Illuminated by the soft green light of fires, a man worked tirelessly on what will most likely be his last great accomplishment. Looking closer at the man, one can immediately notice the layers upon layers of wrinkles marring his face and limbs, the few, pale white hair that still stubbornly cling on his cranium, the slight huff of exhaustion at every motion. And yet, despite all these signs of the venerable age of the man, one could also hardly miss his eye; a harsh grey pupil containing a frightening intelligence that seemed at odds with the rest of his decrepit appearance. On his right hand, he held a small empty glass vial, while with his left hand, he stirred a Tyrian purple potion with an iron spoon. Close by, a letter, carefully written, carefully worded, carefully folded, sits in an envelope. And on the envelope was a wax seal, carrying the basilisk sigil of Slytherin, gives a hint towards the identity of the man. His full name, as it was known among most of Europe, was Salazar Slytherin.

He tried to fill the vial carefully with the violet concoction, but the uncontrollable shaking of his hand forced him to stop. Slightly aggravated, he took the iron spoon out and hung it on the side of the table and deposed the empty vial. Then, he took out a small drinking pouch from his large sleeves, and with trembling hands, pulled it up to his mouth and took a sip. Instantly, his hands stilled, and his breathing evened out. He even seemed to stand with less of a hunch. Satisfied, he returned the pouch into his vast sleeves and unhung the spoon. With his steadied hands, he then poured the precious purple potion into his glass vial. He then closed the vial with a small cork piece before carefully slip it into his right sleeve. Not a moment too soon either, as the second the vial was secured, a slight shaking returns to his hand. Salazar sighs. Even with his exceptional skills in potions, he could not defy the decrepitation of age upon his body. It was soon going to be his time, and like all the other times Salazar's thought about his death, he felt that it was too soon.

With labored breath, he walks across the room, past an elaborate ritual circle drawn on the ground. In the ritual circle, slightly off-center, stood a long single ghostly white bone. It looks like a slightly curved tibia but is far too long to have come from any human. Not from any larger creature either, as the bone looks too thin and frail to support their body. With this, one could conclude that the bone came from an unnatural creation, and one would be right.

It was the bone of a dementor.

It had taken Salazar considerable efforts to capture and starve this dementor to a single bone, and it took even more of that in influence to cover up the fact that he was experimenting with these inherently vile creatures from prying and curious eyes. However, the dementor's inherent ability to suck, bind and consume souls made it absolutely necessary for Salazar's current research: a search for immortality.

Now, the astute would quite correctly remark that there was already an easy path to immortality: Horcruxes. And it would certainly be a valid option for Salazar. Had he been more morally flexible, he would have most likely gone for Horcruxes. However, as he was now, he found the price too steep. Better to die a man, he told himself, then to live on without his humanity.

"What is Salazar doing then?" The curious might then ask. The answer is complex and took Salazar decades to perfect, but it is fundamentally a delve into the concept of reincarnation. After all, Salazar thought, so long as the conscious mind remains, it was effectively immortality. It was, however, a path with many downsides. For starters, reincarnation required the person to die first, a sharp break in consciousness which kind of defeats the purpose of immortality. There has also never been a case of a reincarnated person in the world. At least, never a reincarnated person that could remember even a snip his past life. Such objections were brought up by the old man's family and closest apprentices, and they were indeed very valid concerns.

Salazar made his way to the tables on the opposite side of the room. On the table were stack upon stack of paper scrolls, parchments and even a few rare papyrus sheets, holding the answer to all the questionings of his closest. With his wand in hand, he summons one of the parchments to him. Turning around, he sat down in his small couch. Then, he reached into his sleeves and took out a small scope and began to read. He was going over his plans, for another time. And he will stay in the seat, summoning scrolls after scrolls to go over the theory behind the magic. To answer the worries of his closest peoples, he had taken every precaution. The Tyrian purple potion he just brewed would not only kill him but will cleanly separate body and soul, somewhat like the killing curse. The ritual circle, formed by many lines of complex calligraphy in the eastern style, form the basis for the reincarnation of the soul and retention of the mind, using his formidable occlumency and intimate knowledge in soul-magic as a basis. Finally, the central piece of the circle was the dementor's bone, whose natural ability to bind souls to it will allow it to serve as a temporary soul anchor. Of course, there is also the risk that the dementor's bone will consume his soul. Then, his death would have served as nothing but the first fine meal of a newly born dementor. A grave risk, for sure, but not one that bothered him that much, since, well, he would be dead anyway.

And on the flip-side, well, if it worked... Salazar thought. If it worked, then his temporary death would mark the beginning of eternal life and set a tremendous landmark in the history of magic. A perfect reincarnation would make Horcruxes and its defilement of the soul seem like scorpion venom in comparison. With immortality on his side, he would have infinite time to delve into the mysteries of magic and guide peoples and nations. Undoubtedly, with endless time on his side, he would eventually reach what could only be described as godhood, so far beyond the understanding of mere mortals…

With a shudder, Salazar shut down on these runaway thoughts of divinity. It was dangerous, letting his mind wander down that path. He was not blind, he had seen countless horrors committed by men that by most accounts are his equals. The common conviction of superiority amongst his equals was the first step to justify true horrors upon their "inferiors", whether they are named wizards, druid, or the magically dull, and he promised that he would never stoop so low.

With a dry wheeze, the venerable portioner roses and took an agonizing step; no point in revising his notes if he had time dabble in pointless daydreams while doing so. After making his way across the room once more, he picks up the letter he set aside and, using his wand to amplify his frail voice, called for his owl. It flew over; a brilliant Snowy owl of the northwestern land over the sea, and to whom Salazar was entrusting with a letter to divide his legacy, both the material and the immaterial one. Then, with a small parting treat of tender duck, it flew off across the room and out the door. He was a bit saddened, that his owl will have brave through the wolf den that is his descendants after he is gone, maybe for good.

Shaking the morose thought off, the elderly patriarch walked to the center of his ritual circle. And once there he sat down, for the last time in this life, against the cold stone floor. In a slow methodical movement, he raised his hand and pressed his wand against his temple. And as he withdrew his wand, a silvery translucent substance seemingly flowed out. He deposed the fluid-like substance into a small indentation in the ritual circle. It was the essence of his mindscape, shaped for over a century by his formidable occlumency. The pensive fluid flowed throughout the ritual circle, following pre-carved paths through the stone floor. This will hopefully allow his memories to remain intact and reincarnate with his soul.

That done, he reached into his robe and took out the violet potion with a trembling hand. He opened the glass vial carefully and, while taking a last admiring gaze at the cumulation of fifteen years of research, wondered for the last time whether it would send him to a new journey or to end it. Then, with methodical care, he brought the vial to his lip and drank. The aged founder of Hogwarts then lied down, at last, on the cold hard floor, in his dimly lit laboratory.

With his last conscious thought, he wondered what his next view of the world would be.

AN: This is my first work of published fanfiction, and I'm still learning the ropes on many of the options available to me. I would appreciate feedback, comments, or even help on how to work the fanfiction system, it seems very counter intuitive.

As for the story, hope you enjoy it. It might not get finished, however, as I am writing this to distract myself from a particularly boring summer vacation, but I will do my best to carry it out to terms.