The Book
Lutris Argutiae
Prologue:
The Old Man
Thinking of the past, I reminiscence on the many things that have happened during my perilous life, of the many lives I have taken over the years. Come to think of it, every one of those souls had a family, parents, friends, and loved ones. They were not monsters, and yet, I slaughtered them as if they were cattle. Their blood is on my hands, stained crimson forever into the future.
My acts were not done in cold blood, however. These were servants of a great evil, no matter how pleasant they were, or how loving they were, it made no difference; they were the hands and feet of a murderer. Murder and rape were no strangers to these men and women, and their actions were done in cold blood, or purely for fun. That was what made us different, what set us apart. I killed criminals for justice, they killed innocents for no reason at all. If there was a reason at all, that would have been at the discretion of Evil. These were the people I killed. These were the people sentenced to eternal death in the pits of the Underworld, where the demons lurked.
I suppose I should do a little more explaining.
It is the year 3019 AD. I know not when you will read this, or if you even comprehend languages in the way my people did. But hear me out. There is a spell on this tome, translating for both you and I. A spell, you say. Sounds like magic doesn't it? That is because it is magic. You may or may not be aware of the existence of magic on the planet Earth, but rest assured this is real. Frighteningly so. I know, because I was raised to kill with magic. Fighting, mauling, murdering. Blood, bone, and muscle, it did not matter. Cut through it with magic, kill the enemy, kill evil; that was all that mattered. The years of War were far into my past, however.
I have been alone and wandering for nigh short of 1000 years- all of my companions and relations dead for over a millennia. That may seem impossible to you, but to me, it is blatantly obvious. I am immortal; I cannot die. Believe me, I have tried. Stabbed in all parts of the body, shot in all vital organs, decapitated, incinerated, boiled alive, thrown off cliffs, drowned, frozen, melted, vaporized... the list goes on. I have lived through it all, and my body shows no sign of dying yet. I know not why I was chosen to live an immortal life, but to all points and purposes, I believe it was part of the prophecy I had taken part in. A kill or be killed situation, with the victor taking all; the winner destined to an everlasting vitality. My enemy, Evil, the Dark Lord, had seemingly won that fateful night, but was vanquished in the end. How, I do not remember. The only thing I do is that I killed him, I won, and His blood was on my hands, just another name and death to be dealt with.
His name was Voldemort.
Somehow, that great Evil that I faced now seems irrelevant to me. He was a Dark Lord, but more importantly, just a man. Just a man who wanted above all else to flee from death, to live forever. He should have been cursed with this gift, yet he was not. I was. And for that I honor his memory. A man who persevered to pursue his dream; the dream of all of mankind. Immortality. He was worthy. He who had killed thousands, and ordered the death of millions was more worthy than any man or woman on this planet. He was not afraid to kill and sacrifice countless others for a dream; only the strong and valiant have such strength.
But I lived, and he did not.
At the Aftermath of the War, I lived. Others rejoiced. I had hoped to be reunited at death with loved ones, to be faced with eternal sleep and bliss. But that was not to be, as I discovered later. Much later. After all, I was Immortal, was I not? Nobody knew at the time. Not even myself. For I hadn't tried to end my life yet, in the joy of peace and the prospect of prosperity. It had been a few years until the fateful time. One day, I remembered. Remembered the deaths of countless, faceless men. Women. Children. And I despaired.
The War killed many.
I think it was then that I had truly realized what I had done. I had killed. Hundreds of souls lost because of me. My hands were eternally shamed, for I had killed in cold blood. They turned red, red as blood. Stained for eternity, as I was soon to find out. In grief I tried to take my own life. Shot myself through the head with a shotgun. One slug and a bang later, I was dead. Or at least for a few seconds. I woke up to find myself bleeding at the temple. Putting a finger to my head, I had then felt the massive hole the shotgun had made in my cranium. But under my touch, it seemed to heal instantly, until there was no hole, and ho scar at where I had shot myself. Puzzled, I had left the thought behind, staring at my crimson palms.
It was then that catastrophe occurred. A Demon, as prophesied by Nostradamus, though a decade late, had leapt forth from the bowels of the Underworld, and scorched the sky. For One Hundred Days and Nights the skies burned in flames. Many more men died in those dark days, until there were no more men to die. As it turns out, I had killed another being on the One Hundred-First Morning. The demon had died, turning my hands a darker red, a deep, burning red.
