The next day saw me going about my business like I hadn't just fought a 60 foot long snake which could kill by just looking in one's eye just a few hours ago. I will go to the chamber to check it out in the night after every one had gone to sleep. Till then I went about here and there just enjoying the calm after my big fight, and if I see it, it was my first fight where I could die at any moment if I made even a small mistake.
This whole ordeal had made me focus less on what I had originally planned for my second year, runes, and now that I was free I could finally read into it and read into it I did. It was mind blowing that such a field of magic is not compulsory for every one to learn. I now truly understood what runic magic was—not just as diagrams in a dusty tome, but as something living, ancient, and terrifyingly beautiful. It's not like spellwork, not really. Spells are words—refined, focused, cast like arrows from the mouth or wand. But runes? Runes are the bones of magic itself. Each one is a symbol drawn from a deeper place, older than language, older than wizards. They don't just represent forces—they *are* the forces. When you draw a rune, you're not merely scribbling a symbol, you're invoking an ancient contract with reality, and reality listens. I learned that every rune carries its own resonance, like a musical note hummed by the universe. The Rune of Fire, *Kenaz*, isn't just about heat or flame—it speaks to illumination, to knowledge made painful, to rebirth through destruction. The Rune of Protection, *Algiz*, doesn't just block harm—it channels ancestral will, the shield that stands between order and chaos. And that's just the beginning. There are hundreds—maybe thousands—of runes, some we've catalogued, most still forgotten or buried in lost languages. The uses are as endless as the shapes themselves: shielding runes woven into clothing to deflect curses, anchoring runes carved into stone to bind enchantments in place for centuries, triggering runes hidden in doors and vaults, waiting for a single matching glyph to open. I've seen runes etched into battlefields to amplify strength and focus, drawn on skin to mark pacts with magical creatures, whispered into the edge of a knife to turn it into a soul-bound weapon. Some runes don't even need to be activated—just the act of writing them in the right place with the right intent causes reality to bend. I once read about a ritual that used seven runes placed around a sleeping person to rewrite their dreams—and their memories. Runes can curse, heal, bind, reveal, or destroy. The most terrifying ones are the composite runes—hybrids forged by master runesmiths, combining the essences of multiple symbols into new, barely understood patterns. Those are dangerous, chaotic, beautiful things. But there's a logic to them, a symmetry that sings to anyone who listens closely. The older wizarding families used to tattoo runes into their skin at adulthood, their bodies turned into living grimoires. The Starborns—we were no different. Our family seal, etched in starlight and silence, was built on seven interlocking runes only the heir was ever meant to know. I haven't found them all yet. But I will. Because if there's one thing I've learned, it's that runes don't lie. They don't obey politics or bloodlines or ego. They respond only to will, intent, and understanding. And when you finally get it—when you truly grasp the meaning of the mark you draw—it's like holding a sliver of creation itself in the palm of your hand.
I still remember the moment I first felt it—that strange, subtle thrum in the air, like a silent chord resonating just behind my heartbeat. It wasn't during a Charms lesson, or even in the middle of wandwork. It was when I found an old leather-bound journal tucked deep within the Restricted Section at Hogwarts, its cover cracked with age, pages stitched not with thread but with silver wire. The title was scorched off, but the first page bore a single rune etched in iron ink: *Ansuz*—the rune of insight, of divine inspiration. From that moment on, I was never the same. That book wasn't just filled with symbols—it was filled with power. Real power. Not the kind you brandish with a wand, but the kind you *become*. Runic magic, as I came to understand it, isn't a branch of magic in the way Charms or Transfiguration are. It's the skeleton beneath it all, the structure of magic itself rendered in shapes and patterns. Runes are the oldest magical language in existence, predating human civilization, perhaps even the spoken word. Where spells command, runes *negotiate*. Where incantations coerce magic into shape, runes simply call it by name and wait for it to answer.
