"For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream." Vincent Van Gogh
A man dressed in tattered remains of what was once an elegant robe looked through a small window of rusty bars in his cell. Even the last dark rays of sunlight faded. The only light he had…
How many years had he been sitting there? Before his sight, the moonlight swirled over their heads, piercing that gloomy space of dark cells and even more terrible guards. A hundred rays of light bounced off the polished and pristine surface of the surrounding water.
Then, what he once saw as the boring and cruel routine of every day changed, and something in his eyes also changed. The ground began to shake, with slight cracks in the snow-covered rock. The environment changed, and a huge white spearhead pierced the ground and rose into the sky in a spectral glow. Astonished, he noticed it was not an ice peak or a new mountain, but a tower built against the blue sky and its bright white moon. A shriek echoed through the air. A strange aurora borealis flooded space and made the stars tremble. Gusts of wind whipped violently against the snow, and a gigantic tornado slammed its furious head into the turbulent sky. He understood changes were coming. He understood, at last.
The man who was betrayed couldn't help but shudder after his vision ended, and it was not caused by the dementor walking a few meters from his position but to a terrible confirmation. The Twilight of the Fourth had come.
Perhaps his day was also approaching, a day when he could fulfil those promises he had made long, oh so long, ago.
There had been five of them once. They lived for adventure and entrusted themselves to it in their school years beyond the Revolution. Then there were six eternal dreamers, sick people with the darkness that was threatening the world. But in reality, they were four and then five.
He remembered Remus as a quiet almost shy young man, but fierce when the battlefield was a mess, he remembered his words when they swore eternally in the bond of all of them.
He remembered Amelia, the woman who he once loved, her always erratic and passionate way, her predatory smile. "Yes!" she once said, her red hair tousled as the flames shone in those eyes, so bright and full of life. "We will make our own way; we will take care of everyone when no one does; our history is not written in stone, and we will rewrite the world together."
James behind him had made his typical proud and dumb Potter smile, while Lily Evans only stood up straight, determination clear on her hardened face. Their eyes were lit up with the same fervour that all shared.
Of course, the fourth marauder was missing. They had not given it any real importance. But Sirius later, too late for when it mattered, realized that it had only been four and then five.
Lily and James had fallen under Voldemort's wand after having challenged him three times. He was imprisoned in the middle of a burst of madness after losing two of his best friends and the treason of one. Amelia was living at that time interned in life with the obsolete command of the Aurors. Remus was afflicted by his werewolf curse, the wounds of a fight against a group of Death Eaters, and the loneliness of losing his friends.
The rat… Peter had only been a cowardly traitor and murderer.
Only he seemed to be still sick with how the world was going, only he and possibly Amelia (as far as he knew) had remained.
He had heard nothing of Lupin, whether he was alive or dead from his old wounds. All he knew was that Dumbledore remained immovable just like the other great wizards and that Harry was alive and Voldemort dead. The latter thanks to the increasing number of Death Eaters that had arrived and the screams of mockery by the guards of the ministry when they entered Azkaban from time to time.
His body trembled at the cold air that went into his lungs.
They could have been the biggest stars of their generation. But then betrayal, the desire for power, the darkness…
Under the gentle murmur of the waves and the gestating change, Sirius Black set out again to change the world. If it couldn't be everyone's, let it be one's son. Harry Potter is the son of the man who could well have been his brother. The white eyes faded into black.
And the man, because the ghost of the past is no more, began to think once more. The spark of his intelligence takes on the power of a fully fuelled flame. He had a godson to visit, and he had to leave in that instant.
A human jailer then decided to stop in front of the crude cell with his wand glowing as a whitish weasel bounced around him, protecting him. Patronus. Sirius thanked him for that would make his wish come true.
"Black," he spat, his mind ruminating as if verbally torturing him, not seeing the wolf smile on the imprisoned man's lips.
The black eyes flashed white once more to the jailer. The vital points and magic surrounding both became visible. Then a scream and darkness.
Hegelian Hawkins fell fainting on the floor as the heir to House Black picked up a wand for the first time in ten and a half years. There were things to do. The wand, though it was not his, answered. An ultrasonic screech knocked down the wall.
Debris in gray and black collapsed in on itself as good old Padfoot waved the icy air of the frigid night.
"Well, sadly, I'm serious about this, Heg. I need your clothes," he commented to himself, the screeches of the dementors getting closer and closer to him. A snap, a movement, and he saw himself in a new outfit.
Then it was a matter of being undetectable to the dark beasts that devoured souls.
And so the body changed. The bones twisted and contracted, lengthened, and were born… Muscles were crushed and modified. The process didn't usually hurt in the least, but years of magical inaction beyond the last seven months had reduced it to that state.
A howl echoed under the full moon as the muscles in his hind legs propelled him forward, toward freedom, out of the filth within Azkaban. The wild dog's dark fur was whipped back with the frigid air along his tail. But for him, it couldn't have been more gratifying.
The animal's eyes flashed before he looked at the depth of the water.
