Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other pieces of the Potterverse, but I sure like to play there!
Prologue
At the beginnings of time as humans have come to understand it the Godhead, whose name has long been lost, decided to award those amongst his creations who displayed virtues that he valued: The loyal were gifted with uncommon strength of will, the dreamers were given unprecedented access to the muses, the charismatic were bestowed the gift of oration and the bold, those that the Creator loved best of all, were given the gift of Magic.
The Creator then raised an island from the sea for his beloved Magi, and sent out a beacon to call them to this place. The newly gifted slowly made their way to the island that the Creator named Atlantis. They forged out of the empty landscape a beautiful and prosperous city. Magic made scientific, architectural and medical advances possible for the Atlantians centuries and sometimes millennia before those same discoveries were made by the "Mainlanders" as non-magical or un-gifted people had come to be known.
The Golden Age of Atlantis came about one-hundred and fifty years after the first of the gifted set foot on the island, it persisted for three hundred years. The Atlantians had developed a fair and equitable system of governing their people; it was easy enough to govern a populace of the enlightened and selfless. It was a time of art and music, of invention and innovation, an era of and beauty and truth, but all utopian societies must be robbed of their apparent perfection and innocence at some point.
Some members of the utopia grew dissatisfied with the constant demands of their talents and the obligations placed on them by the general populace of the city. They made an argument that sometimes it was acceptable to create for the joy of the few, rather than to focus all creative efforts on the betterment of society as a whole. Rather than to corrupt the placid societal balance of the island, these radicals were asked to leave by the officials of the Senate, citizens chosen to speak for the masses. After the initial outrage burnt away there was surprising lack of objection to the exile of these subversive individuals. The city turned a blind eye to the rest of the world, only passively acknowledging the rest of humanity by sending those unfit (or unwilling) from their shores to live "out there." So it seemed that the city would continue to thrive and prosper for eternity, and it might have if not for the generous spirit of one of the exiled.
Pompeii had been, before his exile, the finest painter that the isle had ever seen. To set eyes upon his work was to know one of the secrets of Creation: that of the true nature of the relationship between God and humanity. He happily painted whatever came to mind, wether it be a landscape, portrait or still life all were created with equal grace and passion by this Master Eternal of the painters. After the birth of his first child, a girl he named Faslin, the proud new father decided to paint the child in the arms of her mother. It was by his own judgement the finest work that he had ever created, but he could not bring himself to give the painting over to the Public Galleries, to be viewed by everyone. He wished for the first time to keep a piece of his work close to his heart and hearth. So he hung the painting on the back wall of the closet in his daughter's room, and never told a single soul the secret of its existence. It was not to remain a secret for long; seven years hence it was discovered accidentally by one of the local Senators who had dropped by to pay a social call on the family. Thinking himself above lies and entitled to some measure of privacy, Pompeii told the Senator of its creation. For several days he heard no objections to his retaining the piece and so he thought himself in the clear; he was wrong.
The Senate deliberated for four days behind closed doors to determine the fate of the one selfish enough to have so blatantly shattered the laws of Public Access to a Masterwork. On the fifth day Pompeii had been summoned to speak before them regarding his act of "self aggrandizement," his defense was merely a formality, the Senate having already made the decision of what to do with such a subversive and dangerous criminal. So it was that Pompeii became he first exile of Atlantis, and ultimately planted the seed of elitist superiority that would bring the isle to its knees and earn the wrath of the Creator in the form of what all Atlantians feared most, exile.
For years Pompeii walked the world of the un-gifted creating great works of art for any and all who asked him, he was not terribly unhappy with his new life. He discovered something very disquieting to a lifelong citizen of "the Isle" as Mainlanders had come to refer to Atlantis. The span of their lives seemed heartbreakingly short! There were so many things that could fell even the most stout of men from the Mainland. He had no doubt that his blood kept him from such a fate and he wept freely at the brevity and harshness of life as an un-gifted person. He was lost to his own grief, for how long he could not say, he was shaken from his reverie by a soft voice calling his name. He looked to the Heavens and heard the Creator speak into his mind, "Why do you weep Master of Atlantis?"
"I weep for those who have done no wrong and are cut down in the prime of life; I weep for those who can do nothing to fend off plague that destroys their families. Please, please tell me what I can do to spare another innocent the touch of cold death at the hands of Plague?"
"Go back," the Creator said. "Go to Atlantis and tell them what you have seen. For they alone can end this tragedy." The presence was gone, his tears were dry and Pompeii ran back to the shore and swam back to the Isle. He was escorted to the Senate by the first Atlantian to see him as he sprang from the surf. He was permitted to address them, but his pleas fell upon deaf ears. They turned him away and accused him of having a touch of madness for claiming a conference with God. He was given a boat and ordered never to return under pain of death.
