Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. The first several paragraphs of Chapter One are quoted from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling.

No greater tool exists on earth than the human mind. Humans unconsciously carry out many routine tasks. Breathing, moving, and even eating, to some degree, comes from a series of commands wired into our brains. Experience can do the same. Traumatic or repetitive events can forge new paths in the brain's ability to comprehend and dissect information. Muscle memory can make completing routine tasks quicker and easier.

Humans, because of their great capacity to learn, often overlearn. They become resistant to new ideas. They draw comfort from the familiarity of knowledge. That knowledge gives them power. They become complacent in their power and do little grow it. There are exceptions. These exceptions explore themselves and the universe at large. They understand that the rules of reality represent limitations meant to be broken.

Wizards never learned to adapt in such a manner. For centuries, the magical world has churned along in a stagnant ocean, circling again and again the only world they know. They refuse to innovate, refuse to understand the simplest truth of all. Humanity is only a small fraction of the universe. Only through reason and discovery can they become more.

Centuries before the advent of postmodern wizarding society, before the world knew of names like Dumbledore and Flamel, the understanding of magic grew exponentially. Three titans of magic fought one another for decades, desperately trying to learn secrets that would give them advantages. One of the three saw the complacency that would eventually lead to stagnation. He looked to the future. In a desperate attempt to save humankind from its inevitable downfall, he broke his life energy and magic. As he died, he imbued it into four vessels – four apprentices he had trained to the be the strongest of their people.

Chapter One

"Everything changed on the day the Dark Lord finally died. We thought we understood magic. We thought we knew our place in the world. We would soon find how gravely mistaken we were."

-Minerva McGonagall

"You have been taught how to duel. Harry Potter?" said Voldemort softly, his red eyes glinting through the darkness.

At these words Harry remembered, as though from a former life, the dueling club at Hogwarts he had attended briefly two years ago... All he had learned there was the Disarming Spell, "Expelliarmus"… and what use would it be to deprive Voldemort of his wand, even if he could, when he was surrounded by Death Eaters, outnumbered by at least thirty to one? He had never learned anything that could possibly fit him for this. He knew he was facing the thing against which Moody had always warned... the unblockable Avada Kedavra curse - and Voldemort was right - his mother was not here to die for him this time... He was quite unprotected...

"We bow to each other. Harry," said Voldemort, bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face upturned to Harry. "Come, the niceties must be observed... Dumbledore would like you to show manners... Bow to death, Harry..."

The Death Eaters were laughing again. Voldemort's lipless mouth was smiling. Harry did not bow. He was not going to let Voldemort play with him before killing him... he was not going to give him that satisfaction...

"I said, bow," Voldemort said, raising his wand – and Harry felt his spine curve as though a huge, invisible hand were bending him ruthlessly forward, and the Death Eaters laughed harder than ever.

"Very good," said Voldemort softly, and as he raised his wand the pressure bearing down upon Harry lifted too. "And now you face me, like a man... straight-backed and proud, the way your father died...

"And now - we duel."

Voldemort raised his wand, and before Harry could do anything to defend himself, before he could even move, he had been hit again by the Cruciatus Curse. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he no longer knew where he was... White-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin, his head was surely going to burst with pain, he was screaming more loudly than he'd ever screamed in his life – and then it stopped. Harry rolled over and scrambled to his feet; he was shaking as uncontrollably as Wormtail had done when his hand had been cut off; he staggered sideways into the wall of watching Death Eaters, and they pushed him away, back toward Voldemort.

"A little break," said Voldemort, the slit-like nostrils dilating with excitement, "a little pause... That hurt, didn't it. Harry? You don't want me to do that again, do you?"

Harry didn't answer. He was going to die like Cedric, those pitiless red eyes were telling him so... he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it... but he wasn't going to play along. He wasn't going to obey Voldemort... he wasn't going to beg...

"I asked you whether you want me to do that again," said Voldemort softly. "Answer me! Imperio!"

And Harry felt, for the third time in his life, the sensation that his mind had been wiped of all thought... Ah, it was bliss, not to think, it was as though he were floating, dreaming... just answer no... say no... just answer no...

I will not, said a stronger voice, in the back of his head, I won't answer...

Just answer no...

I won't do it, I won't say it...

Just answer no...

"I WON'T!"

And these words burst from Harry's mouth; they echoed through the graveyard, and the dream state was lifted as suddenly as though cold water had been thrown over him - back rushed the aches that the Cruciatus Curse had left all over his body - back rushed the realization of where he was, and what he was facing...

