Elemental Genesis

by Raven Dragonclaw

Harry Potter finds himself in the middle of a peaceful park after somehow escaping his uncle's abusive household. However, he does not remember his identity or his past. Now Harry must begin a new life under a new name as an elemental mage. AU 5th Summer

34. The Shards of the Immortals

VERY IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE BELOW!

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Disclaimer:  Nothing belongs to me except plotlines, clans and their members, and Grey Tower along with any characters that you don't recognize.

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Chapter Thirty-Four:  The Shards of the Immortals

            Several silver ornaments that decorated the room shattered on their own accord.  This, of course, alarmed him enough.  But the flames that now reduced several tapestries and quite a few portrait frames definitely put him on edge.  They weren't the red and yellow that normally burned.  No, these were blue and white, intense in their heat and destruction.  None of his spells, no matter how strong, could extinguish them.  The water merely turned to steam and the foam vaporized as if it were nothing.  It took him a moment to calm the person who had caused such calamity in his office so that the fire would not burn everything in its ravenous wake.

            "I don't believe it is your fault, Sirius."

            "Of course it's my fault!  That woman – goddess, rather - distracted us this time.  I already lost the woman who has him and there was that other time where he was right on the street in front of me!  I should have protected him from that fat uncle of his to begin with!"

            The atmosphere in the normally cheerful headmaster's office was fraught with tension and guilt.  Most of this seemed to come from the man in scarlet red robes, hunched forward, elbows propping up his upper body, with his head in his hands in a sad pathetic fashion.  When he lifted up his face to look at Albus Dumbledore, his light blue eyes were haunted with the memory of a painful past and agonies of the present, making him seem older than he was.  Though Albus Dumbledore was inclined to believe that those eyes were more ancient than even his could ever be.  The clarity of the blue, burdened with the recollections of times good and bad, had the same quality of those that had watched for thousands of years on end.

            It was quite clear to the old headmaster now that Sirius Black was truly a descendant of a god.  The dark that had surrounded his life since his youth, his animagus form, the eyes, they were all connected to the deity that appeared not too long ago in his office.  Thanatos, Death, or Nathaniel Black – the god had left a lasting legacy on this Earth in many more ways than one.  He would admit easily that the god had unnerved him.  For he knew, underneath that exterior of candor, there was a dangerous and capricious individual.  Though he was certain that the young man before him would never admit it, he and his ancestor were chillingly alike in personality. 

            "We cannot prevent what happened in the past," he tried to console.  "You have no idea what is going on.  I don't as well."  The headmaster leaned back in his chair, looking more ancient as his blue eyes did not twinkle behind his spectacles, the lines on his face appearing deeper and more worn.  "Higher powers are involved, so much that we are merely just puppets in their plan.  All we can do at the moment is to accept what reliable facts we have now and try to make sense of this mess."

            Sirius sighed, his face looking conflicted with emotions.  Anger and denial were the most noticeable of the blend, combined with an unwilling stubbornness.  It was a face that Dumbledore knew well.  He had seen it before many times in the past.  And now, more than ever, did the burden of the world upon his shoulders feel heavy as lead.  It would take a lot of persuasion to convince him of this plan.  But as of the moment, it was the best that they had so far.

            "I have an idea of how to get Harry out of wherever it is."  As expected, gratitude and hope washed away the previous morose expressions, and a smile began to pull at Sirius' lips.  It was this part that would be difficult to say.  "However, we would have to wait."

            "Wait?!"  The scarlet-clad man rose to his feet abruptly, all traces of happiness vanished and replaced by impatience and fury.  "We can't wait!  Who knows what is happening to Harry?  For all we know, he could be in pain!"

            Dumbledore sighed, exasperation and the pronounced accuracy of which he predicted Sirius' actions apparent in his manner.  "From what you have said before of how you last saw Harry, it seems unlikely that is the case."

            Sirius looked at the headmaster in disbelief before sputtering in heated annoyance.  Where was reason in this generation?  Where was peace?  Would there ever be a time where the threat of a dominating evil never try to encompass and destroy the world he tried so hard to protect.  In his youth, there was Relausyn, who annihilated a majority of the pureblood families and killed many of his siblings.  In his adulthood, there was Grindelwald, whose operation for take-over – now that he reflected on it – seemed to be much larger than it appeared to be at the time.  And now, there was Voldemort, a pure menace.  He would never admit it, but it was Voldemort that affected him most.  The memory of a dark-haired boy, brilliant in his thought and study, turning into a monster, and how he had failed to prevent it from happening.

            "Well, if they aren't hurting him, they could be brainwashing him against us," the Auror argued back.  "I called him repeatedly last time and he didn't respond once.  If they have affected him this much now, imagine how much if we wait.  It's been a month already!  I want my godson back and safe!"

            "If we wait, Sirius," he continued, "we maybe able to draw them into a sense of false security.  When they least expect it, we will take back Harry.  A month in the very least."  Sirius sat down, but the rage was still visible in those eyes, the blue eyes that transcended time and blood.  Idly, Dumbledore's eyes traveled to a portrait hanging on the wall.  Sirius' eyes did as well.  "We will have to trust in Pheta that nothing will happen to Harry while we wait."

            Sirius did not reply at first, merely glaring at the portrait as its occupant had done him some great wrong.  After a moment, he spoke, but the cold animosity that underlay the words, shocked him.  "Pheta can rot in hell.  She has done nothing and I doubt she even cares that we even trust in her or not.  She let go of James and now Harry.  I don't see how I can trust a goddess like that."  He paused, still glowering fiercely at the portrait.  "I've always hated that portrait.  I don't know why, but I never liked her.  All I know is that…I hate her."

            A woman of dazzling beauty smiled down on them from the canvas.  It was one of few pictures that did not move in the entire castle.  Her blonde hair gleamed like bright sunlight, framing a flawless face with a perfect prim nose, those attractive lavender eyes, and pink lips.  Her pale skin combined with those ethereal features and the golden-colored robes made her seem angelic.  The plaque beneath the portrait, in gold and red, proclaimed her identity with flourish.  Phillandra Pheta Gryffindor.

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            Charms used to be a favorite class for most people.  The exuberant and easy-going nature of the professor that taught the lessons created an atmosphere of relaxation and enjoyment.  It was here that they were able to try and try again, until they were victorious in casting a charm, the most widely used genre of magic in wizardry.  There was no pressure at all and the work was largely easy anyway.  To pass satisfactorily, not a lot of effort was actually needed to be put into the work at all.

            This year, things were different.  Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts now replaced Transfiguration and Potions as the classes you had to work hard to at least scrape the failing mark.  Dusty sunlight still shone through the windows, the wooden desks were still a flawless walnut, the stones a typical cool gray, the students still cast their spells and spoke to each other, but the ambiance was a stark contrast as to the years before.  Right now, it wasn't a trouble-free time to fine-tune magic.  This was work, hard and necessary.  The students spoke in whispers, only speaking when they needed to, practicing the spells that their professor had just given notes on and demonstrated.  If not, they were leaning over parchment, their quills scratching words hastily onto the paper, only lifting to refill the ink on their tips, to resume once more in the task of completing an essay.  It was not only the students that would face end-of-the-year testing that were being pushed to their limits, it was the entire student body.  Granted, the students' aptitude at charms was growing at an exponential rate, but that didn't necessarily mean that they had to like it.  The same went for the teacher that happened to teach the subject now as well.

            Professor Wyvern Irving was sitting at the teacher's desk, ready to dispel any help if needed.  Not that the students were jumping up in excitement to ask.  In just a short amount of time, he became one of the most disliked teachers at all of Hogwarts.  The man with the lanky light brown hair suppressed a smirk.  He expected as much in the first place and many of the students had already correctly tagged him as one of the Slytherin alumni.  Personally, he did not care what the students thought.  In his opinion of opinions, you needed to be challenged to progress.  Sure, it was nice to have it easy, but that didn't necessarily get you ahead in life. 

            And it wasn't as if the school could complain.  The charms skills and grades of all the years had risen dramatically in just a few days.  At first he was going to be strict but nice, much like McGonagall, but once he took a look at how they handled their class time and their disgraceful answers to his questions, he revised his entire syllabus to bring them up to par.  Their abilities and essays were still sub-standard in his opinion, but there was nothing a bit of hard work and discipline couldn't take care of.

