I don't own Harry Potter. I soo wish I did.
A boy was walking through the field. He didn't know it, but a thousand years ago he would have been called a "muggle." Everyone who was alive now was a muggle.
The field was overgrown with tangled thorns and wild flowers. To his left was a vast forest that had taken over most of the grounds. To his right was a small mountain, on top of which stood ruins of a great castle.
The boy often walked this way. He was from a small town near the edge of the forest, one that had been called thousands of years ago, although he didn't know it, Hogsmead. The boy knew that if he kept walking he'd come to a deep black lake. Some of the villagers said that a monster thousands of years old lived at the bottom of this lake. The boy didn't believe them.
There were a lot of stories about this place. The older folk spoke of ghosts that haunted the ruins and of creatures neither human nor horse that lived in the forest. They talked of a time, long ago far out of anyone's memory, a time where the place had been a school of the most unusual sort. A time of beauty and power and sorcery. The boy loved these tales, but he didn't believe them.
The boy tripped over a root and was sent sprawling into the undergrowth. He looked up at found himself at the base of a platform. Long ago it had been a monument or statue, maybe, but now the sides were chipping away. Curious, the boy looked at the top of it, gasping when he realized what it was.
A tomb. A tomb crafted entirely of white stone. On the top were etched letters, weather-beaten by the centuries but still readable: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE. There were more words under those two, but the boy couldn't make them out. He ran his hand over the cool surface.
How did you die?
The thought sprang to his mind, unbidden, unwanted, but now that it was there he pursued it, looking eagerly over the stone for a cause of death.
Suddenly, a wave of pain swept through him and he sank to his knees, his hands still touching the tomb. Memories that weren't his own rushed at him.
It was long ago. He was sitting in behind a desk, headmaster of a school of magic. He was a great wizard, battling with dragons and consulting with goblins. He was more powerful than any king alive now.
There was a boy, a boy with dark hair and shifty eyes. He went through the school, was wall liked, an amazing wizard. The headmaster didn't like him, thought he would be evil. When this boy, now a man, asked for a post at the school, the headmaster turned him down.
The boy crouching in the field gasped at these memories, coming so vivid from somewhere. Another wave passed through him and he was dragged once more into that time.
There was evil now. Bad men running over the country with very large people and things that didn't seem to have faces. They were being opposed, but the evil forces were winning. The headmaster was a good man; he tried to fight the evil with a small band of people. These people were being killed.
Then something happened. A tipping point. The evil man, the boy with dark hair and red eyes, went to a house. He killed two people, but not a third. A baby earned a scar that night. A scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.
The memories were easier to take now. His mind was accepting them as if they were his own.
This boy was important. He grew up in a house without magic, but was taken away by a man much larger than ordinary size. The boy went to the school where the headmaster taught. He made friends.
Two people showed clearly in the boy's mind. A red-head, tall and gangly with many freckles and a girl with bushy brown hair and a knowing smile.
These friends would be with him until they died. They were important too.
The group got into trouble at school. They faced the evil man, now not standing upright like a man. They defeated him. Then the evil man did something, took the scar-boy out of the school. Took his blood. The evil man had a body again, and followers.
The group that had opposed the evil man before was starting again. The boy with the scar and his friends fought against the evil man and his followers at the school where the headmaster taught.
The thoughts were getting jumbled in the boys mind. Weird pictures flashed by...locket...snake...cup...book...what did it mean?
The headmaster and the boy with the scar weren't at the school when it was attacked. When they got back, a boy was waiting for them. With the boy was more men, one whom the headmaster trusted. The man he trusted took out a stick and killed him.
So that's how you died? A man you knew killed you during a battle?
The memories weren't finished. These ones were different, as if the boy was seeing them through a foggy window.
The boy with the scar and his two friends continued to fight. They were looking for...something...They found it. A large battle ensued in which a lot of people died. The boy with the scar killed the evil man, but while he was doing this, the red-head died.
A government that had been shattered by the events was rebuilt. The boy with the scar was head of this government. He had a wife, a red-headed girl whom he loved deeply.
A golden-age of wizards, lasting for five hundred years, followed. Wizards lived in peace with all creatures of magic. The great battle was forgotten, the boy with the scar passing out of memory.
And wizards died off. The school was forgotten, the old ways were forgotten. Wizards began fighting amongst themselves. There were a thousand left...a hundred...ten...one...
The boy started crying. A few last pictures came back to him.
The boy with the scar was placing flowers at the grave of the red-head boy. The red-head girl was placing flowers at the grave of the boy with the scar. The last wizard, the very last one left in the world, coming to the white tomb to place flowers before all magic died out.
The boy stood up, shaking. He knew now how the headmaster called Dumbledore had died. How magic itself had died. The boy sat on top of the white tomb until the sun set, thinking of the headmaster, and the evil man, and the boy with the scar. They were all connected, somehow.
The boy walked away from the tomb, his black hair glinting in the sunlight that bounced off the glasses that covered his brilliant green eyes. Behind him, though he couldn't see it, were flowers placed by the tomb centuries ago by the last wizard. They started blooming again.
Weird, I know, but review anyway. Please?