The chamber unfurled before Chris like a living cathedral, nothing like the cold stone of Gryffindor's sanctuary. Instead of rigid architecture, nature itself seemed to form the walls, an intricate lattice of ancient tree roots, thick as his thigh and pale as bone, wove together in patterns both deliberate and wild. Between them, soft green moss glowed with gentle vitality, cushioning every surface as if the very room had been designed for comfort rather than grandeur. And the light, Chris drew in a breath of surprise, came not from torches or magical fire, but from countless moonstones embedded in lanterns throughout the chamber, each emitting a soft, silvery radiance that cast no shadows and seemed to breathe with a gentle rhythm all its own.
After the chaos and violence of the acromantula battle, the peaceful atmosphere washed over him like a healing balm. His body, still tense from combat, gradually relaxed as he ventured further inside. The air carried a subtle perfume of earth and growing things, crisp and clean despite being underground for centuries.
"Extraordinary," he whispered, his voice absorbed by the living walls without echo.
The chamber was roughly circular, perhaps forty feet across, with a domed ceiling that rose twenty feet at its apex. Tree roots spiralled upward to form the dome, intertwining so densely that no earth showed through. Small flowers bloomed from the moss in clusters, tiny stars of yellow, white, and blue that had no business thriving without sunlight, yet clearly flourished under Hufflepuff's enchantments.
Chris approached one wall, placing his hand against the moss. It yielded slightly beneath his touch, springy and alive. Through his senses, he could feel the subtle pulse of magic that sustained this ecosystem, not forcing the plants to grow, but rather creating perfect conditions for them to thrive naturally. This was Hufflepuff's approach to magic, he realized. Not dominance, but nurturing. Not command, but collaboration.
Pools of crystal-clear water dotted the chamber's perimeter, each no larger than a washbasin but seemingly bottomless when he peered into their depths. Tiny golden fish darted through the water, leaving trails of luminescence in their wake. Near each pool grew clusters of magical herbs, some he recognized from Herbology lessons, others entirely unfamiliar.
"Dittany, aconite, gillyweed," he identified aloud, moving from one cluster to the next. "And these must be extinct species."
He noticed how the plantings formed a pattern, a vast magical circle with each herb placed precisely to create currents of complementary energies. This was no random garden but a carefully designed magical ecosystem, sustaining itself through balanced forces rather than constant magical input.
Stone benches carved from warm, honey-coloured rock formed an inner circle about ten feet in diameter. Each bench bore subtle carvings of badgers, bees, and what looked to be healing plants, the craftsmanship so delicate it seemed impossible they had been made by human hands.
And there, at the center of everything, stood a simple stone pedestal.
Chris approached it slowly, drawn by the object resting atop it. The pedestal itself was unadorned limestone, rising about waist-high, worn smooth by time. Atop it lay a thick, leather-bound book, the unmistakable shape of a magical Grimoire.
Unlike the ostentatious gold-embossed tomes of more self-important wizards, this book's cover was simple tanned leather, the colour of autumn leaves, with only a small badger emblem pressed into its center. Its edges were worn, suggesting frequent use rather than ceremonial preservation. This had been a working book, not merely a symbol.
"Helga Hufflepuff's Grimoire," Chris breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not hidden behind impossible trials or deadly traps, but simply waiting in this peaceful place."
He circled the pedestal once, taking in the entirety of the chamber again. Unlike Gryffindor's combat-focused sanctuary or what he imagined Slytherin's chamber might contain, this space wasn't designed to test worthiness through danger or intellectual prowess. The very act of reaching it, finding the entrance, passing through acromantula territory, had been the only protection it needed for centuries.
Small channels of water ran from the pools toward the central pedestal, forming a star pattern in the moss-covered floor. The channels didn't quite reach the pedestal itself but stopped about a foot away, creating a perfect circle of dry ground around it. Chris noticed how the moonstones glowed slightly brighter near the pedestal, illuminating the Grimoire with particular clarity.
As he stepped into the circle, the subtle magical energies of the chamber seemed to intensify. Not threatening, but aware, as if the magic of the place was taking his measure. Through his enhanced perception, Chris could feel layers of enchantments, ancient but still potent, woven throughout the chamber. Preservation spells, growth charms, purification enchantments for the water, and something else, something centered on the Grimoire itself.
Protective magic, he realized. Not aggressive wards like those guarding treasures or dangerous artifacts, but rather a gentle shield, similar to what a parent might cast over a sleeping child. The magic didn't seek to harm intruders but simply to ensure that the knowledge contained within fell to worthy hands.
Standing before the pedestal at last, Chris studied the Grimoire more closely. Despite its apparent age, the leather remained supple, showing no signs of decay. The pages, visible at the edges, were cream-colored and thick, likely parchment of the highest quality. The book wasn't particularly large, perhaps fourteen inches tall and ten inches wide, but looked to be several hundred pages thick.
This close, he could sense the immense magical potential contained within those pages. Whatever knowledge Hufflepuff had deemed important enough to preserve here, it radiated power, not the destructive force of battle magic or the reality-bending potential of transfiguration, but something deeper, more fundamental.
After the day's violence, after watching goblins fall in battle and cutting Aragog in half with a spell designed for war, the presence of such nurturing magic felt like a counterbalance the universe itself had arranged. Chris reached toward the book, his fingers hovering just above its worn cover, preparing himself for whatever challenge Helga Hufflepuff had designed to protect her legacy.
...
Chris's fingers met invisible resistance an inch above the Grimoire's cover, as if pressing against a pane of glass. The magic was gentle but unyielding, clearly meant to prevent casual handling rather than harm those who tried. He applied slightly more pressure, channeling a small amount of his own magic through his fingertips, testing the barrier's nature rather than attempting to force it. In response, golden letters began to materialize on the leather cover, elegant script forming a single, profound question: "What will you use this knowledge for?"
