Now that I was seventeen, I was officially an adult in the magical world. That meant one thing — I could finally connect myself to a magical source.
A magical source was a wellspring of power, a deep reservoir of pure magical energy that a witch or wizard could attune themselves to. It offered incredible benefits — faster regeneration of magical energy, stronger spell potency, and the expansion of one's own reserves. The stronger the source, the greater the reward.
And I had my eyes set on one of the greatest — Slytherin's Source.
It was said to be one of the top five in all of England, perhaps even rivaling the great magical nodes beneath Hogwarts itself. The British Isles had three major shared sources: Hogwarts, the Ministry of Magic, and the ancient stone circle of Stonehenge. But those were public — shared among countless witches and wizards, their energies diluted by centuries of use.
Slytherin's Source, however, was different. Hidden, private, and bound to Salazar Slytherin's bloodline — and now, thanks to my heritage and power — mine alone.
That made it infinitely more valuable.
As I began the ritual of attunement, ancient green runes glowed faintly around me, coiling like serpents along the stone floor. I could feel the vast power of the Source reaching out, testing me, judging my worth. I let my magic flow freely, intertwining with it, matching its rhythm and pulse. The air trembled, and a faint hiss echoed through the chamber.
When the connection solidified, a rush of power surged through me — overwhelming, intoxicating. My magic reserves expanded exponentially, the sensation like inhaling pure fire and lightning. My body thrummed with energy. My regeneration accelerated to impossible levels, and my spells hummed with newfound precision and raw force.
The bond was complete.
I could feel it — the ancient might of Salazar Slytherin himself flowing through my veins, as though his serpentine will had chosen me as his heir.
The Slytherin Source was mine.