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When Worlds Collide
A Long-awaited Visit
Albus Dumbledore felt as giddy as a schoolboy.
A Summoner was coming to Hogwarts!
Pride and excitement filled the aged Headmaster of the best School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on Earth and made it so that it was an effort for him not to bounce around the beloved stone corridors like a zippy child.
A Summoner! At Hogwarts!
When he'd received the politely worded letter requesting permission for a Lord Summoner and his entourage to visit the legendary castle, he couldn't believe his luck.
Summoners were rare, revered beings.
They were practitioners of a most ancient, sacred art, sworn to protect the people from uncommon magical threats. Only a chosen few ever became Summoners, for the title was not given to any magic users, no matter how powerful, skilled or well-trained, unless they manifested the rare talent of calling to their aid the mighty, mysterious beings known as Aeons, entities of greater power than ordinary magical creatures can hope to wield.
They were the blessing of Magic itself to its practitioners, according to the old lore. A living, breathing legend...
Common knowledge about them was sadly scarce.
Proverbs and old wives' tales, children's stories and myths that saw Lords or Ladies Summoners as protagonists were typical and loved and, unfortunately, often unverified, the source of exaggerated and untrue details. Just a few salient points were shared by all and every tale: the Aeons, the initial trial that proved the fledging Summoner's status and gained them the title, and the pilgrimage that by general consensus each Summoner was to undertake to earn the Aeons' allegiance and develop their strength in body and mind.
Albus assumed that this Lord Summoner had chosen Hogwarts as one of the stops on his pilgrimage and he was delighted with pride for his beloved school. He was also very determined to be as prepared as humanly possible for this auspicious event.
He had done a lesson to the whole school himself, ensuring that every student knew what a rare, unprecedented honour this was, as well as how they should behave. He wouldn't risk offending such an important guest and he refused to let the children in his care be superficial about the amazing opportunity they were being gifted with.
They were lucky indeed!
Such an event was far rarer than even the Occultation of Uranus by Neptune...
Besides all the noble reasons for his giddiness, however, there were some rather more down-to-earth ones. Mainly, the fact that Albus could not help hoping, if only in a quieted corner of his heart, that the Summoner might be coming to deal with Voldemort. Or at least might be persuaded to help...
Admittedly it was unlikely. Summoners did not deal with standard magic, and no matter how horrifying Tom Riddle's actions might become, nothing thought of and acted upon by man was likely to require the attention of a true Summoner.
No, it was the most violent and uncontrolled phenomena of wild magic that called for the intervention of a Summoner, or at the most, their direct effects – such as the birth of magical monsters or the spreading of epidemic infections. Disaster events, causing thousands of deaths. Nothing less.
It was a Lord Summoner who had faced the onslaught of unnatural earthquakes that had riddled the Yucatan peninsula in the times of the Cocom Kings, provoking avalanches of snow and, in the planes, of mud, that could not be stopped by any means, magical or not.
It was a Lady Summoner who had gained control of the wild waters flooding central China during the Ming Dynasty and turned their devastating, destructive force into a source of healing and revivifying for the land.
Wild magic cyclones... unexpected mutations of common creatures into ferocious or overpowered versions... limnic eruptions suffocating wildlife, livestock and humans... sudden climate changes such as entire regions freezing overnight into ice-covered wastelands... those were the kind of things a Summoner usually dealt with.
And it had been the birth of a Summoner who had, at long last, defeated the horrid Black Plague, back in the times when muggles and magicals alike died by the millions...
His mentor, Nicholas Flamel, had recalled meeting the man, and spoken to Albus in such awed and grateful tones, even after centuries had passed since the Lord Summoner's sacrifice had produced the cure, that the old Headmaster had no doubt the meeting they were preparing for would be a most extraordinary experience.
He was determined to make everything go well.
He went around in person, trying to ensure that the castle looked its best to welcome the amazing guest.
Portraits were scrubbed, despite their subjects' loud and sometimes foul protests, suit of armours were polished to the point of gleaming, out-of-sight corners were scrubbed clean more thoroughly than ever in the last century; staff and students were growing increasingly excited and, at the same time, awfully tense; rooms were being prepared for their guest and whatever entourage would be coming with him; the House-elves were working themselves into a state over cleansing and cooking arrangements; the Great Hall and all the major places in the castle – the Library, the Quidditch Pitch, even the Hospital Wing – were being decorated lavishly.
