The Veiled Throne

I do not own Harry Potter or Campione.

Chapter 2: Uncertain Steps

Albus Dumbledore was many things.

An accomplished wizard of note. Many of his peers often holding him up as the pinnacle of wizardry, a person that they could aspire to be, with a level of power and knowledge that they could only dream of achieving.

The Leader of the Light. A rather pretentious title, but one that many of his constituents, and enemies, thought suited him well. His public and outspoken actions within the chambers of the Wizengamot and without them espoused the gentle and protective ideology of the philosophy of the 'Light' that many a decent English wizard or witch ascribed to. As, arguably, the most powerful and wise amongst these people, they all flocked to him in droves, followers to his every word, due to the human condition of the belief, of the need, in higher powers, ones that assumed more responsibility for their lives so they could blame someone else for their troubles when things went wrong for them.

A teacher. For the majority of his life, he had inspired others to reach their full potential. And what better way to do this than to get to them in their early years, to show them the wonders of the world around them, to make them dream of becoming more than they were. Many an hour he had stood in front of a class of students, his blue eyes a twinkle as they gasped in awe at what he accomplished, with a simple flick of a wand, while they couldn't do it even if they tried their own very best, but still drove themselves to at least try to reach that high point.

In all, it could be said that Albus Dumbledore was a good man and one that many a member of the Wizarding World aspired to be.

At least, that was what he was in public, amongst those that called him 'friend'.

In private, in shadows of the world, in places that he kept hidden...that was another matter altogether.

Matters that would slowly begin to unravel over the course of less than a decade, revealing the true nature of Dumbledore to the masses, showing the true wolf in sheep's clothing for what he was.

The pebble that started the avalanche came in the form of the sound of shattering trinkets in his office on one summer's day.

The aged Headmaster of Hogwarts had merely been scribbling away at the mound of paperwork that filled his desk every day, grumbling quietly to himself. As a teacher back in the forties, the paperwork had not been quite as bad, though some of the essays from his students had him more than a little disgusted at their deplorable grasp of the English language and the sheer stupidity of some of the answers or hypotheses that they had given, and it had given him a great deal of access to the future power players of the Wizarding World, access which he could use to turn into influence over them and for himself.

The influence and access he had only grew with every new title, every new position, he acquired over the course of his long career.

Unfortunately, he seemed to have underestimated how many scraps of parchment, ones that were barely worth the words that were written on them, that he had to read, ponder and then sign, whether in acceptance or refusal, before sending it away, only to then get a very similar scrap, with only a few minor changes, the very next day.

He was pretty sure that his positions had whole herds of cows dedicated to just them in order to supply him with enough parchment. Not to mention that his constant scribbling on parchment had probably contributed the constantly aching wrist he had, even when he tried to sleep.

Merlin be blessed for the existence of pain killers! Particularly that green herb that the muggles were so uptight about...

His grumbling musings were abruptly cut short as the sound of shattering metal and glass filled his office, making him snap his head towards the source and away from a report from the Wizengamot regarding cauldron bottom thickness, his wand dropping into his hand with the ease of long practice and instinct.

His blood turned abruptly to ice at what he saw.

A small table of polished oak, that had once been covered in various instruments that whirled and spun, emitting small puffs of magical steam, or otherwise glowed and pulsed, the valuable metals and gems that made them up reacting to the magic flowing through them, was now covered in burn marks and scratches. The instruments that had once been there, whirling and pulsing away, now lay shattered, covering the small table and the floor with the various, now useless, bits and pieces that had once made them up.

Normally he would only be annoyed at such a thing. He had his own hobbies and tinkering with small magical artefacts like that was something he did to unwind a little, letting his inner child come out to play for a time. It wouldn't be the first time something he had made had abruptly collapsed and imploded on itself and he would only bemoan the costs of his little hobby before getting up,to clean the mess.

However, these trinkets were no mere trinkets. These ones had been created for a purpose, an important purpose, and had taken over a month to create, with painstaking attention to detail and the taking of every precaution that they wouldn't collapse like some of his other and vastly less important projects.

They had been created to monitor what would be his Magnus Opus, his legacy and what would cement him as the greatest wizard to have been born since Merlin. His crown that would show those jumped up Associations that wizards were more than the mere beggars that they derisively referred to them as.

Albus Dumbledore wasted no time in launching himself to his feet, wand clasped firmly in hand, and calling for his servant.

"Fawkes!" He called, even as he wordlessly sent a silvery ghost like phoenix from his wand, the creature shooting through the walls like an apparition as it followed it creator's command, winging it's way toward his publicly official second with his message ready to deliver. A swift repeat of the spell had another ghostly glowing avian flying toward his darker and more secretive subordinate. Each of them carried the same message; hold down the fort and report to him immediately when he returned.

By the time he had completed the spells, his bound servant responded to his commanding call.

With a ringing cry and the flash of flames a beautiful avian appeared, hovering in front him, the creature's long golden tail feathers extended down and within easy reach. His wrinkled hand snapped up to grasp them tightly, unconcerned with the possibility of causing harm to the beautiful and majestic creature of myth and legend.

"Take me to Privet Drive," he commanded his servant, his blue eyes filled with ire and anger and, deep beneath the anger, slight fear. He didn't know what was happening to his little pet project, but he would be damned sure to find out.

He frowned as he felt, through the connection he had with the swan sized bird, it's burning thoughts rattle at the chains and bindings he had placed around the creature years ago, having stumbled across it by pure chance when it was at it's most vulnerable point, a perfect time for one who was...willing to cross the ever changing line of morality to take advantage of the creature and reap the benefits that such an action could create.

He could feel Fawkes' rage and anger at being bound to his every word and be utterly unable to break free of the bindings that were placed on the Earthen phoenix and couldn't help but smile briefly. Sometimes his own luck surprised him. That smile was swiftly wiped away as his normally jovial and twinkling eyes took on a harder and uglier cast.

