Dumbledore stared at the towering, void-shaped being above him, its body a roiling shroud of black mist that pulsed and shifted like a living storm. His heart sank, like a heavy stone in his chest.
Grindelwald had tricked him, damn him, damn Gellert for his lies, and damn himself most of all for falling for them. He should have seen the trap. He should have known that a man like Gellert would never change, he should have known better, but his condition blinded him.
He should have seen that the promise was nothing more than a gilded cage, that with him every gift was nothing but a poisoned chalice, regardless of the situation.
He was an old fool, a dying old fool who had let his desperation blind him to the obvious treachery. He had walked straight into a cage of his own making, and now, here he was, trapped with but a few of Gerllet's remaining men and a being that should, in his opinion, have been nothing but myth.
A heretic god.
He had pursued this desperate gamble, hoping to seize a power that could cure him and restore him to his former glory and beyond, and instead, he had been delivered to his own personal apocalypse.
The dark being stared at them, its hollow eyes regarding them in silence, as though curious what these small, fragile mortals would attempt. When none of the terrified wizards moved, it decided for them.
Tendrils of black mist lashed outward. Dumbledore's aged body reacted before conscious thought, despite the curse eating away at his flesh and the weight of a century on his shoulders, he moved with the agility of a much younger man.
He threw himself to the side, his movements practically a blur as he evaded the incoming mist.
The mist passed him by, but the remaining followers standing by the side were not so fortunate. Screams filled the air for only a moment before their bodies crumbled into husks and blew away like ash.
It was over in a heartbeat, their lives extinguished like candles in a gale. The air itself seemed to grow colder, charged with a strange magic that grated on Dumbledore's very soul.
He felt the familiar warmth of his magic shrink within him like a startled animal, cowering from the cold gaze of an apex predator. This was not a power to be challenged, this thing's very presence seemed to be pushing his magic away.
'Fight,' he had to fight, there was no other choice.
Teeth clenched, he raised his wand, his grip steady despite the pounding in his chest, and unleashed a barrage of spells. Fire, lightning, banishment charms, hexes, all hurled with desperation.
He fired spell after spell, running around dodging the mist. He had a feeling that this thing was playing with him, it seemed to enjoy making them jump around like toys as it watched them. But just as he started to lose hope, he noticed it.
Most of his spells passed harmlessly through the swirling mist, yet he noticed something. Where his attacks struck true, the god's mist did not regenerate. They simply left a momentary void in its form that did not immediately close.
With each attack, it became obvious that his attacks were not being healed from.
The Elder Wand glowed faintly in his grip, its magic humming in a way he had never felt before. Dumbledore's mind raced as he ran through all the possible reasons.
The wand… It's responding.
A gift of Death itself. That's it.
That's why it works. A flicker of hope burned within his failing heart. Yes, he could hurt it. Yes, perhaps...even kill it.
The thought, once a distant impossibility from past experience, now felt like a tangible, attainable reality. Suddenly, it didn't feel like he was just fighting for his life, but was now fighting for a chance to become something more, he was fighting for power. Fighting to become a symbol of power in their world.
Campione.
The thought struck him like lightning, an exhilarating flash of pure ambition. He could do it, he could become one of them. He would not die. He would not fall and be forgotten by the passage of time just like that.
He would rise again, stronger than ever, wielding the power of a god. He didn't even realize when he started firing more aggressively, a manic glint in his eyes.
He felt the power of the Hallows, thrumming in his hands, answering his call. He would be the master of Death, and the power would be his to command.
He was the one who had done it, the one who had been destined to unite them all after all.
Suddenly, the wand began to hum louder, a sickly green aura coiling around it, answering his demand. Yes, he could feel the power. He could win. He would win. He could see it already, the world with him at the head, leading the world forward.
The dream lasted only a few seconds.
Something slammed into his side with the force of a falling mountain. Bones shattered, his chest caved, blood poured from his lips as he crashed across the torn ground. Gasping, he forced his eyes upward, only to see a figure walking calmly.
"Ha… Harry?" Dumbledore rasped, his voice wet with blood. The boy didn't answer. He simply bent down and plucked the Elder Wand from Dumbledore's limp fingers.
"Harry… you…" The words broke apart as pain racked his failing body. He knew. The curse. The crushed ribs. This was the end.
Harry crouched beside him, meeting his fading gaze with cold indifference. "I was almost too late," he said quietly, his voice a low, chilling whisper. "But I won't let you get lucky. Not with this." A hand pressed against Dumbledore's forehead.
The world around him shattered. Albus found himself reliving Ariana's death, over and over. His sister's screams, the blood, the despair. Each time was worse than the last, twisted, magnified, forced through his mind until he could think of nothing else.
He thrashed weakly against Harry's grip, his withered body convulsing in agony, lost to a torment of his own making. By the time the curse took what little strength remained, his eyes had already glazed into lifeless emptiness.
Harry let the old man's body slump to the ground. A bitter taste lingered in his mouth. He had hoped to make the old man suffer more, to drag out the punishment, but time had been short. At least he had prevented him from getting lucky, it would have been really bad if the man had become a campione.
