Gu Bràth

March 10, 1993, 1:00 PM, Hogwarts Grounds

Adam Clarke

The brisk wind tousled my hair as I made my way back to the castle, the chill of winter fading with each passing day. The landscape around me was a patchwork of brown and green earth with hints of white, the remnants of snow melting away under the warming rays of the sun.

As I walked, the faint scent of damp earth mingled with the crisp freshness of the air, a welcome change from the icy grip of winter that had held the castle in its grasp for so long. The sound of birds chirping in the distance filled the air, a sure sign that spring was nearly here.

I took a moment to pause and admire the beauty of the grounds around me. The trees, once barren and stark against the winter sky, now began to show signs of life, their branches budding with delicate green leaves.

As I approached the Entrance Hall doors, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of gratitude for the changing seasons and the promise of new beginnings that they brought. I pushed open the heavy doors and stepped inside.

I stood there for a few moments, wondering what I should do. I had no more classes that day, so there was no need to ration out my time with any real care.

Plenty to go around. Now, lunch, or…? I thought.

Taking a deep breath, I made a decision and turned away from the direction of the Great Hall. Lunch could wait for a bit; my project couldn’t— rather, it could, but I no longer felt like waiting. So, I headed towards the library, my mind already buzzing with ideas and possibilities.

There were a few books I had my eye on the last time I was there.

As I walked, I couldn’t shake the feeling of anticipation that coursed through me. I wasn’t necessarily close to making a breakthrough on my study of Gubraithian Fire, but I had been making fairly rapid progress. Still, much was missing, and I needed to get to the bottom of this spell before my brain exploded.

So, yes. Food could wait for a bit.

Entering the library, I made a beeline for my usual spot— a secluded corner tucked away amidst towering bookshelves. Settling into my chair, I pulled out my notes and spread them out before me, my mind fully focused on the task at hand.

For an hour, I pored over an old, poorly written manuscript on old Scottish spells. The name of the spell, after all, had roots in Scottish Gaelic. Every now and then, I would jot down a new idea or revelation in my journal, things I would try in my next round of experimentation.

I jumped in my seat as someone cleared their throat behind me. I turned and saw the caretaker, Filch, approaching, his expression as sour as ever.

“Mr. Filch? What can I do for you?” I asked, a little confused and trying to keep my tone polite despite the annoyance bubbling beneath the surface. I had important work to attend to, and I couldn’t afford to be delayed by whatever nonsense was possibly going to be thrown my way.

Filch scowled at me, his eyes narrowing as he drew closer. I got out of my seat and fully turned to face the man, offering a brief nod of acknowledgement to his ever-present feline companion, Mrs. Norris.

Filch didn’t even acknowledge my greeting, his expression grim as he replied.

“You’re to come with me to see your Head of House.” His tone brooked no argument, and I could tell from his demeanor that he was not in the mood for questions.

Surprised by the unexpected summons, I furrowed my brow in confusion. “May I ask what this is about?”

I was genuinely confused. Had I done something wrong? Did Blackthorn try to pull another dirty trick again?

Just what I need— more crap.

“I don’t know.” Filch admitted gruffly, giving me a dismissive gesture. “Just come with me, and no funny business.”

“Very—”

Without even waiting for me to finish, he turned on his heel and began to walk away, Mrs. Norris trailing faithfully at his side. Sighing inwardly, I resigned myself to following Filch, my curiosity piqued by the mysterious summons from my Head of House. Whatever awaited me, it seemed, would have to wait until I reached their office.

I just hoped Pince didn’t destroy me for not returning my books to their proper location.

As I followed Filch through the winding corridors of Hogwarts, my thoughts busied themselves, focusing on Mrs. Norris. The cat trotted alongside him, her piercing gaze occasionally flicking in my direction with an intensity that was almost unsettling.

I couldn’t help but ponder the unusual behavior of Mrs. Norris. There was something about her that seemed… off. She appeared to be far more perceptive than the average cat, her keen senses seemingly attuned to every movement and sound around her.

I considered the possibility that she might just have some Kneazle ancestry in her lineage. It wouldn’t be unheard of— many magical creatures possessed traits that were far beyond those of ordinary animals.