The sun crossed the sky and it darkened to a velvety black, a blackness un-broken by starlight. The people of Atlantis were stunned it seemed that the very stars had gone out like oil lamps in a strong wind. Then at noon the earth began to shake below them, first subtly then progressively more violently, when at dawn the shaking stopped, the Islanders were drawn form their homes. On the horizon something seemed strange, they all rushed to the shore to see the anomaly. A wave more than double the size of the island engulfed them and the city sank unmolested, protected by some kind of barrier, into the sea. Pompeii and others watched from across the bay, in awe of the Creator's wrath. Yet it appeared that justice was done, those who refused to succor those in need and relied upon a policy of isolation and exile were now themselves, exiled.
Chapter One- The Project
Harry yawned and rubbed tired green eyes as he and Ron plodded down the stairs from the boys dorms to the Gryffindor common room. The first day of classes after the Christmas Holiday was always difficult to readjust to after so many days of leisure. In spite of three years worth of vows to change his schedule regarding the last night of his vacation, he could not bring himself to seek his bed at a reasonable hour, not with the foreign visitors and the excitement of the Yule Ball still so fresh in is memory. Though the Ball had been a disaster for Ron and himself he was more than pleased to see the undisguised joy on Hermione's face as she'd danced with Krum. Not to mention the astonished visage of Malfoy as he actually gawked at the "mudblood" with something in his gaze that could only be fairly described as the awe a man gets when in the presence of a great beauty. He chuckled at the memory and shook of Ron's grumpy inquisition ("What in bloody hell is so funny, Harry?") and preceded his friend into the common room where Hermione was waiting.
She sat reading and looking much too polished and together for someone who had been up much later than he had. She was, of course, more than ready for a return to the rigors of the curriculum. Ron, who was already agitated beyond any reasonable measure seemed to be too irritated by her chipper attitude to even sputter a greeting to her. She chose to ignore Ron's silent protest and asked politely if he and Harry were ready to head down to the Great Hall for breakfast. At Harry's affirmative nod the three set off to break their fast.
As expected, the meal was a subdued affair punctuated by considerably more yawns than conversation. There were more than a few amongst the teachers at the high table who seemed to be having difficulty recovering from the revel of the night before. Hagrid in particular seemed to be a bit wobbly on his feet; Harry was relieved when he finally took his seat and the game keeper blushed scarlet as Madame Maxime offered him sardines on toast. 'Well, I'll be,' thought Harry, 'Is the whole world pairing off except me?' His thought was interrupted by the muttered cursing as Krum came to sit between Hermione and Ron. "Guess not," Harry whispered nearly inaudibly. Harry rolled his eyes at Ron, why didn't he just tell Hermione how he felt and have done with it? He had no more time for that line of thinking if he wanted a breakfast that was not stone cold, he tucked into the food on his plate with great enthusiasm.
Harry pushed away from the table and began to make his way to History of Magic, he was joined shortly by Hermione and a still disgruntled Ron. Harry's two best mates positioned themselves on opposite sides of him, he wished and not for the first time that the two of them would not put him in the middle of another of their rows. He'd decided that he'd had enough of this silliness and had a mind to tell them so as the three of them sat in their assigned seats, but just as he opened his mouth to speak the ghostly Professor Binns drifted through the wall of the classroom and began today's lesson.
A few moments later Harry stared transfixed, he never could have imagined that he, or anyone for that matter, could actually find this class interesting. History of Magic was notorious for boring even the most astute and tireless academic minds in the student population of Hogwarts. There were times that Harry could have sworn he'd heard Hermione snoring in this class, but not today. The only time that anyone could recall such attention being paid to Profesor Binns was in Harry's second year when Hermione had made bold to question him about the Chamber of Secrets. This was a project, something to do besides copy endless notes on Goblin Revolutions and the years that "very important" witches and wizards lived and made equally important magical discoveries. On the desk at the front of the room sat any number of strange objects, which Professor Binns explained as dispassionately as always that they were to determine the origin, maker and magical significance of one of the items. They were to make their choice via a lottery, the first choice going to the student lucky enough to draw a number one from the fishbowl that had been sitting unnoticed in the corner of the room.