Each rune is a symbolic glyph, yes, but more than that, it is an archetype—a raw conceptual force that embodies an aspect of reality. When I draw *Isa*, the rune of stillness and ice, I'm not conjuring cold—I'm aligning with the concept of stasis, of suspended time, of frozen will. When I trace *Thurisaz*, I'm not summoning violence—I'm invoking the primal force of chaotic defense, of divine fury and unshaped conflict. The uses are endless and nuanced. I've seen runes used to reinforce ancient wards, preserve time-bound pacts, store magical energy, or manipulate elemental forces with precision that spellwork could never offer. In one experiment, I carved *Eiwaz*, the rune of endurance and death-transcendence, into the wood of my wand, just once, in silverleaf. The wand responded to me like it never had before—more fluid, more alert, as if it had been listening all along but was now finally heard.
There are base runes—typically the Elder Futhark, a set of 24 primal glyphs—but these are merely the building blocks. From them stem hundreds, maybe thousands of derived symbols, contextual runes, composite matrices. And even those pale before the *Living Runes*, as some ancient texts call them: forgotten sigils that once encoded entire rituals or magical laws into a single stroke. The Goblins have their own secret runic system, forged in the fires of metallurgy and oathcraft. The druids used spiraling runes that could only be read in motion, their meanings shifting with the sun and moon. The old Norse wandsmiths would etch protective runes into the grain of their staves so subtly that they could only be seen in moonlight.
In practice, runic magic can be passive or active. Passive runes are inscribed onto surfaces—walls, stones, armor, even skin—and act as stabilizers or conductors of magical effect. One doesn't need to constantly channel power into them; they simply hold space for magic to dwell. Active runes, on the other hand, are drawn with the intent of immediate magical discharge. This could be in the form of a trap rune that detonates when crossed, a sealing rune that binds spirits to objects, or an activation matrix etched into a golem's core to give it sentience. What makes runic magic even more astonishing is that it can be used in conjunction with other branches of magic. I once read of a Transfiguration Master who used *Gebo*, the rune of exchange, to stabilize a polymorph spell, locking its parameters to prevent the transformation from unraveling under magical strain. Another tale spoke of a healer who used *Laguz*, the rune of water and flow, drawn in blessed ink along the spine of a patient, to accelerate nerve regeneration after a cursed paralysis.
But it's not just about crafting effects—runic magic can be used to *communicate* with magic itself. Wizards often think of magic as a tool, something to be directed. But runes suggest something more profound: that magic is a language we barely understand, and every rune we draw is a word in a sentence we are only just beginning to speak. When I practiced meditating with runes carved in chalk around me, I felt my magic align—not surge, not explode, just *align*, like gears finally clicking into place. That sort of resonance doesn't happen with spells. It happens when your intent and the universe momentarily speak the same tongue.
The greatest strength of runic magic, though, lies In its permanence. Spells fade, enchantments unravel, but runes can endure centuries. The Founders themselves were said to have used runes to anchor the magical architecture of Hogwarts. Deep beneath the castle, beneath even the Chamber of Secrets, there are sigils carved into the foundation stone—wards of loyalty, of secrecy, of welcome and denial. They have outlasted dynasties, wars, and even magic itself in some places. It is said that only one who can *understand* those runes—not just see them, but know them—can ever change the castle's deepest laws. Of course, this power comes with danger. Runes are precise. One wrong stroke, one careless flick, and what was meant to summon healing could instead call decay. And some runes—those with no names, no records—should never be drawn. I read about one such rune found in an ancient vault beneath Gringotts, burned into obsidian. When copied and activated, it caused a magical implosion that erased not just the room but all record of the vault itself. That rune is now referred to only as *Null*, the Rune of Unmaking.
As a Starborn, I feel a strange pull to runes. Our family has always dabbled in high ritual magic, in the language of the stars and time, and I suspect our ancestral magic is entwined with these symbols in ways even I don't fully grasp yet. Our crest, the Silver Star ascending through the Rings of Fate, is itself a layered rune—a sigil not just of identity, but of invocation. There are hidden runes in the margins of our family grimoires, some that only respond when traced with starlight or bloodline. They're part of me. And when I draw them, when I feel their hum beneath my fingertips, it's like waking up an old part of myself I never knew was asleep.