Still, he would to ensure that his feathered servant didn't get any ideas above it's station. Like trying to rebel and refuse his to act on his orders.

He idly pointed the his pale white wand (and for some reason that those words seemed to be somewhat disturbing but he shrugged it off.) at the crimson underbelly of the feathered being and wordlessly sent a jolt of his magic through it, making a few acid green and ebony sparks erupt from the tip and touch the angered avian.

That anger swiftly turned to pain as the phoenix screeched. Wherever the sparks had touched, the feathers had turned to ashen dust, falling to the floor, and the pink flesh underneath it turned black for a moment, before a rush of red energy covered the smoking wound, swiftly healing it, only for another spark to touch the exposed flesh again, repeating the process.

Dumbledore kept this up for another couple of moments, keeping a tight grasp on the tail feathers of the mythical avian so that despite it's frantic flapping, it wouldn't be going anywhere to escape the punishment he was dishing out to it. He was unaffected by the high pitched and shrill screeching, having heard it before when he was still taming the creature years ago, sometimes just doing it to relieve his boredom.

Finally, he stopped channeling his magic into the very potent instrument and Fawkes' screeching also came to an end, the shivering creature landing on his forearm with it's deep black eyes, filled with anger, pain and fear glaring at him with all the force of the solar body it's species were attuned to. But, at the same time, it's spirit was diminished, the desire to try and fight back momentarily quelled.

Such was the power of Death against a lesser being of Light.

Dumbledore smirked inwardly. It was always satisfying to know that his own will was able to triumph over a such a being. Proof that he was more powerful and stronger than those fools amongst the Priests that were nothing more than lapdogs to the very enemy that they often fought against.

"Take me to Privet Drive," he repeated to the bird, his voice soft and malevolent, "Now."

In a whirl of flames, both bird and human vanished from the office, spinning through the fiery vortex that the phoenix used to travel over extreme distances. Dumbledore barely registered the flames and fire that surrounded only briefly, before the world reasserted itself, the colour of the skies and the grass and buildings appearing as he and his bound servant exited the corridor between the realms of reality and fantasy.

Directly in front of a familiar house.

Dumbledore swiftly let go of the bird of fire, his blue eyes intent on the house he was in front of and ignored the second flash of flame and burst of heat as the bird left his presence as quickly as it could, having no desire or want to be in his presence more than it had to.

Through his spectacles, ones charmed in a very unique and expensive manner, he eyed the wards that were around the home, ones that he had created and put up himself that were designed to protect his project from all purposeful outside harm. It had taken a great deal of his power and knowledge to craft these specific wards, ones that granted a large amount of protection while also leaving the focus of the wards power vulnerable to more subtle threats. A part of his grand scheme and Magnus Opus was dependent on them. As powerful as they are, it was almost impossible for them to be destroyed until such time as a certain time period was reached, his pet project's coming of age to be precise.

And yet, to his stunned eyes, the bloody red web of power arcane looked like it had been completely shredded.

The very core of the web had been torn out of it, as if some great hand had gripped it and yanked, leaving the barest of outlines of the web, mere vestiges of the spell he had woven shining lightly before slowly puttering out and disappearing strand by strand.

It shouldn't have been possible.

The very web was anchored to the existence of his project. So long as the boy was alive, the web would continue to exist, feeding off of the boy's energy and the surroundings in order to power itself. And even in the tragic event of his sudden untimely death, the web still would not have looked like this.

The fact that the web seemed to be torn in such a way, as if the very core was removed from it, boded ill and his stomach began to freeze and hollow out in apprehension.

Something had definitely gone wrong.

Dumbledore was swift to reach the door of the Dursley's home and rapped smartly as his blue eyes hardened behind his spectacles. He would be getting his answers...

The door opened and the high voice of the pinched faced woman who had opened it swiftly died, her eyes flashing with fear and anger, even as her face alternately paled and flushed with the same emotions.

"Hello, Petunia," the Headmaster of Hogwarts said softly, his eyes glittering soft disdain, as if he were addressing some one that was wasting his time, "I have some questions that I need some answers to."

He smiled inwardly at the silent gulp and almost bleach white tone he skin had taken.

Yes, he would get his answers. One way, or another.

The smartly dressed young man looked around at the damage to the church.

A few bloodstains, a shattered stone baptismal fountain (which considering it's bulk and sturdiness would have been surprising in other circumstances) and a few broken pews.

Well, broken might be too harsh. Sliced and/or cut might have been more appropriate. Smooth pieces of the wooden furniture lay around it, having been cleaved from the main part so cleanly that it may as well be put back together as easily as a jigsaw puzzle.

For the event that had supposedly happened here, the damage was much much much less than it should have been.

Gods generally do not appear quietly after all.

As the small severed arm next to the baptismal fountain could attest.

"So what do we have?" The young man asked a slightly older woman with glasses who had come to his side, leaving the small group of her compatriots who were also here, searching the location for possible evidence as to what had happened.

The brown haired woman coughed slightly before reporting, "It was definitely a Divine event, that is for sure. A Heretic God has descended into the mortal plane."

The man felt the bottom fall out of his gut. Despite his own thoughts, he had hoped that such a thing would not be the case. Dealing with Heretic Gods, in any manner, was fraught with peril and difficulty. They were, to a one, alien and irrational, their own thought processes so different from logical humanity, making it difficult to predict what they would do at any given time.

Add in their destructive power that dwarfed others, powers that the various Associations around the world were unable to directly match or adequately and reliably defend against and you had an absolute nightmare on your hands.

And one had seemed to have appeared in this place less than an hour ago which had forced the Association to have all local assets immediately gather to the location. Wonderful.