            There were a few students that stood out from the rest in terms of skill.  Hermione Granger, of course, being one.  However, Ron Weasley was also doing very well, as well as – surprisingly – Neville Longbottom.  In Hufflepuff, there was Susan Bones and Ravenclaw had Terry Boot.  Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott were the outstanding achievers of Slytherin.  The exchange students were also exceptional.  The rest, however, needed work.  The young man, an eye-patch obscuring one utterly useless and dead eye, scowled before speaking, interrupting the soft chatter of the class.  It was the only way to stop them from doing it again.  "Ms. Brown and Ms. Patil!"  The heads of the two girls shot up immediately and the room stilled as all turned their attention to the professor in navy blue robes.  "I believe that this is Charms, not Divination.  Therefore, you will not be looking at star charts, making predictions, or doing other things pertaining to such an imprecise subject.  Do I make myself clear?"

            Lavender Brown opened her mouth to retort, Parvati Patil also moving to speak, but Wyvern interceded before they could speak.  "I don't care what you have to say.  You could get permission from that fake seer for all I care."  Some of the class tittered.  "While you are in Charms class, you will work on charms.  Is that understood?"  His voice carried a commanding and authoritative edge to it, one that could not be denied.  The two girls nodded glumly, accepting, putting their star charts away and turning back to their neglected work.

            He hated being forced to use his magic.  But, as his old master used to say, it was sometimes necessary.  He wasn't however going to reveal that he knew that magic though, or the other kind he learned.  Both the Order and the Death Eaters alike would target him.  No, it was better to appear normal and stay neutral.  A sharp brown eye surveyed the class.  It focused on each of the Gryffindor fifth years, moving from one to the other.

            He suppressed a sigh of frustration.  These children were for the most part utterly unremarkable.  He saw in their souls their past identities, their past deeds, all imprinted for eternity.  Nearly all of them exceedingly ordinary, such as Finnegan being a farmer, Brown used to be a dissatisfied housewife, etc.  Granger apparently was an Archivist at Camelot, which was new.  Neville Longbottom was muggle herbologist and healer.  Though there was a strange green aura around the boy, unseen to the normal eye.  It wasn't very strong, a weak pale green, but it was noteworthy enough, and was being restrained by a purple aura.

            Then there was Ron Weasley.  The red-haired youth was now speaking quietly to Granger.  He couldn't figure out, but he knew this:  whatever power that boy had dormant within, it was similar to the magic he himself was using now.

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            Complete and utter silence pervaded the air, stifled fear overcome by the overwhelming sense of power coming from one single person in the room.  It was a different kind of fear that they were used to.  It wasn't the feeling of dislike, much as it was in other classes, but it was terror.  The teacher of that particular class, Defense Against the Dark Arts, just had that effect on people.

            The said professor also had a much different way of teaching his students than other teachers as well.  No, first of all, he felt that practical applications of the material he was teaching were the most important part of his lessons.  Also, notes were rarely used.  Indeed, they were only allowed to look at them only once for five minutes before the true lesson began.  From then on, they had to rely on their intellect and memory.  The professor did not make it easier by day, either.  No, he made it harder and harder everyday.  Therefore, it was no surprise that most students could be found poring over their Defense Against the Dark Arts texts, quizzing each other, or figuring out ways to remember the information.  The students didn't dislike the teacher nor did they hate him.  Their fear of him, of that power that lay behind that otherworldly yellow gaze, kept them in check.  Rooms and halls alike quieted when he appeared and Peeves the poltergeist was nowhere to be found wherever this individual was. 

            The mischievous apparition got the message quite clearly when he was captured, trapped inside of a stick, and then used as a fetching tool in Hagrid's class about hippogriffs (once more reinstated, to the complaint of one Draco Malfoy and his cronies).

            That professor was Raistlin Majere.

            The class scribbled hastily on their parchments, trying to copy the instructor's words down fast enough.  Professor Majere never wrote down the notes.  He dictated them and they wrote them down.  Why?  This was the way magic in the ancient days used to be taught, with high expectations expected of student, not perceiving them as dumb idiots that needed everything spelled out for them.

            Though he was beginning to think that he might have to do just that in order for them to actually progress.  True, they were advancing in their studies.  To the common outsider, the difference was amazing.  To Raistlin, it was at a snail's pace.  It did not help with students that wanted everything handed out to them on a silver platter.  Today was the class of fifth year Gryffindors.

            He flicked his wand idly.  Of course, he really didn't need to.  It was an elementary facet of basic magic.  But appearances had to be kept up.  Thankfully, the school accepted him and the spies duly, with no suspicion.  They were fitting in quite well and some of their information was actually useful.  Including the bit about Death Eater sympathizers in Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin.  And there also was quite a bit of theory going around the disappearance of one Harry Potter, including that the elementals kidnapped him.  When he heard that, he smirked.

            The parchment in a pretty Indian girl's hands burst into flame before collapsing into a pile of fine ash.  "What did I say about Divination?  Fifteen points from Gryffindor."  When were they going to learn?!  This was trying his patience immensely.  So much that he had resorted to blowing random items up and talking to the Reapers.

            He scowled and the class as one tensed.  Yes, he had sunk as low as to associate himself with Reapers.

            "That is the Laceri Curse," he concluded dryly, his narrowed golden eyes surveying the class.  Right before his eyes, he could see the children getting older and older, dying from their progressively aging bodies and from what experiences they did have.  A gift from his trials, how he had received his "hourglass" eyes.  "You are to pair up and perform it on each other, as it is a widely used spell in a duel.  And I am under the impression that you will use the healing charms we learned in the class a few days ago."  There were a few guilty and befuddled stares.  Ah well.  Not his problem.

            With that, the pale-haired man sat at his desk and supervised the dueling pairs.  It took a reminder from Hermione Granger for the rest to remember the healing spell.  Pathetic.  There wouldn't always be a Hermione Granger in their lives.  And it seemed as if they were going to learn that the hard way.  War made everything different.  He was disgusted how they relied on their wands so much, but this was wizardry on this planet.  He personally would like to see a wizard handle a staff.

            Finally the bell rang, signaling the end of the lesson and the beginning of dinner.  Raistlin made no move.  He never ate in the Great Hall anyway.  And he had some business to take care of.  Seeing the redhead following the bushy-haired Granger out the door, he called in his raspy voice.  "Weasley.  I'd like to speak to you for a moment."  The boy shared a worried glance with the girl before telling her to go on ahead.  She seemed reluctant to do so, but she went anyway.

            The tall boy walked up to his desk, looking nervous.  "Yes sir?"

            Time to take care of this and leave it to those other three.  " You're not in trouble.  Now stop fidgeting," he first stated brusquely.  He hated fidgeting.  "I mean to give you an option.  It could affect your future greatly."  He scrutinized Weasley, pale behind his freckles.  "Do you want to know or not?"

            Best to bait with curiosity.  It always worked.  "Yes, sir."  Did he know any other words?  Either way, human nature was so predictable. 

            He opened the drawer of the mahogany desk, easily dispelling the various protective spells over it.  Inside the compartment, there were a few potion vials and several amulets.  He looked up severely and the boy looked away, caught.  Reaching in the back, he found what he wanted.  He drew his hand out and held it out towards the fifteen-year old.  What he held was round, about as large as a muggle softball, covered in black silk.  Weasley reached to take it, but a look from the professor stopped him.

            "This is a very important item," he spoke, low and almost dangerously.  "It is worth much more than the lives of this entire castle."  Was this true?  That depended on whom you happened asked.  But it would do the boy some good if he scared him a bit.  "I want you to guard this for me."

            "What?!"

            "You heard me.  And I'm not going to repeat myself."

            "B-but I'm only a fifth-year!"  He was on the end of a skeptical look.  Raistlin merely scowled back, banishing the expression instantly.  "Shouldn't you give it to Professor Dumbledore or something?"

            "Dumbledore would not effectively guard this," he replied harshly.  "There is a reason as to why I chose you.  And I will tell you this.  It has to do with who you are.  As well as, on a separate matter however, with the missing Harry Potter."  That sealed it.  The boy's face said it all.  "If you accept guarding this, then you must tell no one of it.  Not the headmaster, not your family, nor your friend Miss Granger.  Do I make myself clear?"

            The boy nodded and Raistlin handed over the spherical package.  The fragile warmth that the orb emanated left his hand.  His job was done.  He now could concentrate on other, more important things.  Such as the latest development with Pheta, something that had him worried.  "Keep it by you at all times and tell no one."

            Ron Weasley nodded before leaving the classroom.  As the door opened, he saw another person walk up to the newly appointed guardian.  It was a small Ravenclaw girl, with strange eyes and dirty blonde hair, radish-like earrings on her ears and a strange necklace of bottle corks.  They started talking, though on the side of the boy, it looked as if he were pretty uncomfortable by talking with this strange girl.  Luna Lovegood, if he remembered correctly, and she leaned to the side slightly, winking at him before going off talking about nargles.  Whatever they were.

