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Dumbledore had never felt older. The week of Halloween was marred by tragedy that he had tried so hard to prevent to no avail. His normal blue twinkling eyes had dulled, his body felt heavy, and his office chair had never felt so comfortable. Perhaps a small rest, he thought as his eyes slowly closed. Before I go and join the celebrations ...

"We are interrupting this broadcast of the Witching Hour with the following announcement. The Ministry of Magic has announced the death of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and the Headmaster of ..."

"It's a very rare form of Photophobia, so until our team finds a better solution, it's better to limit the amount of light that goes into his eyes." 

The orphanage nurse nodded along with what the doctor was saying. Harry had always complained about things being too bright, but over the past few days, it worsened to the point where even the other children began to notice. 

"Do you understand Miss Adams?" 

Julie Adams started. She hadn't realised that the doctor did not finish speaking. "Sorry, I didn't catch the last part." 

"Those sunglasses that Harry has taken to wearing," he smiled at the boy sitting quietly by the nurse's side, seemingly bored. "It's best if he keeps them on from now on." 

"Are you sure?" she asked with alarm. She had worn them the other day. They were so dark that she could not see a single thing. She mentioned as such to the doctor.

"As long as Harry can still see, that should be the only thing that matters," the doctor leaned forward towards Harry and gave another comforting smile. "Well, how about it, young man. Can you still see with them on?"

A pair of twinkling green eyes shielded by the sunglasses turned towards the doctor. With a cocky smile on his lips, Harry exclaimed, "Of course, I can see. I'm Harry Potter."

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"Checkmate," the red-headed child gleefully exclaimed. 

Arthur Weasley looked incredulously at the chess board and then at his youngest son. When Molly regaled him at night with stories of his son being a genius at chess, beating all the other children and even the adults in their small village, he took it with a grain of salt. She said the same thing about her children, all in different regard - according to his wife, each of his children was supposed to be the next Merlin in something or the other. But when the stories of chess pieces moving by themselves and the Obliviators having to get involved reached his ears, he finally decided to play his son at chess.

Now Arthur was no slouch at chess. He was the Hogwarts Chess Champion for four years straight. So when his 8-year-old child beat him so soundly, you could excuse him for being so slack-jawed.

But this all flew over Ron's head. He was already demanding his pay for beating his father at chess: a bucket full of chocolate frogs. 

"How about another game Ron?" his father eagerly asked. Arthur wanted to test his son's limit. With each of his children, he and his wife cultivated their talents as best as possible. He worked day and night, so they could afford a variety of lessons for his sons. Bill had arithmancy, Percy had literature, Charlie had flying, and Fred and George had what amounted to magical spell creation. Now it was Ron's turn.

"But I want to go flying with Ginny." Ron was having none of it, though. 

"You can fly as much as you want tomorrow. For now, let's keep playing." 

Ron gave an exaggerated sigh and grumpily sat back in his chair. Without Arthur even realising it, the chess pieces had already rearranged themselves back into position. He gazed curiously at his son. Gripping a pawn, he moved the first piece. 

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Neville stared up at the stars. Somedays, he yearned to be up there with them. But he knew it could never happen. So he made himself comfortable with just looking at them. Always out of reach for him. Just like most things in his life. 

He got up and dusted his trousers off. His granny would kill him if he treaded mud into the kitchen again. She was always on his back about something. 

As he slowly returned to his house, he could hear that small voice in the back of his head. He ignored it, as he always did. 

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The papers were piling up again. Her mum always got annoyed when that happened. It wasn't her fault that her desk, the space around her desk, and her room were too small. She needed a place to store her books and notes. Hermione let out a sigh, as if she were holding up the entire weight of the world.

Sometimes she doubted her own intelligence. Was she naturally smart, or was she the product of her own hard work? Perhaps it was both. But either way, the top grades would not earn themselves.

With a glance at the mountains of papers around her and another glance at the sunny weather outside, the choice was clear on what she should do as a child. She bent over the papers again, ready to commit whatever topic was on them to memory. It was at times like these she wished the world wasn't so dull. She wished she had a bit of magic in her life.