Everybody who fancied themselves of importance in the wizarding world, from Minister Fudge to the nephew of School Governor Bowetts, were clamouring to be invited to Hogwarts at the right time, to meet the Lord Summoner; the press was already laying siege to the school, waiting for the once-in-a-lifetime event to actually take place.
It was the talk of the country, unsurprisingly. Everybody was curious, everybody was interested, and everybody was excited.
General morale would benefit greatly from the event, undoubtedly, and Albus would not pretend, not even with himself, that he didn't have high expectations on this visit.
They badly needed a boost to their spirit. Things had been bleak the past few years.
And while the full blame could not possibly be laid at any man's feet, Albus knew he had his fair share of responsibility for the returning darkness that had been creeping back into their world with increasing alarmingly greed.
Merely thinking of the series of mistakes he'd made – with the best of intentions, perhaps, but still with horrifying results – was enough to seep all of his confidence from him, weakening his spirit and making him feel tired and brittle and oh, so old. The weight of guilt was hard to bear.
Harry Potter's disappearance… he could admit, now, that he'd made a sad error in leaving the child with his mother's muggle family - and probably doomed them all in the process, considering the ill-fated prophecy that concerned him and Voldemort.
But how was he to imagine?
When dear Arabella had flooed him rather frantically about the child's disappearance, he'd felt his heart stop. All sorts of dark scenarios about kidnapping and capture by Death Eaters sympathizers had flashed through his mind. Especially when no tracking charm had worked – at all.
He'd been prepared to force a brave face to cope with and comfort the distress he'd expected from the worried family... he'd been completely taken aback by the callous indifference and malicious glee he'd been met with – the nonchalance with which they rejoiced in being free of the 'freakish burden', the spitefulness and malignity, and the heart-stopping realization of just how hard the child's years in that house must have been. The cupboard under the stairs, that still bore an innocent, childish drawing as silent testimony of Albus' tremendous miscalculation, had been the last straw.
He had spent the following months fretting and worrying. What could have happened to the precious child? Where might he be? In what condition would he arrive at Hogwarts?
Because, for all his worry, he'd never, not for one minute, doubted that Harry Potter would show up with his peers, as was only natural. He'd never even considered that the child would stay missing!
He'd been ready to do as much damage control as was needed, to fix what could be fixed and make amends to the best of his abilities. Not for a moment had he thought that he would never get a chance.
He'd had such high hopes.
He had hoped that Harry Potter would have joined Hogwarts as a rather normal, unprejudiced child, not spoilt by the lavish sycophancy of the wizarding world. He had hoped that Harry would have been curious and quite outgoing, that he would have been placed in Gryffindor and that it would have been easy to subtly influence and help him through a series of character-building challenges designed to guide him towards his fated destiny.
Instead...
Instead, his heart could only ache at the mere thought of the lost child-hero, which was invariably followed by rows and rows of familiar young faces flashing through his mind – the children his mistake had doomed to an age of war and, ultimately, darkness.
Although he would never give up and never stop working to the fullest extent of his ability to stall the rising shadows, for several years now he'd felt like he was fighting a losing battle.
As he had feared ever since that fateful Halloween night, Voldemort – far from being permanently vanquished – had at last returned. Of that, Albus had no doubt: the rumours had started spreading almost three years ago and the signs of the feared Dark Lord slowly but surely regaining power and influence had been piling up more and more as time went by.
The slow, steady takeover was not altogether very different from the early stages of the previous war: so far, the battlefield was mainly political, with several pardoned Death Eaters manoeuvring themselves into key positions in the Ministry, in the Hogwarts Board of Governors, in many essential financial venues, even in St. Mungo's.
Whatever crime was committed – and there were, if one knew to look – was kept under wraps or confined to the muggle world, out of view of the wizarding populace, while the regrouped Death Eaters went about their goals discreetly but unhindered – despite their general policy of 'gain through any means'.
Unfortunately, the combination of heavy bribes and intimidation tactics they were employing was extremely effective and all but impossible to truly counter.
Albus alone, it seemed, was reading the message these manoeuvring were spelling out: the Dark Lord was definitely on the move. Most others, even those whose intellect and integrity he'd come to respect over the years, like Amelia Bones, despite aware of the increasing activity from the Dark side of their society, were for the time being blind to the more frightening implications of such a shift in the general views and political lines.
Albus felt powerless to stop the spreading darkness, mainly because he was but one man, and an ageing one at that. The Light side had no charismatic figure to stand by his side and take on at least one of the fields of battle. No-one who could inspire the respect and loyalty a leader truly needs. There was only him, and he, quite frankly, could simply not do enough.
