Somewhere in Londonderry, Ireland, autumn of 2070.
The room was poorly lit, though what was visible under the flickering golden lamplight could be distinguished as having a tasteful elegance. Rich wood paneling and darker oiled floor boards both absorbed and reflected the warm glow. A wizard sat silently in a deep walnut-colored leather wingback, a crystal glass of Odgen's Finest clasped in his right hand. A signet ring, with the motif of an old oil lamp, tinkled softly on the crystal as he twirled the glass in his hand. He waited.
Some time later the quiet creak of a floorboard signaled the imminent arrival of the one for whom he waited for. The witch entered the room swiftly, rounding the chair and taking her place opposite her host.
"What news?" he enquired of his guest as she eased herself into the chair.
"My affairs have been finalized, I am ready to initiate the final stage," she answered confidently.
While the wizard gave no indication of either acceptance or denial, he simply re-commenced twirling the crystal glass in quietly troubled contemplation. He paused only to take a quick swallow of the liquid, before holding her gaze. "Explain to me again why it is necessary for us to take this approach. Why are we giving our enemies reason to attack us?" He stared at her expressionless face, her dark brown eyes unfathomable pits.
She smiled wryly, the corners of her mouth rising not in mirth, but with pleasure at the innate intelligence of the plan. "We learned from the past," she stated simply. "A direct approach would be erroneous. Those individuals that were opposed to such an advance previously would not hesitate to foil further attempts of the like. Instead we go to our enemy and reveal a portion of the secret that has been held for centuries. Our enemies will chose to act to remedy what they will perceive as unnatural advantage. With their active opposition comes Our chance to act without consequences," she declared impassionedly, her voice having raised an octave and her eyes shining. "In the end, we will be thanked."
The wizard emptied the last of the liquor from the glass, and placed it gently on the side table. "You know the dangers of being discovered before you are able to complete this mission?" he inquired, not for her safety, but for that of their organization.
She leaned forward. "You mock me?" she questioned, tilting her head slightly. "You must, knowing my current profession."
The wizard shook his head almost imperceptibly. "No, but this is bigger than you or I, - succeed and we change the future – fail and you'll just be another footnote in history," he stressed.
"I will not fail," she spat, her face stormy with righteous anger. "It is time for a change, and nothing will prevent me bringing it forth."
The wizard nodded, his enthusiasm invigorated by her fervor. He held a hand out to her. "Merlin and Circe be with you, and may Our victory be great"
She took his hand in both of hers, kissed the warm metal of the signet ring, and murmured, "We shall let our light shine, and our blood will be vindicated."
May 2nd, 2073 – 75th Anniversary of the Defeat of the Dark Lord Voldemort
Harry Potter, savior of the Wizarding World, fought back tiredness as he lounged in the Abraxan-drawn carriage as it began another yearly procession from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts. Every year, since the 20th anniversary of Voldemort's downfall, the Ministry of Magic had insisted that the "heroes" be "properly recognized" for their contribution to the cessation of the last vestige of evil in Britain.
Harry would have been more than happy with a quiet drink and a moment of contemplation, rather than the elaborate farce the so-called "memorial" had become over the years. In his opinion nobody belonging to the last two generations had any idea of what it had been like, and his re-telling of the events fell mostly on deaf ears. The youngsters instead preferred the glorified versions of epic proportions, which lent itself more to urban legend than history. For at least the last thirty years the organizers had begged him to omit the story of Severus Snape, arguing that the Death Eater turned spy would have preferred obscurity. Harry would die before he failed to tell of that wizard's integral part in the triumph of good.
He caught a glimpse of the castle as they rounded the corner, remembering the good experiences at Hogwarts, but wanting to forget what had eventually occurred when Tom Riddle ripped away both lives and innocence. Later, in his own ritual, he would enter the Headmaster's Office and again confront the portraitures. Alone, but oddly united, both wizards had engineered Voldemort's demise; Dumbledore with twinkling manipulation, and Snape with sullen dedication. Every year the personification of these great wizards metamorphosed, their traits becoming almost aberrant; Dumbledore's once endearing twinkle grew closer to the glistening eyes of a madman. Harry's lips quirked as he remembered the previous year; Snape had requested his portrait be thrown into the fire after Dumbledore visited his frame, uninvited, to offer him a moldy sherbet-lemon. Snape had retreated to the furthest corner of his frame and snidely replied that he preferred non-existence over the offer of the sweet from a senile old fool.