The ground was burned. The wildlife disappeared. Only a few places in the world retained their heathen beauty, and I spent the next several centuries curing world of its maladies. Gradually, the earth became richer, the skies a clear blue, and the seas clear. Life returned, and with it, humanity. Adam and Eve had come back, apparently. Only two mortals survived the coming of the Demon, one boy and one girl. They had grown, and in the female, the innate gift of magic had resided, and in the male, the gift of knowledge and adaptation. They had restarted the human race, and society formed once again, over the years.
It is now the year 3019 AD. Now, the world is filled with lush forest, teeming with birds, fish, animals, with life. Villages have formed in various locations around the globe. The ruins of castles and tall buildings have provided safe haven for many creatures, even humans for a time.
I think it is time.
Time to leave behind this legacy, the legacy of the End of the First, and the War it entails. I leave this tome containing this legacy here, at the place it all started. The place where I grew up, the place where I killed the Dark Lord, the place I defeated the Demon, the place Adam and Eve had first met. The place, which was given life by four magicians, the wisest of their age.
Hogwarts.
I shall leave this in the late Headmasters' Office. Should anyone come across this volume, this marks the first change. Magic shall once again rejoin the cycle of life. Lost, it has been, ever since the age of Eve. The ability lies dormant in all her children, and so it is in all humanity. The finder of this tome will learn. Learn of the Lost Age, of the Last War, the End of the First Age. Learn, of Magic.
Alas, my time grows short. I must depart, and wander once again. It seems my destiny had forced me to become something I never wanted to be, never dreamed of. I wander this world, nurturing life, encouraging death, for that is what I must do. I am the Immortal. I am the Guardian of this World, the Warrior for the Light and Dark, The Boy-Who-Lived. So it has been, So it is, and So shall it be forever.
I leave this to the Future.
Harry Potter
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An old man, looking at around age eighty or so stood in the clearing. He was wearing a white robe, and a white pointed hat sat on his head, a pure white owl on his shoulder. A tall, gnarled, wooden staff was in his hands, which were stained red. He had a thick, heavy-looking, moss green book tucked under his arm. With a great sigh, he laid his staff down, and took the book. Looking around, as if looking for something important, he walked around the clearing, through the shafts of light drifting in from between the treetops. After a while, he stopped walking, and turned to a stump covered with vines and leaves to his right. With a few muttered words, the vegetation fell away, and a magnificent golden perch appeared, not fitting in with the surrounding nature, looking strangely artificial. The old man placed his hand underneath the bar where a bird would have at one point resided, where for some reason a pile of ash rested on. As he did so, his fingers brushed against a plaque with an engraving on it, clearing the grime and dust away. It read Fawkes the Phoenix.
The old man stared at the plaque for a few minutes before he moved again. As if lost in memory, he moved about the clearing, vanishing vines and other plants from the many angular shapes adorning the forest floor. Finally, after a few hours, all evidence of the forest was moved into the trees surrounding the clearing, which now sported a large desk, several aged bookcases, and a countless amount of portrait frames. The old man looked upon the desk fondly, and then gazed at the frames, as if hoping for one to be remaining. After a few minutes of silence, the apparently convinced, but visibly saddened old man went back to the desk, and sat on it. Stroking his flowing, pure white beard, which easily reached down to his knees, the old man said,
"Albus, my old, old friend. I haven't visited in a while, but I trust everything is well off in the next world. I thought I'd leave this book for you to guard until someone worthy comes along to find it. You know, just for old times sake. You still owe me that life debt, you know, so I'm charging you to this task. I daresay, Albus, that you actually might enjoy doing this, so don't worry. I'm not telling you to come out of peace for nothing, I promise you that. So. What say you, old friend?"
As if in response, the wind in the trees rustled softly, and a shaft of light shone upon the desk, right beside the old man's seat upon it. The old man nodded in understanding, hopped off with surprising ability for a man of his age, took the battered, timeworn book, and placed it within the beam. The trees rustled again, and the old man nodded once more.
"Well Albus, I must get going. Can't help but wander around at this old age you know, old friend. I'll come back once in a while to check on the book, so be careful with it, and no pranking any muggles who come here just for the fun of it, all right? So, good bye for now, and take care, Albus."
With that, the old man turned around briskly, his robes flowing behind him. He started walking away, and the staff jumped from its resting place against a tree into his awaiting hand. The old man proceeded to leave the clearing, and after stepping into the enclosed, tunnel-like forest just outside, and disappeared into the darkness.