By far the worst element of these gloomy times, however, were the rumours of Voldemort using Alchemy.
Alchemy!
Albus knew it couldn't be true. His friend and teacher, Nicholas Flamel, and he, himself, were the only Alchemists left. Thank Merlin! As wondrous and powerfully versatile as Alchemy was, it was simply too dangerous to let it spread. The potential for misuse was greater than for any other form of magic.
Alchemy... the Greatest Art, the mystical science of manipulating and altering matter by using natural energy, the most noble and most sought after of the magical crafts...
As a young man, Albus had been arrogantly proud of being one of the remarkable individuals capable of studying and practising it. Alchemy didn't just involve a full understanding of complicated theories, of which chemistry, hermeticism, medicine and philosophy were merely pale reflections, but also a sort of natural talent towards recognizing and manipulating physical objects through the energies of the world. It required uncommon levels of intelligence and aptitude and for this, his apprenticeship under the great Alchemist Flamel had appeared to him as the highest coronation of his ambitions.
He was gifted, he was brilliant, and what better way to shine than to become an Alchemist?
Far better than his foolish time with Gellert, at any rate...
But as every mentor must do, Nicholas had opened his eyes to more than the paths by which Alchemists can transmute the various substances of the world: and Albus had eventually realized just how dark and sinister Alchemy can be.
The alpha and omega of every Alchemist's philosophy should have been the tenet of Equivalent Exchange – the one law that transcends all others – and because of that, the art should have been self-limiting, since there are things, like lives and souls for instance, whose value is, simply put, incalculable, incomparable, impossible to weight in an exchange; yet, weather out of despair, malice or inquisitive hubris, innumerable Alchemists had, over the centuries, attempted to push the boundaries of that basic law above and beyond, and paid a hefty price; nor was it any use hoping that the vetoes discovered through countless mistakes and their horrific consequences would be heeded by all.
Albus himself knew all too well the powerful temptation lying in the idea of human transmutation – the undeniable, inescapable wish to bring deceased loved ones back to life – and had been unable to rid himself of it completely, even after all these years, despite managing to resist the temptation of actually attempting it.
The fact that such pursuits had always been failures in history did not make the idea any less tantalizing; and so, many an Alchemist had fallen and stooped to playing god, breaking the flow of the universe itself through forbidden endeavours, and many more innocent people had ended up paying the price of the devastating rebounds.
Thus it had become common practice in the last couple centuries, mainly due to Nicholas Flamel and his intelligent wife, to further screen potential Alchemists on ethical basis, and soon only lone, half-crazed Alchemists had trodden the paths of human transmutations – and they were usually quickly stopped, so that for several decades their world had not seen any of the worst excesses that, say, Greece had faced in the wake of the Telchines' experiments on chimeras, or the Byzantine sea fire...
Albus had no doubt that Voldemort did not – never had, never would – pass the requisites of ethical integrity to become a true apprentice of the Greatest Magical Art. He would not stop before any taboo, not even the greatest of all, the forbidden manipulation of human souls. The extraction of souls, or parts of, from human bodies and the alchemical binding of said souls to inanimate objects was something that had caught his eye all the way back to his teenage years, if Albus' discreet research into Voldemort's past was to be believed. The old Headmaster felt cold shivers down his back every time he lingered on the idea.
Nor was that all. Already there was talk of his using homunculi... alchemically created humans, or at least, humanoid creatures. Albus did not believe that Voldemort had truly found out how to create and control such constructs. The knowledge had been deliberately lost over time, because of the unacceptable price it required and because of the unethical implications of a process that amounted to building a human.
On the other hand, there was always the possibility that one solitary Alchemist might have survived the purge, passed on his knowledge in secret, or even survived as Nicholas had... and the fact that Voldemort was claiming to have homunculi under his control was worrisome even if false. Reports might have been sparse and obviously exaggerated, but were nevertheless disquieting. And if it weren't just rumours... the possibility of a rogue Alchemist serving Voldemort, or, Merlin forbid, teaching him, was frightening.
Albus wished he'd had a chance to examine the supposed homunculi himself, but the Dark Lord seemed very careful in keeping them out of his reach. That was, perhaps, a good sign, as it might well indicate that they were fakes and Voldemort knew Albus would identify them as such with ease.
But what if...
Ah, well. There was little he could do, no matter his wishes. At least now they had something awe-inspiring to look forward to!
A Summoner...! The thought was enough to return a smile to his aged face.