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Despite the chaos around him, Dumbledore had never felt more alive. He stood alone on the battlefield, his allies long since fallen in the chaos. Magic had twisted the muggles’ contraptions into grotesque forms, and the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. The symphony of screams, gunfire, and explosions played on, yet he felt fantastic. And he locked eyes with the reason why.

Grindelwald cradled the Elder Wand in his left hand, its spin mesmerizing. Dumbledore doubted any other wizard had wielded it with such proficiency. Would the wand give before the wizard? He was eager to find out. The wand had already summoned demons and monsters beyond his wildest imaginings, and he had dispatched each one.

As the wand spun faster, Dumbledore almost missed the first words Gellert had spoken to him in over a decade.

"Surrender, Albus. You know you cannot defeat me."

The words brought back memories of better times. "You've said that so many times before, Gellert. And you’ve been wrong just as many times."

"You will lose." A simple statement, yet one that would strike fear into any wizard's heart. A eight-pronged wheel appeared over Gellert, a testament to the Elder Wand in action.

This was it. The final confrontation, the culmination of history’s relentless march to find the absolute peak of magic. Two titans, poised and ready.

Dumbledore felt the familiar hum of his dragon heartstring wand, a loyal companion. With a confident smirk, he twirled the wand between his fingers, his eyes locked with Grindelwald’s.

"Nah I'd win."

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It just didn't make sense. Draco had looked through every book in the Malfoy Manor library, but it still didn't make sense. Or was his father wrong? The so-called blood supremacy he had been taught all his life just didn't align with what was in the books. Sure, there were great pure-blood wizards in the past: Merlin, Morgana, Genghis Khan. But there was also Albus Dumbledore, Arthur Pendragon, Godric Gryffindor. And he even suspected his own mother was a Mudblood. Was his father wrong? Was his father just looking at the world through a keyhole? Or was his father just keeping it simple for him because of his young age, and blood purity was actually much more complicated than he was letting on?

He shook his head. There was no good dwelling on this. He slipped 'The Great Ones: A Detailed Look into the Titans of the Past' back onto the shelf and prepared to slink back to bed. That was when he heard it—a creak of the floorboard.

"Who's there?" Draco called out. No one answered. He breathed out slowly. He really needed more sleep. He turned around and then screamed.

Standing there was a tall woman. She was beautiful. She had—

"Are you done ogling me, kid?"

Draco blushed, but that didn't stop him from angrily demanding, "Who the hell are you?"

"Well, I suppose you can call me Mrs P." The woman walked towards Draco. He brandished the lamp as if to ward off an evil spirit, but Mrs P was already behind him.

"Very interesting collection of books you have here, Mr Malfoy. Lots of them banned by the Ministry as well. But none of them are the one I'm looking for. Perhaps you can help me."

Draco tried to call out for help to no avail. He was frozen.

"I can see it. You're already questioning the status quo." The book he was reading earlier was in her hands. "Maybe one day you may help me of your own volition. But today is not that day. So, truly, I am sorry for this, Mr Malfoy." She was staring into his eyes. They seemed sad but determined. "But this is going to hurt."

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Harry felt him before he saw him.

It was hard to describe the sensation. It was as if the whole world had gone blind, and he alone could see. Imagine the shock, the wonder, if for the first time in your life, you met another person who could also see. That was what Harry felt when his eyes fell upon a gangly, red-haired boy.

Harry had everything he wanted. His caretaker indulged his every whim—sweets, games, toys. Whatever he asked for, it was his. But what he truly longed for was something else, something he couldn’t name. Maybe it was the reassurance that he wasn’t the only one who could see the world, who could understand it, who could live in it fully.

The boy caught Harry’s gaze. For a moment, it felt like recognition, a silent connection that only two people who shared something unspoken could understand. The boy’s lips parted, as if to speak, but before he could say a word, a woman with matching red hair tugged him away.

Neither of them had the chance to break the silence.

Harry stood there, wondering if he would ever see the boy again, feeling the echo of something lost before it had even begun.

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The letter felt light but heavy. This was it. All his brothers had received one, and now he had one as well. His heart fluttered nervously. What if it was a rejection letter? Of course, he hadn't heard of such a thing before, but...

Ron tore the letter open.

