Roger's idea, at its core, was quite simple—he found the world to be an astonishingly wonderful place. As both a spectator and a participant in its unfolding story, he had no intention of leaving the stage before he had seen and experienced enough. Life was finite, and the most precious years—those brimming with creativity, boundless energy, and the sharpest learning ability—were few. It was no coincidence that many of the greatest scientific breakthroughs in history had been made by young minds, ablaze with curiosity and unhindered by the weight of age.
Roger understood this well. He was determined not to squander his seven years at Hogwarts but to make them count in ways few could imagine.
So he made his intentions clear.
To Roger, there was no real risk in doing so. The pursuit of longevity was not a forbidden topic in the wizarding world. On the contrary, it was an idea that had captivated minds for generations. While not everyone could achieve the remarkable lifespan of Nicolas Flamel—who had lived for over six centuries—there were wizards who had successfully extended their lives through less mystical but no less formidable means. The former headmaster of Hogwarts, Armando Dippet, had held his post at nearly two hundred years old, a testament to the power of magic to stretch the boundaries of human existence.
Of course, there were limits. Some paths to immortality were outright forbidden. The creation of Horcruxes, for instance, was an abomination, a dark and twisted ritual requiring unspeakable acts of violence. Longevity achieved through such means was not merely taboo—it was a perversion of life itself. But Roger's aspirations were not rooted in the dark arts; they were born from an unwavering belief in the potential of magic and the relentless march of knowledge. He simply wanted to live long enough to see where that path led.
His conversation with Professor McGonagall, however, revealed a different concern.
"Roger," she said, her voice grave, "the continuation of life follows patterns that we can study and understand. But resurrection is an absolute taboo. It must not be pursued."
Her words were laced with an unusual mixture of solemnity and sorrow. It was clear that something about this conversation troubled her deeply. Perhaps it was because Roger's words had touched upon something unspoken, a quiet fear lurking in the depths of her mind. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if he intended to tread the most dangerous path of all—not just longevity, but the reversal of death itself.
Professor McGonagall had good reason for concern. Roger had seen much, far too much, for someone so young. He had witnessed death on the battlefield in the Middle East, a place where violence was as constant as the sun in the sky. He had lost more than most would in a lifetime. She had even been there, standing solemnly by, when the funeral of the parents of his body had been arranged.
Roger saw the worry etched into her features, but he did not move to dispel her misunderstanding. Instead, he leaned into it slightly, knowing that explanations could often deepen suspicion rather than ease it.
"Resurrection is impossible; I understand that well," he said calmly. "But what truly defines death?"
Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes slightly, listening intently.
"In ancient times, death was marked by the cessation of a heartbeat. Then, with the advancement of medicine, brain death became the defining standard. And for wizards? The dissipation of the soul—that is true death." He paused, letting the thought settle. "But definitions evolve alongside our ability to understand and manipulate the world. What we call 'death' today may not be the same centuries from now."
The implications of his words sent a shiver through Professor McGonagall. She had been uneasy before, but now she was truly alarmed. Roger was not merely contemplating the extension of life—he was toying with ideas that danced on the edge of the impossible.
"Perhaps one day," Roger continued, his voice thoughtful, "so long as a trace of a person remains in history, so long as someone remembers them, they will not truly be dead. Maybe wizards will even learn to retrieve those they wish to save from the river of time itself."
That was the moment Professor McGonagall stopped walking. Her sharp eyes locked onto Roger's with an intensity that could have made lesser students tremble. He had just spoken of something even more forbidden than resurrection—manipulating time itself.
Roger chuckled lightly at her reaction, raising his hands in mock surrender.
"Professor, don't look at me like that. You know I'm a cautious person. I wouldn't take reckless risks."
Her gaze remained unwavering. "And yet, you speak of matters that should never be spoken of."
He shrugged. "All I mean to say is that time itself moves forward, and with it, civilization advances. If one lives long enough, they can simply wait and watch as progress unfolds. One day, there will be those who will dedicate themselves to reversing regret, undoing mistakes, and bringing back what was lost. I don't need to act recklessly—I only need to plant the seeds and wait for the harvest."
