Chapter 228: The Road to Becoming a God
As Hufflepuff raised her hand and gently touched Phineas's temple, a sharp pain pierced his skull—and then, nothing.
Phineas lost consciousness.
In that strange unconsciousness, knowledge flooded his mind—ancient, hidden truths that explained how Hufflepuff had survived for so long, and why she had changed so much.
It wasn't just Hufflepuff's own magic that sustained her. The arcane forces that preserved her included magic traditionally associated with Slytherin as well. Unbeknownst to her, Phineas had already planned to seek out Slytherin's legacy next. Ironically, she had now passed on part of it to him—though only the portions she herself had mastered and integrated.
The truth was staggering: Hufflepuff was no longer human. Not truly.
Then again, wizards had never been entirely human. From the dawn of magical history, mankind had hunted, experimented on, and forcibly merged with magical creatures in pursuit of their powers. The result was the wizarding race—hybrids of human and beast, of instinct and intellect.
But Hufflepuff had gone further than most. She had become something different—something greater. If one were to label it, she was a demigod, or something perilously close to one.
Through the memories Hufflepuff left behind, Phineas also learned the truth behind the Elder Council—something he had long suspected.
Publicly, the Council had formed to unite all wizarding factions against the elves, who once threatened to purge the world of wizards entirely. But that was only part of the truth. The founders of the Council rarely participated in the war themselves. They allowed the rest of the magical world to fight and die while they hoarded resources and power.
The Elder Council was not a selfless guardian of the magical world—it was a gatekeeper, created by legendary wizards seeking to monopolize the path forward.
And they had succeeded.
The elves could have been destroyed. Had the full might of the legendary wizards been unleashed, they would have vanished from the world. But the Council needed the threat. It was a convenient excuse to establish dominance, control resources, and—eventually—ascend.
Three legendary wizards had already achieved godhood during that ancient era. Their ascension ensured that no others could follow—not for a thousand years. There was a fixed number of places for divine ascension in every era. Once filled, no one else, not even the most powerful demigod, could take the final step.
Worse still, a demigod's life was not eternal. Fail to ascend in time, and even they would perish.
This, then, was the source of Hufflepuff's rage. She had walked the path. She had endured. And now, with no hope left, she was left to wait for death.
The Elder Council, desperate to maintain control, had even targeted the descendants of the Founders, eliminating entire bloodlines to sever their paths. They feared what the Founders might become. After all, Hufflepuff's path—like Gryffindor's—was almost complete.
Each had taken a different route, but they had shared a starting point: the bloodline.
Gryffindor's Animagus form was not a mere animal—it was a reflection of his ancestral origin. While most wizards' forms were limited to mundane creatures due to diluted bloodlines, Gryffindor had restored his to its purest, primal state. Through obscure magic, he stabilized himself in that form, allowing his bloodline to evolve—transforming him into a magical creature, and eventually, a god.
That explained the massive, lifelike squid he had become—vibrant, eternal, divine.
Hufflepuff, however, followed a different but equally ancient road: potions.
Her heritage was rooted in alchemical transformation—specifically, the development of the Blood Potion. The potion required an enormous quantity of blood—half the volume of her own—and had to be drawn from descendants who shared a direct magical connection. That was why she summoned two heirs every twenty years: so they would survive the extraction, and she could share her teachings in return.
This potion, combined with her mastery of obscure magical bloodlines, allowed her to gradually reshape her being into something greater: a Chimera—a mythical fusion of multiple magical creatures. In legend, Chimeras represented impossible dreams. But Hufflepuff had turned myth into science.
She had already integrated three magical bloodlines. She needed only one more. In another century, she would have succeeded.
But then the Elder Council attacked her descendants, breaking the chain of inherited blood. Her path was halted—not because it had failed, but because she believed it had. That despair turned to fury.
She would die, and she knew it.
And now, thanks to Phineas, she was free—a demigod untethered, likely to turn her wrath on the Council that had ruined her.
Unless, of course, the Council still had demigods of its own—which was almost certainly the case. It would explain their ruthless pursuit of power, their elimination of threats, and their hoarding of divine seats.
Phineas had seen enough. He stirred from the dreamlike trance.
Hufflepuff was gone.
Puff and egg roll lay unconscious nearby, rendered insensate by her magic. He let them rest and turned toward the fireplace, guided by memories Hufflepuff had shared.
The flames parted as he approached, revealing hidden enchantments—seals of incredible power, and a passage beyond. He stepped through.
On the other side was a hidden chamber—Hufflepuff's refining room.
The space resembled an advanced Potions classroom. Massive cauldrons surrounded a central platform. The walls were lined with shelves, not of books, but of carefully sealed jars—each filled with rare or extinct potion ingredients, some long lost to history.
There were legendary plants like Wisdom Grass, which could enhance magical talent and intelligence, and Bloodline Grass, which refined and strengthened magical ancestry. These two herbs had vanished centuries ago, hunted to extinction.
But Hufflepuff had preserved them.
Surrounded by ancient equipment and impossible ingredients, Phineas understood: this was her true legacy.
He selected one stalk of Wisdom Grass and one of Bloodline Grass—enough to study, not to squander—and added auxiliary herbs for stability. Thanks to his training under Snape, he brewed a refined potion within the hour—a pink elixir, gleaming with untapped potential.
As he sealed the vial, Puff and egg roll awoke. He instructed them to transport all the herbs to a secret manor—one shielded by the Fidelius Charm, known only to himself and Lisa, his trusted confidante. Even the Black family had no claim on it.
There, the house-elves would attempt to cultivate the extinct plants anew.
When Phineas finally returned to Hogwarts, a day and night had passed.
As always, life had not stood still.
Back at school, Hogwarts buzzed with the latest rumor: Hagrid had supposedly raised a dragon—news spread, of course, by Draco Malfoy.
Despite Phineas's presence at Hogwarts, the animosity between Draco and the trio—Harry, Ron, and Neville—hadn't waned. Draco was still focused on antagonizing Ron and the rest of the Weasley family.
Phineas, for now, said nothing.
He had seen the path to godhood. And he knew it was stained with blood.