It was a pointless distraction, and I could have been figuring out ways to deal with whatever nonsense was about to come my way, but I needed it to quell the nervousness within me.

Before long, I stood outside the Charms Classroom. Watching Filch’s retreating form with a mix of sympathy and resignation, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for the cantankerous caretaker.

His bitterness and resentment were palpable, etched into the lines of his face and the slump of his shoulders. I knew all too well the sting of rejection and the pain of being judged for something beyond my control. Filch’s life as a Squib must have been fraught with disappointment and disillusionment. Rejected by his own kin and ostracized by society, it was no wonder he harbored such bitterness towards the magical world that had rejected him.

It didn’t excuse his abuse of others, of course, but I understood it all the same. He was a wretched creature, to be sure— a walking lesson in how not to deal with the difficulties of life.

With a shake of my head, I pushed open the door to the Charms Classroom and stepped inside, banishing thoughts of Filch and his situation away. I found Professor Flitwick engrossed in correcting homework, his tiny frame barely visible behind a mound of parchment. The tables were empty, the room devoid of the usual chatter and energy that filled it during class.

“Good afternoon, Professor.” I greeted respectfully, hoping to catch his attention. He looked up briefly, acknowledging my presence with a nod before returning his focus to his work.

I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Professor Flitwick’s silence was disconcerting, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that settled over me. I knew that I was already on thin ice with him, especially after the incident involving Blackthorn, and I didn’t want to do anything to further strain our relationship.

So, I waited patiently for Professor Flitwick to address me, doing my best to not feel any irritation at having to wait.

Not long after, Professor Flitwick looked up from his work, his eyes meeting mine with a hint of regret.

“Thank you for waiting, Adam.” He said. “I apologize for the delay. Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.” I nodded and took a seat opposite him. “Was there something you needed?”

He looked at me in silence for a moment. Finally, he spoke again, his tone earnest. “Adam, I called you here because I wanted to address the incident involving Mr. Blackthorn— or rather, our somewhat strained interactions after the fact.”

I held his gaze, my own expression solemn. “I understand, Professor.”

Professor Flitwick sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“I want you to know that I do indeed value our relationship as teacher and student.” He continued, his voice tinged with a hint of regret. “And I want to work together to improve it. You are a gifted young man, and for a time, I feared you may have been going down the wrong path.”

I nodded, appreciating his honesty.

“I understand, Professor.” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “And I appreciate your willingness to address the issue. I may have thought the same, if one of my students had brutalized another. While I may not have handled things in the most… diplomatic of ways, I want to think that I held myself back from doing any permanent damage.”

There was a moment of silence as Professor Flitwick considered my words, his expression still somewhat strained at my lack of deep remorse over the matter.

“Thank you for understanding, Adam.” He said sincerely. “Let’s do our best to put this behind us.”

I nodded in agreement, relieved to have the opportunity to move past the incident and rebuild our relationship. “Yes, sir.”

A few moments passed in silence before Professor Flitwick clapped his hands together and smiled. “So, how have your preparations for your next tournament battle gone?”

I nodded at that, happy for a more positive line of conversation.

“I’ve been putting in a lot of effort, Professor.” I replied earnestly. “I’ve been mastering what I know and studying the strategies of my competitors during their own matches. I’ve got a few ideas, but my next match is in a month, so there’s still plenty of time to work something more concrete out.”

He nodded approvingly, his eyes bright with interest.

“That’s excellent, Mr. Black.” He said with a smile. “It’s important to know your opponents’ strengths and weaknesses. Take note to remember that others have also watched your own battles. It’s important to focus on shoring up any potential weaknesses in your own dueling style, so that others who studied you cannot use it against you.”

“Absolutely, Professor.” I replied, making a mental note to redouble my efforts in that regard. “I’m doing my best to identify and address any areas where I may be lacking.”

We continued to discuss my preparations for a while longer, exchanging tips and strategies as the conversation flowed smoothly. However, as the topic began to shift, I decided it was time to change gears.

“Unrelated question, sir.” I started. “But, what do you know about Gubraithian Fire?”

Professor Flitwick’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Gubraithian Fire?” He repeated, his tone tinged with intrigue. “That’s quite advanced magic.”

