The phrase "magic book" might sound like something a wizard would casually touch. But in reality, only books that contain constant, inherent magic can truly be called magic books. Simply recording spells in a book doesn't make it magical. Real magic books are orphans—rare because their production is extremely difficult, time-consuming, and costly. Ordinary wizarding families simply cannot produce them. Only ancient families, ruthless and skilled over generations, have the resources and knowledge to craft such objects.
The spellbook Solim showed Snape didn't even have a name on its cover. Those who knew it, however, referred to it as the Book of Blood or Selwyn's Book of Blood. To open this book, one needs the blood of Selwyn. Whether given voluntarily or forcibly, as long as fresh blood from Selwyn drips onto the heart painted on the cover, the book can be unlocked. The duration it remains open depends on the quantity and quality of the blood. Solim had tried it himself, letting the heart on the cover appear fully. When it reached its brightest color, the book could be read for thirty minutes.
However, his grandfather had remarked that Selwyn's blood today was thinner than it had been centuries ago. Perhaps in Solim's generation—or the next—the family would perform the "sublimation ceremony," provided they had the materials ready.
For a while, neither of the two men at the desk spoke. Solim was lost in memories the book had evoked, while Snape, though typically reserved and closed-off, looked visibly shocked—maybe even a little excited. Snape was undoubtedly a gifted wizard, but even his talents had limits. Some knowledge, like what the Council of Elders guarded—high-level magical theory, forbidden spells, and massive arcane resources—was beyond reach for all but a select few. Ordinary wizards were confined to the circles drawn by the Presbyterian Church for their entire lives. Even those who stumbled upon forbidden knowledge on their own were either recruited, co-opted, or suppressed by the Elders.
Wizards capable of breaking through the boundaries set by the Elders knew that a massive force pressed constantly upon them. Dragons and phoenixes, naturally, understood how to navigate such power for their own advantage. What Snape had just seen, though, was knowledge ordinary wizards could never access—the use of souls.
"Professor, do you have any questions about what you just saw?" Solim broke the silence, stepping out of his memory. He noticed Snape's eyes were unusually attentive, a clear sign that the content had impacted him deeply.
"Preferably, a Muggle on death row, Professor, if that's convenient…" Solim raised his eyebrows. "I can handle it for you."
"No need," Snape replied. He understood the cost involved. Accepting Solim's offer would inevitably demand a price, and he knew this student would not bear that cost willingly.
"Alright," Solim said, unfazed by the refusal. "But what about collecting souls? Is that necessary?"
Snape didn't have the means to collect souls himself. No matter how powerful or talented, he was still confined within the Elders' plans. The techniques Solim referred to were beyond his knowledge. This left him momentarily embarrassed. Solim noticed, but merely smirked and continued.
"Then what about preserving souls? You wouldn't want souls you can't use at the time to go to waste."
"I'll bring the person," Snape said flatly.
"That…" Solim smacked his lips. "That's one way to do it." Directly taking a person bypassed the need to figure out collection methods or preservation techniques. But…
"But is this appropriate? At Hogwarts? Under Dumbledore's nose?" Solim's tone carried mock concern. Dumbledore, the "bad old man" in his words, would never allow someone to harvest an innocent soul, no matter the justification. Even the most ambitious magical feats could not absolve such an act in Dumbledore's eyes.
"Who said you have to do it at school?" Snape's expression was a mixture of disbelief and amusement. Indeed, why risk doing something so illicit under the headmaster's watchful eye?
"Maybe the blood was a bit… excessive just now. My… t**s! Bah, I'm not clear-headed yet." Solim rubbed his nose, embarrassed. "Get ready, though. I'll let you know when the materials are ready."
Snape considered for a moment, then asked, "Your book explained how to use souls, but why do you need them?" Though Snape loved black magic, he had limits. This question had lingered in his mind for some time.
Solim paused before answering. "First, professor, let me clarify: for some wizards, souls are a common magical resource. Of course, I'm not speaking about ordinary wizards."
He shifted the conversation. "Let's set aside the soul for a moment. Tell me, professor—how many ways are there for wizards to communicate, excluding face-to-face contact like we're doing now?"
Snape frowned. He disliked Solim's roundabout teaching style. With Dumbledore, such evasiveness might be acceptable, but he wasn't a student—he was the dean. Solim quickly recognized his misstep and adjusted his approach.
The most common method was letters delivered by owls. If one had more resources, the fireplace could be used with Floo powder. Wealthier wizards might employ double-sided mirrors—a magical precursor to modern telecommunications. Members of the Order of the Phoenix could communicate with Dumbledore through enchanted notes, while Death Eaters relied on Voldemort's Dark Mark.
All these methods, except owl-based delivery, relied on magic to transcend space. Floo powder required magical energy; mirrors relied on the caster's power. If the power faltered, the connection would break. Dumbledore's notes and Voldemort's Dark Mark also relied on magical energy to overcome spatial barriers.
Essentially, communication across space demanded energy. Muggle technologies like phones or computers worked similarly, only using electricity. But there was a key difference when it came to communicating with the dead.
Ghosts, though dead, were not completely gone. To communicate with the truly deceased required breaking constraints far stronger than ordinary magic could handle. Burning a soul was a proven method. To compare: ordinary magic was like a coal-fired power plant; soul-based magic was a nuclear reactor. Similar in principle, but incomparable in strength, quality, and duration.
Snape, while processing this, felt a twinge of envy. Solim had access to resources, knowledge, and talent that he had only dreamed of, yet his student was using them wisely.
"Professor," Solim continued, "you can communicate with a dead person for a price, but only if they haven't crossed to the afterlife." He emphasized caution. Snape knew the stakes—one misstep could be catastrophic.
Frowning, Snape asked, "But you said otherwise at first."
"I didn't explain earlier because I couldn't. Now I'm just… lazy," Solim admitted, spreading his hands. "You should read it for yourself." He pulled another book from under his robe and placed it on the table.
"This book is nearly fifteen centuries old, handwritten, and thought to be lost." Snape glanced at the cover and immediately grasped its significance.
Old English, spoken from 449 to 1100 AD, differed drastically from modern English. Pronunciation, spelling, vocabulary, and grammar had all shifted. Understanding it without specialized study was nearly impossible. Four major dialects further complicated matters, producing different spellings for the same words. Few modern wizards could decipher it.
Solim, however, spoke English flawlessly, though as a child, his accent had terrified his family, making them question his tongue's normalcy. Watching Snape attempt to read the book, Solim closed it with a smirk, knowing the language barrier was insurmountable.
"Relax, professor. Worst-case scenario, the ancient spell on Potter is still active. No need to worry."