I stood deep within the glittering labyrinth of Gringotts, beneath layers of enchanted stone and goblin-forged wards that even most curse-breakers dared not approach. Around me, the ancient vaults of the Peverell family waited—untouched for centuries, sealed with protections older than the Ministry itself.
I had earned my entry by blood. The goblins verified it, reluctantly, as my lineage tied directly to the second brother, Cadmus Peverell. That connection now gave me unrestricted access to their entire ancestral holdings: vaults, libraries, relics, and the Peverell Castle itself.
It wasn't wealth I sought. Gold and jewels meant nothing to me. What I desired was knowledge—the forbidden kind. The Peverell line was infamous not merely for the Deathly Hallows but for what lay behind them. People thought them creators of three artifacts. They were wrong. The Hallows were fragments of a greater understanding—an ancient mastery over life, death, and the soul itself.
I had already conquered transfiguration. I had transcended its limits. Now I turned fully to the triad of forbidden magics: Soul, Life, and Death.
My research, however, was perilous. Soul experiments demanded perfect precision. One mistake, and the test subject's essence would disintegrate, leaving only an empty shell behind. Too many subjects had perished already. But progress always came at a cost, and death was merely another form of data to me.
Inside the vault, I found grim tomes bound in dragonhide, etched with runes of mortality. Scrolls written in ancient tongues—some not even human—spoke of the Veil, of consciousness as an energy that could be molded, split, or consumed. The deeper I read, the more I understood: the Peverells had not merely touched Death. They had conversed with it.
Among the relics lay a mirror, older than Hogwarts itself. Its surface shimmered like still water, and when I looked into it, I did not see my reflection. I saw my soul—fractured, burning with the light of Horcruxes and the cold aura of immortality. The mirror whispered to me, promising deeper mastery, if only I dared to listen longer.
I realized then that the Hallows were more than tools. They were keys, each one resonating with a fundamental truth of existence:
The Wand—command over Death.
The Stone—dialogue with the Soul.
The Cloak—balance of Life and concealment from mortality itself.
Having all three meant I could finally unite the triad of forbidden magics. My hands trembled—not from fear, but anticipation. For centuries, wizards had dreamed of becoming masters of death. I was about to make that dream a reality.
When I left Gringotts, I carried not just artifacts, but revelation. I had unlocked the door to a new era of magic—one in which death itself could be rewritten. England was mine, and now, perhaps, so was the afterlife.