I nodded, trying to appear nonchalant despite the flutter of excitement in my chest.

“Yes, Professor.” I replied casually. “I’ve been curious about it for some time now.”

He regarded me with a knowing look, as if he could see through my façade. “And are you learning how to cast it, Adam?”

Lips quirking, I gave the man a nod, not meeting his gaze. “Yes, Professor. You know; I like a challenge.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head in amusement.

“Indeed you do.” He replied with a fond smile. “And why exactly are you interested in learning this spell?”

I hesitated for a moment, fabricating a plausible explanation.

“Well, Professor.” I began, trying to sound earnest. “I see it as an opportunity to push my magical abilities to their limits. It’s a complex and powerful spell, and I believe mastering it would be a valuable accomplishment. It will be a great test combining everything I’ve learned so far.”

It wasn’t even a lie, but hopefully Flitwick didn’t try to find out the real reason. Luckily, he Flitwick seemed to accept my explanation, nodding thoughtfully. “I can understand that. So, how much progress have you made in your research?”

I took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts before replying.

“I’ve made some headway, Professor.” I said. “But I still have a lot to learn. It’s a challenging spell, as you know.”

“Indeed it is, Adam.” He agreed. “What have you learned?”

So, I seized the opportunity to delve into my research on Gubraithian Fire, recounting my initial assumptions and the various dead ends I had encountered along the way.

“At first, I thought that Gubraithian Fire might be a variant of Cold Fire or Bluebell Flames.” I explained, watching as Professor Flitwick listened intently. “They share some similarities in properties, so I assumed there might be a connection.”

Flitwick nodded thoughtfully, acknowledging my reasoning.

“A logical assumption.” He replied. “In fact, many scholars have speculated about the relationship between these two spells. However, the connection is often tenuous at best, as I’m sure you are now aware.”

I couldn’t help but agree, recalling my own frustrations with attempting to modify the spell.

“Exactly.” I said with a sigh. “I’ve tried various approaches with Bluebell Flames, but so far, I haven’t been able to make any significant progress.”

“I suppose what you should be asking yourself is:” Professor Flitwick said, pausing for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. “Just what is Gubraithian Fire?”

“Well, Professor.” I began. “Gubraithian Fire is known for its eternal burning. Once ignited, it does not extinguish on its own, unlike regular fire. The word itself, ‘Gubraithian’, draws its roots from Scottish Gaelic ‘gu bràth’, which means ‘forever’, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Very good.” Flitwick nodded, his expression encouraging me to continue.

“It’s important to note that it is not the same as Bluebell Flames despite sharing similar properties.” I added, emphasizing the distinction. “Despite its perpetual nature, it still possesses considerable heat and can cause burns from any direction just like regular flames.”

Flitwick listened attentively, absorbing the information as I spoke.

“And perhaps most intriguingly.” I continued. “Gubraithian Fire somehow does not consume the material it ignites. It can burn indefinitely without consuming its fuel source. I’m still not sure how that works…”

At my explanation, Flitwick’s eyes gained a knowing glint, and he nodded in acknowledgment of my analysis of the spell. It was clear, from the look on his face that he knew something I didn’t, but I didn’t call him out on it, just yet.

I decided to share with him my most recent musings on the matter.

“What if…” I mused aloud. “What if I were to use a Flame-Freezing Charm on a piece of wood before casting a fire spell? Would that prevent the wood from being consumed by the flames?”

Professor Flitwick’s eyes sparkled with interest at my inventive approach.

“An intriguing idea, Adam.” He remarked with a smile. “But unfortunately, that method may not yield the desired result. The wood will not burn.”

Perplexed, I furrowed my brow, trying to grasp the concept. “Then what about merging the Flame-Freezing Charm with the regular Fire-Making Charm? Or would that simply result in Bluebell Flames?”

Flitwick’s smile widened at my attempt to problem-solve, but he shook his head gently.

“It would indeed. While your creativity is commendable, Adam.” He explained patiently, “Neither method will achieve the desired effect of Gubraithian Fire. Or any effect at all, for that matter.”

I frowned in frustration, feeling a twinge of disappointment at the setback.

“I don’t understand, then.” I admitted, feeling somewhat disheartened by the realization that my theories were falling short of the mark. “I must be missing something.”