            Raistlin sighed.  It would take awhile indeed to get used to the fact that Lunitari was hiding here at Hogwarts as well. 

(())(())(())

            Everything was black.  It looked as if the sky never existed at all, just the hard earth at his feet and the gaping void above him.  Near the ground was a strange white fog, swirling and uncoiling thickly.  It was everywhere, seeming to go on and on for miles.  There was the barely perceptible sound of dripping water, echoing in the emptiness in a ceaseless rhythm that matched his own heartbeat.  Dimly he could make out tall shapes in the darkness towering above him.

            Ron blinked in befuddlement.  Where was he?  This was definitely not his bed in the dormitories.  Or the common room in Gryffindor Tower either.  He was beginning to doubt that he was at Hogwarts altogether.

            "You are correct, young man.  You are no longer at the Castle of Divisions."  The calm male voice, strong and matter-of-fact, reverberated all around him.  He turned around in an attempt to pinpoint the speaker, but it was no use.  It was impossible to locate the individual.

            "Where are you?"

            A chuckle of amusement now sounded in the silence, but it was different from the first voice.  "Child, we are where we are.  Location never matters, so long as there is a meeting and work to be done."  The voice was also male, but different.  It was smooth and cool, enunciating each word carefully, as if he enjoyed the ambience of the words he had spoken.

            Ron was getting annoyed.  "Well, then who are you?!  Why am I here?"

            "My, we have an impudent one," said a third, a female's, that was harsh and loud to it.  "Are you certain he is the one that was called?"  He experienced a feeling through him, as if he were being scrutinized carefully.  "He is a bit young.  And looks like one of the Irish…or Scottish."  Ron turned red.  They had been looking over him.

            "When one is called, they are called…" the second voice said cryptically.

            "Don't give me that!" the woman replied passionately.  "It's been years, my doubt is justified!"

            The first voice interceded with, "Enough!  We must do this.  He was indeed the one that was called and we must do our duty.  This is a milestone, the revival of the old and the new age is about to begin."  The second and third voices mumbled incoherently here, but the redheaded Gryffindor was paying attention.  Rather, he was concentrating on their previous words.  They were expecting him or someone had called him.  But what on Earth did they mean?  He didn't bother with the second part of what was said.  He knew he would not understand it anyway.

            "Look!" he yelled out.  "Tell me what you want with me!"

            "Be patient!" the female lashed out and Ron recoiled, reminded slightly of both his mother and Professor Snape.  "We were about to explain-"

            "It didn't sound like it."  He was slightly surprised at his own daring.  But it did give him some satisfaction when he heard the woman growl in frustration.

            "Never mind her," the second voice said.  "We must ask:  we're you given a strange object today and told it was of great worth?"  Ron blinked.  No one was supposed to know!  "Answer truthfully."

            "Why should I tell you?" Ron answered.  "I don't even know who you are!"

            There were a few hushed whispers before the first voice spoke, "Acceptable answer.  For a beginner."

            "And for one that seems quite ignorant," the female interjected.

            Yes, he was insulted.

            "You have passed," the second voice proclaimed.  "And you have earned the right."

            All of a sudden, there was light.  It source was beneath his feet, were lines curved and crossed together to form complicated runes and symbols, all contained within a large circle.  Along the edges of the circle were torches, primitive in appearance, burning brightly in the dark.  Ron could now make out the gigantic stone towers around him, each looking old and ancient, the water he was hearing before dripping and collecting into small pools on the earth.  After looking around, he noticed the three people standing in front of him.  They seemed normal enough to the eye.  Not Death Eaters, he quickly deduced.  They had a strange dignity about them that supported this.  The man with the brown hair on the left had a thick scar running down his weathered face.  He wore mail armor and green, with a sword belted at his waist.  The light haired man to the right wore robes similar to those of wizards, but they were old-fashioned, with cuffs and chains.  Strange talismans and a few vials hung from his belt.  He had a thoughtful, aristocratic face.  The fierce woman was there, standing between them, almost equal in height to the tall men.  Her hair was wild and untamed, red as wildfire.  She wore a tartan cloak, fastened with a simple brooch, over a simple brown gown, a golden band around her neck.  Her eyes seemed to stab him.  All thoughts of revenge for that previous remark collapsed in a heartbeat.

            It was a comical sight, a tall lanky fifteen-year old in his maroon pajamas staring in shock, wide-open wide enough to catch flies.  The man on the left found it amusing anyway, the other two found it rather immature.  "Excuse me," the man in the robes said.  He made a clear gesture with no doubt as to what he wanted Ron to do.  Ron promptly closed his mouth.

            "Welcome to Old Stonehenge," the man in armor said kindly.  "We are the Druid Guardians.  I assume you know why you were called?"

            "No," he answered simply, feeling quite idiotic, much like he did when Hermione went on about the twelve uses of dragon's blood and their effects in various potions.  It had been five years and she still hadn't realized that he would never understand it.  Even with the pneumonic devices and the flashcards she came up with.

            The woman frowned.  "You are a Guardian, are you not?  You were given something to guard.  Raistlin Majere makes no mistakes.  Or if he has, very few indeed."

            Ron took out the still silk covered sphere out of his pocket carefully.  Keep it with me at all times.  "How do you know Professor Majere gave this to me?"

            She snorted.  "It is our business to know.  Especially considering the object you have and that we are dealing with you."  The woman then raised a red eyebrow.  "You haven't uncovered it yet?"

            "Of course, he hasn't," the robed man defended.  "We haven't initiated him.  Have you forgotten that?"

            "Well, let's see.  It's been centuries, maybe!"

            "No need to get touchy."

            "Both of you!" the armored man ended, before turning back to the boy.  "I see that Majere had not explained to you the immensity of this.  Understandable.  It is not in his nature to."  That's the truth.  "As I had said before, we are the Druid Guardians.  We were the last of a group of magic-users called Guardians, whose purpose was to guard special items, animals, or even people for a specific fate or destiny.  The gods chose with certain…qualifications to do this."

            "Gods?" he asked skeptically.

            "Yes.  There are many gods.  There used to be many guardians.  But things had changed since the past."  Ron was now the recipient of three proud gazes.  "You are the first to be chosen in centuries.  But what must be asked is if you accept this post.  While it has its rewards, there is pain and battle ahead."

            The boy shrugged.  Pain and battle were ahead of him anyway.  There are rewards.  He doubted it was gold, but maybe it was glory and recognition.  Or power.  He could step out of the shadows of his brothers and come into his own.  Maybe even with this duty, he could find his missing friend.  "I accept."

            "Without knowing of the consequences?" the robed man asked.

            "I'll take them."

            The woman shook her head.  "The recklessness of youth."

            "You are hardly young," the robed man teased.  "And if I remember correctly you still are reckless."

            "I'd keep my guard up if I were you…"

            The armored man sighed in exasperation while the other two began to bicker.  It seemed as if this was a normal occurrence.  "Well, then," the man began, unsheathing the plain sword at his waist.  It was completely unremarkable and plain, with a soulless blank metal that shone dully in the torchlight.  "Let's see who will mentor you."  Mentor?  The armored man threw the sword in the air, where it flipped once, a dim light in the void above, before descending slowly to the earth.  It landed flat in front of him, spinning wildly, but it soon began to slow down

            "Whoever the weapon points to, is your mentor," he dimly heard the robed man explaining.  "They will help you understand your duties and your abilities.  It also determines your alignment to an element, which determines your base nature."

            This was odd.

            It made slow circles again and again, growing more sluggish with every spin.  Finally, it stopped.

            Its hilt was directed at his feet.  And its tip pointed to the redheaded woman.

            "Your alignment is to fire," the armored man said lightly.  "You are loyal and passionate about what you believe in.  But you are impulsive with a temper as well.  I wish you luck then, young Ronald.  Maybe you will meet me, Blaine of Earth, again someday."  With a shimmer, Blaine vanished in the fog.

            The robed man nodded in acknowledgement.  "I also wish you good fortune, which you will need to deal with her."  He received a glare for that comment.  "May you fare well.  You have the blessing of Craden of Water."  Craden too disappeared in the mist.  He was now alone with his…mentor, the rude woman that seemed take enjoyment in insulting him.

            "I am Boudicca of Fire," she said brusquely, walking into the lit circle with sure and broad steps towards him.  She was not just tall, she was very tall.  He was only as tall as her shoulder.  "I was the former queen of the Iceni tribe of the Britons before those blasted Romans invaded."  Thus, she began to rant just what she thought about the Romans, most of her vocabulary here consisting of profanity and swearing.  She was a queen.  I thought queens were at least…not scary looking.  And that they didn't curse.  "Moving on," Boudicca continued, still scowling at the thought of Romans.  "You may remove the covering.  I'll take care of this."  Ron, who had been curious as to what the sphere was since it was given to him, hastened to remove the silk.  He didn't notice the woman bend down to take up the sword lying abandoned on the ground.