"You won't?" said Voldemort quietly, and the Death Eaters were not laughing now. "You won't say no? Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die... Perhaps another little dose of pain?"

Voldemort raised his wand, but this time Harry was ready; with the reflexes born of his Quidditch training, he flung himself sideways onto the ground; he rolled behind the marble headstone of Voldemort s father, and he heard it crack as the curse missed him.

"We are not playing hide-and-seek, Harry," said Voldemort's soft, cold voice, drawing nearer, as the Death Eaters laughed. "You cannot hide from me. Does this mean you are tired of our duel? Does this mean that you would prefer me to finish it now, Harry?

"Come out, Harry... come out and play, then... it will be quick... it might even be painless... I would not know... I have never died…"

Harry crouched behind the headstone and knew the end had come. There was no hope ... no help to be had. And as he heard Voldemort draw nearer still, he knew one thing only, and it was beyond fear or reason: He was not going to die crouching here like a child playing hide-and-seek; he was not going to die kneeling at Voldemort s feet... he was going to die upright like his father, and he was going to die trying to defend himself, even if no defense was possible... He reached deep within himself, seeking the center of the resolve that boiled within him now.

And he found something.

Time slowed, but instead of seeing his life flash before his eyes in an adrenaline driven haze, Harry felt his mind beginning to unfold, beginning to change, beginning to embrace a new concept. He reasoned. The obstacle to his future neared. Voldemort possessed the ability to end him now, to stop him from existing. Yet, he could do nothing. A fourth-year wizarding teenager did not possess the power…

Wait.

That was it.

Hadn't he regrown his hair and apparated onto the roof a school when he was only a boy? He needed no wand for those feats of magic; yet, they had been beyond his current curriculum at high school. Both instances defied reason. And with that thought, like so many humans had done since Australopithecus afarensis had learned to walk upright, Harry adapted.

He possessed power. Magic, with all its rules and requirements, still defied the logic he had been taught growing up in the muggle world. It worked against the very laws of physics, all but dismantling concepts such as gravity and thermodynamics. But it worked. It worked when the laws of the world said it should not. Surely, magic did not just respond when he made certain gestures and words. He knew wandless magic existed. So did nonverbal magic.

Then Harry realized something so fundamental to his being that he had never considered it until now. His magic came from him. He had the ability to control it and wield it as he saw fit. When he used spells, his magic responded to his desires, not to the words. The words only helped him focus his will. He could survive this if he only willed it.

Harry grabbed hold of that thought, refusing to let go of his only hope. He used that hope to reach further within himself than he had dared to look. There, at the center of all his thoughts, at the basic of the logic that allowed him to reason, rested a core of power. It was his existence. His life. His weapon.

Before Voldemort could stick his snakelike face around the headstone, Harry stood up, gripped his wand tightly in his hand, thrust it out in front of him, and threw himself over the headstone. With a loud cry, he forced his magic down his arm and into his wand. His movements quickened, but around him, nothing moved. He had minutes, hours. The world crawled by him, oblivious to the storm of power that he called forth.

Energy flooded his wand. The brittle tool resisted the overwhelming influx of magical energy. Fissures spread along the thin length of holly. Red light glowed from within the cracks, threatening to destroy his wand. The Boy-who-lived, though, did not relent. In all his miraculous survivals of certain death, one characteristic remained constant in ever situation. He never gave up. Like so many times before, he pushed.

The world sped back up. His wand shattered into thousands of tiny, flaming pieces. A beam of unaltered magic exploded from the wreckage of his focus. Voldemort could not react in time. The magic struck the reborn dark lord fully in the chest. Voldemort could not even muster a scream before Harry's magic vaporized every trace of his existence, burning far beyond the physical and into the soul that gave meaning to his life. The Dark Lord Voldemort ceased to exist. The last heir of Salazar Slytherin had been conquered.

His magic spread in a shockwave from where Voldemort once stood, the intensity barely diminished by its contact with the dark lord. Some of the deatheaters watching managed to escape, but many shared the fate of their master. Harry's power continued unabetted, a force of nature. It tore at the ground, sending dirt, gravestones, and vegetation flying through the air. It collided with trees and snapped the thick trunks. Even the air above the devastation sizzled, primed with a power more potent than any other on earth.

