A History of Magic – Prologue

Ladies and gentlemen, I am re-writing this story. I mean, not many people probably care, as this isn't a well-trafficked story, but hey; I write for me.

Oh, and just so we're clear, all my warnings still stand. This story is M for a damn good reason. You can see the full list of warnings on my profile.

Have a great day!

It was May, a month for spring, and yet the world was still in the grip of vicious winter storms.

The storm screamed with rage outside the window, howling its defiance against the glass – a poor defense against such a power.

It had been raining for three days, and the woman there was getting worried. She had been looking for something – anything - that might save her world, or at least give them more time.

We faced these demons once before, the woman thought angrily. We can do it again. The Founders could do it – so can we.

The records were supposed to be here. But as she looked and found nothing, the woman found her faith waning and her frustration growing.

She was on her way downstairs – she wanted to check the lower levels again. Something nagged her about those corridors. She just knew it was down here, despite all proof to the contrary.

She was standing there now, her lantern sending shadows dancing along the walls. After a few muttered spells yielded nothing (for the fiftieth time in the past few hours), inspiration struck.

If there was a secret passage down here, she could find it easily enough. The woman pulled a box out of her robes and smirked. Oh, Lucius Malfoy would love to find out where his missing cigars had gone. She lit the cigar, inhaling.

She didn't love smoking, but under the circumstances… She could deal. Slowly, she walked around the room as she had seen a detective do in a muggle movie, blowing smoke into crevices, to see if any of it was escaping. She went around the room twice, before convincing herself that there were no passages in the walls.

Well, damn, she thought to herself as a distant boom of thunder sounded.

The heady smell of cigar smoke lurked in the air now, and the woman sighed. More time wasted. She was going to have to give up the search and find a new lead. She had been so sure…

A creak.

The woman paused.

The floor.

She lit another cigar, and got down on her hands and knees. She watched intently as she worked her way across the wooden floor. Could it be a false floor? Excitement pounded in her chest.

Lets not get too carried away with ourselves, the woman thought crossly, and almost missed the stream of smoke that seemed to vanish, right into the floor.

Or not, she grinned, and drew her wand again. She wasn't ready to bother with finding trap doors or locking mechanisms. She just checked to see if the door was warded before she blasted the wood off the top.

The passageway underneath was round and tight, just big enough for the woman to fit through. There was a ladder leading down into the darkness.

What is with the Founders and hiding stuff underground? The woman grumbled. She had no dear love of tight spaces. She picked up her lantern however, and followed the ladder down.

And down.

And down.

And down.

She didn't know how far she went. Very deep underground was her guess. She supposed this must have taken a lot of magic to carve out of the solid rock – and she hoped to every god she knew that this wasn't going to lead her to a dead end. Again.

She had been searching for weeks, and she had been so sure this castle held the answers.

Well, we shall see, she thought grimly.

Time clicked by. If there had been an actual candle in the lantern, the woman might have been able to accurately measure how much time she had been climbing, but it was a magical light, not a true flame.

Finally, her feet hit solid ground.

The woman lifted her lantern, and found herself facing another passageway. Certainly, the person who had made this tunnel had not wanted anyone to reach the end. At some point, there had been water here, because the woman could see the traces of calcium along the sides of the walls. No water remained, however, and the floor and walls were all perfectly dry.

This passage was much shorter than her climb, however, and the woman found herself in a large circular room. Shelves with glass coverings lined the walls, protecting a future of books, and there was a desk in the center. A few books were scattered, open on the desk, almost as if the occupant would return any second. The only thing that told her how much time had past was the dust that lay everywhere. A twisting metal staircase facing her led to a second level of shelves. Looking up, the woman saw a third, and a fourth.

"Wow," she whispered.

There was a letter open on the desk. A nearly blank parchment lay beside it, as if the person who had sat here was trying to compose a reply. The woman sank into the chair next to the desk to read.

My dear lady,

Your luck is most unhappy, and my heart is saddened to hear of your misfortune. Do not loose heart, child. These are hard times, I understand, but I have no answers for you. I will say simply this:

The weight of history lays more heavily on some than on others.

For a few people, this is because their very nature places them in a position that is automatically influential, like Merlin. The boy wanted nothing to do with power, or even magic at all, and yet he was born with quite staggering natural gifts, and was given a destiny that was known throughout time – predicted before his birth, and remembered after his death. Merlin did what he did because he had to. He hated his destiny. He loathed it. He wore it well, but when we greeted each other, he was… relieved to be rid of it. He did what he had to, no more and no less.

In other cases, this is because someone takes that burden upon their own shoulders. You doubtless know a man named Ghandi who led his entire nation in peaceful resistance against occupation. He did not hold a place of reverence with his people because he was born into that position. The flag of his people does not bear his coat of arms because that is how it was meant to be. Rather, he chose to write history for himself.

And there are some who are born into positions of influence, and use it to every advantage they can.

For example, on a cold winter's day, four powerful souls met in a tavern to swear over tankards of mead and cider that they would change the world.

You know to whom I refer.

I remember that day well.

The year was 1328. The Hundred Year's War was almost upon Europe. France and England were soon to become entangled in a conflict that would almost destroy France, and that would beggar England for another century.

The brewing conflict would result in not only a hundred years worth of warfare between the two, but the beginning of a series of peasant revolts that would forever end the idea of a serf in Western Europe not a century after the end of the war.

The Roman Empire, which would set the standard for every conqueror from Napoleon to Hitler, had been reduced to little more than a blip on the map, surrounding Constantinople, the capitol of the Byzantine Empire. Russia was already taking upon itself the title of Holy Mother Russia, foreseeing the fall of the Byzantine Empire as the defender of the Eastern Orthodox Christian faith.

The Black Death had reached its peak, and had devoured almost a third of Europe, including the armies of the four Founders, which had marched for the very first time not months before. The whole land was in turmoil. Three of the four Founders were recovering from their own battles with the plague.

In this setting, did the four young Founders find themselves. Godric and Salazar were generals of an army that would soon conquer all of Europe, uniting the magical populace of the land. They had no footsoldiers and no cavalry – their soldiers were magicians and magical creatues. Their battles took place at night, away from the prying eyes of non-magical folk, and their weapons were not swords, but wands and staffs, incantations and potions.

The four could be no more different if they tried, and yet they all shared three very distinctive traits:

The first is that all four were immensely powerful in their own way.

The second was that all four had suffered greatly in their lifetimes.

And the third was a secret, once that none ever shared, save for Helga Hufflepuff. She told a monk at her deathbed. She confessed their collective sin to me, and I understood that the other three had confided in her alone, and no one else. We are the only two – and now you the third – mortals who know this of the Founders. All four of them attempted suicide at some time in their lives.

I am sure God forgave them all their shortcomings, given what they suffered, and what they did for us all.

They lived in the worst of times, but because of their nature, they overcame the horror that they were forced to live through, and the world was better for it.

I salute them, as I salute your courage. Perhaps their story will help you find your answers – your fabulous library should be able to tell you something about that! I believe I read about it in one of the biographies… they begin to run together after a while.

Be brave, dear one. I shall write you again someday.

Your brother,

Jamison Greenling

The woman smiled.

She had been right – it was here after all.

Perhaps their world wasn't doomed after all.

I did it Harry, she thought triumphantly. We can beat this! We can.

Thunder and lightning crashed outside, but whether that was in either contradiction or agreement, nobody knew to say.

Then again, it could have just been a coincidence.

The woman settled herself in to read, her eyes burning with a new determination.

...

Be nice and review?

~InK