The simplicity of the question caught him off guard. After Gryffindor's trial of courage, he had expected something more elaborate, perhaps a test of healing skill or botanical knowledge, areas where Hufflepuff had excelled. Yet here was merely a question, direct and unadorned, with no hint of what answer might satisfy the enchantment.
Chris straightened, considering his response carefully. This wasn't just about gaining access to the book; it was about understanding Helga Hufflepuff herself. While Gryffindor valued courage and prowess, Ravenclaw prized intellect, and Slytherin honoured ambition and cunning, Hufflepuff had always been characterized by different virtues, loyalty, hard work, inclusivity, and above all, fairness.
"She took the students the others rejected," Chris murmured to himself, recalling the Sorting Hat's song. "She believed everyone deserved education, not just the brave or brilliant or cunning."
He looked around the chamber again, seeing it with new understanding. Unlike the other founders who selected for specific traits, Hufflepuff had built a space that welcomed all, that nurtured rather than tested. The living walls, the gentle light, the comfortable benches arranged in a circle where all could sit as equals, everything reflected her philosophy.
What answer would satisfy such a founder? What would Helga Hufflepuff, who valued inclusivity above exclusivity, consider a worthy use of her knowledge?
He could fabricate something grand and noble, speak of advancing magical theory or preserving ancient wisdom. He could promise to use the magic only for good, never for harm. But somehow, Chris sensed that Hufflepuff's enchantment would detect such calculated responses. This wasn't about saying the "right" thing; it was about honest intent.
The golden question continued to glow, patient and unwavering. Chris closed his eyes, looking inward at his own motivations. Despite all his plans and strategies, despite his pursuit of power and knowledge, what truly drove him?
He thought of Susan and Hannah, of the injured goblins he'd helped heal after the battle, of the students at Hogwarts he wanted to protect. He thought of the joy he felt when mastering a new spell not just for its power, but for what it allowed him to accomplish, to secure, to defend, to heal.
Opening his eyes, Chris gave his answer, speaking clearly to the empty chamber: "To help those who need it."
For a moment, nothing happened. The golden letters remained unchanged, glowing steadily in the moonstone light. Then, they began to fade, not disappearing entirely but sinking into the leather as if being absorbed. A soft click followed, like the sound of a well-made lock opening, and the invisible barrier dissolved beneath his fingertips.
Chris blinked, almost disbelieving the simplicity of it. "That's it?"
He reached out again, and this time his fingers met the worn leather of the cover. The book felt warm to the touch, almost alive, humming with contained magical knowledge. As he carefully lifted it from the pedestal, he was struck by how light it felt despite its size, as if the magic within somehow negated its physical weight.
"Of course that was the trial," he realized, a smile touching his lips. "Hufflepuff didn't want to test skill or power or even specific intent. She just wanted to ensure her knowledge would be used to help, not harm."
It was perhaps the most profound test of all, not a challenge to overcome, but an honest declaration of purpose. Where Gryffindor had him face and overcome his fear, Hufflepuff asked only that he commit to using her wisdom for the benefit of others. Different approaches to legacy, each reflecting their founder's values.
With reverent care, Chris opened the Grimoire to its first pages. The parchment was pristine despite its age, preserved by magic that felt as fresh as if it had been cast yesterday. The text was written in a flowing hand, neat and legible, with occasional drawings in the margins, plants, wand movements, even small diagrams of the human body.
"A Complete Compendium of Healing Arts," read the title page, "By Helga Hufflepuff, Healer and Teacher."
Chris turned the pages slowly, absorbing the book's organization. It was divided into sections: Emergency Healing, Curse Damage Reversal, Magical Maladies, Restorative Potions, Plant-Based Remedies, and Mind Healing. Each category contained spells, potions, and techniques far more advanced than anything taught at St. Mungo's or Hogwarts in the modern era.
One section particularly caught his eye - "Soul Fracture Healing." The pages detailed methods for repairing magical damage to the soul itself, injuries considered permanent by modern healers. There were spells for mending the psychological trauma of Dementor exposure, rituals for healing those who had damaged themselves through dark magic, even techniques for addressing the self-mutilation caused by creating Horcruxes.
"This is..." Chris whispered, awestruck. "This is beyond anything in modern healing."
He continued through the book, finding lost arts on every page. Hufflepuff had recorded techniques for regrowing limbs in hours rather than days, cures for magical ailments now considered chronic, methods for extending life without the moral compromise of a Philosopher's Stone. Unlike many ancient texts that mixed genuine wisdom with superstition, every entry appeared methodical and practical, the work of a master healer recording proven techniques.
The final section dealt with preventative magic, wards and enchantments designed to maintain health, boost natural healing, and create environments conducive to recovery. Chris recognized the principles behind the chamber itself, the balanced ecosystem that had sustained itself for centuries.
"She was brilliant," he murmured, carefully closing the book. "Not flashy, not intimidating, but absolutely brilliant."
With gentle reverence, Chris whispered the shrinking spell that reduced the Grimoire to the size of a matchbox. He removed the chain from around his neck, where Merlin, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor's miniaturized Grimoire already hung, and added Hufflepuff's beside it. Three founders' legacies now, with one more to discover.
Chris took one last look at the peaceful sanctuary, committing its details to memory. Then, with his new treasure secured around his neck, he turned and made his way back toward the spiral staircase, ready to re-join the goblin party above. Behind him, the moonstones dimmed slightly, as if the chamber itself was settling back into patient waiting, ready for the next worthy visitor, whenever they might arrive.