Instinctually, Harry knew what he wielded. Every living being in the vicinity knew. Creation. The very power that formed the cosmos. The link that bound all matter together. The energy of life, death, and time. He wielded the fire of the gods, the power Prometheus once gifted to man.

Harry fell to his hands and knees. His limbs barely supported him as they trembled. A profound sense of exhaustion swept over him. His right arm, his wand arm, ached worse than when the bludger broke most the bones in his arm two years earlier. His hand felt wet. He turned his head to look at the splinters of wood embed in his flesh, each resulting in trickles of blood that moistened his skin. Moving his head made him dizzy. A wave of nausea washed over him. He retched and choked as his body expelled yellow and black bile from his stomach. His arms gave out, and he tumbled over on his side.

Fatigue threatened to take him into unconsciousness. He fought it. He concentrated on the sensations his mind struggled to process. The feeling of cold sweat on his face. The chilly night breeze. The burning in his hand. The ache in his arm. He couldn't fall asleep. He had to get home. No one would find him in the graveyard. He had to tell them of Cedric… of the deatheaters… of Voldemort.

The cup, he thought. The cup could get him home. He tried to look around, but his head refused to respond like it should. He focused on his mangled hand. He made what was left of his fingers extend. Agony blinded him, but he did not have the energy to cry out. With the last of his strength, he whispered, "Accio cup." His magic surged once more, far slower than it had earlier, but the results were the same. He saw the gold glint of the Triwizard Cup sailing through the air. When the metal touched his hand, he gave in to the fatigue just as the portkey whisked him away from the destroyed graveyard.

The Ministry of Magic ruled wizarding Britain with laws tinged by manipulation and corruption. Ministry employees enacted the laws passed by the Wizengamot. The inherent prejudice of many of the laws bothered many of the ministry employees, but they did not speak out. They did not refuse or take a stand. They simply followed the orders of their department or office heads. The heads followed the will of the Wizengamot. The would-be dissenters tried to justify their complicity by arguing they were just following orders. For some, it eased their consciences, but most still felt as though they betrayed some intangible moral rule. Still, they were only cogs in a machine. None could accuse them of direct evil.

A very small few realized that their complicity in the abuse of non-human magicals and muggleborns damned them to the fiery suffering of whatever afterlife the Fates chose to inflict upon them. These small few worked to undermine the more extreme measures enacted by the Wizengamot. From within the ministry, they strove to give muggleborns, at the very least, a chance at a productive life in the wizarding world. They worked tirelessly to preserve the many treaties that kept the various magical factions around the world at peace with Great Britain. They kept arrogant wizards and witches from antagonizing beings far more ancient that humanity.

These few were the Unspeakables, a mysterious sect of wizards and witches that even the Wizengamot had no authority over. They were charged with preserving wizarding Britain. Since King John of England signed the Magia Liberum in 1215, forever separating the ties the British wizarding world had with the muggle world, the Unspeakables had worked behind the scenes to protect wizardkind. They deposed dark lords, assassinated power-hungry politicians, and controlled the birth of powerful mages. They maintained the balance. However, no living Unspeakable had ever had the opportunity to carry out their corps' most important mission: to herald the Return.

At the center of the Department of Mysteries, deep below the lowest official floor of the Ministry's underground, there existed a stone room. Only a single, narrow staircase led to the room. Runes covered the floor, ceiling, and walls of the room. No door allowed access. Only a wizard or witch with the proper knowledge could create an opening in the heavily warded room. Any who tried and failed would die. An Unspeakable guarded the staircase at all times. No one passed the Unspeakable.

The room contained a long box. Like the room, the box was made of stone and had no visible openings. Runes also adorned the six sides of the box. Both the runes on the walls and the runes on the box glowed a faint blue. The runes created a powerful ward matrix designed to contain the contents of the stone box.

When Harry Potter unleashed his magic in Little Hangleton, 50 miles south of London, he caused the first change the room had underwent in more than a thousand years. Because of many generations of marriages and births, Harry had inherited the residual power of three families. When Voldemort's existence ceased at his hand, he conquered the last of a fourth family, allowing him the prize of that line's power and causing a convergence of magic. Because of this convergence, the box changed. The blue glow faded, and a bright red light sizzled in the etched rune lines. The stone box vibrated against the floor with enough intensity to send cracks across its surfaces. The cracks widened and stretched. Pieces of the box began to fall from it, one by one, until the entire container had fallen apart.

