Chapter 18: The Price of a Soul
A true grimoire was not merely a book containing spells. It was an artifact, a vessel of permanent, self-sustaining magic. Their creation was a lost art—prohibitively expensive, agonizingly slow, and requiring a depth of magical knowledge few possessed. Only the oldest, most powerful families, steeped in generations of esoteric lore, could boast of owning one.
The book Solim had placed on Snape's desk had no title on its cover, but within certain circles, it was known as the "Sanguine Tome" or "Selwyn's Blood-Tome." It opened only to the blood of the Selwyn line, willingly given or forcibly taken. A few drops would grant a few minutes of reading. To make the embossed heart on the cover glow fully, allowing for a full half-hour of study, required a significant offering. Solim's grandfather had once lamented that the Selwyn bloodline was thinner now than in centuries past, and that a ritual to strengthen it might soon be necessary—if the family could ever gather the required components.
For a long moment, the only sound in the office was the sputtering of the candles. Solim was lost in the memory of his grandfather's warning, while Snape was grappling with a tumultuous mix of shock and a dark, thrilling fascination.
Snape was undeniably a gifted wizard. But there were realms of magic, entire strata of power and knowledge, that were deliberately kept beyond the reach of those not born into the inner sanctum of the wizarding world. The ancient families and their Council of Elders maintained a stranglehold on the highest forms of magic. What Snape was now looking at was forbidden knowledge of the most profound kind: the practical application of souls.
"Professor," Solim said, breaking the silence. "Any questions on what you've just seen?"
Snape's eyes, usually shuttered and cold, were alight with a fierce, hungry intelligence. The grimoire had his complete and utter attention.
"Preferably, they should be Muggles on death row," Solim continued casually. "If it's... inconvenient for you to procure them, I can handle it."
"No," Snape said, his voice rough. "That will not be necessary." He knew that accepting such an offer would indebt him to this boy in ways he could not afford.
"Suit yourself," Solim said with a slight shrug, unsurprised. "And the means of soul extraction... do you require them?"
Of course, Snape did not possess such a method. No matter his talent, he existed within the carefully controlled magical ecosystem, and such dark arts were systematically suppressed. He remained silent, a faint flush of frustration creeping up his neck.
Seeing his predicament, Solim feigned ignorance. "It seems you have your own methods, Professor. And what about the preservation of the souls once collected?"
"I will provide the subjects," Snape stated flatly, his pride refusing to admit his lack.
Solim smacked his lips. "Well... that's one way to do it, I suppose." Bringing living subjects was certainly a direct solution, bypassing the need for complex capture and preservation rituals. "But is it... advisable? Here, at Hogwarts, under Dumbledore's nose?"
Snape gave him a look of pure contempt. "Who said anything about performing the ritual within the school?"
Solim blinked, then let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. "Right. Of course. Must be the blood loss. I'm not thinking clearly." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Very well. Prepare what you need. I will contact you when I have the final component."
Snape, his mind still reeling from the implications of the grimoire, seized on a point of both moral and intellectual contention. "This book details the how," he said, his voice low and intent. "But it does not explain the why. Why must souls be the currency for this... communication?"
Solim considered this. "Firstly, you must understand that for certain wizards, souls are a recognized, if rare, reagent. But let me ask you a question, Professor. How do wizards communicate over long distances, excluding face-to-face conversation like this?"
Snape's expression darkened. He had little patience for Socratic methods from an eleven-year-old.
Realizing his error, Solim quickly moved on. "My apologies. Methods like Floo powder, two-way mirrors, even the Dark Mark—they all use magic to overcome spatial distance. They are forms of communication between the living, within the same plane of existence. It requires energy, but it is a contained system."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Communication with the truly departed, those who have passed beyond the veil, is different. It requires a force powerful enough to breach a fundamental boundary. Ordinary magic is insufficient. The magic of a human soul, when consumed, provides a burst of power orders of magnitude greater than any spell. It is the difference between lighting a candle and detonating a bomb."
Snape listened, a part of him revolted, but the larger part—the scholar and the Occlumens—coldly accepted the logic. It was a terrible, elegant equation.
"Professor," Solim said, his tone becoming cautious. "I must be clear. It is possible to commune with one who has died, given the correct price. But it only works if the one you seek has not yet... moved on to their final destination."
Snape's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "Explain. That was not part of the original proposition."
"I didn't explain it before because the concept is difficult to convey," Solim said, spreading his hands. "And before, I wasn't sure you would fully grasp the limitations."
"And now?" Snape's voice was dangerously soft.
"Now, I find I cannot be bothered to explain it in terms you would find palatable. It's better you see for yourself, if you can understand it." With that, Solim pulled another, even older-looking book from his robes and dropped it onto the desk with a thud. "This one is nearly fifteen centuries old. A handwritten copy. Probably the last one."
Snape glanced at the cover and understood the problem immediately. It was written in Old English, a language as foreign to modern wizards as Gobbledegook. The spelling, the grammar, the very alphabet were different.
Solim, thankfully, spoke a flawless, unaccented modern English. His childhood attempts at speech, influenced by these ancient texts, had once caused his family considerable alarm.
Snape flipped through the brittle pages and closed the book with a definitive snap. He couldn't read it.
"Don't worry, Professor," Solim said, tucking the ancient tome back into his robes. "I'm describing the worst-case scenario. The blood protection on Potter is still active and potent. The one you seek is likely still... within reach. You can relax."