I sat down in a comfy chair in my study in Rabbit's Hole, thoughtfully looking into the distance.

Discarding the general limp wrist-ness of the Order, and the general annoying behavior of Golden Trio of Crusaders, my mind had started hammering out the possible ways to craft a sentient ward. It would prove itself invaluable against Voldemort. I was a great wizard, I knew that I thought and did stuff nobody else even thought about, but I remembered my only encounter with the madman. My knowledge placed me squarely beyond the reach of the common wizard or witch, but he was far from being common. Sure, application of Project Chronos would give me a leg up, and likely allow me a sneaky kill. But what if that branch of charms failed when brought to bear against the might and certain will of Voldie? I wanted an insurance. Or a weapon to guarantee my success.

But what kind if weapon could surpass a wand? A staff? Somehow, I doubted it. Besides, I planned to live forever, I wanted either a weapon that I could improve over time, or one that grew to match my ever-growing skill and depth of knowledge.

Tiredly discarding my wishes about a proper magic Gugnir, my thoughts found themselves hovering around the concept of identity, choosing to overcome the challenge of sentient ward before the one about a super-weapon. After all, to shackle a muggle's soul to a ward would be pointless, only because no-Maj lacked the sensibility to magic necessary to distinguish a spell from another. Besides, an enemy wizard would hardly cooperate in my endeavor, even if whatever resistance would be ignored once the soul was turned into a ward.

But then again, why would I need a human soul? A Kneazle had enough instinct to distinguish between good and ill intent, which was good enough for the purpose of a no-dark-magic ward. Granted, it would be a no-violent-intent ward, but still, I had to start somewhere.

My thoughts slowly gravitated towards the problem if making my basilisk functionally immortal, trying to follow the new possibilities that sentient wards could open.

"There are two forms of eternal life." I stated, black ink moving from a glass pot to the journal opened in front of me, the black words gleaming wet under my single eye.

"One based on a functionally immortal body, and one based upon an identity that does not fade after the destruction of said body." I mused out loud.

"Not only but said identity must be able to interact with matter for it to be considered 'life' and not some form of ghost." I rose from my seat, my eyes never leaving the sea that spread itself from the feet of the cliff.

I could go with a Bladerunner. Crafting a biological copy of my body shouldn't be that hard, or at least, I could grow one in a gestation chamber. Making it a cross with a Pensieve would likely allow my memories to bleed over and my identity to imprint itself over the blank soul of the unconscious but living body. I frowned a bit, that would create a clone of me, one that vied what I valued, and not someone prone to sudden megalomaniac conquest of the world. Using my replicant for a ward was... dangerous.

Still, it was risky, unless I created some sort of binding Geass on my replicant. But magically creating another me and then enslaving him sounded like a sure way to create my worst enemy, only because I knew I would not rest until the threat to my freedom wasn't erased. Besides, I knew that my identity was formed during the course of my whole life, and as much as my enhanced memory could go, it was far from being a perfect recollection that allowed me to recall the sound I heard while in my mother's womb.

Then again, memories gave context to the present, their purpose wasn't to be perfect. I knew I was only a voice in my head, and that I was a result of many forces, events, thoughts, situations, hopes, dreams, disasters.

"I need to capture myself several witches and wizards... erasing their memories and thusly making their identity go blank would allow me to superimpose my identity on them, then, I could play with sentient wards." I mused again.

Having a sentient, me to take care of Wonderland and Miðgarðsormr would have been wonderful, if not for the fact that I perceived it as an annoying chore, and thusly my clone would as well. Besides, I wanted Wonderland to be self-sufficient, and Miðgarðsormr to be self-reliant, besides being immortal. Finding a way to make the basilisk capable of parthenogenesis.

Enslaving a grown wizard was a big no-no, since Wonderland answered only to my soul-voice, kidnapping a newborn wizard, and imprinting my soul over his would work, but Miðgarðsormr would be lethal to any that didn't share my blood. Having a son with a random witch and repeating on him the process was the best viable alternative, I could raise him in Wonderland, fifteen years spent in a section where time went slow the most would allow me to pass 15 years in a matter of weeks for the real world. But still, resentment was something that could came up easily, being born only for the purpose my father envisioned me for would certainly have pissed me off.

