Diocese of the Vatican, Italy, September 7, 1981
The silence of the Roman night was broken only by the deep tolling of bells, hour after hour. Inside the cathedral, Gregorian chants rose like waves, reverberating through marble columns. The votive candelabrum burned slowly, its sweet fragrance of wax mingling with the black garments of the clergy.
"Stella matutina, duc nos per noctem…"
(Morning Star, guide us through the night…)
The men knelt not before the image of Christ upon the altar, but facing the single door, standing guard. Not out of irreverence; that would have been unthinkable. They knelt as sentinels.
They were watchmen. Guardians on vigil. Their eyes fixed upon the entrance, their voices defiant against the darkness. They wore shadowed robes bound at the waist by crimson sashes.
Two stood by the door, gripping ceremonial spears. The rest held only their rosaries, running worn beads through trembling fingers as they prayed.
"Domine, custodi nos a tenebris…"
(Lord, keep us from the shadows…)
The vigil had endured for seven centuries. Founded in honor of the inquisitor St. Peter of Verona and sustained by the papal bull of Boniface VIII, its sole purpose was to watch: against witches, heretics, and lovers of demons. Above all, to guard what lay within.
"Domine, mitte Michaelem Archangelum…"
(Lord, send us the Archangel Michael…)
Night after night, century upon century, the cycle never broke. Each generation handed down the duty. At every dawn, weary men were replaced, ensuring the candles never died.
Five hundred years had passed since last evil had tested the church. Since then, all was peaceful. Routine.
But that night, everything changed.
A light, burning yet serene, erupted from the baptistry. Golden as the sun itself, it flooded the nave, swelling like living fire. The first to see it was Deacon John. His scream was sharp and choking, as of a drowning man. Blood and tears streamed from his eyes, leaving him blind.
Archbishop Edgar and Father Peter, who had turned toward the radiance, met the same fate. And yet, though their eyes were seared, their faces shone with joy.
Only Cardinal Humbert Laplace remained still. He felt the brightness engulfing all, a sanctity that drenched the cathedral. He knew: something divine had come. He dared not look, nor break the vigil. Pressing the rosary against his chest, he squeezed so hard blood dripped from his fingers. His lips trembled through sobs:
"Miserere mei, Deus… miserere mei…"
(Have mercy on me, O God…)
And then a voice resounded, not in the ears but in the very soul:
"Cardinal Humbert. God is with you."
It was no voice of man or woman. It was pure, loving, and yet terrible as thunder.
"A demon walks this world. Its power grows, preparing to cast this land into damnation. But do not fear. A child has been anointed. He shall fight evil as God's Champion. You must find him, and guide him."
"So it is the Will of God."
Humbert prostrated himself further, pressing his forehead to the cold stone floor. Those who had been struck by the light felt their agony relent; their sight returned in part, though never whole.
The light dissolved into golden motes, fading into the air. For a heartbeat, a final silhouette hovered above the pews, then vanished, leaving only silence, wax-scented air, and three blind men with strangely blissful faces.
Flares of light, falling stars, comets in their cycles, a solar halo encircling the moon. That night, phenomena and angelic visitations were recorded across countless dioceses, churches, convents, and Christian orders.
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Longbottom Manor, same day.
While signs rained across the world, in a stately English manor of dark wood and towering bookshelves, a fire burned low in the grate and a violin rested against the wall; the room was unnaturally dim, devoid of its owners' warmth.
But darker shadows lurked there. Three of them.
Frank Longbottom convulsed, gasping, clawing at the parquet floor. "Ahhhh! Ghu! Ghu!" Alice could scarcely form words, only ragged, broken howls. "Aaaah! NH-OH! PH ESSE!" Gone was the elegant woman she had been.
Their screams rattled the opulent chamber. Five souls were present. Three were uninvited and in command.
Bellatrix Lestrange. Her husband Rodolphus. And another Death Eater, Avery, wearing a demon-faced iron mask.
"TELL ME WHERE HE IS!" Bellatrix shrieked, her voice fanatical.
Amid the victims' spasms, torn joints, blistered skin, and the stench of acid and blood, Bellatrix and Rodolphus raged against Frank while Avery tormented Alice.
"LIES! My Lord can never die! Where is he?" she spat, voice quaking between fury and despair.
"Crucio!"
"Crucio!"
"Crucio!"
Three Unforgivable Curses, one after another. Frank and Alice writhed, minds breaking.
When the pain ebbed, Alice collapsed, retching. Her fingers clutched a small pendant of the Virgin Mary. With a ragged whisper she defied them:
"He is dead… Voldemort is dead… slain…"
Frank was worse. Froth tinged with blood dribbled from his lips. His gaze was vacant, fixed upon a corner of the room.
Bellatrix tilted her head like a cat hearing a mouse in the wall. Her eyes followed his stare to a crack beneath the bookshelf.
Her grin spread, deranged.