"Great," the man sighed, his head dropping into his hand and rubbing his temples in frustration. With the appearance of a Heretic God, he knew what was going to happen, who would be contacted, and that just gave him more headaches. He had little fondness for the Nobleman of Godspeed.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?" He enquired tiredly.

The woman frowned slightly, "From what we can divine, the Heretic God was confronted by a young man," she glanced at the blood stains with a grimace, and gave the severed arm an even tighter one, "a mere boy, prepubescent." She sighed heavily, her eyes somber, "he never had a chance."

The man grimaced himself. The thought that a mere boy had been chosen as the target of a deity's wrath, while far from unique, galled him utterly. The boy had been defenceless and without a chance in hell of survival, easy pickings for the monstrously powerful beings known as Heretic Gods.

It was times like these that he cursed the entity known as Pandora.

"Any chance at identifying the victim?" He asked the woman, ignoring the thought of the Heretic God. There was nothing he could do about the entity, the divine presence was long gone and, even to his senses, the traces of it's presence that could have allowed it to be possibly tracked were also gone. The best he could do in regards to the powerful being was report to his superiors and let them do what they do.

However, he could do something in regards to the poor soul who had suffered the deity's wrath. He could at least give the poor kid's family so closure and succour and sympathy. Possibly even some compensation or whatever aid they would need in this, no doubt, very trying time.

This was, of course, provided that they were able to get a name in some manner or another. With the blood and, he shivered slightly, flesh around it wouldn't be too hard to use a divination ritual to obtain information, as callous and distasteful as it may seem to the outside viewer.

To his slight apprehension, the face of the woman paled slightly, looking very uncomfortable and uncertain. It did not fill him with any confidence.

"Yes, sir," she said delicately, as if walking on egg shells, "we have...partially identified the victim." She bit her lip in worry, "And that has opened a whole new can of worms."

The man looked at the uncertain looking woman. "Who was it?"

She answered quietly, almost mumbling, but he was still able to hear and understand it well enough.

The answer he received made him rock back on his heels in shock, like he had been hit by Mike Tyson's uppercut to the jaw.

"A wizard." He spoke slowly, disbelievingly.

That was something he had never expected to run across. 'Can of worms' didn't even begin to describe the shit storm that he knew was soon going to descend on them all.

He would have to be quick. This was beyond his pay grade.

He snapped out his mobile and quickly began dialling. He knew he was racing against the clock. Hopefully, for once, he would be able to win against it.

In an alley, just off the busy street of London, a quiet pop of displaced air was heard by none, nor was the garishly dressed and white bearded man that appeared in unison with the sound noticed.

Albus Dumbledore was not a happy man.

His questioning, and unknowing use of Legilimency, on the horse faced muggle had yielded him nothing about the condition of either the wards or the boy he had placed in their care. As far as she knew, the brat was with her little Diddums (Dumbledore had to hold back his snort of disgust at the baby name she still referred to her child as, as well as the fact she had called him 'little'. Just a glance at the pictures of her child that were everywhere in the house showed that the boy was more likely to be described as either 'huge' or, more to the point and more accurately so, 'fat'.) on a school field trip at one of museums in London and didn't know anything more in regards to the brat's wellbeing.

Useless muggle wench.

On the semi-bright side, he did receive confirmation that the wards had been working as he directed before this and that scrawny sow had reacted to his placement of the brat in her home just as he had hoped.

Almost completely isolated from the Wizarding World, save for a few meetings that managed to slip through the cracks due to them not intentionally looking for the boy, and raised in a rather hostile environment. An almost perfect recipe for creating a blindly following subordinate, provided that he show his benevolence in 'rescuing' him from the home the brat lived in.

With the amount of power, magical, financial and political, that the brat could come into when he reached his Majority, having him under his wizened thumb when the time came was very good idea. Adding in the fact that the boy was subject to a prophecy that looked to be the only way to put his rival, Riddle, in the ground for good only reinforced his desire to have the brat under his thumb. Even if it was only until he outlived his usefulness.

Deftly applying a simple Notice-me-not charm to himself, he stepped out into the street and followed the flow of people toward his desired destination, none of the mundane fools that flowed about him consciously seeing his manner of dress or impeding his path.

As he walked through the sea of humanity that parted before him like the Red Sea had once done for Moses, he kept flicking the wand that dangled at his side, emitting pulses of magic designed to react to other sources of arcane power.

Considering the rending damage to the wards at Privet Drive, and how fast it had happened, Dumbledore had no doubts that a magical event had taken place, one that the little brat was either caught up in or, and the more likely of all the options available, was the source of.

With his idle spells, he should be able to find the location where the event happened rather quickly, such an event would have coincided with a large outburst of magical energy which would linger for quite a while and he doubted that it happened to far from the large museum that was in his sight.

Dumbledore could only hope the rent wards weren't due to the brat's death by whatever fool stunt he had pulled. A lot of his plans rested on the boy's continued existence.

He hit pay dirt soon after he crossed the street and walked into the park.

His sharp blue eyes were caught by a group of children, all of them wearing similar clothing, a uniform, being huddled together, looking nervous. Further inspection, showed that a small group of adults, each dressed in neat business casual muggle attire, were just off to the side of the gathered children by still gave the impression of being part of the group, or rather supervising them.

Dumbledore was willing to bet his lemon drops that he had found his little project's classmates. A bet that was confirmed when he noticed a familiar rotund pig-like boy with blond hair and a dumb look on his face in the group.

The adults, the teachers obviously, had their heads together and we're talking sharply and quickly, powerful and alarming gestures being thrown about like popcorn at a cinema. Their who,e body language screamed frustration and worry.

'Well now,' he thought idly as he turned his steps slightly toward the teachers, tracing a path that would let him go by them but still be close enough to hear their words. 'Perhaps they may have news of interest.'

Soon he was passing by them and fragments of their conversation drifted to his ears.

