The next stage of my journey began not in some ancient ruin or arcane vault, but in a muggle hospital.
I spent nearly two years walking sterile halls filled with the scent of antiseptic and mortality. Machines hummed softly, doctors murmured in urgency, and I learned. I studied biology—human and creature alike—breaking down every system, every organ, every fragile rhythm that kept life moving forward. I wanted to understand life not through spellwork, but through flesh and blood, through the fragile thread that ties existence together.
After mastering their science, I turned to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. There, my research deepened. I learned the hidden patterns of magical disease, the intricate art of keeping a wizard alive when even their soul teetered on the edge of death. I combined muggle techniques with my own magic, creating new spells and remedies that transcended what either world had achieved alone.
I healed burns left by cursed fire. I regrew hearts torn apart by dark magic. I treated minds fractured by possession and souls splintered by forbidden rituals. The healers called me a miracle worker—The Eternal Healer.
I tended to dragons, phoenixes, and griffins. I learned how the blood of a basilisk reacts to phoenix tears, how dragon hearts burn with their own rhythm, and how the flame of rebirth itself sustains life. Every living being became a puzzle I could understand… and fix.
And yet, even as my knowledge expanded beyond human comprehension, a quiet dread grew within me.
Immortality. It stretched endlessly ahead, a cold horizon without light. No spell or potion could fill the hollow ache that came from knowing that everyone I cared for—every student, every ally, every friend—would one day fade to dust while I remained. Even my own creations, my clones, were just extensions of me, shadows that vanished when their work was done.
I tried to distract myself with my research, with purpose, with creation. But sometimes, when the laboratory fell silent, I could feel the weight of eternity pressing down upon me.Even love—something so simple and human—had abandoned me. No matter how many hearts I touched, no matter how many lovers I took, there was no spark. No warmth. Only emptiness.
Still, I pressed on. Because if I stopped, I feared the silence of immortality would consume me whole.