Katechon
The sky was a deep gray, nearly slate, filled with clouds, not a glint of the sun to be seen. The slap of leather against a stone floor echoed through the halls, the rhythm discordant against the backing of rumbling thunder, abruptly coming to a stop.
“My darling, what troubles you?” The woman who had stopped walking asked, looking at the man sat in front of the windowed alcove at which his desk stood.
“There are troubling signs afoot, my dearest.” The man responded. “Troubling signs indeed.”
“You are not one for prevarication, darling. What signs are you seeing? What do they portend?”
“I believe, Pernelle, that it has fallen. The Katechon is no more.”
“Surely not my love?” Pernelle gasped.
“I am certain. His arrival is upon us.”
“Have you communed at the Temple, Nicolas?”
“I have not, for fear of what they may say.”
“Come. Fear is the Enemy’s weapon. We must prepare.”
Far away, under cover of cloud and away from the tower in which the Flamel’s stood, came a laborious scream, followed by the wailing of a newborn child.
-{ ҉ }-
Harry Potter was an odd boy. There was something… off about him. He was just as neatly dressed as the rest of his family, the Dursleys, not a single curl of his neatly cut hair out of place, nary a wrinkle to be seen on his clothes. Nevertheless, there was something deeply unusual about the boy.
It might have been the ease with which he convinced people to do as he wished, the silver tongue that made way for any whim he may have had. It may have been that whenever his Aunt Petunia would hug him, he always seemed a touch too cold, even though nothing was wrong with him. Maybe it was the near-uncanny look he had about his graceful features or the odd affinity he had with snakes.
Maybe it was that he never went to Mass with his family, at least not after the willow tree on the grounds of the attached cemetery had died.
No one could really say, but they all knew there was something… wrong about the boy. And no one knew that better than Harry himself.
It was easy for him to ignore, for the most part, but there was a voice that accompanied him every waking moment of his life. Little whispers, urging him to do something, to take this, to hide that. Small things, little nudges toward a different moral compass. Little pieces of advice on how to use his silver tongue, how to charm someone with but a word. Oddly enough, though he wouldn’t recognize it at the time, the voice was pushing his interests down a specific route.
It was as he was looking for something in the Little Whinging public library, for a school project, that he heard a whisper, just above his shoulder, but far back enough that it was as though someone was whispering in his ear, just as they always sounded.
Two to the left, one down
Looking across and down, Harry’s eyes alighted on a book, one that seemed to have never been touched if the dust was indicative of anything. The spine read “Clavicula Salomonis Lemegeton” with another book next to it reading “Clavicula Salomonis.”
Put them in your bag. Don’t leave a trace.
Ordinarily, Harry would have ignored a nudge like that. But this time, for some odd reason he couldn’t quite articulate, he didn’t ignore it. And he left the library with two more books than he’d planned.
-{ ҉ }-
“Nicolas?” Albus asked as he opened the door to his office. “To what may I owe the pleasure old friend?”
“The most dire of warnings, my dear friend.” Nicolas responded as he sat down in front of Albus’ desk. “Ten years prior, the signs were clear. The Katechon had fallen, and with it, the birth of the False Messiah was nigh.”
“But why approach now? Why have I heard no word before now?”
“Because, dear friend, I have been hunting him. And he resides somewhere in these Isles. I come to prepare you, my young apprentice, for three years yet remain until he sets foot in these halls.”
“Then we must plan!” Albus exclaimed. “Come, to my study. I fear we have much to discuss.”
-{ ҉ }-
Harry wasn’t entirely certain as to why he was doing this. He was in the basement of Number Four Privet Drive, and it had just turned two o’clock at night, and he was standing, looking over the floor. Again, Harry wasn’t quite sure why he was deciding to follow the whispering prompts that had driven him to take those library books.
The reason he was looking over the floor was because of the circle he had drawn. Well, magical circle, to be specific, seeing as there was more to it than a circle. There was a circle, though, if he was being particular. Two, to be specific. Between the inner circle and the outer was a serpent, coiling around the inner, with the empty spaces filled in with a deep yellow. The serpent itself had meticulously transcribed Hebrew, all of which were names.
In the center circle he had carefully drawn out a square and four hexagrams, the interior spaces of which were red, yellow, and green, for the squares, hexagram triangles, and hexagram centers respectively. Outside of the circles were four pentagrams, the arms the same yellow as the hexagram’s arms, the centers the same red as the square.
The magical circle wasn’t the sole image he had copied onto the floor, but it was certainly the most complicated. In front of the circle, to the east specifically, he had drawn out the triangle, within which sat a circle of dark green, and the name Michael separated into three parts. On the sides of the triangle, in the same red as used in the circle, he had written three words. Tetragrammaton, Primeumaton, and Anaphaxeton.
He would have made the other ritual tools and attire, but he lacked the supplies, and the voice told him he wouldn’t need them. So, standing in the center of the square, Harry raised his hand and began to recite the modified chant the voice had given him.
“I invocate and conjure thee, O Spirit, Mastema, Bringer of Light; and being with power armed from the SPOKEN ENEMY, I do strongly call thee, by BERALANENSIS, BALDA-CHIENSIS, PAUMACHIA, and APOLOGIAE SEDES; by the most Powerful Princes, Genii, Liachidee, and Ministers of the Tartarean Abode; and by the Chief Prince of the Seat of Apologia in the Ninth Legion, I do invoke thee, and by invocating conjure thee. And being armed with power from the ELDEST ENEMY, I do strongly call thee, by him who Fell and tempts, and unto whom all creatures are tested. Also I, being made after the image of GOD do release thee by that most mighty and powerful name of GOD, EL, strong and wonderful. Wherefore come thou, O Spirit Mastema, Heavenly Prosecutor, forthwith, and without delay, from any or all parts of the world where mayest be. Come thou peaceably, visibly, and affably, now, and without delay, manifest what I shall desire.”
As Harry finished the chant, which was noticeably shorter than what was in the Clavicula Salomonis Lemegeton, an unearthly glow began to fill the room, slowly moving to the center of the triangle, coalescing as it did. Was that- Harry could have sworn he had seen wings, or were they horns? He was certain he had seen hooves, hadn’t he? As he was trying to understand what he had been seeing, the light stopped moving.
In front of him stood a man, about five foot, eleven inches. His hair was black, slightly longer than Harry’s, but just as curly. He had prominent cheekbones and a well-defined jawline. His eyes were a similar green to Harry’s, perhaps a touch closer to malachite than jade. His clothing looked utterly unassuming, but there was something about the man that twinged at his senses. It all clicked into place when he spoke.
“Hello, son.”