Harry was determined to get a low number, as there were a few very interesting pieces that fascinated him even at a glance. He waited his turn while politely discussing the possibilities of this with Ron and Hermione, their feud forgotten for the moment. He held his breath and stuck his and down into the bowl, a piece of parchment stuck fast to his hand and in spite of his efforts to shake it loose it would not be removed. Harry clamped his fingers around it and withdrew his hand from the bowl. he sat to wait to look at his number with Ron and Hermione, he relaxed a bit when they each told him that they had a similar experience with the bowl. Each unfolded the parchment in is or her hand, Hermione was delighted to see that she had number three, Ron's revealed number eleven. Harry took a deep breath and wished as hard as he could for a number one; when he opened his eyes he was quite displeased to discover that is number was twenty-five, the very last number. He sighed and got in line to select the item he was to research, surprisingly it seemed that everyone was actually getting their first choice, everyone but Harry, by the time he reached the table there was only one item left. It was a grubby fist sized ball of some material that he could not identify, he picked it and sneezed loudly. The blasted thing was totally coated with ash and soot!
Harry set the thing down on his desk and swore loudly at the black marks left on his hands by it, he wiped them on his robe in disgust, this was even worse than travelling by floo powder! He looked back down at the thing and noticed a glimmer of white light that appeared to be coming from the orb on his desk. He hastily picked it up and began polishing it against his robe. The longer he rubbed it the more intense the light became until the entire classroom was illuminated by its glow. Even the professor stopped what he was doing to admire Harry's artifact. Deciding that it was a clean as he was likely to get it under these conditions he took it in his hand to get a proper look at the orb, what he saw was so beautiful that it nearly stopped his heart...
Zelena sighed heavily as she ran her long fingers over the smooth pane of clear glass. In spite of herself she smiled at the so-called "wonder" that she had been privileged enough to have known from birth. 'How strange it must be to live on the Mainland,' she thought. 'After all, anyone can create glass if they try hard enough.' As the thought passed wistfully through her mind a perfect replica of the coral reef she'd seen on her daily dive materialized in her upturned palm. She turned it to the fading light of the evening sun to examine every facet of its splendor. Sighting an immensely tiny flaw she unmade it just as quickly as she'd created it. She twisted back to face the rapidly darkening room, she blew gently across the surface of the sculpture which began to erode, a sand castle in the wind; the flecks rising from her palm became a shimmering opalescent mist which spread uniformly across the ceiling. Another flicker of thought changed the softly glowing mist to bright droplets of sunlight that illuminated the room as they fell, chasing the darkness to cower in the corners.
"You have a gift." She started at the baritone of her father's voice.
"Hello Father, how long have you been standing there?" Her tone spoke nothing of irritation, only curiosity.
"Long enough to see your Mastery confirmed." She smiled it was wonderful to hear such high praise from one of the Elder Senators; even if the Elder in question was a blood relative. She was able to read the other magus far better than he could have guessed and steeled herself against the abrasive reminder of her shortcomings that she was about to receive. "You have the ability to create and destroy worlds in increments of time far too small to contemplate. Yet you create only on whims, only because you like the act of creating. It seems that nothing is ever up to your standard. Such adherence to acts that please only you can lead to possible expulsion from the Island." He paused, trying to make this information penetrate her thick head. She was so like her mother! He continued, "Every Master of your level has left his or her legacy to the people; have you given any thought to hat yours might be?"
"No," her reply was blunt, she did not find the need to dance in verbal circles the way the diplomats he had to deal with on a daily basis did. Her father smiled widely, he was heartened to see that having such power at such a young age had not changed her heart. Few even among Atlantians were both gifted and patient enough to earn the rank and title of Master Eternal, and then never so young as fifteen. The next youngest had been twenty-six, no small difference in age there. He was terribly proud of his daughter's achievement, but equally careful of mentioning it too frequently to the child. Some who had reached that echelon developed dangerous ideas concerning their own importance and had to be exiled, lest such contagious ideas bring an end to the prosperity of the isle. She turned a quizzical glance on him and the expression reminded him forcibly of her mother; at moments like this 'Lena seemed the split image of Alta. Alta's banishment had nearly been the death of him. If 'Lena, his only child, had shown similar tenancies he would send her off as his duty dictated, then he'd go rather noisily mad. He shook off the unpleasant thought, glad that all signs indicated that the scenario he feared need never become reality.
"If you are hungry you may join me in half a candlemark. Sasha, Leopold, and Nata will be dining with us this evening." He did not miss the subtle flicker of emotion that disturbed the placid surface of her thoughts and the features of her delicately boned face. To be frank the reaction told him much more than he was comfortable knowing about the failed engagement of his daughter and Leo. Everyone was stunned when Leo called off the wedding at the last minute, the two had been so close, nearly inseparable for as long as anyone could remember. He cringed inwardly, regardless of the state of his daughter's personal relationships diplomacy and protocol could not be put off forever.
She surprised him with her reply, "Of course I'm hungry. I'll be damned if that...man is reason enough to keep me from the dinner table! Honestly!" she snorted. "Though you have all my thanks for the warning, Father." She hugged him tightly and closed the door to her chamber to properly attire herself for dinner.