A man with blue, twinkling eyes was pondering about the meaning of all in a quiet night.
Fire, destruction, and renewal. That symbolized the song of the phoenix in its perpetual flight. Fingers drummed on the polished wood. A constant and simple rhythm that contained a story and a promise.
Summer. Hope, life, and passion. That was the power of the Fae that swarmed outside of Avalon. He had taken both and even more, in a power passed down from generation to generation.
He saw the dark clouds descend from the heavens; he heard the roar of thunder as the storm formed. As a young man, he believed himself to be a man who was a great man: free, powerful, and respected. He was powerful; all the nations of the world sang about his magic and abilities while praising his feats. He was respected by everyone, including his enemies, who respected and feared what he represented.
Yet, free… The sound of his song in the Great Music chained him to the world, to humanity. Time tied him to the body he possessed. It was not the common definition of a free man. And despite this, Albus Dumbledore gratefully accepted taking charge of the world he was living in and the people that were living with him; he engaged in every battle carrying such a burden. For the greater good.
Therefore, it was time to remember.
And with great pride and regret, he drew the wand he had won, the wand he had mastered. The tip of the mystical elderberry sank into the silvery liquid of his pensieve.
As the face of a Gellert many years younger than the one he knew sank into memories, he watched him, his concern hidden behind steely eyes. Just as he had done. A huge bank of thick, dark clouds was inexorably making its way across the sky from the east, as if chasing away the moon's only pale light.
"I am Gellert Grindelwald; I am the Soul of the Arcanist." The world hissed at the words, the burden of his statement. His hand drew the most powerful wand ever wielded. "I am the master of the Elder Wand, the ally of Winter, and I do not regret any debt incurred."
Albus closed his eyes for an instant; he knew what was coming next.
The air hardened and froze, pillars of ice and bluish demonic fire busted out at the same time, and the windows of the buildings shattered and melted. The Elder Wand in the Dark Lord's hand flashed with magic about to be unleashed. Nothing was left of his old classmate and adolescent crush when the infernal seal opened under his feet with a crimson tone.
He was the Old Blood, he who arrived at the beginning, the remnants of forgotten knowledge. He was the very definition of the whispered secrets of the Dark Age. The Fate/Material rune was fixed on his hand.
Gusts of darkness covered his robes, and flashes of silver bloomed in his hair.
"I will not take a wife, I will have no family, and I will not own land or inherit titles! Thus, I declare, for my word is law, and the law is my power."
Dumbledore, one much younger than the one who was now reviewing his memories, waved his own wand. One graceful stroke of the ebony wood in his hand was all it took for the world to shake before him as well.
Gellert stopped suddenly, understanding. Alpha, Omega. Beginning and end.
The runes bloomed as debris and remnants of bent metal came to life, as animal transfiguration reinforced by the meaning he gave them were born. There were flashes of red mixed with gold and ice blue.
A furious shriek echoed as Fawkes the phoenix landed on his shoulder. It was time.
Dumbledore, the one out of the old memory, took off his half-moon glasses solemnly. The blue eyes flashed. The chants resumed.
In Ice and Fire, two men faced each other in a duel like ancient knights for the supremacy of an ideal. The end of old summer love. The wands went up in like swords in their hands; the magic itself stopped before it all began.
"I am Albus Dumbledore! I am Order, I am Fire!" The roar of blood in his ears amplified as the rhythm of his song rose: majestic and powerful alongside the song of the phoenix.
He had come to the end. A story of blood and passion, a promise that only one followed till the end.
The rhythm changed.
"Heed my call, First Blaze!" The sky collapsed in on itself into a hole of black and golden fire. The clouds burst and the wands flashed. Albus's formal suit contorted into a glorious robe before the stars themselves descended from the firmament. The demons coming from the same well of the burning hell were roasted.
The ice burst and the world itself nearly cracked as gusts of wind collided. Then, two lightning bolts coming from different wands collided in an explosion of colors.
In a distant place, another person was also contemplating the same things as Albus.
The man frowned. He was a man of hard, sharp features, military bearing, and eyes that reflected much more than many could see.
He was the Second; he was the First Marshal, a perpetual legend. Not only that, he was the Wizard of Kaleidoscope.
He could see it coming a long time ago. Nicholas had done it at the same time, perhaps even before. The Philosopher's Stone only stopped the weakening body to wither and die. The sunset was to come much earlier; only the sheer force of will and genius of the alchemist had kept him alive and that powerful.
His sight shifted to Lord El-Melloi-II, and he nearly drilled two holes in his skull. He relaxed his gaze a little as he lightly pulled a stack of papers out of nowhere with his other hand and lit it on fire. He needed a release, one that went burning documents that he hated to read.
To Waver's credit, the man just clenched his fists lightly before the hardened gaze and blinked in a daze.
It was almost funny how a third-rate crying magus had become so hardened by getting into that Fuyuki ritual.
