Chapter one: The unmaking
Black hair whispered with the wind, glasses glinting in the starlight. A long white tube sat next to the man who sat unnaturally still. Papers crinkling in the wind held down by a soft looking white stone, shaped as a perfect orb. Green eyes squinted as the hand marred by "I will not tell lies", moved a long silver and red quill smoothly across parchment, scratching in the deep moonless night. A soft murmur escaping his lips, dreams of what had been floating through his mind. He concentrated on his more than detailed notes. "It must be perfect, there is no room for errors." He sighed. Desperation had brought him to this, as always his desire to save those around him filled his being, he knew this was the only way, and yet he wished it wasn't so. Nineteen years ago he had felled his foe, and yet the ghost of he-who-shall-not-be-named hung over his head as it did then. The war all had thought ended, was instead fought in the shadows. The darkest of nights brought mornings filled with horrors, The Death Eaters never changed.
Nineteen years he had waited for this particular evening, an evening that came only once every thousand or so years, when the planets aligned with the Sirius constellation. A once in a life time chance, the only chance he had left. He wanted so bad to just roll over, to forget existence to explode and then fade like a dying star. The pain of being alone, long sense abandoned by those he loved, as they faded as he wished he could. The twins both gone, Fred during the battle of Hogwarts, George two years later in the middle of the night, his shop burnt down around him, the fire started by Malfoy. So much hate, so much pain, so much depression, the sadness overwhelming. He had made his choice however, this long forgotten work of pure art, this beautiful ritual that no one would ever witness in its entirety. Once the ritual started it couldn't be stopped, those who were around to see it, they wouldn't know, for with everything else, they would be unmade. A ritual to change the past, to prevent the future, it unmade the universe. It consumed all that came after the intended day. He would be the only one to carry this pain, these memories of a hopeless future.
Sighing softly to himself as he slowly stood his hair falling long past his knees, tied loosely in a messy tail. A silvery cloak shifting with the wind, drifting like gossamer strands weightless, covering his long black robes blood red piping along the seams. Sharp killing curse green eyes scoured the runic pentagram he had painstakingly drawn with the blood of his enemies, mixed together with the bones of his family and friends. At the apex of each point a black, green, and white candle sat, unlit and waiting for his incantations to begin. Checking his charts one last time, he reached a ring covered hand in to his pocket, pulling from within a small trunk which he placed upon the ground. Next he placed his hands in to his sleeves each coming out grasping a wand. The wand in his right hand, the first wand he'd ever owned, the wand in his left, a curse he could never let go. He had tried on several occasions to dispose of it, placing it back in its previous master's tomb. He had snapped in on several occasions leaving its broken parts carelessly strewn about. Before he had finally accepted that he was its chosen, he had set fire to it, he had used the darkest spell he knew, Fiendfyre. He held the curse for over twenty minutes letting the flames of hell wash over it, and when it was all said and done, it looked as it had the first time he saw it, held it, cursed it.
He tapped the trunk with his wand, holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. The trunk sprang to full size, and then popped open to the second compartment. With a silent swish and flic of the cursed wand, three vials filled with different substances shot forth like a bullet from a gun, stopping inches from his face. One filled with a substance so black it seemed to suck the night inside, another so white it seemed to shine as if it were the sun, and the last, the most difficult to find, a clear liquid that seemed if it didn't exist at all. The first seemed to radiate malicious hate from within, pure refined dementors' essence, distilled and filtered for three years. The second radiated pure love, and joy, blood tears of a unicorn harvested on the autumn equinox, under a blood moon. The last gave no feeling, gave no scent, gave no choice, bottled and distilled down to liquid, last breaths of the dying. In to the center of his pentagram he floated these three, contradictions of each other.
A sharp crack summoned his notice, it was time to begin, time to make a new world, to burn the old to ashes as if it had never been. He begins the ritual by flicking both wands at each point, lighting the three candles, each with a violently orange flame. His mouth open he started to sing, an ancient language long forgotten, he stepped in to the center of his runes. His song at times low and sad, others loud and angry, and the shadows begin to dance as he begins to sway. The music changing tempo, changing tone, changing tune, the world seemed to twist upon itself, as if it was being slowly sucked in to the center with him, as if he was the maestro, conducting a mass exodus from this plane. The screams begin as he started his second verse, the world around him crying that it had come to this. The shadows sped towards him, the dementors essence pulling its due, then the stars in the sky begin to swirl about caught in the maelstrom of his spell, sucked to the blood tears. When the last shadow had been slurped up, the vial begins to glow strangely blue. The stars falling around him, he never ceased his movements, the sweat glistening in the raven strands of his blowing hair. The maelstrom sped to consume all the stars in the sky, and then the tears had all run dry, glowing an otherworldly golden hue. And last all that was left, him and his circle of runes, all alone in the seemingly endless forever of nothing, the vial of breaths collected its due. As the last note of his song sprang past his lips, the vials clashed together and the world, the universe, and Harry potter was born anew.