Flitwick gave me a reassuring nod, offering a supportive smile.

“Don’t be discouraged, Adam.” He said. “It is good that you sought out my help, though you have indeed made significant progress with the spell. The method of making it is not easy to find in books, because discovering the secrets of Gubraithian Fire is considered a test for the advanced wizard.”

“A test.” I said, feeling disappointed. “I suppose you wouldn’t tell me how?”

“You suppose correctly.” Flitwick said, though he smiled. “I will, however, give you a hint. Gubraithian Fire is smokeless.”

I frowned at that tidbit of seemingly useless information.

“Smokeless.” I repeated, my mind racing to process the implications of his words. “Smokeless… That doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh, and how so?”

“That’s… A clean burn.” I said, stopping myself as information flew through my mind at breakneck speed.

Flitwick nodded encouragingly. “Correct; a smokeless fire would suggest a clean and efficient burn.”

“A smokeless fire would likely run very hot.” I reasoned aloud, the pieces of the puzzle beginning to fall into place in my mind. “But that doesn’t align with what I’ve learned about Gubraithian Fire. It’s not described as any hotter than a slow-burning flame, despite its perpetual nature.”

“Very true.” Flitwick said. “You are right on all counts.”

I furrowed my brow, pondering the contradiction. “So, if it’s not about the heat, then what sets Gubraithian Fire apart?”

Flitwick did not answer, instead giving me an encouraging look.

Not giving anything away, hm?

“Perhaps…” I said. “The extra energy of the flame is being utilized for something else. Rather than manifesting as increased heat, it could be directed towards sustaining the perpetual nature of the fire itself.”

“And…?”

I stopped for a moment. There was more?

“It’s smokeless, that’s right.” I said. “…Transfigure the smoke back into usable fuel, while the great energy from the heat released is then also redirected to replenish the supply wood which was burned?”

“Very good.”

“I see…” I said, though something still didn’t seem quite right. “But, that still doesn’t mean that it would last forever. Even at normal levels of burning, the fire would have consumed the fuel source within an hour or two, depending on the size.”

Then… that’s when it hit me. Flitwick smiled and noted the look on my face.

“I see you’ve had a breakthrough.” He remarked, his tone expectant.

“I think so.” I nodded slowly, the pieces of the puzzle finally clicking into place. “If the energy of the flame is being redirected to sustain its perpetual nature, then it stands to reason that the fuel source must be replenishing itself fully, somehow. Existing Gubraithian fires have yet to die, and there has never been any mention of the fuel source simply running out. At least, not yet.”

Flitwick’s eyes sparkled with approval.

“Precisely.” He confirmed, his voice warm with encouragement. “Gubraithian Fire is not merely a delicate balance of energy conversion to delay the end of its combustion.”

The realization sent a surge of excitement coursing through me.

“So, if I can understand how the flame interacts with its environment and manages to absorb further energy to sustain it indefinitely.” I mused aloud. “Then I’ll have unlocked the secret to creating it.”

Flitwick’s smile widened. “A keen observation, Adam, and a correct one.” He praised, though a quick glance at the clock on his table caused a faint furrow to crease his brow. “Time does fly when one gets engrossed in such pleasant research. I’m afraid I must return to my grading duties now.”

I nodded understandingly, expressing my gratitude once more for his guidance.

“Thank you, Professor.” I said earnestly. “I appreciate your patience and assistance. You’ve certainly shaved weeks, if not a month off of my own research time.”

Flitwick smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling with kindness. “It was my pleasure, Adam. Don’t hesitate to seek me out if you have any further questions.”

With a final nod of farewell, Flitwick turned his attention back to his papers, leaving me to reflect on our enlightening conversation. As I made my way out of the classroom, a sense of renewed determination washed over me.

Harry had been right; I should have sought out Flitwick’s help sooner. I couldn’t help but wince at the thought of Harry’s inevitable teasing, but I supposed I earned that one.

oooo

Same Time, Defense Against The Dark Arts Classroom, Hogwarts

Gilderoy Lockhart

In his lavishly decorated office adorned with framed photos of his own exploits, Gilderoy Lockhart sat at his desk, a dazzling smile fixed upon his face.

