The following eight months became some of the busiest of my life. Every single day was divided between teaching students, governing Hogwarts, helping oversee the Magic Council, researching countless magical projects, and continuing our pursuit of immortality. Thankfully, I had my Shadow Clone Spell. It had become one of the greatest magical inventions I had ever created. While one clone assisted with teaching, another experimented with runes, another continued my alchemical research, while several more worked alongside Salazar and Rowena exclusively on our immortality project. Every evening, their memories returned to me, allowing months of research to be compressed into what felt like a single day's worth of progress. Without that spell, this project would have consumed decades. Instead, after eight relentless months of experimentation, failure, and refinement, the three of us finally reached the point where we believed our theory was complete.
By that point, Hogwarts had changed dramatically. Many of our very first students had graduated and begun establishing themselves throughout Britain. Some had become respected scholars, others famous duelists, healers, craftsmen, or advisors to noble families. A new generation had begun entering Hogwarts to replace them, proving that the school no longer depended solely upon the five of us. Watching our students surpass expectations filled me with an odd sense of pride. Hogwarts would continue long after we were gone... assuming we were ever truly gone.
Our research had taken us down paths that few people would ever dare walk. Herpo the Foul's notes had provided the foundation, but they were only the beginning. In order to truly understand the soul, we had crossed moral boundaries that most would consider unforgivable. Countless captured Dark Wizards became unwilling test subjects, and many murderous Muggles met the same fate. None of them were innocent, but even so, I understood exactly what we were doing. We dissected souls, observed their magical signatures, monitored their deterioration after death, and tested dozens upon dozens of rituals that inevitably failed. We learned surprisingly little about the afterlife itself. Whatever existed beyond death remained frustratingly hidden from even our greatest magic. Souls simply disappeared beyond a boundary we could neither observe nor cross. However, our understanding of the soul itself advanced beyond anything previously recorded in magical history. By combining those discoveries with the principles behind Horcruxes, we eventually created something entirely new.
Unlike a Horcrux, our ritual did not shatter the soul into countless fragments. Instead, it carefully separated a single large portion of the soul while preserving its stability before anchoring it to an object of immense personal significance. That object would become an eternal beacon, maintaining the soul's connection to the mortal world. When the original body eventually died—whether through old age, violence, or illness—the anchored soul would not become a ghost nor remain trapped inside the object. Instead, it would be gently drawn back into the cycle of life, reincarnating within a newly born child somewhere in the world. Memories might take years to fully awaken, and there were still countless unknown variables, but based upon every calculation, every experiment, and every piece of evidence we had gathered, Salazar, Rowena, and I estimated the ritual had roughly an eighty to ninety percent chance of succeeding. The remaining uncertainty came from the one thing we could never fully test: our own deaths. If we were wrong, then the worst-case scenario was surprisingly simple. We would die... and peacefully pass on to whatever awaited beyond life. It was a risk, but one every one of us considered acceptable.
When we finally presented the completed ritual to Godric and Helga, they listened with remarkable patience. I explained every rune, every theory, every experiment, and every possible danger before placing the finished ritual upon the table. Silence filled the room as the two of them carefully read through our work.
Godric scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"So... if this works, we die, then eventually wake up again in another life?"
"Essentially," I replied.
"And if it fails?"
"We move on naturally."
He shrugged.
"Sounds fun."
Salazar burst into laughter.
"I knew you'd say that."
Godric grinned.
"If the three biggest lunatics in Britain are willing to risk it, I'd rather not be left behind."
Helga sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"I still believe every life should eventually come to an end."
I nodded.
"I know."
She looked around at the rest of us, her expression softening.
"But... we're a family."
No one interrupted her.
"If all of you continue living while I alone pass on... then eventually you'll lose one another all over again. I don't like the thought of that."
She smiled sadly.
"So I suppose I'll join you."
Relief spread throughout the room.
The ritual itself took several hours to complete. Ancient runes covered the floor while enormous quantities of magical energy flooded the chamber. One by one, each of us stepped into the center of the ritual and performed the final incantation. We each chose an object that represented both our identity and our legacy. Salazar bound his soul to his serpentwood wand. Godric chose the sword that had accompanied him through countless battles. Rowena selected her treasured grimoire, containing generations of magical knowledge. Helga entrusted her soul to her beloved cup. As for me... there had never really been another choice.
I placed my hand upon the Elder Wand.
"My companion..."
The wand pulsed warmly beneath my fingers.
"...until the end of time."
The ritual activated.
Pain unlike anything I had ever experienced tore through my very existence. It wasn't physical pain. It was something deeper. It felt as though half of my very being was slowly being pulled away while the rest desperately tried to hold on. My vision blurred, my breathing became uneven, and for a brief moment I genuinely wondered whether I had made a terrible mistake. Then, just as suddenly as it began, everything stopped.
I collapsed onto one knee.
Across the chamber, the other founders looked equally exhausted.
Godric gave a weak laugh.
"I never want to do that again."
"You won't have to," Salazar replied between breaths.
Immediately, I noticed the change within myself. My magical reserves had fallen dramatically. The same was true for everyone else. The ritual had removed nearly half of each of our souls, and with it came a substantial decrease in magical power. Rather than disappointing me, however, it confirmed one of the theories Salazar, Rowena, and I had debated for years.
"I was right..." I whispered.
Rowena looked over.
"So was I."
Salazar slowly nodded.
"Magic truly is produced through both the mind and the soul."
It explained countless mysteries that had puzzled magical scholars for centuries. The soul was not simply a spiritual construct—it actively contributed to magical power itself. Damage the soul, and magic weakened. Strengthen the soul, and magical potential increased. It was perhaps the greatest theoretical breakthrough we had made since founding Hogwarts.
Now, whenever one of us eventually reached the end of our lives, whether naturally or by violence, our souls would remain anchored to the world through our chosen relics before one day returning through reincarnation. For the first time in history, death itself no longer felt absolute.
Once everyone had recovered, I brought up one final matter.
"If we're truly planning to continue existing for centuries... perhaps millennia... then we should leave more than relics behind."
Godric tilted his head.
"What do you mean?"
"Our families."
Rowena smiled knowingly.
"Salazar and I have already done our part."
I nodded.
"The two of you already have children. Your bloodlines will continue regardless of what happens."
I looked toward Godric and Helga.
"The rest of us should do the same. Descendants preserve more than blood. They preserve history."
Godric smirked.
"So you're telling me to find a wife?"
"I'm making a recommendation."
Before Godric could answer, Salazar's grin became positively insufferable.
"That's rich coming from you."
Rowena covered her mouth to hide a smile.
Godric looked genuinely confused.
"What?"
Salazar folded his arms.
"Our esteemed genius is giving relationship advice despite spending every spare moment with a certain young woman from the Black family."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, of course not."
Rowena laughed.
"You've only been looking at her the way poets write about the moon."
Godric's eyes widened.
"Wait... really?"
I sighed.
"I regret bringing this topic up."
Helga giggled.
"I think it's sweet."
Salazar leaned back with a smug smile.
"I give it a year before there's a wedding."
"I hate all of you."
Their laughter echoed throughout the chamber, and despite myself, I couldn't stop the small smile that appeared on my face. For a brief moment, there were no impossible experiments, no political struggles, no looming threats, and no ancient mysteries left to unravel. There were only five founders sitting together after accomplishing something that should have been impossible, teasing one another like the family we had slowly become over the years.