Chapter 232 - A lesson in History!

{15th July 1991} 

{Rigel's POV}

Pain radiated sharply through my skull, and I fought against it, my breath quickening with every second. My thoughts spun wildly, a desperate storm trying to latch onto something—anything—that might free me from this predicament. But every attempt was thwarted: my mana, a comforting presence I'd relied on, lay inaccessible and inert, locked behind whatever enchantments these chains carried.

My wrists twisted painfully behind my back, fingers scraping futilely against the metal links. A surge of frustration ran through me as I recognized that I couldn't even sense the runes suppressing my magic. With my ankles similarly chained, I couldn't even muster the leverage to forcefully tip the chair, let alone mount a surprise physical assault. It was a thoroughly demoralizing realization: for the first time in a very long while, I was utterly, completely trapped.

'Fuck...I don't think I can escape.' The thought was depressing as I couldn't think of one thing that I could leverage to escape.

My jaw clenched, eyes scanning the bare stone walls. Shadows danced dimly around the singular magical candle suspended in the center of the room, flickering softly as if mocking me. A gentle whir occasionally whispered from the stationary ceiling fan, breaking an otherwise oppressive silence. Everything in the room felt starkly mundane, except for the magical candle—bright enough to illuminate clearly, yet not strong enough to chase away the shadows from my mind.

Just as despair started to creep into the edges of my thoughts, a subtle ripple of mana stirred the air, pulling sharply at my senses. My head jerked immediately to the right, and I felt the chair creak ominously beneath me.

The wall beside me rippled like the surface of a pond disturbed by a pebble, then faded into transparency, revealing another room. My breath caught sharply.

On the other side, bound and blindfolded, were Sirius, Harry, Ron, Fred, George, and Ginny—each tied to chairs identical to my own. Relief flooded through me, briefly alleviating my tension. None of them appeared physically injured. From their mana signatures, anxiety and confusion dominated, but the sharp edges of pain and fear I had dreaded were absent. At least my friends hadn't been tortured, not yet anyway. Still, seeing them bound filled me with cold dread.

'Where was Parvati?' I thought. Perhaps she had been sent home, her purpose fulfilled. My gut twisted uncomfortably at the thought. She'd tried warning me, and yet it was too late as we had already fallen into the trap.

Before I could further dissect these thoughts, movement drew my attention back. Through the translucent wall, Mrs. Patil stood watching, an enigmatic smile tugging faintly at her lips. Our eyes locked briefly. I masked my emotions, reinforcing my mental defenses, pushing down anxiety with practiced discipline. After a long moment, she turned smoothly and left the adjoining room, the wall solidifying once more, plunging my vision back into oppressive darkness.

My mana senses remained attuned, tracking her movements effortlessly through the corridors until the door swung open abruptly. Mrs. Patil sauntered into the chamber, alone this time, her husband conspicuously absent. A confident sway carried her forward as she raised one hand, her ring glinted as it channeled mana, as her hand gracefully traced an intricate pattern through the air. Her mana pulsed precisely, conjuring a chair—elaborately carved with a flowery design—clearly meant to make an impression.

She seated herself elegantly, crossing her legs, and fixed me with an intense, appraising gaze. "Well then, Mr. Black," she began silkily, "do we have a deal?"

I leaned forward slightly, masking my anxiety beneath a veneer of casual indifference. "I'm entirely in the dark here. What exactly do you want from me?"

A small smile curled her lips as she tilted her head thoughtfully, eyes narrowed as if considering something carefully. But my mana senses detected no genuine hesitation—this was pure theater, a performance designed to unsettle me. She leaned closer, and her cleavage bulged slightly as the candlelight danced across her dark eyes.

"As we've said before, the final protections are sealed behind a bloodline lock—one that cannot be breached through brute force or deception. We require you... to bypass those protections and grant us access to Dhanvantari's legacy."

I felt my expression tighten subtly as I challenged her carefully, testing the limits of her patience. "And why do you assume I can do what countless wizards before me could not? Being able to read Parseltongue doesn't mean I have the ability to unlock a bloodline seal. Surely, you've already had capable wizards decode the text. You knew our interest in Allahabad precisely because someone else deciphered its location."

A low laugh escaped her lips, its bitterness immediately apparent. "It's ridiculous, isn't it?" she said softly, almost to herself. "For generations, my ancestors chased after Dhanvantari's secrets—his powers—only to repeatedly fail as they were stumped by the lock. And yet, you, who have stumbled blindly into this legacy, possess no real understanding of your own true heritage." Her voice dropped lower, colder, a darker note of bitterness creeping in.

"Parseltongue is more than just the ability to speak to serpents, Mr. Black. It is ancient and revered, woven deep into the fabric of our culture. Even muggles worship those who once walked with your rare talent as gods, venerating serpents as divine symbols of creation and destruction."

She paused, eyes blazing passionately now, her mana vibrating with barely suppressed emotion. "This gift you possess—marked as dark in your England—was, throughout history, a trait of great power, born from a soul's profound mutation. It appeared randomly, often signaling tremendous upheaval—until the wizard Dhanvantari discovered how to harness it, how to pass it to his descendants."

"Dhanvantari," she continued reverently, her voice softer yet tinged with bitterness, "was hailed as a god of healing, a wizard who glimpsed the secrets of the very soul itself. But after his death, his lineage was hunted relentlessly, his sons disappearing without a trace, likely victims of experiments seeking that very power." Her mana darkened further, bitterness coloring every word. "Centuries passed, fruitless and frustrating, until one day—a ripple in fate occurred. Every seer in the land felt it. Dhanvantari's legacy was opened again, but despite all efforts, no one could breach his protections."

"Then," she murmured intently, leaning closer, "a strange revelation reached us—that Salazar Slytherin, one of your founders, possessed Parseltongue, an ability unknown previously in the West and one that he hadn't revealed. And through Slytherin, his descendants inherited that incredible power; the lineage continued without fault. The Gaunt lineage, possessing potent soul magic through Parseltongue, eventually fell into ruin through inbreeding. But you, Rigel—you represent the resurrection of that pure lineage, the resurgence of true Parselmouth power."

My breath froze in my chest as everything finally clicked, heart pounding wildly. Her eyes bored into mine, triumphant yet chillingly dangerous. "Isn't that right… Mr. Gaunt?"

'Well fuck, should I blame Slytherin for this?'

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