed; he was different. And that difference, that unique, elemental magic, was his to command, not to fear. He reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around his gnarled wand. He looked at it differently now, not as a defiant tool, but as a loyal, untamed companion. He would speak to it. He would command it. He would forge his own path, not by conforming, but by embracing the very things that made him unique. The fear was still there, but now, it was tempered by a fierce, unyielding resolve. He was ready to face Dumbledore. He was ready to rewrite his own rules.
"Well, well, well. Look what we have here." A gravelly voice, rough as sandpaper, suddenly cut through Echo's thoughts, making him jump.
Pip squeaked, burying his face in Echo's robes. Sniffles, startled, let out a tiny, agitated chatter and scurried behind Echo's leg. Shimmer, however, simply flared with an irritated burst of iridescence, her ethereal form solidifying slightly in defiance. Echo spun around, his blue hair flaring with a sudden, anxious orange. Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody stood a few feet away, his magical eye whirring and clanking as it swiveled independently in its socket, fixing on each of them in turn. His scarred face was set in a perpetual scowl, and his gnarled staff thumped rhythmically against the flagstones. He moved with a surprising stealth for a man of his size, having seemingly materialized out of thin air.
"Moody!" Echo exclaimed, his heart still thudding against his ribs. "You scared us half to death!"
Mad-Eye ignored him, his magical eye now locked onto the golden time-turner still clutched in Echo's hand. With a sudden, swift movement, he lunged forward, his gnarled hand snatching the pendant from Echo's grasp before the young wizard could even react.
"Aha!" Moody grunted, holding the time-turner up to his good eye, examining it closely. "I knew it! Been looking for this, I have. One of the newer Aurors brought it with them when they came in for a meeting with Dumbledore this morning. A clumsy fool dropped it in the courtyard but didn't even notice. Reckoned it would turn up eventually." He glanced at Echo, his magical eye still whirring. "Did you use it, boy?"
Echo's orange hair flickered with genuine confusion. "Use it? I… I'm not even sure what it is, Mr. Moody. Sniffles found it." He gestured vaguely at the Niffler, who was now peeking cautiously from behind Echo's leg.
Moody grunted again, seemingly accepting the explanation for now. His magical eye, however, then swiveled downwards, fixing on the emerald serpent necklace around Echo's neck. A sharp, almost predatory glint entered his good eye.
"And that," Moody rasped, pointing a finger at the necklace, "where did you get that, boy? That looks like a piece of ancient magic, if I ever saw one."
Echo's heart gave another lurch. His blue hair pulsed with a desperate, frantic yellow. He quickly manufactured a plausible lie, remembering a brief conversation he'd overheard about the village. "Oh, this?" he said, trying to sound casual, but his voice was a little too high. "It's just a replica, sir. Found it at a jeweler in Hogsmeade. It was really cheap, actually. Just thought it looked… cool."
Moody's gaze was unnervingly intense, his magical eye boring into Echo, then sweeping over Pip, Sniffles, and Shimmer, as if searching for any tell-tale signs of deceit. He looked Echo up and down, a long, scrutinizing stare that made Echo's blood run cold. Echo was sure he had seen through the bluff, that his lie was transparent. He braced himself for a barrage of questions, for the full force of Mad-Eye Moody's legendary paranoia. But then, with another guttural grunt, Moody simply tucked the time-turner into a deep pocket of his worn robes. He gave Echo one final, unreadable look, then turned and began to stump away down the corridor, his heavy footsteps echoing in the silence.
Echo watched him go, completely bewildered. Did he believe him? Or did he just not care enough to press the issue? The question hung in the air, unanswered. After a moment, as Moody's figure disappeared around a distant corner, Echo let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, his yellow hair slowly fading back to a calmer, though still shaken, blue.
As Echo, Pip, Sniffles, and Shimmer continued their walk, a familiar, high-pitched giggle echoed from above.
"Ooh, lookie here, lookie here! Little Echo and his pets, all grown up!"
Echo looked up, his blue hair momentarily darkening to an irritated indigo. Peeves, the poltergeist, hung upside down from a chandelier, his mischievous face alight with his usual gleeful malice. But then, as his eyes met Echo's, his grin faltered. His eyes widened, and his usually vibrant colors seemed to dim. He tilted his head, a strange, bewildered frown creasing his spectral brow.
"You… you're…" Peeves started, his voice unusually hesitant, a rare moment of speechlessness for the notorious poltergeist. He pointed a trembling, translucent finger at Echo, his jaw hanging open. "But… but you were just…" He shook his head, looking around the corridor with a frantic, confused expression. "No, no, that's impossible!"
Echo, a mischievous glint in his eye, waved a hand, beckoning the poltergeist closer. His indigo hair shifted to a playful green. "Peeves, come here for a moment. I need to tell you something."
Peeves, still in a state of utter shock, slowly floated down, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a stunned silence. He hovered a few inches from Echo's face, his ethereal form flickering with confusion. "But… but you were… the other you…"
Echo leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as a wide, impish grin spread across his face. "No one will ever believe you, Peeves. Not a soul."
Peeves gasped, his spectral form solidifying with indignation. "What?! But I saw you! You were there! With… with the tall, stern one! And you even said hello!" He floated back a few feet, his eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and grudging respect. "Oh, you're good, Echo! So good! Pip, Sniffles, Shimmer, you got a real menace on your hands! He's going to give old Peeves a run for his money! A real, proper menace!" The poltergeist, his shock momentarily forgotten in the face of a new, intriguing challenge, zoomed off down the corridor, his delighted, mad cackle echoing behind him.