In alchemy, the creation of magical items hinges on one essential element: magical materials.
These materials generally fall into three major categories.
The first includes parts harvested from magical creatures—such as dragon heartstring or unicorn tail hair—brimming with innate magical resonance.
The second comes from rare magical flora, like dittany or mandrakes, each containing unique properties essential for specific enchantments.
The third category is far more arcane: substances imbued with the collective subconscious awe and superstition of living beings—graveyard dirt, morning dew, ash from sacred fires. They are mundane in appearance, yet brimming with mystery.
But there exists a fourth category—rarely mentioned, mostly avoided, yet terrifyingly potent.
Humans.
In the ancient age of magic, before modern ethical lines were drawn, both Muggles and wizards were used as materials in powerful rituals. Their thoughts, their emotions, their very essence—humanity's intrinsic ability to stir and disrupt magical forces—rendered them high-level materials, volatile yet unmatched in potential.
And now, awakened by a single sentence from Hermione, Roger saw a path where others saw a dead end.
He wasn't destined to be a conventional alchemist. His aptitude for standard alchemy was mediocre at best.
But human transmutation?
If he viewed the human body not just as a vessel, but as a refining furnace—a tool to shape, modify, and upgrade—then the equation changed. Massively.
Muggle science had already begun to dabble in this area. Roger had read about early concepts of biocomputers—biological systems used as computational devices.
So why not merge that with magic?
By integrating alchemical principles, layering spellcraft atop biological circuitry, and using his own body as both material and matrix, Roger could perform internal alchemy—transforming flesh and thought into something beyond human.
A wetware biocomputer, powered by magic, sculpted by will, embedded in his very being.
If he succeeded, he wouldn't need to tamper dangerously with brain-based magic. Like the tech in A Certain Magical Index, he could simply build an external brain—one that amplified his processing speed, memory, and thought coordination beyond natural limits.
Of course, he wasn't delusional. The early version wouldn't be compact.
Much like the room-sized computers of the early Muggle age, his magical wetware would be bulky. Without the wireless magic networks of fantasy stories, he'd have to rely on wired connections—a magical neural tether from the device to his own nervous system.
To carry it, he'd need a storage solution. Likely, a space-enhanced magical item using the Undetectable Extension Charm, concealed close to his body.
But the value of this endeavor?
Monumental.
Not just for the strength it would bring, but for what it symbolized—a leap toward the immortal future Roger envisioned.
He'd always known that the road to eternal life wasn't one he could walk alone. Outsourcing research, like entrusting Hagrid with beast-based longevity methods or inviting Harry to participate in theoretical immortality studies—these were only trials, rehearsals.
Because one day, Roger didn't just want to extend his life.
He wanted to reshape the world.
To uplift every mind. To multiply talent. To flood the world with knowledge, insight, and resources—until everyone had the tools and the will to chase the truth.
And after that?
No grand finale was needed.
As he once told Professor McGonagall:
"I only need to plant ideas upstream in the timeline, and harvest them downstream. That's all it takes."
No empire. No throne. Just quiet influence.Watching from afar as humanity surged forward—each step powered by dreams he once whispered into the flow of time.
Because time is on the side of the immortal.
"Harry? Harry!"
"Are you alright?" Oliver Wood asked, concern lining his voice.
As Gryffindor Quidditch captain, Oliver had been thrilled with Harry Potter. The youngest Seeker in a century, handpicked by McGonagall, brimming with raw talent—it was a dream.
Oliver was certain: if Harry stayed focused, Gryffindor would win.
Even the rest of the team—Beaters and Chasers alike—were ready to toss out their old playbook. A new tactic had emerged: build around Harry. Let him lead them to victory.
But recently, Harry had seemed… off.
At practice, he'd been unfocused, his eyes distant. Just moments ago, a Bludger had nearly clipped him. He'd swerved in time, but barely.
"I…" Harry opened his mouth, struggling. He knew he owed them more. He was part of a team now. He couldn't let them down.
But emotions weren't mechanical.
And if they were easy to control… the world wouldn't be what it was.
"I'm sorry," Harry finally said, meeting their eyes. "I've just had a lot on my mind. I promise—I'll sort it out before the November match. I won't hold the team back."
He meant it.
Something had to change.
Since arriving at Hogwarts, Harry had mostly coasted—learning spells, playing games with Ron, exploring the castle, following clues about his parents, and practicing Quidditch.
And that—the exploring—is where the trouble began.
In an abandoned classroom, hidden behind cracked stone and broken chairs, Harry had discovered a mirror.
In that mirror, he saw his parents.
Not vague reflections—them. Warm. Loving. Close enough to touch.
It felt real. It felt like home.
And he became addicted to it.
The love he never knew, the warmth he had longed for—it consumed him.
And now it was affecting everything else.
He knew it.
And he would have to choose.
Rubbing his shoulder where a bruise from a Bludger still throbbed, Harry chose not to heal it immediately. The pain, persistent and nagging, served as a constant reminder of something deeper—something off in his mind.
Captain Wood and the others were still waiting for him. For the first time in his life, Harry had become someone others trusted—someone they believed in, not because of the mysterious title of "Savior" or any legend, but because they simply trusted him.
How could he ever let them down?
But he was.
And the weight of that was starting to crush him.
With a deep sigh, Harry made a decision. He had to confront this.
"Roger, save me!"
The frantic call came from outside his door. Roger's gaze shifted calmly toward the source of the sound, a faint sense of curiosity building.
It was nearly the end of the day, with Halloween fast approaching. The other students were busy outside, preparing for the upcoming festival, but Roger—since being awakened by Hermione's words days ago—had been deep in his human alchemy research. Even now, in his dormitory, his focus was on his experiments.
He tapped his wand against his left arm. A brilliant blue light surged from it, and for a moment, his skin seemed to ripple, as if some unknown force were shifting beneath it. He suspended his experiment—his mind distracted by the interruption—and returned to his normal appearance.
Roger opened the door, finding Harry standing on the other side, face pale, eyes wide with a nervous energy.
Harry rushed in without waiting for an invitation, almost as if he feared regret might set in the moment he slowed down. In a flurry of words, he spilled everything—his discovery, his overwhelming emotions, his addiction to the Mirror of Erised.
The moment Roger heard about Harry seeing his parents in the mirror, he knew exactly what had happened. The Mirror of Erised. It reflected one's deepest, most impossible desires. It showed Harry what he wanted most—something that could drown him if he wasn't careful.
Roger paused, considering. He didn't know the full story, but his interest piqued. "It's not a big problem," he said, his tone calm and reassuring. "I'll go with you."
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