Across from him sat a young student, his expression a mix of apprehension and boredom. Gilderoy couldn’t fathom why the boy wasn’t enthralled by the opportunity to assist him in responding to his fan mail— a task many would deem a privilege!

“Come now, my dear boy.” Gilderoy chirped, his voice dripping with high levels of charm. “Isn’t this simply marvelous? To have the chance to bask in the glory of my adoring fans and assist in crafting responses that will surely brighten their day?”

The student shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly unsure of how to respond to Lockhart’s exuberance.

“Um, yeah, it’s… It’s great, Professor Lockhart.” He mumbled, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route.

Gilderoy chuckled, brushing off the boy’s lackluster enthusiasm. “Ah, you’ll come to appreciate it in time, my boy. Now, let’s get back to work, shall we? We still have half of a mountain of letters waiting to be answered, and I simply can’t keep my adoring public waiting.”

The student stole a glance at the ornate clock adorning Lockhart’s office wall. He mustered up the courage to speak. “But, Professor Lockhart, my detention ended a minute ago.”

Lockhart’s gaze followed the student’s to the clock, where he confirmed the precise timing with a slight frown. Reluctantly, he waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, very well then, off you go, young man.”

As the student hastily gathered his belongings and made his way to the door, Lockhart observed him with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

Lockhart didn’t bother watching for very long, his mind already wandering to more important matters.

There was no point in wasting his energy trying to understand the fools around him. After all, they were nothing more than pawns in his grand game, tools to be used to improve his standing and status in society.

With a negligent wave of his hand, Lockhart closed the door to his office from afar, the click echoing faintly in the room.

His steps were slow and deliberate as he made his way around his classroom, his gaze drifting momentarily to the imposing Hebridean skeleton displayed prominently above.

For a few moments, Lockhart stood in silent contemplation, his thoughts wandering. But soon, his attention was drawn to the window, where he could gaze out at the sprawling grounds of Hogwarts castle.

Leaning against the windowsill, Lockhart allowed himself a rare moment of introspection, his mind momentarily free from the relentless pursuit of fame and adulation.

From this vantage point, he could almost imagine himself as the master of all he surveyed, a king ruling over his domain with effortless grace and charm.

Lockhart’s thoughts drifted to the state of the world, a topic that had been occupying his mind with increasing frequency ever since the attempt on his life during the Yule Ball. The world was growing more unstable by the day, the shadows of chaos and uncertainty looming on the horizon.

War is coming. He thought with no small amount of excitement. The glory and excitement waiting to be seized is immeasurable.

As he gazed out at the castle grounds, Lockhart couldn’t shake the feeling of déjà vu that washed over him.

It reminded him all too vividly of Riddle’s time in the Forties, during the height of Grindelwald’s power.

Lockhart’s jaw tightened as he contemplated the implications of the rising turmoil.

Despite his outward bravado and charm, as well as his desire to seek out fame and international acclaim, he couldn’t deny the gnawing sense of unease that gripped him.

Navigating the current of the unknown future would be no easy task, but he was ready to face this, head-on.

After all, he was Gilderoy Lockhart— the greatest wizard of his time— and he would not allow anyone or anything to stand in the way of his quest for glory.

A flicker of disdain crossed Lockhart’s features, a holdover from the fool who had attempted to take his soul over.

As he turned away from the window, Lockhart’s mind buzzed with a newfound sense of purpose as it raced with the knowledge that Grindelwald’s looming threat would soon manifest into action.

He did not know the specifics— the when, where and how— but he trusted his instincts: whatever Grindelwald had planned, it would shake the very core of their civilizations to their foundations, and soon.

A direct assault on the magical governments, a subtle manipulation of political forces, or something even more insidious? He did not know.

He did not need to. Lockhart may have once been a mere pawn in the game of destiny, but now he was a player in his own right— and he would not allow himself to be outmaneuvered.

Which brought him to a subject he’d been somewhat remiss in addressing, recently. 

The state of his own soul.

Lockhart’s thoughts turned inward— the remnant of the dark magic that had once threatened to consume him.

It had not survived for long. Tom Riddle was certainly competent, and a charmer, but Gilderoy was one, too. More than that, his spirit was far more defined than that foolish young boy. 

