27th April 1993
The Gryffindor common room was pleasantly quiet in the late afternoon. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting golden patches across the worn red rugs and scattered armchairs. A few students scattered about, some reading, others playing quiet games of chess or cards but the usual evening bustle had not yet begun.
Fred and George lounged in their favorite corner near the fireplace with Lee. They held chilled drinks in their hands that had appeared moments earlier from the sleek, dark-metal cabinet standing against the wall.
The Intelligent Barkeep, as everyone had taken to calling it, hummed softly to itself. Harry had installed the magitech marvel beauty barely two weeks ago, yet it already felt like a natural part of the common room. Students simply approached the elegant interface, selected their drink, and the chosen beverage would appear perfectly in the open cavity below—whether a frosty can of Muggle soda, a steaming mug of tea, or a perfectly poured glass of butterbeer. The machine was thoughtful too. It politely refused alcoholic drinks if it sensed someone had already had enough.
Fred took a long swig of his butterbeer and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "You know, I still can't believe how spoiled we've become. Free drinks on demand. Life is good."
George grinned, tapping the side of his own glass of sparkling cherry soda. "Best invention since the fireworks, if you ask me. Forty different choices, appears right in the dispenser like magic. Literally. And it even knows when you've had enough firewhisky."
Lee chuckled, swirling a modest splash of amber whiskey in his glass. "The Ravenclaws have been losing their minds trying to figure out how it works. The machine is everywhere now. Common rooms, library, greenhouses, even the Quidditch changing rooms and stadium. Harry really went all out, I'd say."
Angelina who was sitting just across them, sipping on red wine, leaned back. "It's become so normal already. Feels weird thinking there was a time we didn't have it."
The conversation drifted easily, the group relaxed after a long day of classes and Quidditch Practice.
The portrait hole swung open.
Harry stepped into the common room, and the easy atmosphere shifted slightly. He looked exhausted. His shoulders were tense, his usually bright green eyes dulled by fatigue, and there were faint shadows beneath them that spoke of far too many sleepless nights.
Without a word, Harry walked straight toward the Intelligent Barkeep. The machine's interface lit up warmly in recognition. He tapped a few options, and moments later a tall, chilled pint glass materialized in the cavity with a soft chime.
Cherrilush.
The drink was striking. A deep, rich black-cherry nectar with a smooth, warm vanilla-cream undertone, carbonated just enough to give it a lively sparkle. Atop it sat a thick, velvety pastel-pink foam infused with crushed almond extract and sweet marshmallow root. It looked like a warm, freshly baked cherry tart had been turned into liquid comfort, topped with heavy cream.
Something that'd definitely help you sleep well and perhaps have the sweetest dreams possible.
Harry picked up the glass, took a long, slow sip, and let out a quite breath. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased.
He turned and headed toward the group.
"Evening," he said, voice a little rough as he dropped into an empty armchair beside Fred.
Fred raised an eyebrow. "You look like you fought a dragon and lost, mate."
Harry gave a tired half-smile. "Close enough. Just a long few days."
George leaned forward, studying him. "You alright? You've been disappearing a lot lately."
Harry took another sip of the Cherrilush, the sweet-tart flavour and creamy foam clearly helping. "I'm fine. Just pushing some projects harder than I should. Nothing new."
Lee grinned, trying to lighten the mood. "Well, don't burn yourself out too much. Exams are coming up fast. You planning on actually studying this year, or are you just going to show up and casually destroy the curves again?"
Angelina chuckled, answering before Harry even had the chance. "I don't think he even takes the exams, Lee. Did you forget that he literally holds five Masteries? Potions, DADA, Charms, Arithmancy, and Transfiguration. I'm certain Dumbledore exempted him from standard testing for the whole seven years."
Harry took another sip before replying. "Pretty good guess Angelina. I'm indeed exempted from any and all exams. Even O.W.L.S and N.E.W.T.S."
Lee blinked, then let out a short laugh as realisation hit him. "Oh right. I forgot about that. Merlin, that must be nice. The rest of us are stressing over revision schedules and you're just… exempt."