It was, in essence, the ultimate investment in the future. Roger likened it to a modern person traveling to the distant past, armed with knowledge of technologies they could not build themselves. They wouldn't need to personally construct a mobile phone—they would only need to introduce the idea, plant the right concepts, and wait. In a few hundred years, civilization would catch up. If a few hundred years weren't enough, then perhaps a thousand would suffice.
"I don't need to take grand actions," he concluded. "I only need to preserve knowledge, ensuring that advancements are not lost to time. The world repeats itself too often—wizards forget, civilizations fall, and we reinvent the wheel again and again. But if I can make sure that progress is never truly erased, then one day, the things we believe impossible today may simply become inevitable."
Professor McGonagall regarded him for a long moment, then sighed. "You speak of patience, Roger. But patience can be just as dangerous as ambition."
Roger only smiled. "Then I will be a patient man. And I will wait."
In that moment, Professor McGonagall wasn't sure whether to be reassured—or terrified.
People always say that a thousand years is too long, urging others not to waste their youth and to seize every moment. This advice makes sense for ordinary people, who can only grasp fleeting seconds in their short lives. But for those who dream of immortality, time takes on an entirely different meaning.
Of course, these are musings on a distant future. Roger did not know if he would ever truly achieve eternal life. For now, he had more immediate concerns. The reality of magic was far more complicated than the romanticized notions found in books. The fact that most Hogwarts graduates did not go on to pursue deep magical research, instead becoming wand-wielding "magic technicians" or "magical armed personnel," was evidence enough that mastering magic was no simple feat.
His conversation with Professor McGonagall had merely been a casual discussion, sparked by a broader conversation about life's direction. But for Roger, the immediate priority was clear—he needed to learn magic first. Dreams of immortality, of bending time, of unraveling the mysteries of the soul, all of that would mean nothing if he lacked the fundamental knowledge to wield magic properly.
Yet, Roger had momentarily forgotten something crucial.
He thought he was simply indulging in idle speculation, much like how boys whisper wild theories in the dormitory after lights out—just filling the silence with random thoughts. But to Minerva McGonagall, his words carried a different weight entirely.
She never forgot that Roger was a seer.
And not the kind of seer Hogwarts was used to—like Sybill Trelawney, whose cryptic prophecies were often dismissed as incoherent riddles. No, Roger was something else, something far more dangerous. He was closer to Gellert Grindelwald—a seer whose visions had nearly reshaped the entire wizarding world, someone capable of glimpsing the future with startling clarity.
Was it merely a joke? Careless rambling?
Minerva McGonagall was not so sure.
A seer's words, no matter how casually spoken, could never be taken lightly. Could it be that Roger had truly foreseen something? Could the future really hold the possibility of a magic powerful enough to retrieve people from the river of time?
She had only intended to warn him of the dangers—the taboos surrounding time and soul magic. Yet, now she found herself momentarily lost in thought, caught in the weight of her own regrets.
It was no wonder she hesitated. Magic concerning the soul, time, and space belonged to the most complex and forbidden fields, far beyond the reach of an inexperienced student. And Roger's vague notion—that one was not truly dead so long as their soul remained—touched uncomfortably close to the dark magic of Horcruxes.
Why did Roger know of such things? Was it simply his gift as a seer, or was there something more?
Time passed quietly as the two conversed, their thoughts lingering on possibilities both thrilling and terrifying. By the time Professor McGonagall snapped out of her contemplation, they had already arrived at the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron.
Roger stood beside her, his eyes filled with eager anticipation. Before him lay the gateway to the magical world—Diagon Alley. Wands, spellbooks, and the vast knowledge of wizardry awaited beyond the old pub. The things he had only dreamed of until now were just within reach.
But as they stepped over the threshold, something unexpected happened.
The moment they entered, the bustling chatter of the pub came to an abrupt halt. Customers who had been deep in conversation or sipping their drinks fell into silence. All eyes turned toward them.
Roger could feel the weight of their gazes. He had yet to even set foot in Diagon Alley, yet already, something had shifted in the air. Something about him had drawn their attention.
And he had a feeling that this was only the beginning.