Summer of 1995

Albus Dumbledore clutched his middle, bent in half in pain as he panted kneeling on the floor. He's burning, hot and bright, feeling like someone tore him open inside out with a hundred burning knives, and then proceeded to dunk him in a boiling cauldron. He clawed at the floor desperately, whimpering incoherent words. Images run its course though his mind in a blurry kaleidoscope of colors until his head spins and his eyes blur, pounding memory after memory into his already overfilled head.

Pain, it was the only thing he felt; in his head, and searing across his body and marking his soul.

Faintly, he heard a voice calling his name frantically, desperate touches that he barely registered through his haze of pain, and he wanted to mutter comforting word, to ease the boy's mind, but nothing came out of his mouth but whimpers of pain and a gasp of much needed breath.

The burning got hotter and hotter, and the pain more intense until an anguished cry tore from his throat as the pain reached its peak higher, higher until it…stopped.

And he crumpled to the ground, all strength, mental and physical, depleted to nothing. Before he sunk into blessed unconsciousness, he saw a hand, curled into the floor and smooth with youth on where his were supposed to be.

And not six hundred miles away from Hogwarts where the Headmaster of Hogwarts lay curled in exhaustion was the pained screams of the sole prisoner of Nurmengard.

And the Master of Death smiled.

Sometime in the year 2030

Harry Potter (age 50) stood in the middle of the alchemy circle he drew. In his hand was a bowl of his blood mixed with the Elixir of Life, and the Resurrection Stone dunked inside the potent liquid. He laid the bowl in the middle of circle, backing away slowly until he was out of it, his lips muttering a powerful spell, chanting the words repeatedly.

His bright green eyes glow brighter with each uttered word, at first in the standard archaic Latin, before changing into the much more ancient language of Parseltongue as the magic swelled inside the room. The drawn mage circle glows bright, at first in the dark, almost black, purple color, before fading into a subdued shade of maroon, bathing the dark room with its light. Swirls of flaming red and violet blue ribbon rose from the bowl, spinning upward like smoke to form a twin tornado of each color.

Harry raised his right arm, his palm facing the red tornado of red smokey ribbon as he spoke, his voice laced with power. "Rise, Albus Dumbledore, great Wizard of Light, as I, Harry Potter, Master of Death, summon thee, so mote it be."

Orbs of flame shoot from his hand, and the red ribbon started to lace into the form of man, spinning frantically as it went.

Harry then turns his attention to the violet blue ribbon, and his eyes grew impossibly brighter. "Rise, Gellert Grindelwald, great Wizard of Dark, as I, Harry Potter, Master of Death, summon thee, so mote it be."

This time shards of ice are the one that left his palm into the swirling ribbon as it repeats the same process of its red twin.

Soon enough, two corporal forms could be seen; a beautiful, slender, auburn haired man with skin as pale as snow, and eyes as bright as the summer sky glowing bright red with a serene smile on his face, and a tall, lean man with one eye as pale as ice, and the other as stormy as a cloudy sky, a mop of golden curls on top of his head, and a handsome face marred with a frown glowing violet blue.

The two seem to be ageless; they look like they can either be in their late teens or early forties. Wizard age is quite ambiguous, after all.

Two stones, one burning with orange and yellow flames, and another one shining blue, white, and gray as the ice encasing it captured the light around it lay on their chests.

"Harry, my dear boy. Why have you called these two old souls to the plane of the living?" a disembodied lyrical voice asked, seemingly from nowhere as it bounced around the room like an echo.

"I am very not interested in this, but you better have good reason on as to why am I not blissfully dead," another voice spoke, a strong husky voice laced with the barest hint of an accent.

Harry smiled at the two great wizard apparition, his breath coming slightly in pants as he recovers slowly from the great magical exertion he put himself through. "I do have good reason for summoning the two of you. A very good reason."

The two apparitions exchanged a worried look at the grave tone Harry spoke with as the smile on his face melted off.

Harry looks up with a grim and determined look on his face as he fixed his bright green eyes on the two deceased. "I need your help to change the future."

Summer of 1995, No. 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging

Harry Potter (age 15) was pacing a hole on the floor in the smallest bedroom of No. 4 Privet Drive of his home, running a finger through his messy hair. An old copy of the Daily Prophet was on his bed, spread open as pictures of him flinching from the camera loop on one side of the page, and the words 'Potter' kept rearranging itself into 'Plotter' on the other.

No letters. Not one single letter. All summer he was alone with no one but himself, Hedwig, and his own paranoid thoughts. He felt like a cracked glass that a five year old child, or worse, Dudley, kept smashing into the wall, and like the glass, he was splintering to pieces, and there was nothing to Spellotape him together; not his friends, the Weasleys, Sirius, or Lupin, because they kept zero communication with him. Hedwig had sent at least a hundred letters to all said above, yet received no reply. He knows they all received his letters; he had instructed Hedwig to not leave until the delivered person read every single word he wrote to them. And Hedwig always came back, and everytime she came back empty handed.

Harry wrung his hand and chewed on his lips until they bleed, and he can taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. Nightmares, memories mixed with his own morbid imagination and distorted grotesquely in his subconscious were haunting him every night. He had just woke up from another one, a hoarse scream on his lips, and didn't allow himself the reprieve of sleep ever again, afraid another one would emerge if he did.

Weary and extremely fatigued-he hasn't had a good night sleep in all summer-he swept the wizard newspaper to the ground and curled into a ball on the bed, taking a cat nap to ease his tired spirit so he can go another day.