Harry shrugged lightly, setting the pint glass on the low table. "It has its uses. Means I can focus on other things instead of memorising textbooks I already know."
Katie who was coming over, heard the last part and retorted as she dropped in beside Angelina. "Lucky git. I wish I could skip half my classes. Charms is still kicking my arse this term."
Fred raised an eyebrow, leaning back. "Charms? Come on, Katie. You were doing silent conjurations last week without even blinking. Don't tell us Flitwick's practicals are actually making you sweat."
"The practicals are fine," Katie sighed, tossing her bag to the floor and leaning her head back. "The casting is easy. It's the bloody twelve-foot essay on the theoretical variance of localized gravity-damping matrices that's killing me. Flitwick is grading like a madman this month. Just because Harry taught us how to skip the physical gestures doesn't mean the professors stopped drowning us in theory."
"Too true," Lee muttered, swirling his whiskey. "Now that the whole school can cast the standard curriculum backwards and blindfolded, the staff has gone completely off the deep end with the written assignments."
George chuckled, taking a slow sip of his cherry soda. "Well, look at the bright side. Word from the staff table is that starting next year, they're completely scrapping the old syllabus. Turning the whole curriculum upside down to match what Harry's been drilling into us. Things are going to get properly ridiculous."
"I just hope they stop focusing on so much theory," Angelina groaned, slumping slightly. "My brain can't keep up with all the theory."
Harry quietly listened to them banter, raising his glass one last time to drain the remaining drops of the sweet cherry nectar. He set the completely empty pint glass down on the low wooden tabletop. Exactly one minute later, the glass dissolved into a soft, shimmering runic mist, completely vanishing back into the Barkeep's network—a neat trick Harry had built in so no one ever had to clean up, though if anyone had wanted more, a simple vocalized 'refill' would have instantly topped it back up.
But he didn't want a refill. The soothing warmth of the Cherrilush had done its job, and his eyelids felt like lead.
Harry pushed himself up from the deep armchair, his joints popping slightly. "Right. I'm going to sleep. I'm completely exhausted."
Fred blinked, looking up at him. "Blimey, now? You'll be missing dinner, mate. It's in an hour."
"I will literally fall asleep face-first into the plate if I go down to the Great Hall," Harry murmured, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'll just eat something after I wake up."
George offered a sympathetic nod. "Go on then, captain. We'll make sure no one wakes you."
"You don't have to worry about that." Harry muttered dragging himself towards the dormitory staircase, giving them a faint wave. "I doubt I'll wake up before tomorrow afternoon."
The group watched him disappear up the spiral stone steps, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him. Down in the common room, the quiet hum of The Intelligent Barkeep and the crackle of the fireplace were the only sounds left to fill the comfortable silence.
While Harry drifted off to a deep sleep, the Hogwarts library was nearly deserted, bathed in the long, bleeding shadows of the moonlight.
In the history section of library, buried behind towers of large leather-bound texts, Ron and Hermione were deeply engrossed in work. They were looking over historical texts to see if they had missed anything that could be used as basis to theorize the other tiers above Grand Sage.
They had been at this for a week already, but so far they hadn't found anything useful.
"Look at this, Hermione," Ron murmured, rubbing his eyes as he traced a finger down an ancient, yellowed chronicle of early magical history. "Is this a mistake"
Hermione looked up from a complex arithmancy matrix she was drawing. "What?"
"The texts we looked at last year," Ron said, his voice dropping into a low, intense whisper as he pulled a second, heavier leather-bound book toward him. "The ones from that were about Merlin. They list Merlin's death or disappearance around the late eleventh century."
"Yes," Hermione said, her brow furrowing slightly. "That's standard historical consensus, Ron. He was an advisor to King Arthur's court, which places him right around the turn of the millennium."
"Right. But look at this chronicle from the Alexandrian fragments," Ron countered, turning the ancient book around so she could see the faded, iron-gall ink. "This is a registered court ledger from the Eastern Roman Empire. It's dated five hundred years before King Arthur. And here, listed as a chief diplomatic envoy from the British Isles... is a wizard named Myrddin Emrys. Look at the way he is described and look at his signature..."
