Snow drifted down in lazy spirals, settling over the shattered forest like ash.
Kurt lay on his back, staring through the canopy at the gray sky above. The world was quiet now... only the whisper of wind through skeletal branches and the faint crackle of dying magic in the air.
He had apparated here in his final moments, miles away from the ruins and the screams.
Blood pooled beneath him, steaming against the frost. His wand, his most faithful companion... was splintered in his grip, its wood darkening, wilting, as though mourning its master.
He exhaled a slow, misty breath and let out a weary chuckle. "...What a shame."
His voice was hoarse, dry, barely audible over the falling snow.
A life spent in the shadows flashed before his eyes.
A late bloomer, always a step behind. He awoke his magic at fifteen years of age. When Voldemort reigned, he fled to America, hiding from the chaos.
When the Goblin Rebellion burned through the streets, he was buried in dusty tomes, chasing theories no one cared to read. When the Vampiric Wars ravaged the continents, he stayed in his laboratory, experimenting on ancient magic that even the Ministry had outlawed. Every era called for heroes. He was never one of them
And when the dark wizards returned last time, when the world itself began to unravel he was already old, wrinkled, and weary. Only then had he stepped out to fight.
Too late, always too late.
He had convinced himself that he could finally be who he was always meant to be. After years of building his foundation, mastering spells and formulas day in and out, painful and horrifying sacrifices he had to make to enhance his body and convincingly becoming skilled enough to stand besides these heroes.
But was that all an illusion, his mind couldn't help but wonder of. He had sacrificed one of his eyes, to be able to understand and see magic better. He had wagered his body under several times each times weaking it with dark magic and ancient rituals to make his magic stronger.
All for what? Only to be confronted by 'that'.
The thing beyond the veil.
Even thinking about it made his mind swim, his stomach twist.
He still couldn't comprehend it.
His thoughts had blurred into white noise the instant it turned its gaze toward them. He remembered the light... that infinite, impossible light... and then nothing.
He swallowed hard as just trying to recall it made every fiber of his being terrified.
'What the fuck was that thing…?'
The force threatened everything, alongside the cultist trying to awaken that 'thing'.
And they had just won.
The heroes had fallen... the last line of defense, Hermione, the Minister herself. Harry Potter, the man who'd once defied fate. All gone. The battlefield was littered with the last great names of the wizarding world. And still, it wasn't enough.
By tomorrow, he knew, the whole of wizarding world was done for and by the next day, the world itself was in danger.
He gave a soft, bitter laugh that turned into a cough. "All that research… and this is what I could muster up. Blood brilliant."
The snow thickened. He could feel his heartbeat slowing, his magic dimming with it. Around him, the world crackled faintly, heavy with residual energy, his final defence spell still shimmering at the edges of reality.
"Maybe… if I'd started sooner… I could've stopped it." The words left his mouth like a prayer no god would hear. "If only I wasn't late... but even then would it have been enough against 'that'."
A sound broke through the haze, footsteps, muffled and deliberate. Shapes emerged from the smoke, dark cloaks rippling, crimson eyes glowing like embers in the mist.
"There he is," one hissed.
A taller figure stepped forward, his presence radiating raw power as his eyes shimmered blood red. "The Forgotten Mage," the man said, his voice calm, almost amused. "A peculiar title, I have always wondered. Seems fitting, dying out here alone."
Kurt almost rolled his eyes as he looked up at the hooded figure, one of the cultists, he presumed, "Not forgotten... just late."
The cultist stood silent for a moment before he spoke, his tone constant, "You truly are peculiar... You survived what none have," the cultist continued, stopping a few feet away. "To look upon Mother and still breathe, still be sane... even for a moment. You shouldn't even be alive and yet you jest.."
"Trust me," Kurt rasped, "I'm working on the dying part."
The cultist's smirk didn't falter. "You saw her, didn't you? Even half-awake, she stirs the soul of the world. You must have felt it... that pull. That beauty."
Kurt's expression hardened. "Beauty? Tell your mother to send me a picture later because all I could see was light. Before today, I didn't know there was a light so vile and filthy, that almost defined what those words truly meant."
"Because your mind is small," the man said simply. "We are fragments, Mage. But she is the whole. She is magic. Magic is her. You've spent your life trying to understand her, and you call it research." His tone softened, almost pitying. "We call it worship."
Kurt blinked slowly, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "You people really need better hobbies."
"When she awakens," the cultist went on, ignoring him, "this broken world will be remade. No lies, no mortality, no barriers. Everything as it should be, one being, one will. You could stand beside her, Mage. You, of all mortals, have earned that."
Kurt laughed, a dry, coughing sound. "You're telling me that thing wasn't even fully awake?"
The cultist smiled faintly. "Barely dreaming."
Kurt froze for half a second, then laughed again, quietly this time. "Of course it fucking wasn't…"
"You don't have to die here," the man said, almost gently. "Join us. You've seen the truth, why cling to a dying age? Why cling to a life that barely understands her? Your love for magic exceeds all of us, so why defy the creation of it. Walk beneath her light. Be remembered."
Kurt's gaze dropped to the blood pooling under him. "Remembered?" he muttered. "No… I think I am good with being forgotten."
He unbuttoned his blood-soaked shirt, revealing a delicate lattice of alchemic symbols etched with precision and desperation on his chest, each one glowing faintly.
The cultist's eyes widened. "Wait...those markings..."
The cultist composure broke for the first time. "Soul Magic! Stop him!!"
But it was too late.
Kurt pressed his palm to his chest. A flash erupted, brighter than fire, purer than light, swallowing the forest whole.
And in that final moment, as the world dissolved around him, Kurt's only thought was that maybe, just maybe, he'd finally done something on time.