The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom buzzed with a subdued energy. Professor Severus Snape stood at the front of the class, his black robes billowing slightly as he gestured to the blackboard, where an intricate diagram of a magical circle was drawn. His voice, silken and commanding, cut through the murmurs.
"Today, we delve into an ancient, complex branch of magic: thaumaturgical warding. This is the application of wards not merely as protective barriers but as active magical conduits, capable of absorbing and redirecting attacks."
Harry sat forward in his seat, keenly interested. Over the past few months, he had been on a relentless quest to master all aspects of magic and his unique powers as the Master of Death. Snape's teachings, while often sharp and disdainful, were always precise and informative.
"This particular form of magic requires both exceptional control and an understanding of magical theory," Snape continued, his black eyes sweeping the room. "Even one misstep in the casting sequence can lead to catastrophic feedback. Therefore, you dunderheads, I expect you to pay close attention—assuming you have the capacity."
Snape's lip curled slightly before he continued.
Elsewhere, Hermione, Daphne, and Tracey had commandeered a corner of the library, books piled high around them. Hermione was poring over a particularly dusty tome, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"This is fascinating," she murmured, tapping the page. "There are numerous beings throughout magical history associated with death, destruction, and the end of all things. Some of them were revered as gods, others as malevolent spirits."
Daphne leaned over, her sharp blue eyes scanning the page. "What about beings that can control souls? If Harry's powers are tied to death, maybe there's something here that can help us understand his abilities."
Tracey thumbed through another book, her auburn hair falling into her face. "Here's something. It says that Death itself—or beings connected to it—can call forth the souls of the departed. Not as mere ghosts, but as entities capable of teaching, fighting, or even exacting revenge."
Hermione's eyes widened. "If that's true, then Harry might be able to summon some of the most skilled wizards in history. Imagine what he could learn from them!"
Daphne smirked. "Knowing Potter, he's already thought of it. He's not one to waste potential."
That evening, Harry sat cross-legged on his bed in the Slytherin dormitory, his eyes closed as he slipped into a deep meditative state. The connection he had forged with Death was a pathway he had explored countless times, but tonight felt different.
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in the dormitory. The majestic Halls of Death stretched before him, endless and ancient. The towering black marble columns were inscribed with shifting runes, glowing faintly with a light that seemed to come from the void itself.
At the far end of the hall, Death lounged on her throne, her form as beguiling and powerful as ever. She regarded Harry with a sly smile as he approached.
"You return often, my master," she purred, her voice resonating like a symphony of whispers. "What do you seek this time?"
Harry grinned knowingly. "I've been thinking about the souls you can summon. Wizards, witches—beings who have passed on but whose knowledge remains unmatched. I could learn from them, couldn't I?"
Death's eyes gleamed with interest. "You could. Their skills, their insights, their mistakes—they would all be yours to uncover. But such a boon comes at a cost. Summoning souls is not a trivial matter, even for me."
Harry folded his arms, undeterred. "I'm not asking you to do it frivolously. I need teachers who can guide me, people who mastered magic in ways that we've forgotten or lost."
Death stood from her throne, her movements as fluid as shadow. She approached Harry, her gaze piercing. "Very well. Name them, and I shall bring them forth. But remember, master, power alone is not what makes a wizard great. It is how you use it."
Harry's grin widened, his confidence unwavering. "I'll keep that in mind. Let's just say... I have a few names in mind."
Death inclined her head slightly, the runes on the walls glowing brighter in anticipation. "Then let us begin."
The Halls of Death were alight with an ancient, almost cosmic energy, as Death herself stood in the center of the marble floor. Her form radiated a dark majesty, her expression calm yet intent as Harry stood before her. At her command, the void around them shimmered and shifted, and Harry could feel the air grow heavy with power.
"You seek the greatest minds and forces of history," Death said, her voice smooth and commanding. "They are not easily called, even by me. Yet, I will oblige you, Master."
Harry nodded, his face calm but his heart thundering in anticipation.
Death raised her hand, and with a subtle flick of her wrist, the room filled with swirling clouds of dust and shadow. The air vibrated as if reality itself were being rewritten. Slowly, shapes began to coalesce from the chaos, and one by one, figures emerged.