            The black silk slipped away from the sphere's smooth surface like water.  The orb was made of pure crystal, clear and unflawed.  Within the orb, clear to the eye, was a black feather.  It was darker than dark, it was pure black, but it radiated some kind of warmth.  The heat was not severe and Ron noticed that it was warmer than it had been back at Majere's office…or even when this strange dream began.

            "If you are done."

            He looked up, slightly embarrassed.  He had somehow forgotten that she was there.  Boudicca loomed above him, the sword in her hands.  But it was not plain anymore.  The blade was now of shining steel, with a deadly sharp and thin edge.  The metal hilt was inlaid in black, with soft leather providing a firm grip.  Within the black shone blood red garnets surrounding a larger crimson ruby.  Barely visible, were runes printed on the side of the blade.

            "An interesting blade," Boudicca commented.  "With an intriguing message.  'To protect with the searing flames'."  She then gave him another of her assessing looks.  It made him step back slightly, but he had the feeling he should get used to this.  "I have seen weapons like this only belonging to those who are friends of a dark one."  She raised an eyebrow at his sudden look of fear and revulsion before chiding him roughly.  "Do not be so naïve.  Just because one is dark, does not mean they are evil.  That is just a prejudice wizards have come up with.  It is your weapon."  Boudicca sheathed the sword before handing it to him without any ceremony or grace.  "You better use it well or I'll have your head, lad.  That item, the Feather of Death-Shadowed Wings, is a relic beyond worth."

            He nodded numbly, shifting the orb to take the sword.  "It is time for you to return."  She nodded imperiously.  "Do not fail us, Dark Flame Guardian."

            Ron shot up in his bed, breathing heavily as if he had run a marathon.  But his gasps became slower and calmer as he recognized the crimson hangings of his four-poster bed.  It didn't seem as if it were even morning yet.  "It was all just a crazy dream," he muttered to himself.

            But that was before he noticed in his hand was a crystal orb containing a black feather and that a sheathed sword was lying innocently and neatly on his lap.  When he did notice, he would blink several times before proclaiming that he needed some tea.  Badly.

            Two months.  In just two months everything had changed far beyond Dudley ever thought that they would.

            Orange streetlight slanted through the blinds of his room, the silence of the late hour actually deafening.  In this strange dim vermilion illumination, the shadows were long and black, extending across distances.  They happened upon the pile of textbooks on the desk, the crumpled papers scattered across the floor, the many toys and knickknacks he had collected over the years.  But there was one thing in this room whose shadow was the longest, but the lightest in black tone.  It belonged to a rather large boy, a husky young man with the image of one losing weight.  He was trying, his face looking less pudgy and chubby.  Blond hair, thin and fine, was cut extremely short.  A black and silver watch-like device was around his thick wrist.  The eyes of Dudley Dursley looked out on to the peaceful avenue that was Privet Drive, well aware that his mother was fast asleep and that his fellow demon hunter, Lirenas, was probably up looking at the stars once more.

            He couldn't deny that there were some changes that he would rather have not occurred.  His father going insane and Harry being abused and then disappearing in thin air were a few of those examples.  But he couldn't deny that there were some good things that had happened.  Even just admitting that there were actually that something beneficial had come out of this climatic and rather unusual summer was a difference.

            It disgusted him really, to think of what he used to be like.  A spoiled pig, only grabbing what was there and only wanted more.  He was a hopeless gastronome then and that gluttony had nearly killed him.  It was funny, really.  Death, even the prospect of it, can really open a person's eyes to the truth.  Those days of just staring up at the ceiling, wondering when his time would come, when his heart would finally fail to support his overweight body, still shadowed him a bit.  The anticipation, the fear, the worry that his mother felt, the knowledge of what was happening, the abandonment…it was still all starkly clear in his mind.

            To think that he of all people would be given a second chance.

            To put it truthfully, Dudley didn't believe that he deserved the chance at all.  There were much better people in the world to offer that opportunity to.  Much better people, with better hearts and minds, who could continue their good work and charity.  Not him, who was worthless in life.  Yet, somehow, it happened.  Given to him by a strange goddess, cloaked in the darkest shadows, with unforgettable blue eyes that would be forever burned into his soul. 

            It wasn't as if he was going to waste it either.  He was exercising, fighting demons, and for once doing averagely well in school without having to resort to cheating or other methods to do so.  He had friends now.  He was actually gaining some respect in the community.  Not as a large loud bully anymore, but as a helpful young man that had made a turnaround in his life.  Now, he had a closer relationship to his mother.  She was a person he could talk to with his problems if he needed help, not someone to provide for him and be his own personal chef/slave.  It was a pity that he realized this now, after fifteen years of treating her otherwise.  But he tried to reassure himself that it was better now than never doing so.

            His father.  They got the word just a few days later.  They found him slumped dead in the mental institution the wizards had dropped him off at.  He and dozens of others, lying dead with blank unseeing odds.  It would be callous of him to say that he didn't feel the slightest remorse for this loss.  True, his father was a jerk and a child abuser, prejudiced and rude.  But Dudley couldn't deny that his father was proud of him in some fashion, even if he was being praised for being the worse he could be.  All Dudley could comfort himself was with the thought that the man was finally given some sort of closure, some kind of peace.  What was life when fearing something perpetually?  Especially when the terror was one of ancient power, one that could not be killed by lowly mortals?  No, he was gone.  And it, perhaps, was better that way.

            Harry.  Now there was a burden of guilt on his shoulders.  It was worse because every time, no matter how much he could try to twist and turn it, he was horrible towards him.  They could have been friends, close as brothers.  Could have been.  But no.  He had to be the one to put him down, to embarrass him, to make sure he never made friends, to guarantee his cousin would be alone and miserable.  And the black-haired boy had never asked for it.  He had done nothing for that treatment other than living.  He had always assumed him to be weak then.  It was he that was immature and weak though.  Though it was stupid of him to dwell on such thoughts now.  Harry was gone.  All he had were the assurances of the Shadow Goddess and the fact that Harry had come to help him before vanishing once more.  On the roof, his cousin looked different, stronger (though that attack had proved that).  But that wasn't it entirely.  It was as if Harry didn't recognize him, from the way that he had just stared at him.  And the green had taken on that alien quality that he had seen in the Shadow Goddess herself.  All he could do, he decided, was to wait.  He wouldn't search him out.  It wouldn't be right of him, to be demanding forgiveness like that.

            He had a new life.  But there were some things that bothered him.  Harry.  School.  The wizards.  And, of course, the demons.

            He'd get through it all.

            It would appear that he would just have to believe.

            To have faith…that somehow…through everything…it will all turn out for the best in the end.

            "An interesting base you have here, Darius."

            "What better way to avoid notice?  They rarely notice a bit of magic on the Earth itself, why would they see us as we are?"

            "You haven't lost your touch over the years, child.  That is good to see."

            A woman that looked to be in her forties, with blonde hair and golden eyes, stood in front of a large window.  Her robes were a deep purple, the color of royalty and dignity, embroidered with lavish designs, Arabic in grace and form, in bright yellow thread.  She stood in the casual manner of one that knew their place and abilities.  Though this stance did hide her true nature, for she was hardly emanating the great power that she possessed as one of the Trinity, the Great Triumvirate.  But she, the Universe, was like that.  She preferred to seem approachable, not like some overbearing authority figure.  A shimmering pale blue light lit her rather ordinary face (excepting the eyes, of course).

            Empire City was a technological marvel, far beyond the progress that the mortals below had made.  But this was understandable, seeing that the Harbingers had created the incredible Castle in the Sky thousands of years before.  And if that was the best they could do then, it was only logical what they could do now.  Its outer shell was made of an impenetrable combination of magic and metal, strengthened by up to twenty layers of the same material beneath it.  Its magical wards were extremely advance, allowing for the receiving of signals and sending out messages that were not picked up by the muggle satellites.  The wards also prevented notice and damage from attack.  Within lay a self-sufficient city, with its own facilities, vegetation, water, and population (largely made up of the most trusted employees of the mastermind behind this paradise and their families).  It was the greatest outpost in this planet's history, allowing for the perfect surveillance, research, defense, assault, and transportation vantages.  All this lay up here, far out of the reach of those who were not deeply involved in the happenings of the present and the recent past.

            "Like what you see?"