Hermione sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Ron, we've been over this. Early magical historians were notoriously unorganized. They used 'Merlin' as a title for any exceptionally powerful wizard from the islands. It's just a historical discrepancy. We discarded it."
"Think about it, Hermione," Ron leaned forward over the table, the shadows of the library lanterns dancing across his face. "We know the baseline lifespan for any normal wizard or witch is about 150 to 180 years. It doesn't matter if you're a Novice who can barely cast a Lumos, or a Magus like Dumbledore who can duel Dark Lords. Your body still gives out around the same time. The biological limit for mortals is fixed."
Hermione watched him, her brow furrowing as she looked down at the numbers. "Yes... that's the baseline we established."
"Right. We already guessed that Merlin must have broken the scale," Ron continued, his voice tight with an eerie realization. "We created the "Grand Sage" tier specifically because of Merlin. Because we knew that he couldn't have been a Magus after we took Dumbledore's reading. It was purely theoretical. But we didn't actually know what reaching that tier does to a person. We just theorized that it was possible that the lifespan was increased."
"Yes, Ron it was just a theory. And even though Harry is a Grand Sage right now. We can't exactly know what his lifespan." Hermione sighed starting to get irritated.
Ron tapped the old ledger from the Roman Empire, then tapped the Camelot text.
"What if the dates aren't a mistake? What if it was the exact same man?" He whispered. "Hermione... what if a Grand Sage doesn't age like a normal wizard? What if once your core hits a million MPUs, your body starts aging so slowly that a thousand years is just the baseline?"
Hermione froze. The quill slipped from her fingers, leaving a small, dark blot of ink on her parchment. She stared at the two texts, her mind furiously processing the concept. If the 150-180 year limit applied to everyone from Novice to Magus, and the Grand Sage tier was bound to give a lifespan boost...
"A thousand years..." Hermione breathed, her voice trembling slightly. "If they age that slowly... it means the chasm between a Magus and a Grand Sage isn't just about how much magic you can pump into a spell. It completely rewrites your biology."
She slowly raised her head, looking at Ron in absolute, stunned silence. Neither of them needed to say the name out loud. They were both thinking of the eleven-year-old boy currently sleeping soundly up in the Gryffindor tower.
"If a Grand Sage lives for a millennium..." Hermione whispered, a cold shiver running down her spine as the sheer, devastating scope of the future opened up before them. "...then Harry is going to outlive all of us. He'll be standing alone in a thousand years, Ron."
"No, he won't," Ron said firmly.
Hermione blinked, startled by the sudden, absolute certainty in his voice. "What do you mean?"
"From what I know about the guy, you really think Harry is going to just sit back and watch his family and everyone he loves age and die, while he stays alive for a millennium.... Didn't you see what happens when something threatens the life of someone he loves?" Ron reminded her. "He'll probably look at the universe, say 'nope', and drag every single one of us across the million MPU finish line by our collars whether we like it or not."
Hermione stared at him, the terrifying weight in her chest instantly melting away, replaced by a sudden, fierce realization. "You're right. He would. But... he won't have to drag us."
"Exactly," Ron grinned, a dangerous, competitive spark flaring in his eyes as he looked down at the scribbled MPU chart. "If hitting Grand Sage is what it takes to stay on his level and keep this family together for the next ten centuries... then the baseline just shifted."
"We have to make everyone a Grand Sage." Hermione nodded in agreement. But then suddenly a thought crossed her mind.
'If a Grand Sage lived a thousand years... And Harry had felt that Grand Sage wasn't the limit of mortal magic... What does that mean for the lifespan. Does it keep increasing? Is immortality an option?'
And looking at Ron, she knew he was thinking the same as his face had gone pale.
"Hermione... Harry has a limitless core..." He whispered, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the book.
The math was brutal. It was basic, terrifyingly linear progression. If breaking the one-million mark into Grand Sage completely overrode mortal decay and granted an individual a full millennium of life before the body even began to register the passage of time... what happened when a wizard pushed past that? What happened when they breached the mysterious, unnamed eighth, ninth, or tenth tiers that Harry had casually sensed lurking in the cosmic ether?