Ambitious, Tom was, and powerful besides, but his ego could not hope to match Gilderoy’s.

He couldn’t help but wonder what had become of that original version of the boy. Shouldn’t it have been wreaking havoc all over the world by now?

The Dark Lord Voldemort. Gilderoy thought with a mild shudder.

Where was he? If he was still alive and well, then what had become of him? Was he lurking in the shadows, biding his time until the opportune moment to strike? Had he been killed the moment Gilderoy had subsumed Tom’s essence? 

Somehow he doubted it; he’d been raised on stories of the Dark Lord Voldemort. Many people he’d known over the years had been killed by the man’s own hand, or that of his followers.

No, the main soul fragment was still out there, hiding.

A year ago, he might have been afraid of this revelation. When he had set himself to the task of mastering Memory Charms, the remainder of his skills had degraded to a precipitous level. 

With all of his talents regained— and multiplied fiftyfold, at that— there was no need for concern.

He would need to take proactive measures to ensure his safety.

Lockhart ascended the small flight of stairs to his office, his footsteps echoing faintly in the empty room. 

With a flick of his hand, he sealed the door behind him with a powerful Locking Charm. Another wave ensured his privacy and security.

He moved towards the ornate chest nestled in the corner of the room, pausing for a moment.

Lockhart stared at the chest, his mind racing with thoughts of his own mortality.

He was a great wizard, to be sure— one if the best, even. However, he was only one man. He was not invincible. It made him feel exposed, helpless. He did not like that.

I will not accept this.

With a heavy sigh, Lockhart reached out and unfastened the lock on the chest, revealing its contents to the dim light of the room. Inside lay an assortment of magical artifacts and books.

He picked up one in particular, an old, empty diary.

The failure— Riddle— had planned on creating several Horcruxes beyond the one in his hands. However, Lockhart realized that defeating Riddle’s psyche had severed any connection between his new soul and the former main.

Whether others existed or not no longer mattered. He was not linked to them in either case.

Lockhart’s wand moved in a precise and intricate pattern, tracing out four words in the ancient runic script of Elder Futhark. As he spoke the words, they shimmered and glowed with a faint ethereal light, superimposing themselves over the key lock of the chest.

With a soft click, the compartments of the trunk shifted and rearranged themselves until the one Lockhart sought appeared before him. With a sense of anticipation, he reached inside, his fingers closing around the object he had been searching for.

As he surveyed the open space below with a steely gaze, Lockhart’s mind raced with possibilities.

The spelling face of his prisoner, one of the fools who had attempted to end his life, stared back.

He had been kept under the influence of the Draught of Living Death, to avoid certain… complications. 

Besides, when he’d been awake, the man’s eyes held a desperate pleading, his features contorted into a near-rat-like expression of fear and desperation. 

Lockhart had felt no pity for him then, only irritation. He had tried to kill him, after all— Imperius Curse or not, his life had been forfeit.

With a disdainful snort, Lockhart spelled a meager portion of Draught of Living Death-infused food down to the prisoner, watching with detached amusement as it entered through his mouth, sustaining his life while reinforcing his deep sleep. The authorities wouldn’t care where he was— he had been gone too long.

Closing the lid of the chest, the man was swallowed up by darkness once more.

The fool was weak and he had no use for weaklings— they were nothing more than obstacles to be discarded on his path to greatness.

Walking away, Lockhart allowed himself a small smirk of satisfaction. He would do whatever it took to ensure his survival in this brave new world.

Creating a new soul fragment seemed to be the prudent course of action— a failsafe to ensure his continued survival in the face of any unforeseen challenges or threats. His light could not be extinguished— it would not be!

With a resolute nod, Lockhart returned to his fan mail, his mind focused on the task at hand.

Creating a Horcrux would take some time. The process would work best on certain days of the year, and he only had the one prisoner to work with.

One thing was for sure; he would not rest until he had created a spare soul fragment, ensuring his continued survival and dominance in this world.

After all, for the great Gilderoy Lockhart— Order of Merlin Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, Thirteen times winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award, and Hogwarts Professor— what better way to seek glory than to ensure an endless existence in which to seek it?