"...sure...brat isn't lost...park?"

"...Dursley...had run off."

"Damn kid...blight on the Dursleys that Potter boy is."

Albus didn't need to hear anymore. He had heard enough. This was definitely the right place to start the search.

He gripped the pale wand, his prize from a battle decades ago, tightly and sent out another of the searching spells, a variant that was significantly more powerful and with broader range than the other.

He got the results back immediately and was quick to turn his heels toward the direction the spell indicated, his face set in a frown as he did so.

The results of the spell, one that was often used by Hit Wizards and Aurors for tacking and crime scene investigation, had been, to put it mildly, rather alarming. He would have to do a more thorough inspection when he reached the site area.

He was then soon swiftly striding down the walk path that meandered through the park, his bespectacled eyes focused forward, following the mental prompts from the spell towards a small cluster of bushes.

He frowned heavily as he glanced around, his eyes squinting behind his glasses. The traces of magic were heavy in this place, making his eyes feel like he was walking into the sun itself from the sheer brightness of it that his the charms allowed him to see. He could also feel it through his skin, a subtle presence, a weight pressing around him.

Powerful magic had been worked in this place, far more powerful than even the completely ignorant and untrained boy could have hoped to accomplish at this point. Magic that, he was hesitant and alarmed to think, no wizard he knew off could perform. The sheer power and potency of the mere traces and dregs of the unknown spell that had been performed was astonishing.

Dumbledore's frown grew ever darker and his hand tightened on the wand he held.

No wizard could have done this. But a Mage...Yes, a Mage could have done this. An extraordinarily powerful one as well, judging by the sheer power here and the slightly familiar feel of translocation magic he could feel woven into it.

"Mordred's withered balls," he swore darkly. Mages! He hated Mages!

He took a moment to calm himself, his fingers squeezing the bridge of his long crooked nose tightly in his agitation. Falling into a temper would serve him ill at this moment in time.

His wand snapped out in a twirling series of slashes, flicks and twists as he performed a spell that help him to track down the final destination of the transportation spell that had been cast, the uttering of vocal words not needed for one of his calibre and power. The white wand in his hand warming as power was channeled through it.

His eyebrows rose sharply when the spell was completed and the results were routed into his mind, the mental picture of what looked to be a small cathedral, one that was barely a stone's throw away from his current position, painted there. A powerful translocation spell for such a short distance? It seemed to be almost wasteful and overkill. Still, he wasn't going to look a gift hippogriff in the mouth.

Spinning on his heel, he vanished from the wild spot with the most silent of sounds of displaced air and reappeared with an identical sound in front of the church his mind had been shown. He wasted no time, striding confidently forward towards the slightly ajar tall and thick wooden doors, sure of the fact that his Notice-me-not charm was still in effect.

With a soft tug, the doors loudly creaked open, much to his annoyance. Have the muggles who ran this place not heard of oil?

His annoyance quickly became something far darker at the sight that greeted him upon opening the massive doors and it took all he had not to, futilely, strike out with wand in his hand.

"Greetings, Headmaster Dumbledore," an irritating chit of a girl said with a small serene smile from where she sat on one of the pews, her own green eyes looking directly into his own blue ones, completely unaffected by his charm, as she delicately sipped from a silver tea service that sat on a small, but clearly expensive and tasteful, table at her side, "I believe that that there is much to discuss between the two of us."

Albus said not a word, grasping the only weapon he knew would be effective against the genteel and serene looking female Magus. He wasn't a fool, taken in by just the girl's physical appearance and polite mannerisms. He could see the cold and ruthless cunning dwelling deep within those green orbs underneath those kind features. A dagger wrapped in velvet is what the woman was.

As expected of a Magus of her power and position.

His blue eyes flicked around, noticing the damage in the church, particularly the pool of blood, looking for any other Magus that might be around. This particular woman wasn't one to go many places without at least a token escort.

Surprisingly, though there were signs that a group of people had been there just recently, there was no sign of the presence of anyone else save for the patiently waiting young lady sitting on the pew. An odd occurrence and one that had him tightening his grip on his wand briefly, suspecting foul play involved.

His tension did not go unnoticed.

"Is something wrong, Master Dumbledore?" the girl spoke once more, her head inclined sideways, and her platinum blonde hair falling gently over one of her shoulders, in a gesture of seeming vulnerability, one that his wand hand twitch to take advantage of but knew would be foolhardy to do so.

"Why are you here, Princess Alice?" He said coldly as he looked at the Speaker of the Witengamot.

Alice Louise Goddodin, Highest Witch of the Heavens, Speaker of the Witengamot and a Lady of the British Empire looked at her constant opponent in the supernatural world.

She and Albus had crossed swords more than once before in different arenas, each of them the equal in stature and position amongst their respective magical realms, and it had bred more than small dislike for one another, something that was left unspoken when their respective societies inevitably clashed.

What she was to the Mages, Albus was to the Wizards. Each of them the pinnacle of political and, arguably, magical power amongst their respective sects.

(She didn't include Divine Ancestors, Heretic Gods and, most importantly, Campione in that count. Each of those beings defied any attempts to classify or pigeon hole them. Campiones were in a league all their own, to the point of not even being considered human anymore by some parts of her society.)

This impromptu meeting would be just another in a long list of clashes between the two of them, clashes that reflected the relationship between Magi and Wizards as a whole.

"So rude," she huffed at the elderly man in his typically garish and bright robes, bright purple with blue stars this time, that made her want to lecture him on the importance of fashion and matching colours. She sighed. Maybe another time. "If you must know," she said calmly, taking a small sip of the tea before her, her tongue tasting the hint of lemon that she had added to it with slight pleasure. Sometimes the Americans did have a few good ideas. "My Association was investigating an immense flare of magical power at this location." Her green eyes looked over the rim of the small cup into the angered eyes of Albus Dumbledore, "Something that we are empowered by the Crown to do."

