"Immortality. Agelessness. Undying. Unextinguished…"
After his conversation with Harry, Roger returned to the familiar quiet of the Hogwarts library. With the Quidditch season over, more students were scattered among the shelves, filling the space with hushed whispers and rustling parchment.
At a secluded table, Roger sketched out a roadmap for his future — the long, winding path to eternity. He had already begun the early stages of his pursuit of immortality. With the help of alchemy, he hoped to make visible progress within a year or two.
As for agelessness, that path remained more abstract — still forming in theory. While immortality dealt with the survival of body and soul, agelessness touched something deeper: the soul's resistance to the erosion of time itself. A person could live forever, theoretically, yet still fall victim to emotional fatigue, spiritual numbness, and the slow decay of meaning. Without a soul that could endure the passage of centuries without breaking, what value was there in immortality?
But that part could wait. The journey to agelessness was one of introspection, not invention. It wasn't something others could help with, and Roger knew he would return to it only after laying a solid foundation in immortality.
What concerned him more at the moment were the final steps — the realms of undying and unextinguished.
If his transfigurative modifications reached their peak, perhaps his physical form could be restored even from ashes. But how could a soul be rendered truly indestructible?
Drawing from obscure knowledge and memories from his previous life, Roger speculated on potential paths:Binding his existence to the flow of time itself — so long as time endured, so would he.Transmuting himself into a conceptual entity, existing as long as the idea he represented did.Becoming a memetic being, living within the shared subconscious of sentient life — undying, as long as minds existed to remember.But such feats were not only unthinkably complex — they were exponentially more difficult than mere immortality. Roger simply didn't have the bandwidth to pursue them now.
So he devised a workaround: delegation.
Just as he had entrusted a portion of the immortality path to Hagrid — not with the expectation of results, but as a placeholder for future inquiry — he now considered doing the same with the concepts of undying and unextinguished.
Even partial research would be enough to save him valuable time in the future. In fact, it wasn't necessary for his proxies to delve into the exact topics. Simply conducting deep research into related fields like "time" or "soul" would be sufficient. Magic wasn't like science, where money and manpower alone could yield results. Magic required something more elusive: resonance. Compatibility. Obsession. Passion.
And so far, Roger had found no one who fit.
Until now.
His recent conversation with Harry stirred a glimmer of possibility. Harry's current mental state — his longing for his parents, his willingness to defy time — aligned, at least tentatively, with the spiritual mindset needed for such dangerous research.
Still, Roger remained cautious. Harry was just eleven. Youth was malleable. The burning desire he carried now might well be lost in the turbulence of adolescence. If the flame of conviction dimmed, the journey would end before it even began. Single-minded resolve, once broken, was rarely recovered.
For now, Harry was simply a contingency — a seed, nothing more. If he succeeded, wonderful. If not, Roger lost nothing. All he had invested was a few insights and the promise of a reading list.
Meanwhile, across the library, Voldemort — nestled within Professor Quirrell's body — was absorbed in his own research.
He combed through every scrap of information available on prophets, driven by the desire to understand and manipulate the very forces that dictated the future.
What he found both intrigued and frustrated him.
The Hogwarts library's resources were surprisingly thorough. Ancient and modern prophets were catalogued in exhaustive detail. Some texts even explored ways to counter or confuse prophetic vision.
One such book, The Cacophony of Fate, described how powerful prophets could actively disrupt the visions of others by layering their own prophecies into the temporal stream, creating a form of magical interference.
Unfortunately, this technique required the user to already be a skilled seer — capable of weaving prophecies on demand. Voldemort, for all his power, lacked that ability.
Another book, Man Will Conquer Heaven, proposed a wilder theory: that a wizard whose hatred for fate reached near-insanity might cloak themselves from prophecy altogether. By inducing a magical riot — an intentional surge of uncontrollable magical power — the user could create enough noise in the fabric of fate to become invisible within it.
The idea was reckless… but it was also tempting.
What Voldemort didn't know, however, was that while he buried himself in texts, searching for a way to outwit destiny, Roger had quietly shifted the tide of that very fate — through a single conversation with a boy who still believed in hope.
This was, undeniably, a method — but to turn such a conjecture into viable magic, Quirrell would first need to reach a level where he could actually cast it.
Voldemort quietly assessed his vessel's talent in the realm of fate. Even if Quirrell devoted himself entirely for the next twenty years, it was uncertain whether he'd ever reach the necessary threshold.
Most other methods were no better. Either they demanded extraordinary natural affinity for prophecy magic — something Quirrell simply lacked — or required rare prophetic artifacts that existed only in legend.
Voldemort had already scoured the library for more accessible options. But high-level fate magic without cryptic riddles or steep requirements was exceedingly rare. He had searched thoroughly, and now he had to admit it: there were no shortcuts.
To challenge fate, you needed one of two things — either prophecy to match prophecy, or overwhelming power to break through fate by sheer force.
That was it.
Was he really going to admit defeat?
Frustrated by his inability to bend fate through Quirrell, Voldemort's thoughts turned to Roger.
Perhaps… there was still a way to crack the situation through him.
He recalled one of the terms of their Unbreakable Vow:
"Professor Quirrell defeats me in a head-on magical duel, and the Philosopher's Stone will be given to you. You cannot use any other means to try to obtain the Stone before our duel concludes."
...Tch.Was even this part of your design, Prophet?
That line echoed in Voldemort's mind like a lock clicking into place. His plans, constrained. His alternatives, cut off.
And so, he paused — truly paused — and reflected.
A simple game between himself and the Prophet had already pushed him into such a tight corner. How, then, was he supposed to shatter the grand prophecy — the one that declared the Dark Lord would fall to the boy with the lightning scar?
Could that child truly become his end?
I have so many Horcruxes, Voldemort reminded himself. Surely… that can't be enough to bring me down.
Yet doubt lingered. The power of prophecy was clearly stronger than he had once believed. And in that moment of uncertainty, a new thought took root:
"Should I prepare a contingency for the Harry Potter prophecy as well?"
The bet with the little Prophet was already difficult — perhaps unwinnable — given the time constraints. But the Savior's prophecy? That would play out over years.
Years, Voldemort thought. Enough time to plan. To adapt. To rewrite the story.
The next morning arrived, but Roger was not met by Harry at his door. Instead, it was Hagrid who came — and with a surprising urgency.
"What? You've already finished the ultra-small magical creatures?" Roger raised an eyebrow.
"No, uh… not exactly. It's complicated. You'll understand when you see it," Hagrid muttered, bleary-eyed and clearly sleep-deprived. He scratched his head, looking utterly dismayed.
Roger, noting Hagrid's uncharacteristic lack of coherence, didn't press further. Wordlessly, he followed him to the small hut by the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
And then he saw it.
Inside the hut, amidst broken tools and scattered notes, was the result of Hagrid's experiment.
Roger stared at the creature, his expression twisting as if struck by a sudden headache. His brows furrowed — deeper, if possible, than Hagrid's.
"This… thing…"
It stood in the middle of the room, pulsing with unstable magic. Twisted. Unnatural. A shiver ran down Roger's spine.
Somewhere in his memory, it evoked a terrible vision — the chaotic horrors of the Warp from a faraway universe. The daemonic constructs of the Four Great "Kind Ones": Khorne, Tzeentch, Nurgle, Slaanesh.
Wizard 40K? Roger thought grimly. Absolutely not. I refuse to let this timeline go down that path.
He turned slowly to Hagrid, voice low but edged with disbelief.
"Hagrid… can you explain — how, exactly, did you create this?"
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