And while I truly believed magic to be the most important thing around and its research worth a lot, but I didn't want to actively harm innocents. The not innocents however...

Kage Bunshin a là Naruto? It could be done through golem built with my blood as a bonding agent, but they wouldn't have the ability to interact with the magic necessary to direct a philosopher stone to secrete elixir.

It was an annoying conundrum.

Cloning myself and sharing the burden sounded like the most reasonable thing to do... but I didn't want to do it, it was the whole point because I was looking for a way to build an avatar of my will.

Better get started with sentient wards, maybe a solution will present itself. I resigned myself and left Rabbit's Hole leaving a note for Fleur which read 'Gone Shopping Test Subjects'.

I apparated to Diagon Alley, the hood of my sphinx leather trench coat keeping my features hidden under an unnatural shade. The place was going to hell, most of the shops either closed or with a very washed down appearance, due to vandalism, robbery, or whatnot. The infamous Weasley's joke shop was a ruin, not that it was a surprise, the only places still open were the Cauldron and Gringotts.

I frowned while walking towards Knockturn Alley. How do the owners of an activity survive? Everything is shut down, the economy is likely gone to hell, I wonder what of the Ministry? Most standard wizards and witches aren't wealthy enough to survive without income. I wonder if perhaps the war has compelled them to come to the realization that they don't need to work in first place?

My thoughts left me as I entered the district of ill repute, noticing the infamous Borgin and Burke open for business, as well as several other shops along the way, from the dirty poor pubs to breweries (for potions) and armories. There was even what I suspected was a shop for selling muggles. Gods this place went to shit very fast. But then again, the mooks of the 'evil' side need a place where they can spend money, otherwise how could the nobles purchase their servitude?

I was almost relieved to see that Voldemort wasn't completely bat shit crazy. Or that at least he had someone to keep at least a few activities running. I wondered if Hogsmeade was the same, or had all the 'good' people gone to work in Hogwarts?

The differences from the books were staggering, obviously a dragged out war hadn't allowed Voldemort to stay completely hidden, likely forcing him to do several appearances, and placing someone he could trust to keep the Ministry running.

Dumbledore, on the other hand, not being dead due to my having removed the Ring from Gaunt's shack, had likely become a rallying point for both those in search of protection and those who wished to fight. He likely had organized a smuggling ring to send those unwilling to lend a hand beyond the pond. I wondered why the ICW hadn't yet jumped into the fray. Or if it did, how in the nine Hells did it manage to fuck it up.

I dropped my musings and listened around me, reading myself to impose my will on the world while I crossed the threshold of what looked to be the less shitty pub in the area.

The conversations inside, from the drunken and boisterous to the huddled and whispered stopped for a second, taking in the new entry.

There were several small round tables, enough to fit two or three persons each, while in the middle of the room a long table had benches at its sides, likely for the single drinkers. The barman and likely owner squinted at me with bleary eyes from the end of the room, where he served drinks upon a dirty plank of dark wood.

My eyes followed what I was hearing, the misshapen choir of desperate and violent men clashing against the wary hunger of what I suspected was a vampire. The single squeak of a couple of hags resonating with several werewolves drinking boisterously in their side of the room.

All my observations happened in that single second of silence and were organized and classified in order of the danger they could pose. The elixir running through my veins would have likely stopped me from turning into werewolf or being turned into a vampire, mostly because the Philosopher Stone in my eye secreted it directly into my bloodstream, and thusly granting me an awareness of each of my cells that was beyond what a common mage could hope to grasp. Even knowing, no, speculating so, I wasn't eager to try my luck.

I rolled my shoulders, thinking about my plan of attack. Subtlety, not subtlety?

"Is anyone here a murderer or a rapist?" I asked loud enough for my voice to be heard clearly by everyone.

