Cold stone walls cast distorted shadows under the flickering torchlight. Deep within Hogwarts Castle, an abandoned classroom had been temporarily repurposed as a cell.
Pettigrew lay slumped in a cold corner like a heap of mud.
Specially crafted restraining shackles locked his wrists and ankles, a faint blue glow flickering weakly in the gloom.
His eyes were empty, his body trembling uncontrollably, like a mangy dog with its spine broken.
With a creak, the door opened.
Sagres stepped silently into the cell, his grey eyes seeming bottomless in the firelight. He looked at Peter as though he were nothing more than a stone.
Peter's bloated body instinctively shrank back, trying to press itself into the cold stone wall.
"Y-you… what do you want to do?" His voice was shrill, thick with a sobbing tone. "You can't… the Ministry of Magic still has to put me on trial… the Dementor…"
"The Ministry of Magic's trial and the Dementor's Kiss are indeed the ending you deserve, Peter."
Sagres's voice was calm, as though he were stating a simple fact. "But Fudge is incompetent, and Azkaban is not foolproof. A wizard driven to desperation, especially a rat like you who excels at hiding, might find some tiny crack in the chaos and slip away. Who can say?"
He looked at Pettigrew, his steady gaze carrying an icy scrutiny. "Even if the possibility is small, I will never tolerate its existence."
Peter's beady eyes flew wide open, a sudden sense of impending doom flooding his mind. "No… you can't… Dumbledore won't allow it… won't allow you to kill me…"
"Kill you?" Sagres shook his head slightly, contempt clear in his eyes. "No. Of course I won't kill you."
He slowly raised his right hand, the tip of his wand steadily aimed at Peter's forehead. An invisible force instantly bound Peter, leaving him unable to move even a finger.
"Just to be absolutely certain, you need to lose some… unnecessary capital."
Peter screamed in terror. "Stop! What are you going to do? You can't do this! I deserve a trial! I—"
"This is the trial."
"Ah—!!!"
Screams instantly filled the cramped space.
Peter convulsed violently, like a shrimp thrown into boiling water, his plump face twisting grotesquely under the agony.
It was not the pain of flesh and blood, but the stripping away of his very essence.
Something flowing within his blood and soul was being forcibly extracted by an unknown power.
The sensation was even worse than the Cruciatus Curse.
At that moment, his innate magic surged uncontrollably toward Sagres's wand, like a dam bursting apart.
The entire process lasted less than a minute, yet for Peter it felt like a century of torment in hell.
When it ended, Peter's eyes were left utterly vacant, as though not only his magic had been drained away, but also every trace of cunning and vitality.
He collapsed completely to the floor, his chest rising and falling weakly as faint, meaningless groans escaped his throat.
The sea of magic that had once filled his body was now nothing more than a shallow puddle of stagnant water, too feeble to even cast a Lumos.
"You're very lucky," Sagres said, looking down at him without the slightest trace of pity in his eyes. "That I even left you a trace at all."
Despite that, Pettigrew's current state was little better than that of a Squib. He did retain a faint remnant of magic, but that, paradoxically, felt more like a cruel reminder than mercy.
"Now you can wait in peace for the Dementor's Kiss. They should greatly enjoy the new emptiness and despair in your soul."
Sagres did not spare him another glance. He turned and left.
The heavy oak door closed silently behind him and locked, leaving only darkness and weakness with the lump of mud on the floor.
After absorbing ninety percent of Peter's magic, Sagres could clearly feel the torrent of magic within him finally breaking through a certain critical threshold.
...
Deep night. All was silent.
Hogwarts Castle lay asleep. Sagres stood alone atop the open astronomy tower, gazing up at the vast, boundless starry sky.
The magic within him had reached its peak, a strange sense of fullness and expansion flooding his body.
After many years, his long-dormant "talent" had finally reawakened.
And this time, Sagres's goal was bold, almost arrogant: to raise the dead.
Why not?
He closed his eyes, letting his mind sink into the deepest recesses of his consciousness.
Vast magic surged like a raging river and, under the guidance of his will, frantically attempted to weave and construct an ultimate spell capable of reversing life and death and reshaping the soul.
Countless profound magical circuits rapidly took shape, merged, collapsed, and reassembled within his spiritual world.
He tried to comprehend the essence of life's dissipation, to trace the path of the soul's return to nothingness, to find the legendary fragile thread that linked the two realms of life and death.
Yet the outcome was like a stone cast into a deep pool, stirring only a ripple of despair.
...He failed.
No matter how he tried, no matter how he attempted to complete the spell, it always broke apart at the final moment, just before reaching completion.
Somewhere beyond sight, an invisible barrier seemed to exist, coldly rejecting any attempt to violate the iron law of life and death.
"As expected… it won't work."
Sagres slowly opened his eyes. In their deep grey depths there was little disappointment, only a calm, anticipated understanding.
The boundary between life and death was the most eternal of laws. Powerful as his "talent" was, it clearly could not truly shake such a fundamental cornerstone.
The objective had to change.
If he could not reverse death, then he would pursue another form of "eternity"—absolute control over form.
This time, what took shape in his mind was no longer a spell to reverse life and death, but laws concerning "form," "essence," "change," and "constancy."
He recalled the principles of Transfiguration while integrating his own understanding of magic.
Magic surged again, but this time it did not crash violently against a barrier. Instead, like an exquisitely precise weaver, it began to craft an entirely different kind of spell.
Grey-white representing matter, emerald green representing life, azure blue representing energy, pale gold representing time, and silvery white representing space. Five coloured threads spun, intertwined, and connected.
A spell designed to permanently engrave the effects of Transfiguration onto a target's fundamental existence slowly took shape in the depths of his consciousness.
After an unknown length of time, a completely new magic gradually imprinted itself upon his soul.
Sagres let out a long breath, a hint of fatigue mixed with the deep satisfaction of having mastered a new power.
"Permanent Transfiguration," or perhaps "Cursed Transmutation," was born.
He opened his palm, and a Galleon floated above it.
"Transfigure."
A soft light enveloped the Galleon.
When the light faded, the golden coin was gone. In its place stood a crystal rose, vivid and lifelike.
The petals were crystal clear, reflecting prismatic light in the faint morning glow. The veins of the leaves were sharply defined, and even the fine fuzz along the stem was rendered in perfect detail.
It was no longer metal, nor an illusion, but a true creation whose very mode of existence had been permanently altered, an eternal work of art solidified by magic.
Sagres extended a finger and gently touched the cold, solid crystal rose. A pure smile curved his lips.
This spell could not resurrect the dead, but it could bestow another kind of eternity.
An eternity that, under certain circumstances, might be far more despairing than death itself.
It required no continuous magical upkeep from the caster, nor could it be undone or reverted. Even if Sagres himself were to die, this rose would remain a rose forever.
Others might be able to temporarily transfigure it back into a Galleon using ordinary Transfiguration, but once that magic faded, or once the caster died, it would inevitably return to its eternally fixed crystal rose form.
He had broken the iron law of Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration.
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