"Lord Kaleidoscope." The voice of the green-haired man did not tremble nor rise more than necessary, despite the strange outburst on the part of the old Apostle. "I understand you needed me for something."
Then the crimson eyes shone with real force, causing a chill that he had only felt as a child as the survivor master of the Fourth Grail War. The eyes widened slightly.
"Aoko. Aozaki. Find. Her"
Velvet swallowed hard before nodding carefully. The Fifth was strange —an unpredictable despicable adult with the mind of child in the worst moments— but compared to the First Marshal's command, the madness of that manipulator of true magic was dwarfed.
When the man left the space he was in, Zelretch levitated a journal in his hand. It was lined in leather and contained an iridescent silver metal star as its own noble color. It smelled of antiquity, of pure magic.
"Immortal life is what brings out someone's true character," he murmured, remembering the words that a man long before he had said. "The wicked become perfidious monsters, the weak become dangerous crackpots, and the noble mutate into perpetual legends."
The magician who had said it could not have been more accurate. He was a kingmaker; he was one of the most powerful and famous magicians in all history. At the level of a Wizard and as a Wizard was known.
Shaking his head, Kischur flipped through the journal before finding what he sought—gemstones charged with mana with the intent of their wielder gleaming beneath the hilt of his jeweled sword.
He put away the old diary, almost as old as he was, and reached out to his side.
A circular cut in space after a multicolored flash made an appearance as a portal before he left Clock Tower. The defenses established there could never stop him. Not when he had established the majority in the First Great Wizarding War, with the rise of the Seven Dark Lords and the advent of the Beasts.
He saw red and black mixed in the proverbial rainbow of all things. A circular iris surrounded by many others, angels, and demons looking for what ruled the world.
He saw the kaleidoscope.
He felt the calm rhythm, the swaying in the waves of time, the eons that weighed on the planet. Then he saw Chronos infusing his presence over all things to impose himself on the so-called Time. He watched the Titans rise from the earth.
He saw an eternal, almost blinding flame. Of that, which was the perpetual will of humanity. He saw Gellert Grindelwald's unfocused eyes as a golden bolt of lightning pushed him away, and the First Blaze consumed the Winter ice as if it did not exist. The fiendfyre was repelled and drowned.
Albus Dumbledore's gaze turned to the void from which the Marshal watched before catching the dreaded Elder Wand without looking. Death trembled in his grasp. He never broke eye contact with the First Marshal as he threw his threadbare cloak to the ground.
Those who had been undecided even when Flamel and the other allies campaigned for their support could no longer sit still. The cheers and applause erupted when what would be called Duel of the Century came to an end. Was it the charisma of the man? Or was it all the result of the voices of the people in the depths of their hearts, when they were finally allowed to be set free?
Zelretch, even with all his years of accumulated experience, did not know it.
His gaze turned away from past events, focusing, centering, and searching for the answer to the macabre game of chess they had to win.
Then disbelief, the pure surprise, flashed in the centuries-old eyes of scorching crimson. And it was then that the Second True Magician, Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg, did the unthinkable. Which no one would believe capable in a face as stoic as the one the man always wore.
He laughed, which started as a snort, rising as a short laugh, and it became a full-blown deranged laugh. The muscles harder than steel shook as two arms were extended as if trying to give a hug to the vastness of the dark starlit void.
His eyes almost wept from the tragic hilarity of all things, without straying from the constellations, where a star sank in the background and marked its appearance, roaring, louder and louder.
Really, the moment of change was beginning to be felt. It was time. The reign was to pass from Flamel while the others coordinated with him the most important movements.
Zelretch was a general, a man of command, but he was not a leader fit for anything other than war. He was a warrior; he was powerful; he was versatile. He was not a politician or a very patient man, nor did he think he was wise.
"When sunset comes, the wall will break, the fire will shine once more, and death itself will have to take a step back."
He took out an old, worn scroll from his breast pocket; the silver ink in fancy words from the English was scanned once again by the crimson eyes. A line was drawn across her pursed lips.
"And after me, another will make his appearance. His sword to pave the way, his shield to encompass everything."
He had yet to decipher what Nicholas had written. He did not refer to his position as a sage for more than six hundred years, more as if someone was going to fill his void in a position of power and even overcome it.
In a comfortable middle class London home, Number Four Privet Drive to be more specific, a thin, green-eyed young man attempted to read a strange letter with a red stamp and bright green ink that seemed to be addressed to him.
Without noticing, he walked to the dining room of the home and appeared with the finance and tax letters in one hand, while in the other he held an open envelope that clearly read "To Mr. H. Potter."
His aunt saw him first, almost freezing, before calling her husband.
Harry, in a childish maneuver, tried to grab the letter for himself and run away before letting it be in the hands of his relatives.
It was too late; the letter was snatched by his uncle's fat arm before the man looked at the envelope and smiled slightly to himself. Vernon Dursley then ordered him to go into his room to discuss something with Petunia. New opportunities had opened up, even without the boy with a silver scar on his forehead being able to imagine it, much less comprehend it.