"And you came by yourself?" The wizard before her continued to question, his face slightly scornful and mocking, "the Sage Princess herself?"

"I could ask the same for you, Chief Warlock," Alice rebutted calmly, gently placing her cup of lemon tea down, "is it usual for such an...august individual such as yourself to come to such an out of the way place...particularly when your school is still in session?"

Alice ignored the tightening expression on the wizard's face as she continued, "There is also the question of how you came to be here." Her green eyes were hard as the jewels they mirrored, "As far as I am aware, the Association's magical sensory abilities outstrip your own. So what exactly informed you of this place?"

Albus scowled, his face becoming pinched and harsher, "That is my own affair, Lady Goddodin," he said tightly, "but suffice to say that I do know that something has happened and decided to investigate myself."

Alice raised an eyebrow at his words. "This being your 'own affair' ended when the Association entered the scene, Dumbledore," she said bluntly, "as the first group on the scene, we have jurisdiction and the scene will be processed by our methods, not yours or your backward little society's."

Her eyes grew harder as she let her power, for the first time in the discussion, surface. The air became charged with energy, like just before a lightning strike, and an unseen wind flowed around, ruffling her dress and long hair. Her eyes began to glow brightly, the power within her shining forth.

Dumbledore was not left unaffected by Alice's manifestation of power, his grip on the sparking pale white wand in his hand tightening and his own face turned hard as stone, his eyes sapphire suns burning with ire.

Alice wasn't impressed in the least. Compared to an enraged Campione or Heretic God, Albus Dumbledore was small potatoes.

"Perhaps the reason you are here, the way you have somehow learned of this event," she spoke chillingly, her voice reflecting the disdain she held for the man before her, "is because of who was involved?"

Alice watched with satisfaction as the small aura of power that Dumbledore had begun to admit die almost instantly, his face paling slightly. It seemed that her theory had borne fruit, the poor child had indeed been monitored in some way by the elderly man.

"Where is he?" The old man demanded of her, dropping the pretence of the verbal dancing around. "Were you the one to sever his connection to the wards that protected him?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," she said calmly, letting her own aura die down. She now had clear superiority in the discussion and the old wizard knew it, making displays of power unnecessary. "The only thing that we do know is that the young boy was either grievously injured or, perhaps, slain in this building by a powerful magical force," she kept quiet on the fact that it was a Heretic God that had seemed to have done this, "but his current physical whereabouts is unknown, said force seeming to have sent him elsewhere," she grimaced slightly as she remembered the sight that had greeted her when she had responded to the call, the blood and dismembered arm a harsh sight, but unfortunately not the worst she had ever seen. "Though not without causing a great deal of injury to the young man." She glanced over toward the pool of crimson liquid and the arm that was not far way.

Dumbledore frowned heavily, his own blue eyes glancing toward the site of the subtle carnage that had taken place, "Grievous injury?" She heard him murmur to himself, "perhaps the instinct to survive being prioritised?" He seemed to relax slightly then before looking at her sharply, "And what of the culprit of this heinous crime?" He questioned.

"Still at large," she answered, "but it seems that the boy was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. A crime of opportunity rather than premeditated assault." She made her eyes glint, "but we will nonetheless pursue the vile being who did this." Or rather she would set Alec on the God's trail.

"I see," Alice thought there was something off in the wizard's words, his expression closing off and becoming blank, while in his eyes she could see his thoughts running round and round, making her cautious. Something that she had said had triggered something, made him see a few more pieces of a puzzle he was assembling. Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly.

She would have to task the Association with looking closer into the scene and the surroundings as well as, maybe, even delving deeper into the past actions of her counterpart. There was something she was missing, a vital connection, and she didn't like that.

She watched suspiciously as the old man sighed heavily with a grimace of annoyance in his face, "It seems my presence here is now superfluous," the elderly wizard said, looking at her with a subtle shine in his eye that had her inwardly wary. There was no kindness in that glint. "I guess I will just have to leave this scene in your capable hands while I organise a search for the boy."

Alice was now definitely suspicious. Albus had never been one to capitulate so easily, if at all. He was a controlling man and hated anything that he had no influence over. Anything he had managed to get his sticky fingers on was never let out of his grasp.

So why was he allowing her to continue with the investigation of the scene here with only the barest token of protests? Could this mysterious child, living or dead, be that much more important than she had realised?

None of this showed on her face however as she accepted the man's decision.

"I would ask that you contact me if you find this young man," she said calmly to the elderly wizard, "his involvement with this case and information on what he had witnessed would be invaluable."

"I will certainly do my best," Dumbledore responded as he turned on his heel to leave, before pausing, "And I trust you will remember the contents of the Accords during the course of your investigation?"

Alice narrowed her eyes slightly at the almost demanding tone in his voice and the soft promise of violence should that demand not be satisfactorily carried out, along with the implied and unspoken idea that she would not adhere to a bargain struck and treaty made. How very rude!

"They will be followed to the letter." She responded, her voice crisp, clear and cold, verbal ice taken the form of words in her cold anger.

"Good," the old man said with a sharp nod, "then I will now bid you good day, Lady Goddodin."

These last words were accompanied by the soft crack of displaced air as the elderly magic user used his sect's form of teleportation, vanishing to who knew where.

Alice frowned at the empty air, ignoring the slight sounds of her own subordinates entering the church once more, now that the wizard had left, in order to finish the investigation and the clean up. She wasn't sure what exactly had happened in that conversation with the infamous, among Mages at least, Headmaster of Hogwarts but it certainly hadn't went how she had expected it to.

It was rather troubling.

"Princess Alice?"

The voice interrupted her musings and drew her attention back to the real world and all of it's inhabitants.