And while I tasted the palpable surprise in the air, the sudden spike in fear of some, the interest toward an opportunity of violence of others, my lone eye zeroed onto a group of what my mind identified as 'mooks'. Jackpot. "Four winners, lucky me." I drawled while strolling leisurely towards the huddled group. From the way they bristled and instinctively tried to retreat on their seats, and the way they were clutching their wands under the table, I suspected it was a mixed group.

I wasn't a master at Legilimency by any stretch of the term, mostly because I lacked occasions to practice, but willing myself into their minds was hardly difficult. It wasn't like a switch, nor like flipping through their memories, but the colors from the eyes I met melted into images that I saw as a third person.

Why are memories seen in third person? My mind noted down the new topic of research, while another part of me observed distractedly the memories my words had summoned.

I didn't bother giving to either them or the rest of the people in the pub any kind of warning, they were far from being innocent. Even so, they two seconds between my questions and the moment in which the air smelled of ozone.

Ionized plasma crisscrossed the air around me in a cocoon which blossomed around me and stunned everyone in a radius of several meters. Painfully.

Without stopping, I twirled my wand in a circle, pushing everyone against the walls and grabbing the two collapsed dumbasses that were the closest to me.

With a crack, I was gone.

I reappeared out of the front door of Rabbit's Hole, before opening the door and tossing them inside, summoning both portkeys and wands from them. The feeling portkeys gave off was always strange, difficult to place, like a rock ready to skip on water. Even so, finding out that the mook on my left didn't have any portkey on him lowered a lot his threat level.

My eyes fell on my desk, where the note I left for Fleur sat untouched. I shrugged off her absence, it had been only a few hours after all.

I dragged my two prisoners down in Wonderland, and only then a memory from the books came unbidden to my mind: "If I were to stab you, I wouldn't harm in any way your soul." or something similar. And again, it made sense, a soul was a property of 'identity' in the same way gravity was a property of matter. The shape of your body had an impact in forming your voice, nothing more.

So, just to be on the safe side, I removed their arms, not that they would need them, and it made me more comfortable knowing that they wouldn't be able to arm me, not grabbing a wand, nor punching.

Since I was already there, I didn't think they would ever need legs, so, I painlessly removed those too.

FLEUR

The meeting, once it actually started, had been long and tedious, and since David had run away to play with magic, I was forced to attend, if only to be informed about the actual state of things in the dreary and sad place that was UK.

Dumbledore had joined the 'war room' once everyone was already present.

He looked like he aged 50 years since the last time I had seen him, deep bags under his twinkling eyes, but I observed that Minerva and Filius looked extremely tired, the brief moments of respite David and I managed to give them talking about magic went a long way towards making them sharper during the meeting.

I was surprised to hear that Hogwarts had been returned to his state as a castle. The whole resistance against Voldemort's army was stationed at the school, their families, friends, and people who just didn't know how to escape without getting caught.

Apparently, inside the ministry there were means to track apparition, and as such people were smuggled away from the country with complex means and procedures that had been kept quiet. From the way the half-giant Groundskeeper seemed to preen however, in my opinion it had something to do with the herd of Thestrals David had told me about.

During the meeting, I noticed that Dumbledore kept a mediator role, what I didn't expect, was that the two more vocal members at the table were Amelia Bones, who sported a clearly recent wound on her face, and Harry Potter himself. Now, I understood hope, advertisement, and whatnot, but placing such an emotional kid in any position of power seemed... well, David insisted that I called dumb shits dumb shits, so... it looked like some dumb shit to do. At the table there were several muggleborns of various age, which clearly were being enlisted for the war.

Uh, living in the castle meant that the voluntaries, which were clearly being manipulated in signing up for their war, only had to train and being deployed, either to free this or that camp where muggleborns and politic prisoners were herded in, or to employ hit and run tactics on Knockturn Alley, which apparently was the only central hub of activity left in London. Well, beyond whatever happened in the ministry.

Surprisingly enough the war had assumed two well defined armies, even if Dumbledore's side had a clear split in charge between Bones and Potter, all in all, I was hardly impressed.

