Decades had folded into one another until time itself began to blur.I was a Grand Master in nearly every field worth naming—Alchemy, Potions, Transfiguration, the Dark Arts, Wards, Runes, and Healing. My laboratories brimmed with creations that lesser wizards called miracles: self‑repairing elixirs, potions that could rewrite a person's magical core, and artifacts that glowed with the breath of creation itself.
The world whispered my name with awe and fear in equal measure.They called me Headmaster, Archmage, Sovereign, sometimes even God. Titles mattered little; results did.
And still I researched.
Even with my dominion over death, I found that curiosity remained the one thing I could never silence. I had long since learned that mastery of one branch of magic only opened the door to a thousand more. Each discovery sprouted questions, each success revealed another horizon.
The halls of Hogwarts thrummed beneath my steps—alive, ancient, loyal. I had ruled it longer than any headmaster before me, yet the castle still yielded new secrets when I asked politely enough. Wards I had woven myself pulsed through the stone like veins of gold, feeding on the boundless energy that flowed from the Worldflame now resting within my soul.
Most days, one of my clones presided over the school. Another directed research in alchemical transmutation; another oversaw global magical policy from the Ministry; still others experimented in potions and healing or recorded new runic patterns deep in my underground archives. Without the Cloning Potion, I might have truly perished from exhaustion—though death, for me, had long ceased to be anything but an old acquaintance.
Yet this particular year demanded my personal presence.It was, according to the records of the old timeline, the year that history once began anew—the year a boy named Harry Potter would have first stepped into these halls.
So, for the first time in several seasons, I attended the Opening Feast myself rather than sending a duplicate.
I sat upon the Headmaster's throne beneath the enchanted ceiling and watched the line of first‑years enter. Among them were faces destiny once favored: Neville Longbottom with hesitant courage in his eyes; Ron Weasley, awkward but loyal; and Hermione Granger, a spark of brilliance so bright it almost tugged at my attention.
And then, of course, there was him—the boy who had once been destined to defeat the Dark Lord, now walking into a world already unified under my rule.
I wondered what stories might still unfold in a world where prophecy had already bent the knee. Perhaps new ones entirely.
After the Sorting Hat's final shout echoed through the Great Hall, I rose, spoke a few welcoming words, and allowed my aura to settle over the students like gentle sunlight. Many of them would not remember what I said—only that for a fleeting heartbeat they had felt the living pulse of true power.
When the applause faded, I left quietly, the Great Hall's doors closing behind me as though exhaling. I had research to continue, and eternity waits for no one.
In the solitude of my laboratories, my attention returned to transformation magic.I had mastered the ordinary Animagus forms years ago; my soul could slip into wolf, serpent, eagle, or fox with equal ease. But I wanted more.Why limit myself to the mundane when magical creatures roamed existence?
Dragons, phoenixes, thestrals—each radiated a unique magical signature. I dissected the nature of their essence, searching for the cipher that defined "magical being." My notes sprawled across tomes bound in scaled hide, runes spiraling in gold and crimson ink.
The breakthrough would come, I knew, though it might take decades. I had time—an infinite resource now that mortality no longer applied.
Still, another question obsessed me. My dominion as the God of Death gave me access to the boundless energy of the after‑realm—a dimension saturated with pure magic, drawn from the souls of all who had ever lived. Its power was infinite, but borrowed. If I fed too greedily, it would erode my individuality, turning me from a being of will into the realm itself.
That I would not allow.I desired strength that was mine, self‑contained, an inexhaustible sun at my core.
So I began constructing a new discipline: Soul Alchemy—a fusion of elemental theory, animagus essence, and metaphysical reinforcement. Through it, I aimed to expand my own magical reserves without siphoning from the dead. I would compress and refine my magic until it became a miniature star, a personal Worldflame burning eternally within me.
Every experiment, every rune, every incantation was a step toward that impossible perfection.
At times, I wandered the castle's upper corridors and watched the new generation from afar. Their laughter echoed like memories from a simpler age, when I, too, had walked these halls as a student with limitless ambition. Perhaps that was why I felt an odd fondness for young Hermione Granger. She reminded me of myself before omnipotence—brilliant, relentless, already destined to outgrow the boundaries around her.
After graduation, I thought, I will take her as a pupil. Seven years will pass in the blink of an eye.
Time means little to immortals, but the human part of me still cherished the rhythm of seasons—the way Hogwarts shifted from gold autumn to snow‑white winter, the smell of parchment and candle smoke drifting through the corridors. It was almost peaceful.
For now, I would let the children learn their illusions of limitation. I would continue my work in silence—on phoenix rebirth, on magical metamorphosis, on the endless pursuit of power refined into understanding.
Because even as the world bowed before me, I knew this truth:There is always another mystery waiting beyond the edge of mastery.