Date: 02/09/1991
Time: 7:45 PM
Location: The Scottish Highlands
The world didn't simply fade away—it was ripped apart.
For Dumbledore and Snape, the cold wind, the trembling earth, and the distant shouting of Aurors vanished in an instant. Their senses were torn from the physical world and thrown into a suffocating, pitch-black void.
There was no up, no down.
No ground, no sky.
Only a storm—raw, violent, endless.
Emotion swirled around them like a living thing.
Fear, jagged and cutting like broken glass.
Anger, thick and choking, like breathing smoke.
And beneath it all, a loneliness so deep it felt like ice water filling the lungs.
Snape's eyes narrowed sharply. His mental shields slammed into place, hard and practiced, like fortress gates reinforced by steel. Even so, the vortex battered against him, whispering fragments of memories with each pulse of darkness.
A locked door.
A pair of boots walking away.
A plate smashing against a wall.
A child's scream was swallowed before it escaped.
"Focus, Severus."
Dumbledore's voice wasn't spoken—it resonated cleanly through the void, like a clear thought echoing in an empty hall. He manifested beside Snape as a steady, soft white glow, pushing back the darkness in gentle, widening circles.
"Find the center. Find the calm," Dumbledore urged.
Snape clenched his jaw. "There is no calm here," he shot back, though his feet—or whatever passed for feet in this place—continued moving forward. His mind cut through the oily darkness with calculated precision, each step like slicing through corrupted fog. "The mind is collapsing. The Obscurus is consuming the host."
Dumbledore didn't argue.
Ahead, the darkness thinned just enough for them to see it:
A swirling hurricane of wild blue magic—violent, unstable, and constantly shifting shape like a creature in agony.
At its core, bound and suffocating under the crushing force of its own power…
…was a child.
A boy.
No older than eleven.
His small form curled inward, trembling, his face pale and streaked with tears that dissolved into light the moment they left his skin. Blue tendrils of magic wrapped around him like chains, constricting tighter with each tortured pulse.
Snape froze mid-step.
Dumbledore's face softened in horror and sorrow.
The Obscurial wasn't a monster.
It was a boy drowning alone in his own mind.
And they were standing inside the storm that was tearing him apart.
Dumbledore and Snape pushed deeper into the storm of thoughts, their forms flickering like shadows against the swirling blue chaos. The closer they drew to the boy, the more the darkness thinned—stretching apart to reveal fragments of memory suspended in the air like shattered glass.
One by one, the pieces aligned.
And the memories began to play.
A younger version of the boy appeared, small and thin, sitting in a patch of overgrown grass beside a woman in ragged clothes. Her hair hung in tangled strands, but her hands were gentle as she brushed dirt from the boy's cheek. There was exhaustion in her eyes… but warmth, too. The kind only a mother could give.
Snape's expression twitched.
The memory shifted violently.
Two wizards approached—faces twisted with contempt. Their robes were government issue but worn with arrogance rather than duty. They towered over the woman and child, voices dripping with disgust as they taunted them, spat insults, and mocked their poverty.
The woman pulled the boy behind her, standing firm despite shaking hands.
But the wizards didn't stop.
The scene lurched into motion—the woman running, clutching the boy's wrist, breath ragged with terror as they sprinted across the very same grasslands where the dome now stood.
The wizards chased them, laughing.
Snape's fists clenched.
Dumbledore's face tightened with sorrow.
They watched helplessly as the woman stumbled. A flash of green light burst through the air—sharp, merciless.
She fell.
The child froze mid-step, eyes wide.
The world inside the memory went dead silent.
Then the boy began to glow.
Blue light seeped from his skin like cracks forming across glass. His eyes snapped open—two blazing galaxies of swirling, endless blue, ancient and furious.
Energy rippled outward in a silent wave.
The woman's body was swallowed first—then the two wizards who had mocked her. Their forms shattered like dust in a storm, disintegrating as the blinding blue light consumed everything around them.
Dumbledore whispered, voice heavy, "Dear Merlin…"
The memory faded—burning away into smoke.
And the truth settled in the air between them:
This Obscurial had not been born of silence or temperament.
It had been born of grief so violent it tore the world apart.
And the boy—still curled at the center of the dome—was drowning in that moment over and over again.
The boy sat curled at the heart of the storm—knees drawn tightly to his chest, small hands clamped over his ears as though trying to shut out a world far too cruel. His mouth was open in a silent scream. No sound emerged… only violent pulses of raw blue magic that exploded outward in waves, battering against Dumbledore's and Snape's mental forms.