            "An excellent vantage point.  Strategic, as always."

            "I do try.  It has been quite a few millenniums since I've been completely conscious and in control, as you well know."

            "I'm sorry for putting you through all that."

            "It is hardly your fault.  We were the ones to make our decision."

            "But I wasn't there."

            "Don't bother with it.  What has happened has happened, what has been done has been done.  It isn't as if we would have wanted to change our outcome anyway.  I think…that it is better that it happened that way."

            "This is a new side of you."

            "Blame it on existing as a human.  One tends to pick idealistic views and faith when one.  I find it funny that it comforts me on some level, even though I already know what the harsh truth is."

            Outside the window, was the Earth.  A blue jewel, the white were swirling and streaking all across its surface in a strange beauty.  Green and brown areas interrupted the large masses of blue on the surface, the continents that continually moved and changed throughout in every minute of the day, years, millenniums, and eons.  Expanses of pure white glittered shone brightly at the poles, the air looking to be much clearer there.  Earth, the last treasure of magic from the great Golden Age, spun on its axis in the black, star spattered, void of space.  A truly magnificent sight.

            She turned around to face Darius, looking at him with an expression of quiet patience and a bit of pain.  The semicircular room was cloaked in shadows, but her attention was focused on the young man leaning against the far wall.  Tall, his hair was neat and overall physical appearance was proper, though his shirt collar and tie were loosened in a careless fashion.  He wore a smoky gray cloak draped over his shoulders, a silver chain tying it together.  His eyes were insolent and amused, deep hazel.  He was Mathias Clarimorir, the reincarnated Darius.

            "I assume," the Universe stated, a smile pulling at her lips.  "You know where all the others are?"  It didn't matter how much time passed, it seemed as if her children were timeless.  She missed Darius' easy laidback attitude.  Though, granted, he was like that rarely.  He usually was exasperated or stressed before, considering she had put him in charge of all the Harbingers.  They were all more or less equal in power, but Darius had an experience and wisdom that earned him his place.

            As expected, a frown formed on his face.  "Considering how few of us there actually are, it wasn't too hard.  A few were given their final judgment, though."  The frown was next replaced with a scowl.  "But apparently, someone – I believe a Maleficus, but I'm not sure – has been destroying Harbinger souls while in the living state."  His eyes narrowed in anger and distaste.  "Either that, or they turned."

            It was the Universe's turn to frown.  "Some…they've turned."

            A grim nod.  "Yes.  Including Adirenne and Nephilus."  The words, my second-in-commands, were left unsaid.  Adirenne and Nephilus were among her best.  And she suspected that Adirenne's betrayal hurt the most.  "All turned to Maleficus.  Adirenne abandoned us before the Verdict.  Nephilus turned later to save his own existence.  Not that there is one left after becoming one of those monstrosities."

            "How many?"

            "About half reached their final judgment, a few just barely making it to Lethe and Annuvin."  Maleficus couldn't penetrate the dark realms without a lot of power.  Most weren't going to do so where they could probably only stay for about one minute before being immediately attacked.  "The other half is the problem.  Half of those were destroyed, a quarter turned, and another quarter are either here or haven't been born again."  Callous statistics, abrasive to the ears.  But she was pleased to hear that many of those have been found.

            "Any that I should be aware that are here?" she asked, somewhat hopefully, her voice rising slightly.

            A grin.  "You'd know them a few of them, certainly.  They are a bit young though in mortal age, however…"

            "And you aren't?  If I recall, you're just nineteen in human years."

            "Shut up!" he retorted indignantly, freezing immediately after the words left his mouth.  Blinking afterward, he then blushed brightly before muttering an apology for that remark.

            "I know, I know," she replied gently, "contact with humans."

            "Heh, heh…" He coughed self-consciously before snapping his fingers.  The panels of one of the sidewalls opened to reveal a silver viewing screen.  A brief flash of light flickered on the screen before a clear picture formed on the monitor.  Seeing its occupants, the Universe smiled in a genuinely wide smile.

            On the screen, two people of about the same age were shown, sitting on a deep red leather couch.  One was a young girl with long auburn hair and a pretty face, laughter lighting up her entire visage, most noticeably her amber colored eyes.  She had a curvy figure, visible through her casual black jeans and dark purple t-shirt.  Next to her, looking decidedly like he didn't want to be there, was a young man with light blue eyes and shaggy dark brown hair.  He was sitting stiffly, wearing beige khakis and a blue shirt under a brown leather jacket.  Both wore gray cloaks, identical to that of Mathias', over their shoulders.

            The girl turned to the other.  "C'mon!  Why aren't you laughing?"

            The glare she received could have penetrated steel, but she looked unperturbed.  "Because I don't get it!" was the emphatic reply.

            "How can you not?!  Airplane is a classic!"

            "But that could never happen!"

            "It's not supposed to.  It's just supposed to be funny.  Like Otto the Autopilot.  Like he 'Don't call me, Shirley' joke.  Like that guy's drinking problem."

            "Explain that."

            "Well, what do you think of when you hear 'drinking problem'?"

            "An alcoholic."

            "Exactly.  He has a drinking problem, but he isn't an alcoholic.  His problem is the action of drinking in general."  There was a short pause before the girl pointed to the TV.  "See?"

            The boy looked disdainful for a moment before giving her a scathing look.  "And that is supposed to be funny?"

            The girl hit him playfully in the arm.  "Honestly.  After all these years and you still don't have a sense of humor, Hiro."

            "Don't call me that."

            "Yeah, yeah…"

            With that, the screen turned off.  The Universe, chuckling lightly, turned back to Mathias.  "Let me guess.  The reincarnations of Hiroshi and Megami."

            "Right.  Though here, they just are Hiroshi Takashi and Miranda Blackthorne.  But, you are right, they haven't changed."

            "What of, Falcifer?  Where is he?"

            "Yeah…about that…" Mathias now looked incredibly uncomfortable.

            "What happened."  It was more of a stated fact than a question.

            "You see, Falcifer was reincarnated as a female…"

            "What?!" the Universe exclaimed.  "I know my magic, child.  And if you were reincarnated, then you would remain the same gender!"  She practically yelled this at the young man, who kept his stance, though wincing.

            "I know that," he returned.  "But you forgot about what happens in the mortal plane.  Falcifer was supposed to be one of a pair of fraternal twins.  But because of a sickness that the mother experienced, the twin he was supposed to be reincarnated as died before birth."  Mathias rolled his eyes.  "Being who he is – and that is stubborn as a pig – he took the body of the other twin.  The girl."

            The Universe muttered under breath some choice curses, most of them pertaining to the fact that her magic in this case was not infallible.  "So, Falcifer is now a girl."

            "Yep.  Keisha Jennings, African-American from Los Angeles.  Adjusted well, I guess.  Considering that she called me a, and I quote, 'chauvinistic piece of crap' and to 'go rot in Tartarus, bigoted jerk' when I questioned her identity."  He shrugged, grinning.  "There were a few more choice comments, but I don't think you want to hear them."

            "Where is she now?"

            "Summer school.  She was suspended a few months ago for supposedly 'attacking' the principal's son with a switchblade.  There's a whole story behind that incident, cluttered with creative euphemisms for both the principal and the kid."

            The Universe shook her head.  "Still the same temper, I see."

            "The thing I can't figure out," Mathias noted, his gaze now focused on the rotating Earth below.  "is where Nuitari is."

            "I would not worry.  I have seen his reincarnation and he is doing fine."

            "Then why hasn't he joined us?"

            "Because he hasn't awakened yet."

            "Why not?  You have had contact with him."

            "I know.  But I assume he has his reasons.  His reincarnation has quite a bit on his plate though."

            "Really?"

            "Yes, Pheta is after him."

            "So, he's a descendant of a dark god.  Unsurprising."

            "You catch on quick."

            "Hmm…why didn't she recognize him for what he was then?  When she tried to spy on me, she knew immediately that I was Darius."

            "Simple.  He is using the power of the dark gods that his reincarnation has to shield his presence.  Clever of him to do so.  I would not worry though.  Seeing that he is among the elementals of Grey Tower."

            "Heh.  Nuitari always was a resourceful bastard."

            Far off to sea, invisible to the eye of the pure and innocent, a small island exists.  A neither small island where neither grass nor tree grew and where nothing of any wholesome and chaste nature could prosper.  A small island on which loomed a dread fortress of cold, merciless stone.  Grey, looming clouds covered the open expanse of the sky perpetually, the only indicative of the passage of night and day was through the darkening and lightening of these nebulous veils.  It was a stronghold, designed to keep those in and others out.  It screamed its contempt of humanity, of their weaknesses and their tendencies towards pain and injustice, as well as laughed at them, reveling in the decrepit character of man.  For that was what fed apon, fueled by the unhappiness and the evil, relishing in its stringent yet seductive flavor. 