But....he looked at the being....it really wouldn't have mattered whether he came late or not, the old man wouldn't have won just by killing this thing.
He rose and turned to face the void-being. "Are you still going to sit back and just watch?" he called.
For a moment, silence reigned. The thing stared at him for a while, then the black mist compressed, drawing together before surging back into the rift it had spilled from.
The ground shook. An aura of overwhelming, suffocating dread poured forth, so potent that even Harry felt his breath falter and his chest tighten. For the first time in a long while, he truly felt like he was about to die.
'Shit.'
Moments earlier.
When Harry had taken the call, he had informed Narcissa that their discussion would have to be postponed.
"What happened?" she asked, unsettled by the sudden edge in his voice.
He looked at her for a moment before he decided to just talk. After all, it wasn't like he was hiding it anymore. "A heretic god has been summoned not too far."
Narcissa felt her breath hitch. Of course, she knew what a heretic god was. Her grandfather, Arcturus Black, the former Lord Black, had told her about them and the encounter he had as a young man.
The story of meeting a Campione who had nearly killed him, only to spare him because he felt like it. He had told his children and grandchildren to always fear Campiones and heretic gods, and that should they ever encounter one, they should run.
Most of the family had dismissed his warnings. The idea of beings that magic could not defeat was unthinkable to the members of House Black, who were known for their proud nature and belief in the supremacy of their art. She herself had not really taken them seriously.
She only knew they were real because her husband, Lucius, had a hand in every pie, so to speak, and knew what the upper echelons of the Ministry knew. But even he didn't believe that they were that powerful, and if they were, then they weren't real, that was his conclusion.
After all, there had never been reports of Campiones engaging in wizarding council, and to Lucius, if they were not even seen by wizards, then it was all a hoax. Narcissa wasn't ashamed to admit that even she followed her husband on that.
"A heretic god? You don't expect me to believe such nonsense, do you?" she couldn't help but ask. Was he trying to just push her to leave.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Harry turned to her, his eyes cold, and the weight that settled on her was far, far different from before. It was like she was seeing her own death just by being this close to him.
The air grew still, the temperature dropping a few degrees as an invisible, crushing pressure radiated from him. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shook his head and turned to leave. "We will speak later."
It was not a request. He left the house, and Narcissa, driven by a need to understand, followed him just in time to see him leap nearly two hundred feet into the air before vanishing in a blur of some rift that had opened up, leaving her standing there, breathless and shaken.
'was that.....was he...A campione' she felt shocked.
Harry knew he was quite a bit far from the descent, but he didn't doubt he was the closest Campione to it, and that was fine. He didn't know the exact place, but he had a general locality, and that was enough.
He jumped again, and with his gaze looking at the farthest place he could see, he clawed a rift open and fell through, shortening the distance. The sensation was an odd one, a mix of falling through an endless chasm and being shifted in view and centre, it was somewhat disoriented as he appeared miles away.
The experience was instantaneous and disorienting, a violent violation of space and time. Well, he really couldn't teleport to anywhere he hadn't been before or seen before, so this was the best thing he could think of at the moment.
He had to suppress a shiver of exhilaration, the power was intoxicating. Another claw, and he was once again far away from his previous location. Just three times, and he had covered quite the distance, and he started to feel the presence of the god, a growing, oppressive weight that seemed to press down on the very fabric of the world, a psychic static that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
He eventually reached a distance from the area just in time to watch Grindelwald running towards the god with absolute confidence, carrying- he tilted his head, watching the man go- what looked like the fake Stone Harry had left for Dumbledore.
'What did he want to...Oh... OHHHH'. he was first confused before an understanding came to him, and now he somewhat felt bad.
He now at least had a vague idea of what these fools had planned. He watched as the Stone glowed before power shot out of it and hit the black mist. He guessed the power from his authority was still left in there, but… that wasn't enough. He watched as the black mist killed the former Dark Lord and his men, wiping them from existence.
He now had an understanding of what was happening. The Hallows must contain a power that could be used against heretic gods if Grindelwald was confident in them. If he had to guess what power it was, he'd bet it was an Authority, similar to what Verethragna did when he sealed his authority in the magic grimoire that Godou used to kill him.
The question was, were there three authorities, each different in the Hallows, or was it one that needed all the Hallows? He stayed back to watch how things would play out, seeing as he was not spotted yet.
He felt his cloak and the Stone glow hot and knew the god knew he was here, but it was ignoring him for the moment, so he'd ignore it too. It was pretty fun watching Dumbledore jump around like that.
'He sure knows how to move,' he laughed a little. The old man was moving like he was still a spring chicken.
It was amusing to watch well, before he started drawing upon the power of the Hallow, and Harry decided that was enough and stepped in. Now here he was, staring up at the rift.
One of the reasons why he was so confident Dumbledore wouldn't have won was a simple fact, the black mist was not the heretic god, it was just its Authority, and now here it came.
The air grew thick and unbreathable, the ground groaning under the immense weight of the true being's approach. The power was chilling and so potent it made Harry's blood run cold. Just from this, he knew that whatever was coming, his past heretic gods had nothing on them.
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