"I am," Nathael said, his voice firm, without hesitation. "And we're here for you."
Salazar Slytherin frowned—not with anger, but with glacial curiosity, the kind of someone who has seen too much to be surprised, yet not so much that he stops analyzing.
Nathael didn't wait. With a slow, almost ceremonial motion, he removed the black obsidian armband from his wrist and held it up to the moonlight. Now, under the silver glow, the details were impossible to ignore. The silver serpent wasn't generic decoration. It was the Beithir. Every scale, every curve of its spiraled body, was carved with a precision only a master of ancient magic could achieve. Nathael had seen it before in the stadium—but the trance, the emotion, the pressure of the Tournament… hadn't let him see the obvious.
"This object brought us to you," Nathael said, careful not to mention time travel or reveal that his mind had been transported across centuries. "It wasn't chance."
Slytherin didn't touch the armband. Instead, he raised his wand—a long, dark piece that Nathael instantly recognized as having a basilisk horn core—and levitated the artifact with a silent spell. He let it rotate slowly, studying every rune, every symbol, every pulse of magic emanating from its surface.
"Interesting," he murmured at last.
There was no awe in his voice. Only recognition.
"I don't recall crafting it. And yet… I feel my essence within it. Not just mine. Something deeper. Older. As if an ancestor of mine—one I've never even known—had infused their will into the metal."
He closed his eyes. And then, he spoke.
In Parseltongue.
The words slithered out—a whisper both beautiful and terrifying. The armband responded instantly. A wave of dark, dense energy expanded from the object, wrapping Slytherin in a silvery aura. The air grew heavy. Nathael felt as if the oxygen had thickened in his lungs. Celestia, at his side, narrowed her eyes and shifted into a defensive stance, claws slightly extended.
When Slytherin opened his eyes, they blazed with supernatural light.
"This armband…" he said, his voice low but resonant, "does not grant power. It unlocks your potential. It's like removing the shackles magic itself places upon you at birth. For a brief time… it allows you to multiply your power threefold. Perhaps more, if your will is pure."
He paused.
"But the price is extreme exhaustion—not just physical, but mental. Your mind empties like a shattered vessel. Without control… you lose yourself."
He looked at Nathael.
"And though its magic answers my call—because only blood of my lineage can fully activate it—it can make exceptions. If I so choose."
Nathael felt a chill—not of fear, but of calculation.
An object like this… was more valuable than any relic he'd ever found. More than the Eye of Thoth. More than the Sumerian manuscripts. Because it wasn't just an artifact. It was a key. A key to absolute power… with a price only the most disciplined could pay.
If Slytherin chose to keep it… there would be no negotiation. Only battle.
But Slytherin didn't act with greed. He acted with elegance.
He lowered the armband, holding it in his palm.
"I won't ask where you obtained it," he said. "I've dealt with members of your line before. The Grauheims… always guard their secrets like treasures. And their treasures, like secrets."
He fixed Nathael with a gaze that pierced through centuries.
"But you are of pure blood—not in the vulgar sense of ignorant nobles, but in the true sense: blood refined through generations of conscious magic, accumulated knowledge, and respect for what magic demands in return."
He paused.
"So I offer you two choices."
He raised one finger.
"First: I return the armband to you. And you leave. Our meeting ends here, as if it never happened."
He raised a second finger.
"Second: I alter the armband so it responds to you as well. I'll make an exception. But in return… I want only one thing: a reason. A valid reason. Not for gold. Not for glory. A reason that convinces my lineage you are worthy of bearing this."
Nathael didn't answer immediately.
It was strange. He was always the one making offers. Setting the terms. But here, before one of history's most powerful wizards, he wasn't the hunter. He was the one being judged.
He looked at Celestia.
She gave the faintest nod—not with her head, but with her tail. A signal only he understood: Tell him the truth. But not all of it.
Nathael took a deep breath.
"I choose the second option," he said.
Slytherin nodded, expectant.
Nathael stepped forward. When he spoke, his voice was low but clear—each word weighed like a rune carved in stone.
"I come from a time when your name is no longer respect—it is fear.
Where what you built as a sanctuary for magically conscious bloodlines… was twisted into fanaticism.
Where 'pureblood' no longer means a lineage that understands the weight of magic… but one that hates the different.
Where your teachings—your belief that magic must be protected, not out of superiority, but out of responsibility—were corrupted by the weak who need an enemy to feel strong."
He paused. Slytherin didn't blink. But his jaw tightened.
"Your legacy wasn't forgotten," Nathael continued. "It was hijacked. By men who used your name to justify cruelty. And in that world… magic is dying. Not for lack of wizards. For lack of understanding."
He glanced at the Beithir, sleeping beneath its runic chain.
"You didn't want to exclude Muggle-borns. You wanted to protect magic from those who wield it without understanding it. There's a difference. And in my time… almost no one sees it."
Slytherin was silent for a long moment.
"And why do you?" he finally asked.
"Because my family never joined schools. Never submitted to ministries. We learned from the dead, from temples, from the mistakes of those who came before. And among those mistakes… is yours."
"My mistake?"
"Believing you could protect magic with rules alone," Nathael said. "Magic isn't protected by walls. It's protected by worthy heirs. And you… deserve someone to defend your true legacy."
Slytherin studied him for a long time. Then, without a word, he raised his wand and touched the armband.
A silvery light enveloped it. The runes rewrote themselves. The silver serpent seemed to stir—as if breathing.
"Done," Slytherin said, handing it back. "It now answers to you as well. But remember: power is not a gift. It is a test. And if you fail… it won't be me who judges you. It will be your own mind."
Nathael took the armband.
Instantly, he felt an invisible cord yank him backward. The forest, Slytherin, the Beithir… all began to fade, like ink dissolving in water.
Celestia didn't hesitate. She leapt onto his shoulder and placed a paw over the armband.
The return had begun.
But just before darkness swallowed them completely, they heard a whisper—not with their ears, but with their souls.
"You'll need it," Slytherin's voice said. "Because realities are already fluctuating. And your time… will be the first to break."