Herpo the Foul
The first figure to materialize was a man with piercing eyes that glinted like polished onyx. His robes were tattered and dark, but they seemed alive, moving faintly with an unearthly energy. His face bore sharp, angular features, and his long hair fell in sleek strands that framed his gaunt expression.
Herpo the Foul.
His gaze met Harry's, sharp and calculating. A smirk twisted his lips, not cruel but intrigued. "To be summoned by the Master of Death itself," he drawled, his voice carrying an edge of disdainful amusement. "A curious twist of fate."
Harry nodded respectfully, his tone firm. "Your knowledge of the dark arts and magical creatures is unparalleled. I would learn from you if you're willing to teach me."
Herpo regarded him for a moment before giving a small, cold chuckle. "You carry ambition and power. Very well. Let us see if you are worthy of such knowledge."
Glanmore Peakes
The next figure stepped forward, his broad shoulders and confident stance immediately commanding attention. He wore heavy, sea-weathered armor, and his wild beard was streaked with gray, framing a face marked with the scars of countless battles. His blue eyes sparkled with both warmth and the remnants of an indomitable spirit.
Glanmore Peakes.
"Now this is interesting!" he boomed, his voice rich and jovial despite the grim surroundings. "Called back to the land of the living, are we?"
His eyes fell on Harry, and he gave a hearty laugh. "You've got courage, lad. I see it in your eyes. What is it you want from an old serpent-slayer like me?"
"I want to learn your ways, your skill with magical creatures, and your strength in battle," Harry replied earnestly.
Peakes grinned, slapping his hand on his armored chest. "You've got spirit! I'll teach you, boy. But I warn you—bravery doesn't come without pain!"
Merlin
The next figure was cloaked in flowing robes of deep blue, embroidered with silver stars and moons. His silver hair and beard cascaded down his chest, giving him an ethereal, almost otherworldly presence. His pale eyes seemed to pierce through Harry, as if reading his very soul.
Merlin.
The legendary wizard exuded an aura of calm wisdom, his voice smooth and measured as he spoke. "The Master of Death stands before me. Few mortals could command such a title."
Harry bowed slightly, an act of both respect and recognition. "Your legacy and teachings have shaped the world. I want to learn the depths of magic from the greatest wizard of all time."
Merlin's lips curled into a soft smile. "You seek knowledge and power, not for yourself but for others. A noble goal. Very well, I shall teach you. But know that true mastery requires more than strength—it requires purpose."
Morgana (Morgan le Fay)
A cold, almost tangible chill filled the air as the next figure emerged. Her black and emerald robes shimmered like liquid night, and her raven hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her piercing green eyes bore into Harry, as if measuring his worth with each passing second.
Morgana.
She smirked, a mixture of amusement and challenge in her expression. "Well, well. The Master of Death seeks my teachings. How... unexpected."
Harry met her gaze without flinching. "Your mastery of magic and your knowledge of the unknown are unparalleled. I need to understand magic on the deepest level, and you can help me."
Morgana tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. "You've got fire, boy. I like that. Very well, I shall teach you. But beware—I do not suffer fools lightly."
Eolande
The final figure was a graceful woman clad in robes of deep green, interwoven with patterns of vines and blossoms. Her auburn hair fell in loose waves, and her hazel eyes sparkled with a gentle warmth. Her hands, though delicate, bore faint scars—a testament to her work with herbs and potions.
Eolande.
She gave Harry a kind smile, her voice soft but firm. "It is rare to see someone seek knowledge so earnestly. Tell me, young one, what is it you hope to learn from me?"
"Your mastery of herbology and potions is legendary," Harry replied. "I want to understand the art of creation, the delicate balance between nature and magic."
Eolande nodded approvingly. "Then I shall teach you. But be warned—true mastery comes not from force, but from patience and care."
As the five figures stood before him, Harry felt an overwhelming sense of awe. These were the greatest minds and forces of history, and they had agreed to teach him.
Death, watching from her throne, smiled faintly. "Your journey begins here, Master. Let us see if you are truly worthy of the knowledge you seek."