Tendrils of green magic burst from within the box, shattering the last bits of stone that kept it caged. The magic met the ward matrix. Bolts of green lightning attacked the ward matrix, creating a nexus of primordial energy. At first, it seemed as though the wards would win. The matrix refused to budge against the onslaught. But slowly, the red glow within the runes began to change. Green spread from the remains of the box into the red rune lines. The ward matrix flickered and dimmed while the green magic continued its onslaught. The green magic pulsed once and flooded the room. The wards failed, and the stone walls cracked. Lightning flashed in every direction, and bang of thunder sounded so loudly that it shook the earth that hid the secret room.

Unspeakables ran down the narrow staircase, their training and experience ensuring that they did not fall. Seven Unspeakables, four wizards and three witches, focused their magic and thrust out their wands. They uttered no words, but the magic in the room responded anyway. As one, they redirected the flows of power raging within the room and sent the wild magic coursing through the walls and into the earth around it. They continued to channel the energy, dispensing it into the unyielding earth.

The nexus faded. A sudden calm fell over the stone room. The runes did not reactivate. All but one of the Unspeakables lowered their wands. The remaining Unspeakable muttered something under his breath. What remained of the stone wall in front of them opened. Harry Potter lay unconscious in the middle of the room amidst the remains of the box. In his mangled right hand, he held a golden cup. In his left hand, he held a long, white staff. A green stone adorning the top of the staff steadily pulsed, emitting a soft glow.

None of the Unspeakables spoke for a long moment. They had been trained for this moment. Everything rested on how the next few hours went. As a group, they stepped into the stone room and formed a circle around Harry. One of the Unspeakables – a blonde-haired, blue-eyed witch – knelt and checked his pulse.

"It's Harry bloody Potter," she said, her voice a shaky whisper.

One of the other Unspeakables – a tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed wizard – gave her a hard look. "It doesn't matter," he said in a deep, commanding voice. "You know what must happen. You confirmed his existence."

The witch nodded, closed her eyes, and took a deep, calming breath. She never dreamed that she would be in this position. Sure, they all rotated the different team positions. It was only the luck of the draw that she had been assigned to point that night. This had never happened. For over a thousand years, the Chamber of the Blood had remained sealed.

She opened her eyes. There was no sense in delaying. Each second lost was another second that did not go to preparing for the morning. "Start the recording," she said to the tall wizard. He waved his wand, and she sensed a subtle change in the air. She shrugged her robes from her body and undressed until she stood only in a high-cut, purple thong. "At 2335 on the 24th day of June, 1995, I, Lea Elisabeth Bechum, sworn protector of the Blood, affirm the existence of a living True Wizard in possession of the Staff Eternal. The ritual of the Blood has begun." She pulled a dagger from within her robes. "I fulfill my oath to the Blood and offer my life to fuel its return." Without hesitation, she plunged the dagger into her right breast. She fell to her knees. Blood gushed from the wound in her chest and fell into the runes that were etched into the stone. "Ave Imperator," she whispered. With the last of her strength, she pulled the dagger from her chest and fell forward as blood pooled around her.

As she fell, all but one of the other Unspeakables – a slender, green-eyed, brown-haired witch named Katie – pulled daggers from their robes and mimicked her actions. Katie backed up away from the circle and watched as the blood pooled around her. She was careful not to let any of it touch her. She raised her wand and began to cast. She chanted words of a long dead language. The words meant very little, but the cadence of her voice danced in enchanting sentences and phrases. Magic stirred around her. The blood of the Unspeakables flowed and mixed. Slowly, it crept towards the Boy-Who-Lived.

The blood touched Harry's fingers. It oozed and spread, crawling over his hand and up his arm. It washed over him, seeping under his clothes and into his ears and nose. Katie chanted faster. Static electricity sizzled in the room, a side effect of the magical buildup. Soon, the blood completely covered Harry. Katie pointed her wand at the Boy-Who-Lived and screamed, "By flame, be reborn! Vitae Ignis!"

Living fire emerged from the tip of her wand. Fiery serpents and dragons roared and stretched towards the ceiling. She concentrated and pulled the living fire under her control. It reared against her, but her will was absolute. She served the Blood. No magic was beyond her. The fiendfyre broken against her will. Flames fell in upon themselves, shrinking in size and racing towards Harry Potter. The fire touched the blood and consumed the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Ave Imperator," Katie whispered.

A/N: Please review. I have not written a Harry Potter fan fiction in a very long time. I would like to know your thoughts. Even a simple "good" or "bad" would be most appreciated.