Runic magic isn't just another tool in a wizard's arsenal. It's the act of writing on the skin of the world, of placing meaning into form, and of becoming part of the spell yourself. And in a world where so much is shifting, uncertain, and fragile, there's a kind of peace in that—a truth etched in lines no time or tyranny can erase.
It was almost midnight by the time I had finished my reading into runes meaning it was time to explore the Chamber of Secrets. I slipped out of the Ravenclaw common room after ensuring that the disillusionment charm was in place and my dorm room door was locked. Going around the hallways with silent footsteps I noticed the beauty of it all, yesterday I couldn't even notice the moon in the sky because of the nervousness in my system. But now I could see, it was as magical as it could be and more the distant hoots of owls going about there hunt in the night the occasional sounds from the forest. It was all more pronounced in the silence of night letting all other sounds echo in the empty hallways.
I reached my destination and after a few commands I was in the chamber looking upon the snake with wonder, even if it would kill me if it were alive, it was beautiful beast and majestic, the king of serpents indeed. After admiring it for a while I went on too dismember it. I stepped closer, wand in hand, my breath steady, controlled. I had brought everything I would need: enchanted trunks lined with cooling and stasis charms, preservation runes etched carefully by my own hand, containment enchantments to suppress magical residue, and a small ritual blade—goblin-forged—sharp enough to part scale and time.
There was reverence in the way I worked, but no hesitation. The Basilisk was more than a creature—it was a vault of magic, a trove of ingredients so rare that only the greatest potioneers, cursebreakers, and artificers ever dared dream of them. I began with the fangs. Carefully, methodically, I severed each one with a combination of precise Severing Charms and cushioning spells to keep them intact. Each fang held enough venom to kill a fully grown troll with a drop—and enough magical potency to form the base of an Unbreakable Vow's anchor. I wrapped each in dragonhide and sealed them in their own separate compartment, charmed to prevent accidental leakage. The venom sacs came next—dangerous, volatile, and pulsing faintly even in death. I used a stasis rune to still them before extraction, floating them gently into their containers without ever touching them.
Then came the eyes, their tissues still radiated a strange, dangerous magic—an echo of their petrifying gaze. I siphoned off the ambient magic with a mirrored vial lined in basilisk-resistant silver, locking the energies within before plucking what little remained of the lenses and optic nerves. The heart was next—enormous, coiled in layers of enchanted muscle. With careful Transfiguration, I parted the ribs without shattering them, then extracted the heart whole. It weighed nearly as much as I did. Still warm, still pulsing with raw magical potential. I stored it in a rune-engraved trunk reinforced with multiple layers of temperature, pressure, and corruption wards.
The skin was the most arduous. Basilisk hide Is armor—resistant to spells, to claws, even to certain curses. I used a fine mesh of Blasting Hexes to separate it from the muscle without damage, rolling it into sheets as I went. A full-grown Basilisk's hide was enough to craft half a dozen suits of magical armor or dozens of shield cloaks. The marrow, the bones, the glands—all had their purpose. The marrow could be used in animating constructs. The bones would make for formidable wand cores or ritual chalk. Even the fluid from its joints, once distilled properly, had applications in strength-enhancing potions.
Throughout it all, I worked alone—silent, focused, each movement precise. I cast cleansing charms when necessary, repaired my own nicks and bruises, and triple-sealed each trunk once full. It was bloody work, meticulous work, but also satisfying in a way I hadn't expected. This wasn't just harvesting a body. It was claiming victory, preserving power, honoring the magnitude of the creature I had fought and the legacy of what its remains could become. When the last trunk was sealed and the last spell laid down, I stood over the now-empty skeleton and felt something deep and old settle within me. I had faced the monster in the dark and survived. And now, I carried its power—not as a trophy, but as a tool. The kind of tool a wizard like me would need for the war yet to come.
Then I moved to the place it came from, transfiguring a set of stairs into the entrance to scout out any thing. It was a huge tunnel going down to who knows where. I would have to come again as the time dismembering the Basilisk was more than I had initially thought. Taking all the trunks would not mean much, I could just leave them here as no one but me could enter it for now. So I did just that and went back to bed to retire for the night. I will come here next week to explore the chamber in more detail.