"Looking at something, are you? A little mouse? Shall we play hide-and-seek?"
Slowly, theatrically, she searched. Behind the sofa she declared, "Not here!" Beneath the table she mocked, "Oh? Not here either?"
Then she lunged to the shelf, snapping open the lock.
There he was. The Longbottoms' most precious treasure, their infant son Neville.
"Well, well… look what I've found," she crooned, lifting him. She dangled him before Alice. "Tell me where my Lord is, or else"
"Neville… no… Please… Voldemort is dead… truly dead…" Alice gasped, dragging herself forward.
"HE CANNOT DIE! MY LORD IS IMMORTAL!" Bellatrix shrieked, her eyes bulging, foam flecking her lips. She raised her warped wand toward the child. "Avada Ked—"
At that instant, Alice pressed the holy pendant to her breast in a final act of desperation and faith.
A divine light burst forth. Its grace was unbearable.
Rodolphus felt in his flesh every pain he had ever inflicted. The torment he had sown crushed his spirit; he fell sobbing, dropping his wand.
Avery crawled to the violin, his hands guided by knowledge not his own, coaxing otherworldly notes as tears streamed beneath the mask.
Only Bellatrix defied it. No repentance stirred in her heart; only hate so deep it shielded her from grace. Her eyes burned like coals, yet madness kept her standing. As the light seared her sight, she screamed, not in pain but in challenge:
"AHHHHGGHHH!"
When the radiance dimmed, a luminous being stood at the room's heart. He cradled Neville, who smiled serenely at him. A single drop of golden blood, gleaming like a pearl, fell upon the child's forehead.
The angel turned to Alice and Frank, mending their broken bodies and washing their souls of torment. Placing Neville into his mother's arms, both parents sank into the peaceful sleep of those freed from nightmare.
Then the being vanished.
Hours later, Aurors arrived. They found Rodolphus curled on the floor, confessing every crime. Avery still played the violin, drawing unknown chords. Bellatrix raged in a corner, blind and screaming incoherently.
And in the center of the room, Neville Longbottom slept soundly in his mother's embrace, his parents' faces serene.
Three were taken to Azkaban. Three to St. Mungo's Hospital.
This was not an isolated event. History would call it The Night of Falling Stars. Reports emerged worldwide: angelic beings appearing in orphanages, streets, and homes, always leaving a drop of golden blood upon a child's brow.
Neville was not alone.
And still, the signs continued. Seers across the globe, in visions and trances, received glimpses of the same prophecy.
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Nurmengard Fortress
In his austere prison, Grindelwald, body frail and mind razor-sharp, leaned toward his guard with a knowing smile.
"Ah, Herr Schneider… Your good wife must have enjoyed that little trick I give you for her birthday. It was precisely one thousand eight hundred and seventy-seven Galleons, four hundred and thirty-three Sickles, and five Knuts… a bit extravagant for flowers, don't you think?"
The guard's jaw tightened. Grindelwald chuckled, dry as autumn leaves.
"No, no… you're too clever for that. You never gave her the money. You bought a… for that other girl, oh Schneider, you put the rest hidden in a chest in Göttingen. Curious times to be greedy, my friend. Very curious times."
Suddenly, the cunning spark fled his eyes. A cold, impersonal flame blazed in their depths. His voice, once silky, rang metallic, like a bronze bell:
"The Pilgrim beyond the Veil.
The Devourer of Serpent.
The Denier of the Chosen, who rends Order and Heavens.
Born of the Verse before Creation,
Child of the Void, elder than the Word.
When Stars fall, the Hosts shall rise.
But they will not draw the blade against him.
The Abyss cries for his seed.
No… no… no…
Then shall come the Time of Blood.
And no soul, man, beast, or spirit,
shall escape the choice."
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Hogwarts, Reception Room
Professor Trelawney, before Dumbledore and McGonagall, raised a trembling glass of sherry. It slipped, shattering. Her body stiffened, her eyes turned opaque. From her mouth poured the same inhuman voice that had spoken through Grindelwald:
"The Pilgrim beyond the Veil.
The Devourer of Serpent.
The Denier of the Chosen…"
The words echoed line by line, as if a hidden choir resounded across continents.
Abruptly the prophecy ceased. Trelawney staggered, breathless. "Oh heavens… my sherry… what a waste… and where are my spectacles?" She resumed her trivial chatter as though nothing had happened.
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Back in Nurmengard, Grindelwald blinked. The malice rekindled in his gaze. Slowly, he rolled an apple across the stone floor to his guard's feet. The man stood pale, shaken.
"Interesting times to be alive, my boy," Grindelwald murmured, savoring each syllable. "Very… very interesting."
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At Hogwarts, only Dumbledore remained still. His face betrayed no surprise, only recognition. He knew this was no drunken fantasy of a seer but an echo of Truth.
And in his serene blue eyes now lurked a shadow, not doubt but a primal fear.
Another damned prophecy.