Granted, Hogwarts was the stronghold, and manned with enough witches and wizards, it was a scary one. Giving that children who had yet to be brought outside of the country were being taught all kind of things to not hinder the resistance, and that the volunteers were being drilled by masters of their craft into how weaponize every single spell they knew... the potential was there, and it was obvious to see why Voldemort still hadn't succeeded. Potter regularly led parties to exterminate Acromantulas and whatnot from the Forbidden Forest, so they had that covered, there was some shifty magic hovering over the Black Lake, and I wasn't sure about the kind of magic the Grounds were interwoven with.

I could hardly estimate who was in a winning position, after all I had no idea of what kind of resources Voldemort had. Even so, I would say that the resistance did not hold the tactical advantage, they were holed up in the castle, executing raids and expeditions over territories that they couldn't properly check before their attacks, and they had to risk their scouts each time they wanted to check up an area. Voldemort's side didn't have that problem, each Manor of an old family could work as a small stronghold from which running operations, and it meant having a force constantly watching an area.

Sure, wizards and witches weren't limited by distance, but keeping a constant presence was an important psychological aspect of the war, and talking about psychological warfare, the Prophet was still the ministry's mouthpiece.

I rubbed my eyes while strolling out of the main gates with the group of hopeful's recruits, I was going to look around the half abandoned Hogsmeade before making my return. We were being watched during all the duration of our visit, and we had been allowed to poke our noses around, even if under surveillance. It was an efficient tactic for recruitment, no doubt, these people would either talk others into join them behind the safe borders of Hogwarts or sell the untrustworthy information to the other side.

For example, being told that Potter regularly led people in the Forbidden Forest sounded a lot like a bait.

I could see Bones' influence in this tactic, she had been a politician for a while, and she had clearly picked up on the importance of misinformation.

All in all, it didn't feel like they were close to the resolution of the conflict, one way or another. Which meant that if deemed necessary for it to end soon, we would need to step in fully, or at least with a significant number of resources, which we really couldn't afford.

Too many, I counted at least twenty other wizards in black garments working in teams of four, shuffling and weaving in a circle around me and the others that managed to survive the first attack.

What could they gain with an attack at Hogwarts doorstep? The whole army opposing them is stationed here. Like I did once before,

"At the end of the day magic is intent. Being a mage means changing your surroundings, making it so that your voice has enough impact not only to be heard, but to make it sound more legitimate than what already is." David taunted me.

"I only asked how you dodged the stunner you couldn't possibly have seen." I objected to his explanation, which like always only raised more questions.

"So... you hear the intent of the spell?" I asked after a while.

"Nothing so exact, but if you can recognize the feel of your surroundings, or... white noise, if you prefer, then what disrupts it should catch your attention." He retorted.

I had tried since then, again and again, and it was the only reason why I threw myself on the ground.

To the passive awareness I had of my surroundings, the sudden spark of violence resonated wrongly.

While I was falling, I twisted on myself, trying to apparate to Rabbit's Hole, and only then I noticed the rigid tone of an Anti-apparition ward.

I rolled on the ground, my wand already in my hand while I felt my features sharpen. Expertly ignoring the instinct to rip and tear with cruel beak and glinting talons, I collected the fire that blossomed over me in a dome, keeping it in place with my off hand and vanishing the chunk of the ground I was sprawled upon, falling for a couple of feet, and effectively dodging the second deadly volley of spells.

I took a deep breath, and with a twitch of my wand, the dome of blue fire poured on the ground like a flood, before flashing of a bright white.

The disillusionment washed over me like cool water, and I endured the uncomfortable feeling to shot out of my temporary trench. Bunkering down meant renouncing mobility, and I couldn't afford it, not when it was clearly an ambush.

I exploded the ground in a random area and transfigured some of the dirt, butterflies with silvery, reflecting wings grabbing the attention of the attackers, if only for a moment.

There were too many, I counted twenty between wizards and witched, all in black garments, operating in teams of four.