"My apologies," she said to the subordinate who had interrupted her, the one that had called her in when the identity of the owner of the dismembered arm had come to light, "I was lost in thought. Is there something that you needed?"

"No milady," the man said, "I just wanted to give my thanks for your timely intervention with the Wizards." The man shifted slightly, glancing at the spot that the wizard had departed, "I am unsure if my colleagues could have prevented him from doing whatever he wished if he had shown up before you did."

"True," she murmured slightly, "Albus Dumbledore is the only British wizard, perhaps wizard period, that can challenge one of our own in open battle."

"As you say," the man agreed with a small nod.

Alice smiled at the caring man, "your thanks, while not necessary, are appreciated," she smiled mischievously, "I always enjoy tweaking that man's crooked nose." She swiftly became serious again, "finish processing the scene and then perform the standard clean up," she ordered the man before frowning slightly, "and please have the limb returned to headquarters for further investigation."

The man blinked, "Forgive me, milady," he said respectfully, "but are you sure that is necessary? This is a Heretic event that we are talking about. The poor soul is no doubt dead, wherever he may be. Would it not be better to cremate the remains or deliver it to the next of kin?"

"Normally, I would agree with you," she said with a somber nod, glancing at the pool of blood and red splattered stone about the aforementioned severed limb, "however, the actions of the old man have me more than a little suspicious. Delving deeper would the best in my opinion."

"As you wish," the man said reluctantly, his face slightly disapproving as he moved off, something the Sage Princess didn't begrudge him for, she wasn't exactly fond of what she was doing either, but ofttimes morality falls to the wayside in the face of practicality.

The Sage Princess looked around for the final time at the interior of the church dedicated to Saint George. The power that had once been there was almost completely gone, her orders had been given and she had ensured that the Wizards wouldn't be poking their noses into places that it doesn't belong, for now at least.

Her work here, for now, was done.

Wordlessly, she let her form lose cohesion, becoming mist and evaporating, shimmering from existence, just as the table and tea service also did, revealing that she had never been physically there in the first place, only an ectoplasmic body had been there.

Then she was gone.

Dumbledore appeared in front of the gates of Hogwarts, just beyond the boundary of the wards, with a almost non-existent crack of displaced air.

Almost before the sound had died, he was moving swiftly down the path that lead to the castle, his wand still in his grip and his other hand fingering a small conjured vial filled with a red liquid that he had managed to obtain underneath the nose of the Sage Princess.

His previous instruments that had been used to monitor the Potter boy had been destroyed by whatever had truly happened in that church. He knew that the story, even one as vague as the Hime Miko had said, wasn't the full picture of what happened there. The Princess had been holding something back.

But then, so was he.

He fingered the vial of blood he had collected up off the floor of the church again. With the blood as a catalyst, it would be relatively easy to find the Potter boy, but it would take a little time to craft the correct Ritual Circle and obtain, as well as brew, the correct potion for the scrying spell to work.

It was perhaps one of the annoying limitations of Wizarding magic. The vast majority of it that came from a wand was focused on the here and now, in a limited area, unless it is anchored in someway like Wards or Prolonged Curses (those that can an affect a limited area, like a house, a castle, a country or even a family line, for up to centuries. The types of curses muggles would find in old legends of vengeance and blood.). Basically an instant effect on an object within sight.

Affecting things that were far away, out of sight, was, on the other hand, much more difficult and more power consuming, if not outright impossible with the use of wands, thus resulting in the necessity of Rituals.

Still, everything should be back to normal for him by the time of the brat's next birthday. Even if the Mages managed to find the boy first, if they even bothered to try and locate what they thought would be a dead body, the Accords made between the two sects centuries ago would ensure that the boy was delivered into his hands. The boy was a wizard after all, and thus fell under his jurisdiction, despite whatever the hell he was now involved in.

It was only a matter of time. It was the boy's fate after all.

Harry felt like he was floating.

The pain that he had felt when the insane knight had smashed him in the face after he had managed to pierce the warrior's breast and heart with one of the insane knight's own arrows in his arm had been excruciating. As had been the feeling of tearing flesh as part of his arm was torn from his body. These were only equalled by the feeling of his back striking something hard as stone, making it feel like his spine had turned into a column of knives, splintering and tearing his flesh.

But that mind tearing and heart rending pain had vanished now.

He couldn't see anything in the darkness that engulfed him, and his who,e body seemed numb and unresponsive. At any other time, in any other place, this might have caused him to panic, thinking that Vernon had finally gone off the deep end and done damage to him that he wouldn't mysteriously be able to heal from.

Instead, his mind was calm, even tranquil. Utterly uncaring of what was happening as he seemed to relax and sink into this dark oblivion. It was greatest peace he could ever remember having.

He didn't know how long he drifted there, how long he floated in the darkness, and didn't truly care. It could have been hours. Possibly days. Even weeks or months. Time just didn't seem important in the darkness.

But then, somehow, he sensed something strange, something that hadn't been in the darkness when he had first arrived.

He still couldn't see, but he could feel something faintly, even through the numbness. A presence of someone or something was approaching him, unhurriedly and without any malice. Indeed the presence seemed to radiate the very opposite of malice. It was warm, comforting, something that filled his soul and uplifted his spirit just by being there.

Had Harry had a normal childhood, he could have easily named that powerful emotion. As it was, the Dursley's had left their marks on his spirit as well as his body.

"My dear child," the presence said as it came close enough to him, allowing him to bask in the aura that was emitted like a cat in the sun. The presence's voice was as warm as the aura that was given off, and very much feminine. Harry could have listened to that voice all day.

"My dear child," the woman, it simply had to be, spoke again, "such a life that you have lived so far." There was sorrow in her voice now, but the warmth she emitted didn't change at all, still succouring him.

