Chapter 239: Slytherin's Notes
Pushing open the stone door, Phineas stepped into a chamber that resembled an ancient laboratory. Murals were carved into the walls, depicting various magical creatures—dragons, chimaeras, manticores—each rendered with exquisite detail. The final image, unsurprisingly, was of the massive basilisk Phineas had seen earlier.
Yet, this room held far more than ancient artwork.
At the far end stood another door, far more imposing. It was etched with dense and cryptic inscriptions in an archaic magical language. A massive, snake-shaped sigil curled at the center. On either side, stone guardians stood motionless, swords crossed over the doorway, barring entry.
Phineas's pulse quickened. This had to be it—Slytherin's true legacy.
But the guardians would not yield. Clearly, some mechanism or incantation was required to lower their blades.
Phineas recalled the inscription he'd seen engraved near the statue of Salazar Slytherin in the Chamber of Secrets. It had been hidden—either behind the statue or carved into its base—and written in Niru script, an ancient dialect only comprehensible to him thanks to Ravenclaw's legacy.
He repeated the phrase aloud:
"Salute to the great forerunner—Salazar Slytherin."
Nothing happened. No rumble, no flash of light. The guards remained steadfast, unmoving. Phineas sighed. It had been a long shot anyway.
Had he missed something?
Phineas took a deeper look around the chamber. He had rushed through it earlier, eager for the door. Now he noticed more.
First, the lighting. This room was far brighter than Basque's lair outside. Tiny floating sparks of magic hovered near the ceiling—ancient detection spells, still functional after centuries. Their longevity was a testament to the strength of the magic of Slytherin's time.
It wasn't just the ceiling. Beneath the murals were stone desks scattered with yellowed, crumpled sheets—not paper, but something tougher. As Phineas handled one, he recognized the texture. Snake skin, dried and tanned into parchment.
The notes scrawled upon them were unremarkable. Failed spells, abandoned alchemical experiments, idle musings. No clues to bypass the guards.
He pulled out the dusty chair by one desk, cleaned it casually, and sat, closing his eyes in frustration. His mind raced for any hint, any detail he might've missed.
Unlike the other founders' chambers, he had found Slytherin's not by solving a riddle or decoding a map, but through foreknowledge—knowledge from a world that didn't belong. Without the events described in the original story—Harry's encounter with the diary, the basilisk, the sword—Phineas wouldn't be here at all.
This chamber was not meant to be found easily. And he had no map to follow now.
Determined, Phineas stood again and resumed his search—this time combing over every inch of the room. He shifted desks, overturned stones, and moved the empty bookshelves lining the far wall.
That's when he found it.
Behind one bookshelf, concealed by dust and shadow, was another mural. But this one was different. It wasn't a scene or a beast—it was a cryptic array of serpent-like S-shapes, all interwoven. Some long, some short. Some coiled. Some bent upwards or downwards. It almost seemed meaningless.
But the moment Feeney laid eyes on it, something clicked inside him.
He understood.
Not consciously—he couldn't read it, not in the normal sense. But instinctively, as if some ancient inheritance stirred within him, he recognized its meaning.
His lips moved of their own accord, speaking in Parseltongue.
"The miracle of blood and wine, the mystery hidden in blood, the key to the road to godhood, the beginning of all things, the origin of the world's misfortune—
Open your arms to me.
Let me understand you, accept you, feel you, and walk the path of transcendence."
As the final hiss left his lips, the swords held by the stone guardians slowly began to part. The statues stirred, drawing back their weapons. They stepped aside and extended their arms to push the stone door open. Then, as if recognizing Phineas as their rightful heir, they kneeled, silently saluting him.
The chamber beyond was shrouded in darkness—until Phineas stepped inside.
Light flared to life on the ceiling, identical to the magic in the laboratory. Another automatic enchantment, triggered by his presence.
This room wasn't a lab. It was a library.
Endless shelves stretched from wall to wall, filled with books—nothing else. No tools, no ingredients. Just knowledge.
Phineas approached cautiously. His mind flashed back to Hufflepuff's cryptic warning—hints that Slytherin might still be alive, watching, waiting. But the room was cold and still. No sign of recent activity. Some protective enchantments on the bookshelves had faded over time, and books crumbled to dust at a touch.
Thankfully, Phineas was careful.
Many of the titles were unfamiliar, their contents long lost to time. Some, however, he recognized—rare tomes he had seen only because of his status in the Black family and the magical gifts sent to him over the years.
But what truly caught his eye were not the books.
It was a bundle of handwritten notes.
Personal notes—Slytherin's own.
These weren't enchanted. No cursed bindings. No magical traps. And Phineas's gifted magical sight confirmed—they were utterly mundane.
But their contents were anything but.
He flipped through the first one.
No arcane spells or secret rituals. No powerful incantations. Instead, they detailed the hidden history of wizardkind—truths that had long been buried by time and politics.
Phineas already knew parts of this story—passed down through his position in the Elder Council, and supplemented by Hufflepuff's memories. But here, in Slytherin's own hand, were the full, unfiltered truths.
Wizards were not born of pure human evolution.
The earliest "gods" were not divine beings but powerful magical creatures—phoenixes, basilisks, dragons, giants, and others. And rather than being revered, they often brought chaos and destruction to early human societies.
In desperation, humans turned to sacrifice. But not offerings of food or gold. They sacrificed young girls—not to feed the gods, but to entertain them.
The results were brutal. Many girls perished in horrific ways. But some survived.
Those survivors were taken by the beasts, raised among them, and eventually bore offspring—hybrids. Most died. A few lived. And among them, the spark of magic was born.
Generation by generation, that spark was nurtured—until humans began to carry magic in their blood.
This, Slytherin claimed, was the true origin of wizardkind.
And those bloodlines—those born from the first unions—formed the ancient pure-blood families. The Dumbledores, said to carry phoenix fire. The Weasleys, blessed with powerful white magic. The Blacks, heirs to vast magical reserves.
Slytherin's own legacy, the basilisk's snark, was his mark of divine heritage.
Beneath these accounts, Slytherin wrote of his own reflections—his thoughts on the gods, the cost of magic, and the path to godhood.
As Hufflepuff had once told Phineas, the road to divinity was paved by the purification of one's magical blood. The gods had always been magical beasts. To become one, a wizard must transcend humanity—reclaim that primal, magical essence.
Phineas closed the final page with a heavy breath.
This was no mere legacy.
It was a warning, a confession, and a challenge—left by one of the greatest wizards to ever live.