I rained cutting curses just to gain a second of respite against the two teams that singled me out, and with the experience gained through countless spars with David, a dome like cracked glass with golden runes sliding over it in a languid manner settled down around me. With a twist and a sharp flick of my wand, mounds of dirt rose from the ground while being transfigured into stone, before immediately falling through the dome and being carried around on its surface, intercepting killing curses without needing me to keep up a hovering charm, needing only my recognition of the Unforgivable to act upon them. A sentient ward would be useful now.

I banished my wistful thinking and took a second to organize my thoughts, looking around, searching for allies to swarm the enemy from Hogwarts' Grounds. Only then I saw the enraging flames over the Forbidden Forest, fiery animals of every kind rampaging through the canopy, a thick black smoke quickly rising to blind the Sun.

Waves upon waves of my blue fire forced the aggressors to stay away from me, while the survivors tried to rally around my position, and for all their determination, the only thing they were proficient in was hindering me.

Constant hard work brings results, strength of will matters only when accompanied by a strong foundation. The voice of David sounded again in my head, and given the pitiful display, I couldn't not agree.

I needed to either find those maintaining the anti-apparition and portkey wards, which was impossible in the chaos of the battle, stall the enemy until reinforcements from Hogwarts came through, which I couldn't be sure of since there was Fiendfyre devouring the Forest and aiming for the castle, or win on my own.

To win on my own meant finding a way to either tank or divert spells coming from different directions while retaliating. And if my opponent weren't organized, or even a single team, I wouldn't meet many difficulties, sadly it wasn't the case.

I defended myself, almost single handedly dispatching wizard after witch, finding or creating disruptions in their otherwise flawless teamwork and capitalizing on them. After five minutes, I realized that not only help wasn't coming anytime soon (the fire over the Forbidden Forest now climbed higher than Hogwarts towers), but that the distraction that the other rebel-hopefuls had provided was about to end, since less than ten of them still struggled to stay alive.

I inhaled, and the air around me answered, howling with a vengeance and churning around me at speeds that forced back those Death Eaters or mooks foolish enough to get close.

The column of air ignited itself above my head and sprouted wings, the head of an eagle as big as an airplane opening in a cry of defiance.

It was then that I felt a sudden spike of danger, danger, danger coming from the Forest, my eyes found him immediately: pale, deadly, with red eyes that seemed to glint even from the not insignificant distance between us.

Voldemort joined the fray with a volley of curses that made the air wail in protest as his black smoke shape covered the distance in mere seconds.

I dropped my beautiful defense and matched him, directing myself among his soldiers, weaving and dodging following my instincts. The talons on my free hand and feet shred, while my beak ripped apart those too slow to avoid me, even while many of the fools that dodged without checking their surroundings got hit by Voldemort's spells.

He hissed in rage and sprouted a blue light from his wand in a very specific pattern, causing the people around me to ran away, leaving only three man with silver masks behind.

Some of his lackeys wasted no time and immediately I witnessed a somewhat squared purple barrier rising around us.

I Ignored the bigger threat and kept closing in on my lesser opponents, not giving them any occasion to take a breather and organize an attack.

I ducked under a killing curse from my left and pivoted on my right heel, extending my left leg, and enjoying the feeling of my talons gutting a surprised Death Eater. At the same time, I unleashed a blinding flash from the tip of my wand and a small gout of fire from my free hand.

In the first three seconds of this new confront, I offed two meat shields, not bad.

I didn't allow myself to rest, eliminating the numerical advantage was my priority: a blast curse on the ground saw me skyrocket toward the last Death Eater, what David had dubbed my lightsaber spearing through the last weak enemy I had to face, ignoring the distinctive shield he put up when I blinded him and burning through his chest.

"Insolent half breed..." He hissed, and I ducked under a volley of sickly green lights that would have spelled my death.

Then I felt it.

A twist in the world behind me.

I didn't have time to curse, but 'Shit' was my first thought.

I turned on myself, my wrist blurring through tight movements and my will shaping the reality behind me in something heavy, solid, and unyielding. I felt the sheer pressure Voldemort was exercising against my wall and matching it with my refusal to bow.