"But that life will change now." The voice went on. Harry tried to lean into the hand that then touched his forehead, the paradoxically cool warmth of flesh meeting flesh filling him as her fingers traced the marking that had been his bane since he had first entered the Dursley household. "But first, all those ties from your previous life must be cut," her fingers then pressed gently into the very centre of the scar.

The comforting darkness was then filled with screams.

Harry couldn't even flinch as his ears were abruptly assaulted by the wailing cries of primal agony as he felt something, twisted and dark and raging, like burning tar, slowly being pulled from his scar, poison being drawn from a wound, and yet he felt no pain.

"This child is now mine," the woman's voice, instead of sympathetic and comforting, was now hard and sharp, cold steel vocalised as she addressed whatever thing she had pulled from his scar, "and I will not allow a parasite like you to taint my beloved child any longer. No matter what those old biddies or that old codger want.

"Begone."

The final word was more than a mere vocalisation, a vibration of the air. It held power, it held Authority. It was a Command.

Harry felt a brief flash of power, feeling of engulfing darkness, imprisoning stone and scorching fire, the wails increasing in volume for a moment, before being abruptly cut off. The wailing thing had been vanished, banished, vanquished, by the warm woman.

For some reason, Harry felt a burden was lifted from his shoulders, invisible chains he had never known were there, for so long as to be natural for him, hampering his movements and actions, shattering, leaving his heart, mind, body and soul free for the first time.

Even with the numb floating sensation he had, he gloried in the feeling of true freedom.

"Hmph," he heard the unseen woman say with a sniff of disdainful triumph, "Utter trash. It should have been done away with long ago," Harry felt the woman's attention turn back to him, like the sun coming back out from behind a cloud, "Now that that fool is gone for good, it is time for the true purpose of my visitation to begin."

He felt gentle hands touch his cheeks, one whole and the other slashed and broken by a foe's strike, with all the gentleness in the world. Her soft voice entered his ear, whispering.

"You have never known love," the voice whispered sorrowfully, "have never known security or safety. Your heart and mind are wrapped in iron and steel, a fortress against the horrors and depravities that infest this world, making you apathetic to a world that has done you naught but ill. And yet, deep inside the core of that dark mountain of metal, there is a spark of light, a flicker of kindness and willingness to help others. The will to endure where others would fall, a fragment of foolish hope for an unattainable dream." The voice giggled softly, "you truly are my child."

Harry felt nothing but the blessed numbness of the darkness that surrounded him, otherwise he would have felt confusion at the woman's words.

The voice giggled again, "I can see now what the old crafter saw in you when he gave his blessing onto you. I can see your future, my son. And it will a bright one."

Those comforting hands withdrew from him, making him want to protest at them leaving. It had felt safe within the grasp of the strange woman, and it was something he didn't want to lose.

Then he heard her begin to speak, the voice once more commanding and powerful, the voice of Queen in her domain.

"By the black art that I and Epimetheus left behind this is the sacred birth of an illegitimate child, shrouded in darkness, born of a fool and a witch. A secret of usurpation only made possible through the sacrifice of a god."

The words shook the air with power behind them, the finality in them indisputable. As she spoke the words, he felt something shifting within him, entering his body from everywhere, through his very pores. He felt something change as it did. Subtle changes in his body that his numb but aware mind to feel.

He felt his bones, brittle and fragile, harden, becoming stronger, even as they and the flesh around them grew, his weak muscles, from years of starving, becoming healthier and stronger.

He was changing. Becoming something else. Becoming more than human.

Or perhaps less.

"I, the all-giving woman Pandora," the woman's voice of command resounded once more, making the changes in his body accelerate. More energy now dwelt in his core and, for the first time in a while, his sight began to clear, the darkness becoming lighter, letting him make out the outline of the woman who was speaking, "declare that you shall be reborn as a Campione. The god-slayer, the king of kings, the Campione."

He felt those final words resonate in his soul, shaking him to the core. He could feel his very soul shift and change at the power, the power that was in him crafting him anew, like his flesh was clay and the power was the potter on his wheel.

The woman had finished using her commanding voice and now stood directly over him, her face looking down into his. His eyesight had also returned to him, much sharper than before, allowing him to see the features of the mysterious woman.

Long lustrous purple hair that was tied into two tails, eyes of emerald green less bright than his own. She had pale flawless skin, like delicate porcelain, and a small rounded nose. To Harry, she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, a being unsurpassed beauty that transcended mortal and human understanding.

But most of all, there was the aura she gave off, warm and comforting, a feeling of complete safety in her presence, as if, with her there, no one and nothing would be able to do him harm. For someone who had had to pretty much rely on only themselves and their wits to get through a day, finding something that meant him no harm and would only aid and help him to their fullest was unique and to be treasured.

Their was a name he could put to the feeling, to the person that this warm aura clung to, and he struggled to voice it, fighting the fugue state that the darkness was enforcing upon him, his voice hoarse and crackling due to the constant changes that were still taking effect inside him, but he still managed to make himself heard and his words intelligible, as the darkness began encroaching once more, threatening to take his consciousness with it.

"Mother." He whispered hoarsely and haltingly but, in the silence of the darkness, they rang like the bells of Notre Dame.

Those green eyes, darker than his own, widened from the gentle and tender look they previously had in shock and surprise. It was the last sight he had before the darkness fell over him, taking him into dreamless slumber.

The Mother of Campione looked down at the insensate form of her newest child.

"Mother."

A single word that held so much meaning and yet was so simple. One that had never been directed at her before, from any of her adopted children over the millennia.

Until now.

Something built up in her throat, a wet heat that threatened to choke her, as she stared transfixed at the floating form of her changing and transforming child with her suddenly misty eyes.

A boy who nothing of the truth of family or friendship or love had, with his earnest eyes and befuddled mind had given her a most precious gift. A title that she had never been able to bear, nor be acknowledged as, not since she had unleashed disaster upon the world oh so long ago.

