Since my earliest years at Hogwarts, I had been fascinated by the legend of the Philosopher's Stone — a mythical artifact that promised immortality and the transmutation of any metal into gold. It bordered on the impossible, and that's exactly what drew me to it.
Throughout my years of study, I gathered every piece of knowledge I could about alchemy, advanced runes, arcane rituals, and the creation of magical artifacts. I copied entire books from the Hogwarts library into my own collection and purchased rare grimoires from clandestine fairs and private collectors. After graduation, I dedicated my first years inside the globe to experimenting and organizing my artificial island — but the Stone never left my mind.
It was outside the globe — in one of the secluded valleys protected by anti-Apparition enchantments and illusion spells — where I began the ritual. I had calculated everything: lunar alignments, rare ingredients, and even the use of my own blood, essential to stabilize the stone's vital essence. The process demanded weeks of preparation — runes carved into stone, alchemical circles made of pure silver, and magical flows regulated by artifacts I had crafted over the years.
On the night of the ritual, the sky was overcast, and the atmosphere felt heavy, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
With my wand in hand, I began chanting the runic incantations, drawing beams of light in the air. A golden sphere began to materialize at the center of the circle, hovering, oscillating between the ethereal and the material. My heart raced, fully aware that I was on the brink of an achievement even Nicolas Flamel might have hesitated to attempt.
But then… something went wrong.
A tremor ran through the ground. The air around me grew dense; the magic turned unstable. The circle began to fracture — not physically, but magically. A crack appeared in the air, as if reality itself were being torn apart.
A dimensional rift.
It was like staring into an abyss where light and shadow danced in chaos. The Stone, still incomplete, began to be pulled into the rift. I tried to contain it, to reverse the ritual, but I was too late.
The rift widened, pulling me toward it with immense force. I felt my very essence being stretched, nearly torn apart. There was nowhere to run. In a desperate impulse, I pointed my wand at myself and shouted:
— Ad Globicum!
It was my transportation spell to the globe.
In an instant, I was launched into the expanded space of my own creation — the island I had crafted so carefully, now my only chance of survival. Time inside the globe flowed differently. Here, the weather was regulated, the elements obeyed my will, and magic was denser, more stable.
I crashed into the central lake of the island, exhausted, my wand barely clinging to my fingers. The rift hadn't followed me, but it had left its mark. Rifts like that don't close easily. And although I was safe — for now — inside the globe, the world outside had changed.
The Stone had been created… but at what cost?