            This was Azkaban.

            In the thickened silence that surrounded this accursed placed continuously, a piercing scream.  One of pain and betrayal, one filled with anguish and malice, it seared the air like a knife.  It hung, a fierce ring, before others joined in its horrific chorus…and still even more.  It was not long before all that was there was the sound of screaming.

            Then there was silence.

            And, finally, a cheer.  More added to it.  Gleeful cheering, raw and unbridled, animal-like and primitive, rose from the fortress' dread corridors and stone.  There was a loud rumbling from within, the sound of feet pounding mixing in with the jubilation.  A loud bang blew apart the barred entrance of the gate, ragged pale figures ran out on weak legs, a shine in their malicious eyes, a blackness beginning to intensify behind their ever growing smiles.  Each of them were emaciated bodies, living and breathing cadavers, all waiting.  To the site, the ghastly specters, the dementors, stood to the side, their unseeing eyes focused to the coast.

            A small boat landed with a thud, the cadence of rotting wood against stone barely heard over the slapping ocean waves.   With a strange grace, a man stepped from the tiny dinghy, black robes sweeping the hard stone.  It was a tall man, his long pale spidery fingers clasping a red wand that glimmered in the gray gloom, his crimson serpent eyes holding a prideful and triumphant quality as they glanced over the crowd.  The volume of the cheering increased dramatically, some of the former prisoners falling to their knees in tears.  Not long after, other vessels joined the first at the shore.  But these were unimportant.  No, in the eyes of those who deserved to be forsaken, there was only one.

            Lord Voldemort had landed at Azkaban.

            "My loyal servants," he boomed out.  "I'm pleased to see you have survived the torture put upon you.  You, my most faithful and loyal!"  The cheering began again, only silenced by a swift gesture from their master.  "Yes, I have come again.  And this time, we will not be stopped!  The Ministry will suffer at our hands and those dirty excuses for magic users will feel our power!"  The high-pitched voice of the demon, laced with attractive words and poison, rose over the now wild crowd.  "With the dementors at our side and the giants, we will prevail!"

            As one, the prisoners stormed forward, running into the boats, joyful and happy at their freedom to once more be a plague to this earth.  The demon watched this all with a large smirk on his face.  Lady Pheta will be pleased.

            He himself went back to his own boat.  Only one had dared join the few that were already there.  She fierce looking woman with heavy-lidded eyes:  Bellatrix Lestrange. 

            But there was something that Voldemort's demon eyes missed.  Something that everyone missed.  Or rather, someone.  But they were good at not being noticed.  It was their job after all.  His face was handsome beyond compare, his only flaw being a thin scar across his tanned cheek, deceptive in its beauty.  His armor was black, lightweight and shimmering, as if it had the ability to become invisible.  Attached to his back were four wings, insect-like and iridescent like that of a fly's, webbed with stark black.  He grinned menacingly in victory.

            And thus, a Maleficus was among the company of the reunited Death Eaters, waiting.  Waiting for the chaos to begin again.

            The Hall of Kings was as brilliant as ever.  Sunlight filtered through the great windows of the sprawling palace.  The sweet scent of lotus, attracting and alluring, hung thick in the air.  The strange songs of brightly colored birds that never would and never will find a place in the realm of mortals was melodic and harmonious, pleasing to the ear.  The sky was a lazy summer blue, with fluffy white clouds meandering across its expanse.  The domes and roofs of the citadel sparkled in the warm light.  Such was another beautiful day in Nirvana, at the Hall of Kings.

            The atmosphere within was an entirely different matter.

            The white marble of the main hall fairly glowed in the sunshine, while the gigantic mirrors formed patterns on the walls and floor.  Around the golden round table, stood the five gods of elemental magic.  Each stood at different sections, similar to the points of a pentagon, with plenty of space between.  Kybele and Aquarius stood at one side, facing Pyramis and Gyelia.  Rin stood at the top.  All wore stony expressions.  The air that hovered over them was tense and uncomfortable, almost humming with an unseen pressure.

            "I'm sure we know why we're all here," Rin began.

            "Of course," the blond Gyelia remarked.  "We're here to discuss how we can Pheta, right?"  Her voice was high-pitched and annoying, much like a hyperactive chipmunk.  It made the other four immediately wince.  Worse, it had a wheedling whining undertone to it.  But Gyelia was always like that, eager to be amongst the supposed more influential group.

            "You airhead," Aquarius hissed in anger, bristling.  "We are here to discuss Pheta alright, that conniving little bit-"

            Kybele interceded hastily with, "Aquarius!  Language!"

            "Well, I'm sorry 'Sister Mary Margaret', but I'm just stating it the way I see it." 

            "I won't deny that you are right," the dark-skinned woman with the many green braids remarked dryly.  "But please!"  Kybele nodded toward the now angry Gyelia, who was already causing a slight wind to rise up.  The red-haired Pyramis continued to look slightly out of it, staring at the surface of the table as if it were the most fascinating piece of furniture he had ever seen.

            "How can you insult Lady Pheta like that?"

            "Oh, it's Lady Pheta now!"  Aquarius rolled his eyes.  "What are you, the blasted woman's serving girl now?  What do you do, float a daily cup of ambrosia to her and sing her songs and be her perpetual slave like the rest of them?"  The blue-haired god sneered.  "How pathetic.  You're degrading yourself."

            "I'm not degrading myself!  I'm merely consorting with the right kind of people!" she countered.  "Unlike you two!  Who in their right mind would willingly spend time with dark gods like Melania or Thanatos?"  The wind goddess spat the last two names out as if they were something horribly disgusting and dirty.

            "One who actually enjoys an intelligent conversation and isn't required to kiss their feet?" answered Kybele.  Her statement was phrased as a question, just for the mere purpose of insulting Gyelia's intelligence.  "We are treated as equals by the dark gods.  Pheta treats you and the rest of that sorry lot as followers, a bunch of sheep to her every whim and bidding at the mere snap of her 'ladyship's' fingers."

            "The dark gods are evil," Pyramis interjected dully. 

            "Wow," exclaimed the water god.  "You can talk on your own!"  He turned to the earth goddess in mock excitement.  "Look Kybele, Rin!  He can talk on his own!  He doesn't need his little mistress to tell him to!  I never thought I would see the day."

            "Shut up!" the fire god burst out angrily.  "I don't need Pheta to tell me what to do."

            "That's a surprise," Kybele answered.  "For the last couple of centuries, I wasn't aware you even had an opinion of your own anymore."

            "I still think he doesn't," replied Aquarius contemptuously.  "I can't say much for the airhead, though.  I don't think she has ever had an opinion since we were created to begin with."

            "HOW DARE YOU-" Gyelia began to screech, before Pyramis interrupted.

            "Rin!  What about you?"  All gazes turned to the brunette woman in the canary yellow.  "Who do you support?"

            Rin sighed.  This was the main reason why there were five of them.  To balance out any disagreement.  "I support Melania's cause."

            Gyelia let an in insulted and prissy sniff before striding over to Pyramis.  Grabbing the surprised god's arm, she summoned a strong wind.  Within moments both were gone, with nothing to show that they were ever there.

            "Well," Rin exclaimed after a brief moment.  "That was enlightening."

            "Define enlightening," returned Aquarius in a more sarcastic tone than usual.

            Kybele glared at him before smacking him over the head.  "Of course, it was enlightening.  We know where they stand now."

            "And that they're both idiots?"

            Rin gave a wry smirk.  "Not really.  We already knew that."

            The shrill sound of an alarm jolted him out of his relatively peaceful sleep.  From the huddled form beneath the mass of covers, a pale hand reached out, long fingers outstretched and searching.  After a few fruitless grasps, the fingers pushed the small red button down before pushing the alarm clock away.  The hand retreated back underneath the warmth of the blankets, seemingly satisfied.  That was the third time the cursed piece of machinery had done that this morning.  He wanted to sleep!

            There was an amused chuckle.  "Like that will prevent you from getting out of that bed."  Not far from head of the half-asleep Nuitari "Night" Hawking was a mirror, one side of black enamel with the silver dragon emblem, the other a reflective surface.  On that glass-like side, the gray and green toned room was not reflected.  Rather, a dark haired man with dark blue eyes of about twenty-five looked on with ill-concealed enjoyment.  "You will have to get up eventually."

            Underneath the fabric came a mumbled string of words, unintelligible but no doubt rude.  Tom Riddle, laughing, brandished a wand of black wood at the boy from his side of the mirror, an easy graceful movement that contained the fluidity of a snake. 