I was about to charge ahead when I was forced to throw myself aside to avoid an unexpected purple mist that screamed 'deadly' to my senses. I didn't even see him summon it, but I observed the ground wither and die under it.

Once more, I knew that the first thing to do was to take away his numerical advantage. Conjuring a silver jar and manipulating air into a vortex to collect all the purple mist took me two seconds. While doing so a wall of blue fire tried to sweep away Voldemort, who cut through it with what I could see as disdain.

While shredding my hasty attack, he somehow animated the corpses I left behind, sickly yellow light flashing through their wounds and from their eyes.

I clicked my beak in a cackling laugh, and I switched the jar with a stone in the middle of my enemies, just in time for the purple mist to overcome the flimsy prison I conjured and swallow the necromantic constructs. With another hiss, Voldemort slashed his wand and the mist disappeared, replaced by a wave of nothingness that cut through air and ground without resistance.

I dodged, closing in and lashing forward with a swipe, my hand coming few centimeters short from his throat, the talons on my left foot clenching over his thigh and digging deep, looking for his femoral artery.

Something moved behind me, I felt it slash one of my otherwise pristine wings. With an enraged cry I dropped low, my leg never leaving its prize while my wand ripped apart the world behind me. I pushed forward and straightened my back suddenly, my free arm redirecting Voldemort's wand while my beak closed in on the arm, he tried to backhand me with.

An enraged yell drowned everything around me and hurling me through the air.

I got back on my feet a bit dazed, spitting the two fingers that I bit off. If my current features allowed me, I would have smiled.

It was clear that I was victim of a tactic thought for Dumbledore, being trapped in a barrier with Voldemort was obviously a way to give him the time to deal with powerful opponents without being hindered by others. Escaping it sounded like the smart thing to do. And when my eyes landed on the ever growing mass of savage, cursed fire devouring the Forbidden Forest behind Voldemort, I knew what I had to do.

The fire was many things, hot, warm, hungry, violent, bubbly, homey, violent, unrelenting, hurtful, soothing, hopeful, outlandish, terrifying, reassuring. I inhaled, my voice resonating with the rage outside, and sung. I had sung of days in the desert made of sand and never-ending tiredness caused by the heat, of supernovae and thirst, of droughts and explosions, I reached for the pit of my stomach, visualizing a tiny ember. I went with my mind to my memories and feels of the heavy heat of a sun that didn't now mercy. The sheer dryness of the air, the scorching heat of a fireball signing my hair during a scuffle, the reassuring warmth of a campfire. The stones turned cherry red into the fire that we dropped into a pot of water to make stew the single time we cooked instead of the elves. The hunger of the three days without food or water that I forced myself to endure to master Fiendfyre. The need to grow. The burning sensation of muscles in the middle of a fight, the scorching hot feel of punches grazing me. I felt the change more easily this time, my blood growing hotter and climbing up from the pit of my stomach, looking for fresh air to consume. Carefully and slowly, I controlled the output, constricting the fire so that the only direction it could grow into was outside.

And protected by a heat so vast and free that Voldemort's spells sizzled out. Or maybe they hit me and passed through the fire that I was becoming, flames so white and fierce that it was like having the sun dawning from my chest. I slowly inhaled, preparing myself to be free. I saw the Fiendfyre outside washing on the ground, rampaging in my direction.

I recognized the purple dome holding me prisoner with Voldemort crumble and die, but it didn't matter, even when the anti portkey and apparition wards disappeared, it didn't matter. Nobody would run. I was going to burn the space they wanted to either compress or punch through.

I let go, my heart beating its steady rhythm and the air once again entering and leaving my lungs. I called forth my will, freeing the song I was cradling like a newborn inside of me.

A column of wall of white-hot fire blossomed around me and turned into a bird of prey, its wingspan easily covering ten meters, the vast phoenix flew in an upward spiral, faster and faster, the flames naturally evolving into a fire twister, copious amounts of vapor, generated from the water the puny snake tried to drown me with, sucked in by the vacuum generated by the air-consuming magic.