He woke up to the sound of Aunt Petunia screeching like a harp to someone. She does that to insistent salespeople who had the unfortunate luck of gracing the Dursley doorstep, so Harry at first didn't think too much of it.

But she didn't stop, and he can hear Uncle Vernon's booming voice joining her screeching harp, and their voices kept increasing in volume until suddenly they just stop. That jerked Harry upright, and his ears perked at the absolute silence. The Dursley's are large humanoid whale after all, they stomp their way when they 'walk'. But he didn't hear even a creak, and Harry whipped his wand out and pointed it toward his door warily.

The doorknob turns slowly, and Harry crouched in a leaping stance on the bed, ready to dodge any attack that would come his way as the door slowly creaked open.

The Protégo charm on his lips, he watches as the door opens to reveal the Death Eater, or worse, Voldemort himself, and instead finds himself looking at a star-spangled robe of one Albus Dumbledore. Harry's heart leapt.

But a lifetime of near-death experiences taught him better than to just lower his wand, and he kept it trained on the Leader of Light, his Avada Kedavra eyes glinting in the dim light of his room's single light bulb. "Identify yourself," he ordered in a deadly calm voice that belies his pounding heart.

"Ask me a question that only the two of us would know," was the man's reply to Harry's wary order.

Harry frowned, thinking. "On my first year, what did Albus Dumbledore answer to the last question I'd asked as we stood in front of the mirror?"

Dumbledore smiled proudly, no doubt at the vagueness of the question and answered serenely. "I said that I see myself holding a pair of thick woolen socks."

Harry smiled and lowered his wand. Leaping off the bed, he rushed to the older man and engulfed him in a warm hug, a sob in his throat. "Professor."

"Oh, Harry, my dear boy, I am awfully sorry. I had left you here all alone because of an old man fears, and I deeply apologize for it," Dumbledore said grimly, a frown on his face.

"What do you mean Professor?" Harry asked, looking at the older man in confusion.

"I shall explain later on, for now, it is better if we move to a more secure location with more familiar faces."

Dumbledore took a look around the room an odd light in his icy blue eyes instead of its usual twinkle, and Harry tries to look at his room through stranger eyes. It is clean; Harry is too 'trained' by his aunt to ever not be clean. Not that there was anything in the room that was his except for the what is in the trunk and on the bed. Well, there is the Daily Prophet on the floor, but that is it.

"Where's the rest of your stuff, Harry? Is this all of them?" Dumbledore asked, looking at his trunk.

"Yes, professor, that and the stuff on the bed."

Dumbledore's mouth turned down under his beard, and Harry felt his professor's magic spike dangerously. Dumbledore waved his wand, and all Harry' stuff arranged itself in the trunk and snapped shut. Another wave and it shrunk as small as a box of match, and Harry pocketed it.

Dumbledore turned and stepped out of the room with Harry close behind.

"Professor, the Dursley's…"

"In the kitchen, locked in and silenced. The spells would finite itself as soon as we stepped out of the ward."

"Oh." Harry didn't know what else to say; Dumbledore seems so grim, anything else seems inappropriate. Harry, in all the time he has known Dumbledore, has never seen the man so grave. It's scaring him.

"I had originally intended for the Order to come by and pick you up if anything were to occur, but some unprecedented incident forced me to reevaluate my thought and change my mind. I realize that my decision to isolate you was wrong."

Harry stopped in his tracks, looking at Dumbledore in disbelief. "What do you mean by isolating me? Is that why no one has been replying to my letters? And what is the Order you're talking about?" he asked angrily.

Dumbledore looks at Harry with such sadness in his eyes that it really scares and confuses him. "Professor?!"

"The Order of Phoenix is a resistance group to fight Voldemort, and was founded during the first Britain Wizardly War. Your parents, godfathers, some of your teachers, the Weasleys and some of the Aurors, namely Moody, are amongst its starting member.

"They are all in one place right now; Sirius' birth-home, which is the current Order Headquarter."

"You didn't answer my first question, sir."

"I know, Harry. But not yet. This discussion cannot be done here of all places."

Dumbledore extends one arm to Harry, beckoning him to take it. Harry looks at it warily. A thousand question was on his mind and on the tip of his tongue, and he almost refused Dumbledore's extended hand and demand answers now. But damn his ingrained politeness; he did nothing of such, and held on tight as Dumbledore spun on the ground and Apparates out of there.

It was an odd sensation, Apparating, he felt like he was being sucked through a long narrow tube. His eyes seem to catch random images and it spun his head around. It is terribly uncomfortable and much worse than Flooing.

He vomits as soon as his feet touch solid ground, and decides to not ever do that again. Dumbledore held him as he emptied the meager content of his stomach on the ground and dry heaved when there's none left. He clutched his burning throat and coughed hoarsely.

"Here, open your mouth." Dumbledore cast a cleaning spell, but it still left a bad taste in his mouth. "Are you alright?"

Harry grimaced but nodded and straightened to take a better look around him.

They were on top of a rolling hill, and in the distance Harry can see the castle stood high and mighty. Behind them was the impressive valley of mountain that surrounds Hogwarts, and the forest in front of them was the forbidden forest. That means they're at the border of the ward that protects Hogwarts.

Dumbledore took out two shrunken brooms that he then wandlessly de-shrinks, and hands the other one to Harry. "Well, shall we?"

To Be Continued…

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