            Immediately, the covers flew up and the boy beneath them went flying out of the bed on to the floor.  The blankets floating in midair above him fluttered down to rest on top of him.  A frustrated groan mixed with the older man's mirth.

            "I dislike you greatly."

            "Sure you do…"

            "No, really."

            "Right."

            "…This is inhumane!"

            "No, it isn't.  It's called 'waking up'.  Most people do that in the morning to get things done instead of lying in bed all day," was the sarcastic reply.

            Another moan escaped the throat of the still drowsy Night.

            It was true, he really didn't dislike him.  It was just that he wasn't really a morning person.  He didn't think he ever would be either.  The fact that his room faced west, the opposite of where the sun rose, probably had something to do with it, since his room only received a bit of dull light from the window.  But Tom – as well as the rest of society – had other plans.  Why else would alarm clocks be invented?  Why else would distant relatives stuck in another plane of existence force him out of his warm, comfortable bed that he had absolutely no desire to leave?  If there was another reason other than torturing him by waking him up, then he would love to hear it.

            Besides, Tom was the best teacher he could get in wizarding magic considering that it was hardly ever practiced in the elemental community of Grey Tower Town.  Though it was a good thing, since Tom's knowledge of magic was incredible.  But it would have to be if he got the grades he claimed he received at that school…Hogwarts?  What kind of name was that for a school?…while fighting off a demon trying to kill you and take over your body.  Night did think that Tom was skipping over a few things as well as broaching topics he didn't think were taught legally.  The Dark Arts weren't exactly part of any curriculum that hoped to create "hardworking, contributing wizards with little knowledge to society" (Tom's words, not his own).  But Night himself was grasping the lessons easily.  Tom's style, a combination of discipline and fun, did wonders.  The wizard said he should be about halfway through the fifth year syllabus by now.  Which Night gathered as pretty good.

            "Get up, you've got school!"

            School.  He forgot.  It started at 8:00…one bleary eye widened in shock when it focused on the luminous numbers of the clock…7:00!  He promised his mother he'd be up at six!  Rising from the mess of bedclothes on the floor, he immediately began to make his bed.  Though he didn't do much of the work himself, carelessly pointing his wand and letting his magic do it for him.  Perched on the tree outside his window, his two pets watched in amusement as he rushed relieve himself of his pajamas and put on his uniform.  They wisely ignored the comment of, "Why didn't you two wake me up?!", their smug moods that showed in their expressions increased.

            Tom raised a sardonic eyebrow.  "Yes, Night.  Rely on your pets to wake you up.  There's a reason you have an alarm clock."

            Scowling, he managed to belt up his gray slacks and button up his white shirt.  "I know – but that doesn't mean that I have to listen to the alarm."

            "Oh!  Then you've wasted your money."

            In response, the boy stuck out his tongue childishly, while pulling out a dark green blazer.  Slipping the garment on, he straightened the cuff and lapels, as he did so, his hand brushing the black and silver dragon embroidered on the left sleeve.  It was customary that the symbol of the clan appear on the blazer's left sleeve of all students attending Grey Tower High.

            "Well, you look…spiffy."

            "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

            "That depends.  I suppose the school must be good since it's pretty lenient about what you wear.  As long as you look respectable and wearing the blazer, which comes in different colors."  Tom wrinkled his nose in disgust.  "I knew this girl in Hogwarts, Gilda Venéer.  Always wore pastel robes, even if it was against the dress code.  Lilac, I believe, was her favorite.  Personally, I thought that Paul Lockhart was an idiot for running around with that blond.  Always used to talk about snogging at the Astronomy Tower and all with her, even though Professor Pleaides would have obviously found them if they had.  Always exaggerated."  He stopped his reminiscing at Night's laughter.  "I'm happy you find my stories so funny."

            "That's because they are," he managed to choke out.

            "They were all I had," Tom replied, somewhat stoically.  But the frown that graced his face briefly was replaced once more with a smirk.  "Though I now have a lot to deal with."

            "Thanks," Night drawled, rolling his eyes.  They were now gray due to his contact lenses.  He would put on his glasses at school.  "I'm happy to know that keeping an eye on me has become a way for you to spend time."

            "No problem!  Tell me how school goes…oh!"  The man himself on the head in a playful manner.  "The Lady says she wants to talk to you.  Soon, I think."

            "Am I in trouble?"

            "Nah, I just think she wants to see how you're doing directly from you.  I better be going.  See you soon!"  With a merry wave and a brief glimmer, the glass became blank.  The mirror shrunk to its normal compact size and dropped onto the bed with a plop, the silver dragon emblem and chain hardly noticeable in the small amount of morning light.  Chuckling, Night grabbed the trinket and slipped the chain over his neck.

            As he left the room, he looked back over his shoulder to where his pets were still lounging in the tree.  "I suppose you both had already eaten already."

            A satisfied hoot and purr was his response.  The morning grumpiness wearing off a bit after his conversation with Tom, Night merely laughed.

(())(())(())

            Not for the first time since he discovered he was an elemental, he was thankful that he had wind magic.  The fact that he could increase his speed (and fly) was a definite plus.  Especially since he was late to school.  Not a good thing.  Bran and Trina were probably wondering where he was.  And he had only fifteen minutes to the bell.

            The morning was a cold one, the dew that had collected on the lawns of Grey Tower Town looking slightly frostlike.  Weather reports had predicted a particularly cold fall and an early winter.  He preferred the cold weather, actually.  The bite of the cool wind in his face and the fresh chill in the air invigorated him, effectively bringing out of his usually morning stupor. 

            Which was he was half-running very fast and half-flying down Ariceles Boulevard, narrowly avoiding plowing into the occasional person or the quite stationary tree.  Hedwig was flying close to him, he could tell, and he couldn't help but smirk when he thought he saw the lithe form of a black cat following him.  The green and silver scarf, one of the gifts Tom had given him when Shadow had appeared, was loosely wrapped around his neck, flying backward as he continued to try to make it too school before the bell.  Zylle wasn't pleased ("I'm beginning to wonder why I bought that alarm clock, if you don't wake up to it," she had said).  But she was also late, her alarm clock also being unsuccessful that morning, as Gran was quick to put in.  So he didn't feel so bad after that.  She grinned apologetically before he ran out the door, but she made sure that he at least downed a few of Gran's pancakes before.  He was still growing and still needed to put on some more weight.  Night was still quite thin, but he noticed that he was gaining more muscle now.

            It was at this moment that some unseen force stopped him abruptly.  Startled, he fell to the pavement in a rather undignified plop.  He lay there for a brief moment, closing his gray eyes while cursing.  A feline face appeared in his vision when he opened his eyes once more, nudging his cheek slightly.  Night then stood up gingerly, looking around.  A hoot from above drew his attention skyward.

            In the beech tree that grew on the side of the road, sitting on a graceful silvery gray branch, was the Dark Lady herself.  She wore black shimmering cloak over a sleeveless hunter green gown.  The colors made her blend in very well with the beech's leaves.  On her bare arms, he noticed that she wore thin silver bangle bracelets, clinking together musically when she moved her wrist slightly.  But her face was still the same wise and benevolent one that he remembered so well, those blue eyes still as sharp and piercing as if he had just seen them just an hour ago. 

            "Lady…" he murmured in slight shock, all thoughts of school vanished and forgotten.  Night vaguely noticed that Hedwig had now flown to his shoulder, Shadow oddly still at his feet.

            She smiled at him, the one that made his initial shock and nervousness disappear.  "It is good to see you again, young one.  I assume you are doing well."

            He immediately brightened at the sound of her voice.  Night didn't know why just the thought of her always solaced him somewhat.  She was a goddess after all.  But she always felt closer than that.  Was it the fact that she took pity on him?  Saved him from…something that he couldn't remember?  He was in terrible shape when he woke up, after all.  Or was it the fact that she had brought him here, to Grey Tower Town, where he found friends and family?  He didn't know.  He did know for certain that he was forever indebted to her.

            "Very well, in fact," he answered.  "I'm an elemental!  My mother-" He paused here.  He didn't know his real mother.  That would no doubt confuse the Lady.  "Zylle – she's the woman that adopted me, my mother," he elaborated, "my grandmother – Zylle's mother, and a few others help me control it.  I even won the tournament!  Also, I have friends now.  Though I'm still concerned over the whole memory loss thing."  When he realized he was rambling, he stopped and blushed in embarrassment.