"If a Grand Sage lives for a thousand years..." Ron muttered, his eyes tracking a non-existent timeline stretching out into the dark corners of the library, "then someone two tiers above that... someone sitting at twenty million, or fifty million MPUs..."
"They wouldn't just outlive a generation," Hermione cut in, her voice trembling slightly as the sheer, unadulterated scale of their reality shattered their previous assumptions. "They would outlive empires. They would watch the mountains crumble into the sea, Ron. They would stand there completely unchanged while the very architecture of the world turned to dust."
She looked back up, her gaze locking onto Ron's pale face. The realization hit them both with the force of an unblocked bludger.
They had just resolved themselves to work twice as hard, to push themselves and the entire Nexus clan into the brutal, time-dilated training dimensions to match Harry's thousand-year lifespan. They had thought a thousand years was the finish line. The ultimate prize to keep their family together forever.
But it wasn't. For Harry, a thousand years was just the opening act.
"He's going to outlive the millennium," Ron whispered, a dark, breathless chuckle escaping his lips as he rubbed his face with both hands. "Merlin's pants, Hermione... we aren't just trying to keep up with a prodigy anymore. We are trying to figure out how to stand beside someone who might literally be around for tens of thousands of years."
The terrifying weight of that realization hung in the air, thick and suffocating. The history section of the library, with its bleeding moonlight and towering shadows, suddenly felt entirely too small to contain the cosmic shift that had just occurred in their minds.
Neither of them said another word. The time for silent theorizing was over.
In a frantic, synchronized blur of motion, Hermione slammed her research journals shut, jamming them into her heavy bag with trembling hands, while Ron aggressively gathered his stray parchments of arithmancy matrices. They didn't care about neatness; they cared about speed.
As they bolted toward the exit of the restricted aisles, Ron didn't even slow down his stride. He casually threw his left hand backward over his shoulder, a sharp, silent pulse of his magical core rippling through the air. Behind them, the massive, leather-bound chronicles of early Roman history and Camelot court ledgers lifted seamlessly from the table, floating through the dark air in a perfect, quiet ballet to slide back into their exact slots on the towering wooden shelves.
They practically sprinted down the shifting staircases, their boots clattering sharply against the ancient stone. It was around 6:30 PM. The castle was in that distinct twilight lull just before the dinner rush, but they ignored the few students staring at them in bewilderment as they tore through the corridors toward the Headmaster's tower.
Reaching the stone gargoyle, Hermione didn't even wait for it to fully rotate. The moment the hidden staircase exposed itself, they scrambled up the spiral steps two at a time.
They didn't knock.
With a resonant, explosive bang, Ron threw his weight against the heavy oak doors, bursting into Albus Dumbledore's office with a level of frantic panic that completely shattered the quiet dignity of the room.
Inside, Dumbledore was standing by his grand desk, gesturing toward a floating map of the Scottish highlands while Minerva McGonagall stood beside him, her brow furrowed over a piece of parchment. At the sudden, violent intrusion, both of them snapped around instantly, their wands half-drawn out of sheer instinct.
But the moment their eyes landed on the two intruders, the professors paused.
McGonagall's sharp expression immediately morphed into one of intense, severe concern. Dumbledore's bright blue eyes narrowed, the casual twinkle instantly replaced by a sharp, calculating focus. They knew these children. They knew that under Harry's relentless, high-intensity training, Ron and Hermione had developed a level of tactical composure that put most adult Aurors to shame. For them to look this utterly unraveled, with their faces completely pale and their breaths coming in ragged gasps, meant only one thing.
Something monumental had shattered.
"Mr. Weasley! Miss Granger!" McGonagall gasped, her voice carrying a rare edge of genuine alarm as she stepped forward. "What on earth is the meaning of this? Did someone get hurt? Is Harry..."
"Sorry for barging in like this, Professor," Ron interrupted, his voice raspy as he clutched the doorframe, his chest heaving. "But it's urgent. It's completely urgent."