The white flame, however, was so hot to burn the hydrogen and oxygen that composed the vapor, growing upwards with a song made of howling wind and crackling fire.

I didn't wrestle with the flame, I didn't need to force it to develop only upwards, each second felt as long as an hour, and time lost any meaning, lifetimes flashed like dying embers around me, I was free, I was...

Then I could only hear the otherworldly solo made of howling wind and crackling fire, over a soundtrack of melting bones, vaporizing water, and the enraged scream of Voldemort. From within, a never ending thyphoon of fire engulfed the world and nothing more mattered, the vast mass of Fiendfyre rolling under me, asking for guidance, but it wasn't needed, why would I need control? I only needed to... need? I was.

SAM

Iceland is one of the most active volcanic regions on Earth, where almost all types of volcanic and geothermal activity can be found. The volcanism in Iceland is attributed to the combination of the Iceland plume hotspot activity and the Mid-Atlantic Ridge activity. Iceland's landscapes forged by the processes of volcanism include rift valleys, geysers, hot springs, rhyolite mountains, columnar basalt formations, lava fields and lunar-like craters. Instead, subglacial volcanism has created table mountains in northern and southern Iceland. I read distractedly for the third time the summary of the environment I set myself to study.

The most interesting part of Iceland's geology was without a doubt the volcanic activity. Or at least, it was the feature we could exploit more easily. When David had explained what project Atlantis had been about, I called him crazy. That was all there was to it.

Then, maybe stupidly, I allowed him to explain. And the shit he said, along with its rough calculations, had ensnared me.

He wasn't the first to build himself a house underwater, over the course of History, there had been plenty of bat shit crazy wizards and witches to do so. From ten to fifty meters underwater, it wasn't so difficult. Hell, I met a witch who lived in a submarine she stole from the Soviets during the second world war.

But he wasn't content with building himself a house underwater, oh no, he wanted it on the bottom of the sea, and not the Mediterranean, but at the bottom of an ocean! Which meant the problems duplicate themselves every time I stopped watching.

First thing first: the pressure, water weighted one ton for each cube meter of the stuff.

Few dozens of kilometers south of Iceland, the Atlantic Ocean was around 4 kilometers deep. Which meant that on each square meter 4000 000 kgs wanted nothing more than squash you.

That was without considering the way most spells turned out wobbly once underwater. 'It's only in your head, even if the cold, darkness and pressure may have some impact on the world soul we are working with. At least within the area we're talking about.' And David explanations were only more worrying. He talked about the world like it was alive, which was worrying, either because he was crazy, or because he was right.

I rubbed tiredly my forehead, repeating myself that at the end of the day, I volunteered, it was honestly a fascinating challenge, and whatever we learned trying to make it work would allow us to push the limits of magic even more.

Once we managed to set up a reliable and stable dome of breathable air at the bottom of the ocean, and only after we found a way to employ the heat taken from the magma just beneath the site, another big ass problem would be finding a way to make the travel between sites easy.

Then there would be the experiments on life sustainability in such an artificial environment. And the fact that David had called dibs on setting up the underwater ecological cycle had reassured me only partially.

For now, my task was to find a way to allow witches and wizards to dive for long periods at impossible depths, giving them a way to breathe water which contained an unknown percentual of oxides and whatnot, and since I was already there, David had suggested I found out how submarines worked, and tried to replicate the process, on the side, I started reading up on Iceland's environment. After all, the vast number of active volcanoes on land would likely be as the end result we would obtain at the bottom of the ocean.

Luckily enough, we already had solutions for that problem, David himself having researched it and gifting me the Lookfar to study, but still, I had a lot of problems on hand.

It was in that moment that the circle on the ground made for long-range apparition David had set up for himself lit up in a flash, the aforementioned wizard finding his balance while holding a jar to his chest.

I would have welcomed him with my usual snark, but his face gave me pause, and then my eyes fell on the glass jar he was holding.

Inside, a white and blue flame burned distraughtly.