The letter that had arrived, disclosing the existence of a living legend and politely requesting permission for said legend to visit Hogwarts, was quite possibly the best thing that had happened to him in years.
A Summoner was coming to Hogwarts!
Even his much loved tart sweets seemed tastier these days!
While doing his rounds in the school, Albus found himself oftentimes chuckling good-naturedly at the palpable excitement coming from his dear students. No matter where in Hogwarts he went, there seemed to be only one topic of conversation: the approaching visit of a true Summoner.
Rumours were, naturally, flying from student to student, as they were wont to do: how would he look like, what would he like, would he be young or old, arrogant or friendly, single or taken – ah, teenagers! - would he stay at Hogwarts long, would he show them some cool magic, would he come alone or not... and of course, most of all, everybody wondered who the Summoner might be.
Albus was rather sure he could only be a stranger. The power of a Summoner... it would have been impossible to hide; had he been born in Europe, his appearance would not have been so sudden nor, certainly, unexpected, at least not to him.
No, he had to be a foreigner; an Asian, most likely.
Far East communities were both vast and secretive. It was no stretch of the imagination to think that the Lord Summoner might have been raised and trained in some hidden location and had only revealed himself to the world at large when it was time for his pilgrimage.
A pilgrimage that, Albus thought with satisfaction, was taking him to Hogwarts: thus marking the school as one of the most important magical places in the world – a world that would most likely be watching every minute of the visit; which was the reason why he, as Headmaster, was going to make sure they would make a lasting and most of all positive impression for the occasion.
Unfortunately, nobody knew the details of the sacred journey this Summoner was likely on; however some elements were common to so many accounts that Albus felt confident they could be trusted and used to plan the visit to perfection.
First of all, the innumerable variations on the concept of a 'Cloister of Trials' marking every stop of the pilgrimage.
Those who sought to learn the secrets of the Aeons, said the legend, were tested by it – a sort of maze, Albus guessed, because the Summoner had to 'find the right way'. Some records even claimed that the Cloisters were the Aeons' lairs or dens.
He wasn't sure what to make of it.
There was nothing of the sort in Hogwarts: he would never dream of assuming he knew all of the school's secrets, but surely something of that magnitude couldn't have remained hidden for ages, could it?
Many legends and rumours also contained an element of sacrifice to the pilgrimage's end – Summoners offering their lives to protect the world. It was probably one of the reasons why they were always revered – everywhere, under every sun – and often even worshipped.
They were the embodiment of Protectors of the Greater Good he had, in his youth, aspired to being himself. And not only was one alive in their time... but he was coming to Hogwarts!
Hopefully, anyway, the sacrificial component of a Summoner's job would not come into play during his stay. That would likely become a public relation nightmares.
Last but not least, every account mentioned the presence of Guardians.
By general consensus, a Guardian was a warrior tasked with protecting the Summoner during their pilgrimage. A Summoner could have just one or many. They lived and travelled with the Summoner they were protecting and were the only ones allowed to accompany a Summoner at any time, in any place. Nobody could bar the way to a Guardian protecting their Summoner – and if they did, woe to them.
Guardians were held to a very high standard and strict code of conduct. They always had considerable fighting skills but they never used them just for personal gain. Rather, they were true servants of the Greater Good, like Albus himself had always striven to be, albeit in different fields than bodyguarding and fights.
Many spurious stories also claimed they were bound to uphold the ideals of righteousness and honour, others that they were required to go to any length to repay a debt or a favour received, or that they would always seek vengeance against a villain, never to be stopped by man or law...
They were all a bunch of nonsense in Albus' opinions.
A Guardian's one and only duty was to their Summoner. There might be a hierarchy among them but they submitted to no higher authority except the Lord or Lady Summoner they freely served. They recognized no other leader, accepted no other rule, and concerned themselves with no other goal than to protect their charge. Of that, he had almost substantial proof: there was a frail tome in the Magical Library of Melk titled The Code of the Guardian. Albus had never had a chance to read it, but the one page that was shown in many reproductions, a beautifully illuminated sheet of parchment, offered the command: Protect the Summoner, even at the cost of one's life.
He wondered how many would accompany this particular Summoner, and how they would all compare to the tales of their legend.
Something told him that if they did, they might well end up striking the students' fancy more than the Summoner himself...
The night of the planned arrival, the excitement reached its peak.
The buzz of students' excited chatter was like a pleasant vibration everywhere, charging the air with their barely contained enthusiasm. Everything seemed to sparkle with expectations and delight.