Even if he would never remember this event, what he had said, unless the most trying of circumstances were to be brought about, she couldn't but smile with joy at her, now, favoured child.

"Oh my beloved child," she whispered to him, stroking his forehead with a gentle hand, ruffling his hair as she did so, "my sweet, sweet child, you will never know how much joy you have given me by granting me that title." She gently placed a peck on her beloved child's forehead in a gesture of comfort and love as she gently moved back, tears, no longer only of joy, but also of slight sorrow, filling her eyes as her son's new body began to fade away, continuing his interrupted journey through the Netherworld that Saint George had sent him on, to keep him away from those would capitalise on the his young age, inexperience and power.

It was something she completely agreed with. Never before had one of her adopted children been so young, so damaged. She was in uncharted waters in regards to her adopted children. Perhaps it might have been wiser if the child had simply passed on.

But she had never been the wisest of souls, and the young man had fulfilled the the requirements for the ritual.

"I would offer you a life of peace, my dear child," she said to her fading son, "but my children are never meant for such a life. Instead," she smiled as her son's physical form was almost completely gone, "I wish you a life of freedom, adventure and love, all of which you have lacked before this time. Become strong my son.

"For you will need it as the world welcomes it's end."

With a final rush of the air from the Netherworld, the final particles of her son vanished from her sight, returning to the mortal plane he was born on.

On a long beach of white sand, a small golden glow illuminated the night, casting it's light across the harbour where a long arching bridge of cold steel could be seen, outlined with various pinpricks of light like a swarm of fireflies. Beyond that, the lights of a great city could be seen, full,of skyscrapers and vast hotels, while small lights of various colours swarmed like small bugs at the foot of them, cars that were speeding or crawling through the busy traffic.

Another sight, just to the side, was of a very unique white building, looking like white ocean waves or curved seashells cresting over one another. The light of the moon, stars and a handful of small, but powerful, projection lights illuminated the long steps and the amphitheatre around it even as the slight sounds of singing could be heard carried on the wind.

The golden glow gathered intensity on the beach, quickly brighter and brighter before, with a final soundless flash, it vanished. Leaving behind a small boy in torn rags of what'd looked be a school uniform of some sort to hover above the bleach white under the moonlight briefly before the boy's unconscious form obeyed the rue of gravity, letting him fall onto the soft sand.

As the boy did, a pressure formed in the atmosphere around him, invisible and untouchable, crackling soundlessly with power, which was just as abruptly released, becoming a metaphysical shock wave that rolled through the planes, mortal and immortal, announcing the rise of a new being to any who were sensitive enough to the metaphysical existence on this world to interpret the wave.

The rise of a warrior. The coronation of a king.

The hungry howl of a demon. The thunderous command of a God.

The birth of a Campione.

In two places, far away from where the newest Devil King now rested, two pairs of eyes snapped open briefly, one of the owners of those orbs disturbed from their slumber by the awakening of yet another being who was created to hunt down those of their kind.

It had two eyes of pearl, gleaming with all the colours of the rainbow even in the pitch darkness of the cavern it now rested in, the orb vertically slit like those of a predator of cold blood. It shifted restlessly, not quite awake nor completely asleep, an irritable half slumber that could turn to complete awareness with time. With it's restless movements, the red earth bunched around shifted and shook. It had sensed something in it's slumber. Something that it did not like.

Those pearly eyes closed again, sinking back into slumber. But a lighter one this time. One that could so easily be interrupted again.

The other being also dwelled in darkness, but it was not the darkness of the earth that hid his green eyes from sight, but the crushing darkness of the watery abyss. He instinctively gripped his powerful weapon, one that could rend the earth and skies alike asunder if he had a mind to. He had felt the wave, and the call to battle heated his blood unconsciously. But he could also sense the newness of the origin of the wave, the subtle tang of a newborn.

Strong though this new force may be, it was new and untried, unworthy of his attention, of his descent from his throne in the Domain. He would watch this new force though, and if it managed to acquire enough strength to impress him...

Only then would he grace the battle field with his presence.

Author Notes

Alright, first of all, thank you all for being so patient with me for getting the second chapter of this story out. It was an absolute pain in the backside and I am honestly not quite satisfied with it. I have, unfortunately, lost some of the notes and such that I had to help with this story so it was difficult for me to write along the lines I had planned, which explains the discrepancies between the first and second chapters.

However, I have managed to get it done. Hoorah!

Just in case you guys are confused about the plot, here is a quick explanation.

Currently, the Witengamot (Magus Association) knows only that a wizard was involved in a Heretic event. They do not know that the Heretic God is dead, nor do they know the identity of the wizard involved, save that it was a young man that Dumbledore had an a personal interest in. Alice definitely wants to find out more.

Albus, on the other hand, know that Harry has run into a significant magical event, but doesn't know it a Heretic event. He is curious but is more focused on locating Harry for various reasons.

Harry has now become a newborn Campione and is lying on a beach somewhere in the world (cyber cookie to the first one who guesses what city he is near. A small hint: Less than an hour has passed in the real world between when Saint George transported him and his form turning up on the beach.). Expect a bit of stumbling and WTFing from our intrepid hero when he awakens in place he didn't expect.

And, as per normal for Harry and a Campione, his actions have drawn some attention from some powerful sources. Which he will eventually face in battle. It is just a matter of when.

Now for the information you guys have all been waiting for; Harry's Authorities...will be in the next update.

As people have complained about having to scan through chapters to find information on Authorities in other stories, I have decided to make a reference chapter. One that will contain all the information of Harry's Authorities. This chapter will also update and change anytime he manages to acquire a new one. I am also having a thought about if I should create one for the Heretics he has slain and the magic or items he has managed to acquire in times to come, but that is for further thought.

As always, please review.

Kujikiri21