The stars were beautiful. His heart, his mind, his very soul were at peace. He could almost weep with joy. Now he knew for certain—he was not a Squib. He could finally make his family proud. Neville lay on the grassy hill and opened a book he thought he might never read: The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 1. Never before had such dry reading seemed so sweet.

"Magic?" Hermione said incredulously. She stared at the ridiculously dressed woman sitting across from her. Her parents also observed her attire, though they were not as obvious about it.

"Yes, magic." The stern-faced woman seemed bored, as if she had done this same routine hundreds of times. Her voice was almost monotone, as if she were reading from a script.

Hermione almost rolled her eyes but stopped short. She had manners, after all. Besides, she had an entrance exam for one of the most prestigious schools in the country the next day. She couldn't let this crazy person distract her.

The woman pulled out a short stick of wood. Hermione internally scoffed.

A moment later, her jaw dropped to the floor.

"Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

He folded the letter and carefully set it down. Donning his pitch-black sunglasses, Harry stroked the dog that frequented the local park.

"Well, that certainly explains a lot," he chuckled to the dog.

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Headmistress McGonagall stared out at the bright young faces that stared back at her. Since his death, this was technically no longer her job. Shepherding the kids from the boats to the Great Hall was a duty left to the deputy, but she had been doing it for so long that leaving it to someone else felt wrong. She could do both.

She looked out again at the sea of young faces. Already, she could see the burgeoning worry of adolescence on them - whether they would fit in, if they would make friends, whether their grades would be good. All of it would seem like the end of the world if the opposite happened.

Two faces stood out, however. A young boy with jet-black hair and piercing blue eyes looked supremely unbothered. In fact, he seemed wholly unimpressed by Hogwarts, a stark contrast to his peers, who were slack-jawed with awe.

The other had startling red hair. This one seemed to be scrupulously examining one of the pillars in the side room where they waited. McGonagall knew the pillar well - it had various protective charms and runes woven into its very material.

She gave the two boys one last look before she opened her mouth to deliver her iconic introductory speech, one that had been perfected through years of practice.

“Hermione Granger!”

The Sorting Hat, impervious to time itself, enveloped the young girl’s head - far too large for the diminutive child.

“RAVENCLAW!”

“Neville Longbottom!”

Hushed whispers broke out immediately.

The hat, raggedy and true, was placed on the small, nervous boy. A minute passed. The whispers grew louder. And then finally…

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Harry Potter!”

He walked confidently to the chair, and the hat was on.

And the hat—supposed to be void of emotion, impartial to all - laughed.

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Ronald Weasley!”

After a careful examination of the hat, it was placed gently upon his brow.

The hat was silent. But not for long. Another bellowing laugh, before declaring -

“GRYFFINDOR!”

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The lake lay empty at this hour, its surface a mirror for the moon - bright, silent, ever watchful. The only sound was the occasional splash as Harry sent stones skipping across the water.

He had come to Hogwarts hoping to find someone.

Someone to ease the loneliness that gnawed at him. Someone who might understand him. Someone who could see the world the way he did. Yet it was only the second night, and already he had all but given up. There seemed to be no one else - not in the Muggle world, nor in the wizarding one. With a sigh, he bent, picked up another stone, and sent it skittering across the lake.

This time, it never made its full run. Another stone struck it mid-flight, knocking it off course. Harry spun, startled - and there, standing behind him, was a red-haired boy. An ache of recognition flared within him, sharp and sudden.

The boy grinned. “Blimey. Always wanted to do that.”

The question was almost on Harry’s lips before he could stop himself: How did you sneak up on me? No one had ever managed that before.

He swallowed the thought, adjusted his glasses, and offered a grin of his own. “You’re out late.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Harry extended a hand. “Harry Potter.”

The boy glanced at it, then clasped it. “Ronald Weasley.”

The moment their fingers touched, a jolt shot through Harry - as though the universe had shifted. Strange, that it should happen in a meeting so ordinary.

Ron rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Listen, it’s late, and I’ve got homework due. Maybe we’ll skip stones another time.”

As he walked away, the ache of familiarity welled inside Harry again. Stronger this time.

In a month's time, two names stood out above all the rest: Ronald Weasley. Harry Potter. Red hair set against black.