"We found something," Hermione choked out, her hands gripping her research notebook so tightly the cardboard was bending. "We found something in the ancient chronicles that is threatening to change our very world. Everything we thought we knew about the baseline structure of magic... it's wrong."
Dumbledore's demeanor shifted seamlessly into that of a soothing, unshakeable anchor. He raised his hands in a gentle, calming gesture, guiding them toward the plush velvet armchairs in front of his desk. "Calm yourselves, my children. Deep breaths. Whatever storm has brewed, we shall face it together. Sit, please."
With a flick of his wand, two crystal saucers drifted through the air, landing softly on the side tables beside them. Atop each sat a small, glittering yellow lozenge. "Take a lemon drop. I've had the house-elves lace these specific ones with a mild Calming Draught. It will help clear the static from your minds."
"No time for sweets, Professor," Ron said flatly, completely ignoring the saucer as he collapsed into the chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
"We don't need a calming draught, Professor!" Ron barked, waving his hand dismissively as he sat down, his parchment sheets scattering. "You don't understand. We were looking into Merlin."
Dumbledore paused, his hand hovering over the silver bowl. His gaze became incredibly sharp. "Merlin?"
"Yes," Hermione took over, her words tumbling out in a rapid torrent as she slammed the ancient Alexandrian chronicle onto the desk. "We created the 'Grand Sage' tier as a purely theoretical classification based on his works. We also theorized that hitting it might give a lifespan boost. We might have just found out how long."
She pulled an annotated timeline from her pile. "Our baseline for all normal wizards shows a fixed biological limit. From a Novice to a Magus, everyone lives to be about 150 to 180 years old. The rate of cellular aging doesn't change, no matter how much raw magic you have."
"But these Alexandrian court ledgers are dated five hundred years before Camelot," Ron broke in urgently. "They record a British envoy named Myrddin Emrys. The text includes highly detailed descriptions of his unique staff, his features, and his personal handwritten monogram. We cross-referenced it with the handwritten codices from Camelot five centuries later. It's a perfect match."
"Historically, everyone assumed 'Merlin' was just a title passed down because early historians were unorganized," Hermione explained, tapping the paper. "But what if it isn't , Professor? What if it's the same man? What if the baseline lifespan of a Grand Sage isn't just double or triple of ours?"
"What if it's exactly ten centuries. A thousand years." Ron finished.
Dumbledore stared at the two children, his long fingers resting entirely still against the mahogany desk. Minerva McGonagall's hand flew to her mouth, her sharp emerald eyes darting to the ancient text as her mind processed the implications.
"A thousand years..." McGonagall breathed, her strict voice cracking slightly.
But the panic on the children's faces hadn't dissipated. It had deepened.
"And that's why we're terrified, Professor," Ron said, his face turning ghost-white. "Because you already also agree with Harry's view that Grand Sage isn't the pinnacle. We know Harry's a Grand Sage. And we also know Harry's core is limitless..."
The temperature in the circular office plummeted instantly.
The connection was instantaneous and devastating. If the jump from a Magus to a Grand Sage exponentially stretched a human life from 150 years to a millennium, then the jump to the eighth, ninth, or tenth tiers wouldn't just mean a longer life. By the pinnacle of mortal magic, a wizard could easily live for a hundred thousand years. Outliving entire empires while remaining completely unchanged.
And Harry would keep growing, infinitely, without ever hitting a ceiling.
Dumbledore slowly lowered his head, his gaze tracking the chaotic scribbles on the parchment. He finally understood why these two were so panicked. They hadn't come to boast about a discovery. They had realized that their best friend was accelerating into a terrifying, eternal existence. Immortality.
For a long moment, the only sound in the tower was the rhythmic, soft ticking of the silver instruments.
Then, slowly, the tension in Dumbledore's shoulders eased. The intense, razor-sharp focus in his blue eyes dissolved, replaced once more by that familiar, gentle twinkle. He let out a soft, thoroughly amused chuckle and leaned back in his chair.
"My dear children," Dumbledore said, his voice a soothing, warm balm that instantly took the freezing edge out of the room. "Your minds are truly a marvel. The deductions you have displayed tonight are nothing short of extraordinary."