As he returned from the memory, his glance drifted to the empty seat beside him. His love, Ginny, accompanied him in spirit only, having passed on to the "next great adventure" nearly a year ago. He smoothed the gold of his wedding band, forgetting the now and remembering all the good times they shared. The girl had still been able to do a fine bat-bogey hex – he nearly laughed himself into a grave when, at last year's ceremony, she lost her temper at one of the young upstarts from the Ministry. When he queried her later, she uttered one word contemptuously; "Percy".
Since Voldemort's downfall, the Wizarding World had stayed, on the most part, peaceful. In his early days as an Auror, Harry had been busy corralling the last of the Death Eaters; of those not killed or captured at the Battle of Hogwarts, most were apprehended, put on trial and sent to Azkaban. Some, like the elusive Selwyn, had remained at large for many years, but were eventually captured or turned up dead. The only Death Eater family that remained, somewhat untouched by what happened to their compatriots, were the Malfoy's. Voldemort and Harry did agree on one thing though – Lucius Malfoy had been "slippery" indeed.
After Narcissa had saved Harry's life, the hope of the world, and ultimately preserved the downfall of the Dark Lord, the Wizengamot had been lenient. Lucius Malfoy had been sentenced to a meager ten years at the dementor-free Azkaban, Draco Malfoy had served two, and Narcissa merely given probation. The Ministry did seize most of their assets, except their family home - though, considering the size of said property, some couldn't help but wonder that losing everything else wasn't much of an issue for the family.
Draco Malfoy assumed an air of indifference, married Astoria Greengrass – a witch from a neutral Pureblood family – and produced the required heir. Scorpius Hyperion was the sort of eccentric name that only Purebloods could respectfully call their offspring, or know that others would have the good sense not to laugh in their faces. Harry and Ginny had got their Galleons worth of chuckles, or they at least did until their youngest came home at the end of her NEWTS year with the pronouncement that her and Scorpius were "in love".
Cajoling Lily to reconsider proved unwise. She was disdainful of any further attempts to convince her otherwise, and, like her mother, stubbornly insisted that love transcended all things. Her resolve prompted Harry to initiate a friendly chat with his school-day nemesis, Draco. Subsequent conversations confirmed that he was just as dazed – but with some negotiation they reconsidered, suggesting that their children be allowed to marry, quoting certain political advantages. Harry agreed hesitantly, and the pair wed in the following year.
When Lily conceived shortly after, Scorpius proved no match for her obstinate determination to discard his family's naming tradition. Her acerbic tongue ensured that her daughter received the lovely name Seraphina. She relented for one name only; their son was given the family name Abraxas Arcadias.
Albus Severus also married a Slytherin, and he and his wife had three children; the youngest, Harry's second grand-daughter, Peony, and the two boys Sirius John, and Harry James Potter the 2nd. Harry pleaded against the honorific, but Albus' wife waved her hand as if that was enough to dismiss his concerns. Only four years ago, and more than thirty after the first "Harry clone", he had learned to put up and shut up when Harry James Potter the 3rd was born. He just hoped they weren't all in the same room together, and if they were, that neither they nor he got into any trouble; having someone yell "Harry James Potter" in annoyance would just prove confusing. Even having that many generations of the Potter family in one room would be enough to drive him to either distraction or madness.
The Order of the Phoenix had remained after the Fall of Voldemort; though its original purpose died and in its place rose an association of witches and wizards with a charter to always uphold equality. Harry was a life-time member, having contributed much to the new format of the charter. The society became a social club of sorts, running youth programs and offering apprenticeships and recommendations. The active president held a seat on the Wizengamot, and at least half of the executive committee was required to have worked for the Office of Magical Law Enforcement.
