The silence in the library was dense—almost sacred. Not the silence of absence, but of absolute concentration. Eight minds worked at once, each unraveling enigmas that had remained sealed for centuries.
Celestia studied the parchment, eyes narrowed. The runes weren't from any known language—not Celtic, not Egyptian, not Sumerian. They were… older. More fluid. More alive. As if written not with ink, but with intention.
"This isn't a code," she murmured. "It's a call."
Nathael, already far from the table, ran his fingers along book spines that bore no titles. The arena had transformed into a library for a reason: the answers weren't only in the scrolls—they were in the environment itself.
"A call?" he asked without looking, stopping before a volume that vibrated faintly at his touch.
"Yes. Listen."
Celestia closed her eyes. And then, very softly, the parchment emitted a sound—a guttural, almost reptilian whisper that resonated only in her ears.
Nathael tensed.
"Did you hear that?"
"Yes. And it's not human."
In that moment, Nathael knew—not with certainty, but with the certainty of instinct. The chest didn't belong to a druid or an alchemist. It belonged to someone who spoke with snakes. Someone who believed blood was destiny. Someone whose legacy still divided the magical world.
Salazar Slytherin.
He didn't say it aloud. But his expression hardened. If the chest held something of Slytherin's, it wasn't just a treasure—it was a test of character.
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At the far end of the library, Anneliese sat utterly still, hands resting on the parchment as if in prayer. Lysander beside her sniffed the air, eyes closed.
"It smells like… ancient smoke," he said. "And cold iron. But also something sweet—like burnt honey."
"Merlin," Anneliese said, eyes still shut.
"How do you know?"
"Because the map doesn't show places. It shows choices. And there's a rune here—the same one that appears in the manuscripts of the Lake of Glass. Only Merlin used that variant of the balance symbol."
Lysander nodded.
"So… do we open it with logic or faith?"
"With both," Anneliese said. "Because Merlin never believed they were opposites."
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Elisabeth, only fourteen, already had her sleeves rolled up and her fingers stained with magical ink. Her cat, Nyra—white as snow, eyes blue as ice—stood atop the chest, pressing specific points with her paws.
"It's not a lock," Elisabeth said. "It's a heart. And hearts aren't opened with keys. They're opened with stories."
"Then tell it ours," Nyra said softly.
Elisabeth smiled.
"Once upon a time, there was a girl from the secondary branch who was born with an ancestral cat. Everyone said it was impossible. But she made it possible."
The chest trembled faintly.
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Karl, the oldest competitor, wasn't looking at the scroll. He was watching the chest. Orin, his black-eared cat, circled it, murmuring in a tongue even the ancients wouldn't understand.
"Do you feel it?" Orin asked.
"Yes," Karl said. "It's from the Northern Founders—the one who built towers in the clouds and taught ravens to sing in Latin."
"Then don't use magic," Orin said. "Use respect."
Karl nodded. And instead of casting a spell, he bowed before the chest.
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"There's a book," Nathael said, returning with a slender volume bound in serpent skin. "It's called The Whisper of Scales. It's banned in seven countries."
Celestia sniffed it.
"It smells like poison… and wisdom."
Nathael opened the book. On the first page, a phrase written in dried blood read:
"Only the one who understands that purity is not blood, but intention, may touch what was mine."
"Slytherin," Celestia said. "But not the Slytherin of rumors. The real one—the one who feared fanaticism more than impurity."
Nathael nodded. And for the first time, he smiled.
"Then I shouldn't force the chest. I should understand it."
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Mira and Tobias watched, wide-eyed.
"Look at the speed!" Tobias said. "Ingrid's already deciphered three layers of the cipher! And Elias is using the map as a mirror to reveal hidden runes!"
"But Nathael!" Mira exclaimed. "He's not at his table! He's among the shelves! What's he doing?"
"He's seeking context," said a calm voice from behind.
They turned. Newt Scamander—hat slightly askew, notebook in hand—watched them with a gentle smile.
"The best treasure hunters don't just read the riddles," he said. "They read the place where they were written. The library isn't just decoration. It's part of the test."
"And what do you see, Mr. Scamander?" Tobias asked, awestruck.
"I see eight brilliant minds," Newt said. "They're not talking to scrolls—they're talking to the dead. Nathael, Anneliese, and the others. They're not solving a puzzle. They're having a conversation."
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Clara, trained at Beauxbatons, employed an elegant technique: she'd conjured a water mirror on the table and projected the runes onto its surface. Solène, her golden-backed cat, swam through the reflection, tapping symbols with her paw.
"Water doesn't lie," Clara said. "And reflections show what the eye cannot see."
"The chest belongs to a witch of the Nile," Solène said. "One who forged spells with sunlight."
"Then we need light," Clara said. "Not magic. Real light."
She raised a hand, and a nearby lamp tilted, casting a golden beam onto the chest.
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Lukas was running—not around the library, but through the shelves. His cat, Kael, collar glowing with speed runes, leapt from book to book, tearing out pages that shimmered as they fell.
"The code is in the margins!" Kael cried. "In the notes of dead readers!"
Lukas caught a page midair. An ancient hand had scribbled:
"Time does not open doors. It only reveals them."
"Then," Lukas said, "we don't need to open it. We just need to wait for the right moment."
He sat. And closed his eyes.
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Nathael placed the book atop the chest. Instantly, the runes on its surface shifted, forming words in a dead tongue:
"Why do you seek what was mine?"
Nathael didn't answer with words. He answered with intention. He knew Slytherin's story—not as a villain, but as a visionary terrified of a world that refused to understand. And in this moment, Nathael wasn't seeking power. He was seeking his father.
"Because someone I love is lost," he said softly. "And if your wisdom can guide him… then it deserves to be used."
The chest gave a soft click.
It didn't open.
But the runes turned gold.
Celestia purred, impressed.
"It accepted you."
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The murmur had become a buzz of awe.
"Look at Karl! He bowed, and the chest lit up!"
"Anneliese is drawing runes in the air with star dust!"
"Elisabeth is singing! Since when do Grauheims sing during trials?"
"And Nathael… Nathael is talking to the chest like it's a person!"
An old woman, tears in her eyes, whispered:
"They're not just treasure hunters. They're guardians."
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In his journal, Newt wrote quickly:
The Grauheims don't see magical objects as tools. They see them as witnesses. Every relic is a witness to a life, a choice, a mistake or a triumph. And today, eight of them are listening to the dead—not to steal their secrets, but to honor them.
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Nathael: Standing, hands on the chest, eyes closed, breathing in rhythm with the serpentine whisper.
Anneliese: Tracing a circle of runes with star dust, while Lysander hums an ancient lullaby.
Elisabeth: Telling a story aloud, as Nyra presses the center of the chest with her forehead.
Karl: Motionless, palms upturned—not offering magic, but respect.
Clara: Guiding a sunbeam with a water mirror, while Solène swims through the reflection.
Ingrid: Reassembling a shattered map with threads of magic, each piece clicking into place like a living puzzle.
Elias: Watching dust motes in the air, reading the footprints of the ancients in every particle.
Lukas: Sitting in silence, waiting for the moment time whispers, "Now."
None have opened their chests.
But all are one step away.