Ron and Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in atmosphere.
"But, Professor..." Hermione started frantically.
"However," Dumbledore interrupted gently, raising a hand. "I would hardly be worried about this very much just yet. A historical 'what if,' no matter how brilliantly structured, is still just a 'what if.' A handful of ancient physical descriptions matching a few medieval sketches, and a signature that happens to share a stylistic loops... while compelling, it is hardly concrete empirical evidence."
He smiled, pushing the silver bowl of lemon drops an inch closer to them. "History is full of echoes, Mr. Weasley. It is entirely possible that the Myrddin of Alexandria was perhaps an ancestor whose personal artifacts were preserved and passed down to the Merlin of Camelot. We must not let the vastness of numbers trick us into seeing ghosts where there are only old shadows."
Ron rubbed the back of his neck, his fierce panic stumbling over the Headmaster's unshakeable calm. "So... you think it's just a coincidence?"
"I think that you two have spent a week drowning in dusty archives and have let your imaginations catch fire," Dumbledore said with a warm, grandfatherly wink. "Exams are approaching, and the mind loves to wander toward cosmic mysteries when it wishes to escape the reality of twelve-foot essays. Go down to the Great Hall. Eat some dinner, get some sleep, and let the universe take care of its own timeline."
Hermione stared at him, her lips parting as if to argue, but the sheer, grounding weight of Dumbledore's presence made it impossible to maintain her frantic state. Slowly, she let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping. "Yes, Professor. Perhaps... perhaps we got ahead of ourselves."
"A very natural trait when one spends too much time around Harry," Dumbledore chuckled. "Goodnight, children."
"Goodnight, Professors," Ron muttered.
With a final, much calmer wave of his hand, Ron gathered their loose notes, and the two second-years quietly exited the office, the heavy oak doors clicking shut behind them.
The moment the latch engaged, the warmth in the room vanished.
Minerva McGonagall turned slowly to face the Headmaster, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her expression entirely serious. "Albus. Do you truly believe what you just told them? Do you really think it is merely a historical coincidence?"
Dumbledore sat in silence for a few seconds. He reached out, his youthful-looking hand gently closing the ancient Alexandrian chronicle. When he looked up at his deputy, the playful twinkle was completely gone.
"No, Minerva," Dumbledore said softly, his voice carrying the immense, weary weight of his 115 years. "It could very well be real. The historical alignment is undeniable. Merlin might have lived for ten centuries."
McGonagall's breath hitched. "Then why did you send them away? Why did you dismiss it? If Harry is accelerating past that threshold, if his limitless core means he is heading toward an undying, immortal existence..."
"Because there is no need to sow chaos where there is currently peace," Dumbledore interrupted gently, standing up from his desk and walking over to the tall window, looking out over the dark, quiet grounds of Hogwarts. "What would you have them do, Minerva? Panic? Throw themselves into a frenzy of desperate training out of fear of a future that is centuries away?"
He smiled faintly, looking at his own reflection in the glass. "Knowing Harry, if the day ever comes where he truly fears being left alone, he will simply find a way to make his loved ones Grand Sages alongside him. That boy defies all reason. He does not need our panic to guide him."
"And what of you, Albus?" McGonagall asked, her voice dropping into a quiet, wistful whisper as she stepped up beside him. "You are closer to that threshold than any of us. If you crossed it... if you could live for another thousand years..."
Dumbledore let out a soft, genuinely peaceful sigh, shaking his head.
"I, for one in particular, find absolutely no appeal in living a thousand years, Minerva," Dumbledore said, his voice rich with the profound wisdom of a man who truly understood the beauty of a mortal life. "To watch the world change for ten centuries... to see the generations pass... no. A full life is a beautiful thing precisely because it has an ending. Let us not worry so heavily about death, nor the grand, terrifying scales of immortality. Let us simply live while we are alive, and trust that tomorrow will look after itself."
Outside, the bleeding moonlight continued to cast long, peaceful shadows across the ancient stone castle, entirely oblivious to the infinite future waiting just beyond the horizon.