Still, blood purity remained an issue fiercely debated. Whilst most Pureblood families were "cured" of their need for vicious retribution on innocent Muggleborns and their families, some still upheld what they termed their "right". Twenty-five years after Voldemort's defeat the Life Association for Magical Purity was created. Under the watchful eye of the Ministry, through both the office of Magical Law Enforcement and the Wizengamot, the society lodged a charter as transparent as that of the Order of the Phoenix. Membership was open to all Purebloods and non-Pureblood families who could prove either Pureblood connections - no further than two generations away - or had more than two magical grandparents. Those within the organization who married a Muggleborn were either demoted or excommunicated. A sense of unease grew in the Wizarding World at the inferred prejudice of the Association.
However, despite the initial concerns, society eventually adjusted their views of it. By 2040, both organizations, having proven their worth as clubs of prestigious honor, were invited to become part of Hogwarts. Each association was to have a student representative council made up of at least two students from every year, and a staff advisor. Over the years, the membership in each organization grew, almost equally drawing students from all four Houses in Hogwarts. Both associations run Summer programs, as well as career mentoring. People began to belong and thus forgot what the beginnings of the two groups had once stood for. Instead, witches and wizards proudly wore badges on their clothing – The Order of the Phoenix bore the motto "Unity for Equality", and the other "Unity for Purity". Some wore both, and, when questioned, responded, that they stood for "Unity", irrespective of how it was obtained.
The carriage came to a halt, and Harry gazed over the crowd of students, professors and aging alumni. He stood and eased out of the carriage as a respectful hush fell over the attendees. He strode to the raised platform, positioned in its usual location just to the side of Dumbledore's tomb, and gazed out at the audience. Slytherin, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were mingled together – House loyalties and prejudices had been a thing of the past for decades now. He smiled knowingly – these children had been living in their gift of peace; nobody had had to live as he had to, juggling the constant threat of death with Quidditch and study.
He took a deep breath and began the story of his life.
August 27th 2075: Ireland
Mira Aquila Black, age eleven years five months and nine days, stood in front of her half-packed school trunk. With less than five days until she was scheduled to board the Hogwarts Express, she was at her wit's end. Her mother, the lovely raven-haired witch Sabina, had given her daughter a handcrafted leather-bound journal when Mira had been five. A year later Sabina had departed and the journal was the only thing remaining. At random pages throughout, Mira knew that her mother had inscribed words of wisdom; little snippets of motherly love that appeared when Mira needed them the most. What she needed right now was for big, blinking neon letters to appear on the front of the book, stating "here I am!" because she had managed to lose that most precious possession.
She dropped to her bed with her head in her hands, buried her face in her duvet and screamed in frustration. Tears smarting on her cheeks, she pounded the bed with her fists. A few moments later, she sat up, wiping the moisture from her face angrily. Where had she put it? She had searched in all the most obvious places, except the attic… But it has been days since I've been up there she thought. She shrugged, considering the possibility. I guess it wouldn't hurt…
Mira trooped up the stairs and climbed up into the attic by way of the rickety ladder which swung down with the trapdoor. She breathed in the musty and stale air, and started her search near the open box she had discarded nearly a week prior. She peeked at the old photos – most of which she'd seen before – which portrayed myriads of Black family relatives. Nothing…Great. She scooted the box to the side and caught sight of a familiar looking leather cover. She breathed a sigh of relief as she snagged it.
As she brought it up to her chest to hug it like a long-lost friend, she noticed that it didn't feel right. She pulled it away from her and examined it. Way too dusty for startersshe thought, wiping the dust from her hands onto her skirt. She opened it at a random page, and squinted at the spiky and cramped black handwriting. Not Mother's or pa's she thought as she traced the rise and fall of letters. She shrugged her shoulders in indifference and closed the unknown diary with a soft rustle, the pages dry with age.
As she reached out to place the old diary where she found it, she finally spotted her own. Instead of discarding the dusty book, she kept it, placing her much newer diary on top on the old. Somehow she knew it was meant for her.