Voldemort's plan had been simple, an open conspiracy, a scheme meant to divide and sow doubt.
And because it relied on credibility, every word he had left behind was true.
This chamber truly was the heart of Slytherin's legacy.
The first section of the writing detailed the infamous quarrel between Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor, complete with long-winded rants in which Slytherin called his former friend a pompous fool, an obstinate braggart, and a thick-headed lion.
And then came something far more chilling.
Slytherin had described two ways the Chamber could be opened.
The first was what Tom had already accomplished, finding the hidden entrance and opening it through Parseltongue.
The second, however… involved blood.
"When the castle has been soaked in enough blood," the text read, "the Chamber shall open on its own. The guardian shall awaken. And the Purification shall begin."
No wonder the Basilisk had been called a "protector" of Hogwarts, it really was.
Unfortunately, it had been manipulated first by Voldemort, then dragged into Tom's own trial.
The poor creature had burned its last bit of life serving everyone but itself.
Tom sighed inwardly.
Next year on this day, he thought, I'll light a candle, or a cigarette, for you, old friend.
But that melancholy humor soon faded as the true weight of Slytherin's writing sank in.
Because what followed… wasn't a history lesson. It was a manifesto.
During the founding of Hogwarts, the tension between Muggles and wizards had been unbearable. Slytherin, ever the pessimist, had foreseen the day when Hogwarts would be discovered, when Muggles would rise up and wipe magic from the world.
So, he left behind a contingency plan.
A blueprint for survival when wizardkind faced extinction.
Slytherin had always preached the importance of blood purity, and his so-called "legacy" was meant to help his successors improve their own magical bloodlines, to reshape the wizarding race into something stronger, purer… less human.
But what Tom and Professor McGonagall found here wasn't a teaching.
It was a collection of experimental records, grisly, obsessive, methodical.
Slytherin's core theory described the human magical bloodline as "a blank canvas."
Some families, he wrote, already possessed color, traces of old, ancient power born of "bold ancestors with exotic appetites."
For those who lacked such "color," Slytherin proposed an alternative: fusion.
To "paint the blank canvas" with the blood of magical creatures.
The entries divided his research into three distinct fields:
> Blood Purification , Extracting and refining the blood of magical creatures to remove harmful or unstable elements, creating a clean essence that human hosts could safely absorb.
> Physical Adaptation , Strengthening the wizard's body to better withstand and assimilate the foreign magical essence.
> Soul Anchoring , Preventing the transformation from consuming the wizard's soul, since every bloodline carried with it the wild instincts of the creature it came from.
Slytherin's goal wasn't to turn wizards into beasts, it was to create a perfect hybrid: a wizard with the blood of magical creatures, uniting power and control in a single being.
But as the later records revealed, every experiment failed.
The more bloodlines combined, the more unstable the results.
Each subject, each wizard, succumbed to madness, mutation, or death.
McGonagall's face had grown pale as she read.
The first section, Blood Purification, was disturbing enough, but at least it involved only magical creatures. That, she could still stomach.
But the other two… involved people.
They described the subjects in cold, clinical language, their transformations, their agony, all interwoven with brutal flesh-altering dark magic.
She shuddered.
And for the first time, she looked at Tom with real fear, not of him, but for him.
"Mr. Riddle…" she said quietly, but with the full weight of a teacher's authority.
"You've read the last of these notes. You've seen the risk. Promise me you won't ever attempt this kind of magic. Don't study it, don't test it, don't even think about it again. Your potential is already beyond extraordinary, you don't need something like this."
Tom turned to her with a warm, disarming smile.
"Professor, please. This is far beyond me. I was only curious what kind of legacy the Founders would leave behind. Now that I know, my curiosity's satisfied. I'll leave the rest to you, and to Headmaster Dumbledore."
McGonagall studied his face for a moment, then finally relaxed.
Tom's memory, after all, was excellent, but not photographic. And besides, the writings were in Old Latin, not exactly bedtime reading for a second-year student.
She had no idea that, as Tom read, every line had already been perfectly copied, projected into his inner "learning space," where two ancient souls were now poring over the contents with fascination.
Still uneasy, McGonagall raised her wand.
"Best not leave it to chance," she muttered, conjuring roaring flame that filled the chamber with heat.
Harry flinched as sweat trickled down his neck.
But even as the air shimmered with fire, the carvings on the walls remained utterly untouched.
Tom sighed.
"Professor," he said softly, "you don't need to blame yourself. Someone already tried to destroy this before, and failed. Voldemort wouldn't leave behind a legacy unless he'd made sure no one else could erase it."
McGonagall stared at the ancient runes glowing calmly through the fire.
For the first time in years, she felt truly unsettled.
Whatever this place was, whatever this knowledge was, it was older, darker, and more indestructible than even she could comprehend.
And Tom Riddle… had just read every word.