Albus felt the wards shift as Minerva welcomed the awaited visitors and led them in and he raised to his feet, hushing the Hall to eager whispers tapering off to feverishly expectant silence.
All eyes in the Great Hall were fixed on the doors as they opened with a low rumble, letting four people walk in and down the carpeted path that had been prepared between the long House tables, Professor McGonagall quite overlooked in their wake.
Three of them – the Guardians, everybody guessed – stood in formation around the fourth, who was hidden from view by an elegant, cerulean cloak.
The tallest Guardian in front immediately caught the students' eyes, because of his confident gait and sexy, cocky smirk, but more than that, because he was carrying a sword. An awesome sword, long and deadly, with what Albus was reasonably sure was a pistol serving as the hilt for the blade, adding to its impressive appearance.
He wore a long, light grey coat, with a peculiar emblem on the sleeves, over a blue vest and dark pants, as well as black gloves and what only the muggleborns recognized as military boots. Something silvery shone around his neck.
He held his square chin high, boldly displaying the scar that ran from his forehead and across his nose, and walked in such a way as to convey even at a distance an impression of strength, but also stubbornness and perhaps recklessness. His demeanour certainly didn't show anything remotely resembling caution, and even less fear. His blue-green eyes were alight with excitement and arrogance as he took in the floating candles, the curious students, life in general.
Leading the way, he strode confidently and smirked at everybody in a way that had many a girl sighing dreamily over his muscled form and bright blond hair.
Following him, slightly to the Summoner's left, was a fairly tall, lean teenager who wore a long cloak, the collar high to hide the lower half of his face. It was clothes the wizards were more accustomed to and they immediately assumed he was a spell-caster like them, if foreigner. He had an Asian look to him anyway.
He glided – for he didn't seem to be walking – barely a step away from the Summoner and his countenance couldn't be more different from the blond's. Unlike the sword-wielding Guardian, he didn't project an aura of physical strength and energy ready to lash out. In fact, every movement was careful and tightly controlled, as if he was conserving his energy. And all the more frightening for this.
Despite his straight long hair, as black as a raven's wing, and the lithe elegance of his body and movements, he wasn't attractive: on the contrary, the shiver running down many students' bodies had him declared creepy almost on sight.
Perhaps it was his pallor, that prompted many a hurried whisper of 'Vampire!' More likely, it was the empty look in his dull black eyes, that didn't seem to see what he looked at. Some of the whispers reaching Albus even speculated that he was blind.
Bringing up the rear was the oldest of the group, a tall man in his late twenties, with a dark complexion and a muscular build. His hair was, shockingly enough, pure white and shaved close on the back and sides, leaving a fluffy crown on top.
He was wearing black slacks with a white cross on the left leg and a white stripe running down the right and a rather distinctive sleeveless gold-coloured jacket emblazoned with a cross on the back.
People were hard pressed to decide whether they were more unnerved by the impressive X-shaped scar, which stretched across his forehead and down over his eyes into his upper cheekbones, or the complex, mysterious symbols tattooed all over his left arm, from the thin mark of a scar stretching entirely around the limb where the biceps met the shoulder and all the way down to the wrist. The black ink seemed to pulse.
It was the red eyes that topped it all, though, and even drew some scared whimpers from the less rational students. Surprisingly, that made the unnerving young Asian's lips curl into a cruel mocking smirk.
The white-haired Guardian held himself in a kind of relaxed tension that showed him ready to face any threat and his eyes darted around the hall not in wonder, but registering the details, assessing the threats, seeking the exit routes. His serious, impassive expression stated clearly that an enemy would only reach the Summoner in bloody pieces, even if it cost him his life.
Of the Summoner himself they couldn't see much at first.
The four walked calmly up to the space before the High Table, where the Guardians spread out, not needing words to share the tasks of keeping an eye on the students (the cocky swordsman), the teachers (the eldest one) and the rest of the environment (the creepy one, whose eyes unexpectedly lit with a red glow, circles crossing circles in place of pupils, to the general fear and dismay of everybody).
Albus had to admire their discipline and the dedication that kept them alert and tense even in a situation unlikely to present any threats. They said nothing however and let their Summoner take a couple more steps and meet the Headmaster.
Albus Dumbledore, blue eyes twinkling madly and the orange whirlpools on his purple robes twirling, stepped up to initiate the moves of the ancient salute.
His voice almost shook with emotion: "Welcome, my Lord Summoner, to Hogwarts!"
Cheers went up from every corner of the Great Hall. The stars reflected in the ceiling seemed to shine brighter than ever…