PROLOGUE
Alfermus Calfii rummaged through the submissions before his desk. Countless headings, both grand and mundane, streaked past his eyes like blurring visions by the roadside on that lone automobile ride he experienced many, many years ago. He scurried through the articles with the precision of a hawk waiting for a worthwhile prey.
Having been the editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet for close to two decades now, Alfermus, or Alf to his colleagues, glided through the hopeful pieces with the efficacy of a grizzled veteran, his 52 year old fingers perfected by this daily routine. Oh yes, he missed a day or two in all of his tenure, brought about by the failed attempts of the Integrationalists to burn down the Timeline Towers wherein the Prophet was housed. But he prides himself as never being remiss with his editorial duties. And this day was no exception.
The titles in bold were an amalgam of fancies. "Ministry Intensifies Northern Defense", said one, which he dismissed as boring, but compulsory. "Collector Pays 17 Million Galleons for Lockhart's Year of the Yeti", said another, which he admitted might find a place in the Obnoxious Oddities section in page 43. "Mysterious Plague Haunts Bulgaria", read a line, which he thought would look good on the Forecast of the Farlands section. "Quidditch Hall of Famer, Kelmare, Dead at 72", mourned another, which he decided should necessitate an Obituaries page for the next day, or, at the very least, the Sports page's prime story.
Alfermus lived and fed off news with every breath he took, so much so that his conscience has become immune to its tragedies and terror. It did not matter when a headline was happening before his very eyes, threatening his very life and limb. For him, such events were but passing tales that would soon be encapsulated in words that will be published through his stolid guidance. He had become numb with reality, a small price to pay for the stature he was given, so he believed. What are feelings, after all, compared to being the driving force of the centuries-old chronicler of the magical world's lore?
He continued his mechanical deliberation of the submitted reports, setting aside those worthy for publication and rejecting those which are not, all with the automated motion of indifference.
He plowed and furrowed and dug…
Until a report yanked him from his years of emotionless stupor! His eyes widened, his lips paralyzed with seeming horror! It was untitled, but Alfermus had mastered the art of skimming, and what he did skim did not bid well. The words were simple, the exposition straightforward, but the end reeked with subtle terror, the kind whose vagueness conveyed a fear that creeps to the very heart of those who remember.
He read the report, slowly this time.
"Grand Seer Colin Creevey, one of the last pillars of the Year of the Turning, died on Tuesday, August 25, 2044, after years of battling Trincomyta's Disease. Master Creevey was given the Ministry's Medallion of Valor in 1998 and was appointed the rank of Grand Seer in 2010 when his visions have saved the Magical World from countless disasters from several fronts. Famous for his uncanny ability to capture with his photographs the beauty of reality oftentimes overlooked, Master Creevey was likewise famous for his gift of divination which became manifest immediately after the Triumph of the Order. As Grand Seer, he was one of the Ministry's most trusted counselors and a member of the high-ranking Tribe of Thirty.
"Master Creevey was the first to predict, with accuracy, the rise of the Integrationalists, the Famine of 2020, and the Great Negation of 2033. His foreknowledge of tribulations made the trials conquerable, and his visions of decay made the mourning easier to bear. Master Creevey's gift of foresight was so legendary that he even predicted the exact day of his death.
"It is a pity that Master Creevey suffered in a delusional state until his final breath, a symptom common with Trincomyta patients. His last act, as reported, was asking for a quill and a paper, and writing but a single word before his life expired. In an almost unintelligible manner, Master Creevey was reported to have scribbled the word 'RIDDLE', immediately preceding his death."
And a whirlwind of memories flooded Alfermus' mind. Of those years as a junior scribe when he dug up anything and everything that was written about the Year of the Turning and the Triumph of the Order. Of those tea sessions he spent with Aberforth Dumbledore during the latter's last days, a privilege afforded by his family's ties. Of the dreams he nurtured of writing the most comprehensive book about the heroic deeds of the boy who lived and the vile ways of he who cannot be named. And he knew, as only a few people could possibly know, what Grand Seer Creevey was trying to say.
The Phoenix failed, and the stench of death was upon them all.