            The Lady didn't seem to mind at all.  Rather, she laughed at his reaction.  "Don't worry so much.  Thanatos can go on for hours when he is on a sugar high.  Or drunk."  She smiled and shrugged.  "Either way I'm bound to hear something odd."

            This relieved him.  He didn't appear like 'some overenthusiastic teenage twit that doesn't know when to shut up and be quiet' (Professor Coulter's words on certain students that she taught) to the Lady.

            "What I do want to know, though," she continued, a bit cryptically, "is if you are happy."

            Night blinked in surprise.  This was unexpected.

            Nuitari Hawking looked up at the Dark Lady of Annuvin, a smile playing on his lips, and replied seriously.  "I am happy.  There's no place I would rather be than here."

            And if this was a dream, he didn't want to wake up from it at all.

            I was so close.

            So why did I choose not to?

            Because…on some level, I wished to be selfish.

            It is a silly thing.  Ridiculous that I should want…no, crave to continue it.  I am Nuitari, after all.  I am the Storm Harbinger, the devouring darkness.  I am one of the cruel destroyers that fly on black wings, bringing destruction and mayhem.  I want to awaken, I truly do.  I want to serve my purpose once more.  I want to fly on the celestial winds of the universe, my black wings spread wide, experiencing the ecstasy of being part of something large.  I want to remember the good times and the bad.  I want to once more meet with my comrades again and be graced once more with the gentle smile of our creator, the Universe.  I want to have my old power and knowledge.  I want to awaken.

            But I didn't.

            I had the chance.  Right in front of me, I had the power to awaken.

            But I didn't.

            Because, despite the fact that I am not my Harbinger self, this mortal being is still essentially…me.  It is odd to say.  How can I be Nuitari and how can I be Harry?  There must be a separation, for how can one be mortal and the other immortal!  How can one remember and live the past before the existence of this planet, or even this solar system, and be the same as another who was born a mere few paltry years ago (seconds to me)?  If one knows the secrets of the ancient times, why does the other not when they are the same?  Why don't we have the same power, the power to annihilate and destroy at our slightest whim or wish?  Why does one have the wisdom of experience and age while the other is young and reckless?  It is improbable – no, impossible!  He and I could not be the same.

            I am Nuitari.  I wear the black and silver of the dark.  I carry the midnight weaponry that destroys all and never fails to cut or sear.  Black wings, darker than the darkest spring from my back when I wish to fly or hide themselves once more when I wish to walk without them.  I have walked, swam, ran, and flown over thousands of miles and light years in my existence.  I have seen countless worlds and civilizations, met with innumerable gods and individuals.  My magic is that of destructive chaos.  I have fought against the Maleficus.  I help maintain the balance of the universe.  My hands are soaked in the blood of myriad billions of worlds and I have heard untold numbers of screams.  I defied one of the Triumvirate, despite knowing that I'd be punished.  I am Nuitari.

            Harry is an innocent mortal.  He lost his parents at a young age, barely knowing their love and only privy to their memory from others.  He lived with terrible Muggles under the cupboard for ten years.  He passed difficult obstacles as a first year to face a man infested with evil in his first year.  He faced a basilisk with only a sword, a hat, and phoenix in his third year.  He drove off a troop of dementors, saving both himself and others in his third year.  He faced a dragon, dove down to the lack in a rescue mission, and survived a perilous maze to be forced as a component of evil's revival and then made to duel that monstrosity when only fourteen.  He was loved and he was hated.  He lost a friend.  He was beaten and abused.  He now lives a happier life without those foul memories in a home where he is loved for who he really is and not for his name or reputation.  He is the Black Dragon of the Arashi-Tenku.  He is Harry.

            How can he and I be the same?

            But as improbable, or impossible, as it seems, it is true.  I am Nuitari.  But I am also Harry.

            I assume it is part of our punishment, be it one that was meant to occur or not.  But the Verdict was passed and charged, and thus all of us are subject to this fate.  Locked away in the soul of a mortal, forced to endure the pain of earthly life.  To die, to be reincarnated once more.  Forever, for eternity, damned and branded as Unforgiven.  At least that is how it has been.  But I have not regretted my actions in the very least.  But I am myself and yet I am someone else.

            I guess the primary reason why I rejected the chance was for the thing I had no experience of in my prior life as a Harbinger.  Innocence.  I had always known the hows and whys.  I understood the nature of god and mortal well.  I trusted only in my creator and my fellow Harbingers.  I knew life and I knew death.  Heaven and Hell, as well as the realm forgotten by time, I have been to all and have come to see every mountain and crevasse of those lands of the Triumvirate.  The secrets were mine.  Due to this, I had a rather cynical outlook, though this was not particularly outstanding.  Most who were fated not to die were the same.  I had seen it all and then some.  Nothing could surprise me.  I had hunted and been hunted.  I had killed but could not be killed.  From the first moment of my existence, I had never been innocent.  That was too much of a luxury.  Innocence was not needed in this situation. 

            Should I take that away?

            It is an entirely new feeling.  I trust in people.  I trust in the so-called poetic justice.  Well, the me that is Harry does at any rate.  It is a strange idea, really.  As Nuitari, I just laugh at the mere thought of it.  To gain and understand the ways of the universe, to gain wisdom, requires that innocence be shed and cast aside like rubbish, trash.  It is a nice feeling though.  To have faith.  Before, the only faith that I had was that there was always a conflict and that there was always something to be destroyed to make room for something knew.  A sacrifice begot a new thing.  Innocence and faith were for those that had everything to lose, but very little gain.  I wonder at that.  Why do so much, when in the end, it is hardly worth it?  Mortals are strange beings, their values and ideals about their world silly in their naiveté and ingenuousness.  They do not know anything.  They were supposed to, if Chaos had his way.  He hadn't though.  But I don't have to anymore, to trust in the probably inevitable decay that will devour every civilization and people.  Well…of course, I believe in that.  I have seen it myself too many times, I was the agent of that destruction.  But there are other things to have faith for.  And, most importantly, I can have faith in that, in some strange and fantastic fashion, everything will turn out okay.

            I know.

            It's pathetic of me.

            But can I take that away?  Should I deprive that of an innocent?

            No, I don't think I can.

            I am Nuitari.

            I am Harry.

            I wait for Destiny to deal the cards of fate.

            I want to awaken.

Water, my life, my blood, show me what lies ahead.

Years after the rise of the Phantom

War will once more rear its head

None will be spared, all will be taken in

Conspiracy and hypocrisy, suspicion and denial

The roots of ancient abhorrence will be the doom of us all

The Sovereign will be exiled to oblivion

Forced to watch as mortal bloodshed will ensue

Blood and Lineage will be more important than Life and Magic

The demon servant will be halted in its lust for killing

The light of swift death will not harm the dark-born Catalyst

And for his attempt on Nuitari Rei, the servant will be banished

But he will come again as great as ever

The Beautiful Lady smiles as she causes strife.

The Catalyst will be tortured for nothing and will later vanish

Blood once more causes pain

The Dark Queen will appear once more

Elements will be divided

God against god, mortal against mortal

Angels once more fly across flame seared skies

Those of the elemental magic will fight

Phantom against Shining

Shining and Phantom against wizard

Secrets will be revealed

The Catalyst will realize his true self

The storm will brew and the darkness will devour

The Grey Tower will rise and the Gates will be opened

While the Spirits roar and clash

Three great powers will reunite once more

Cruel seraphs fly on wings shadowed by death

Harbingers of untold chaotic destruction

Sacred glass will shatter.

May by the grace of the elements, spare us.

Shards of the immortals.

-Cassandra Morgaine, The Apocalypse Visions

FIN…POR AHORA

And thus ends Elemental Genesis.  This now sixteen year-old (been so for since April 9th) has finished this fic…finally.

I'd like to thank everyone who has read this.  I never knew when I started this back in July of last year that it would become as great a success as it has turned out to be.  I, probably like most aspiring authors, thought I would bomb on this first writing venture of mine.  But with your encouragement and continuing curiosity, I managed to write more and better than I ever have.  You've put up with my late updates and delays (I'm still behind on a few), as well as with my excuses.  You've been great to me.  I have only all of you to thank for this. 

Elemental Prophecies will hopefully be up soon, though I'm not sure when.  But it will be.  I have major AP tests and finals coming up.  As for review responses, I have a good reason for not having them. 

I've set up a Yahoo group. which took a lot of time to set up considering the amount of information that I have.  It's the main reason why I was so late on this update.  Feel free to look.  The Yahoo Groups address is on my profile.

Special thanks go out to Arsenal, Rachel A. Prongs, Wolfmoon, and Quatre Winner.  Thanks you guys!

Thanks all of you.  You made this possible.

Sincerely, Raven Dragonclaw