Each pulse hit like a physical blow—fear turned into energy, and grief turned into force.
"He is terrified," Dumbledore murmured, his voice soft but shaking with sorrow.
Unlike Snape, who shielded himself with iron discipline, Dumbledore opened himself to the darkness. He did not push against it; he accepted it. His aura expanded gently, radiating warmth—calmness, safety, and the kind of presence a frightened child instinctively leans toward.
He stepped forward, voice low and steady. "We must not force them," he said quietly. "We must invite them."
Snape's face remained tight, unreadable—but his eyes softened in a way he would never allow outside this mental battlefield. He saw flashes of the boy's pain, and something in it struck too close to home:
the sting of mockery,
the helplessness of being small,
the aching, animal grief of losing someone precious.
It was a kind of suffering he knew intimately.
The boy flinched as another pulse of magic burst from him—eyes squeezed shut, shoulders trembling. The darkness screamed around them, bending inward like claws.
Snape swallowed, jaw tight. "She's reliving it," he muttered—using the pronoun without thinking. "The grief. The rage. The moment she broke."
Dumbledore nodded gently, eyes fixed on the small, shaking form at the center.
"If we are to reach the child," he murmured, stepping forward through the chaos, "we must first show that we are not here to hurt them."
The storm roared.
The boy trembled.
And both wizards braced themselves—
because the next moment could pull them closer…
or destroy them entirely.
Snape stepped closer, the darkness swirling around him like smoke pulled toward a flame. He lowered his mental shields—just enough to let a single, carefully crafted thread of thought slip through the storm and reach the boy.
You are not alone.
It was not gentle, not soft—Snape had never mastered gentleness—but it was honest. Steady. A single beam of clarity piercing the chaos.
He pushed more of himself into the connection—
his own memories of cold hallways,
the hollow ache of being unwanted,
the fury of losing the one person who mattered.
I know this pain, he projected. Look at me.
The boy trembled, the storm rippling outward. Another wave of raw magic blasted against them, but Snape held firm, pouring everything he had into the fragile tether between them.
Just one moment, child. One glance.
For a long, breathless second, nothing happened.
Then—
The boy's head snapped upward.
His eyes—two swirling galaxies of eternal blue—locked onto Snape.
"Now, Albus!" Snape barked, his voice slicing through the mental storm.
Dumbledore moved instantly.
The old wizard surged forward, his presence expanding like a brilliant wave of warm light. He reached out—not with his hand, but with pure intent—his mind brushing gently against the boy's fragile consciousness.
Not force.
Not dominance.
Just a soft touch.
A lullaby of safety.
A promise of rest.
Dumbledore's magic wrapped around the boy like a blanket.
"Sleep," he whispered into the boy's mind, the word resonating like a warm breeze.
The blue light flickered.
The child's trembling eased.
His eyes fluttered.
And slowly, finally—
mercifully—
The boy slipped into unconsciousness, collapsing into Dumbledore's waiting light.
The storm around them hesitated.
Then the entire mental world cracked with a soundless explosion of blue.
Real World
The real world snapped back like a rubber band pulled too tight.
The massive blue dome suddenly flared white—a blinding, searing light that forced every Auror and professor to throw up an arm to shield their eyes. Several cried out; robes snapped in the violent burst of displaced air.
A shockwave thundered outward.
It hit them like a physical wall—knocking Flitwick off his feet and sending Professor Sprout stumbling backward into Kingsley Shacklebolt, who barely caught her in time.
Then—
Silence.
The deafening roar of the storm began fading, bit by bit.
The wild winds that had been whipping at their robes slowed to a whisper.
The vibrating hum of unstable magic, so loud it felt like it shook their bones, began to sputter… then weaken… then cease entirely.
For a few long seconds, the only sound was the frantic breathing of the Aurors as they struggled to recover.
Slowly—hesitantly—the spots of white began to clear from their vision.
One by one, the professors lowered their arms.
Their eyes widened.
Where the dome had stood moments before, the towering sphere of blue light had begun to thin—its edges breaking apart like dissolving mist. The enormous structure shimmered, flickered, and pulled inward as though being absorbed by an invisible drain.
The grassy field beneath it was scorched black in a perfect circle, ash drifting upward in the fading glow.
Minerva took a sharp, trembling breath.
"Albus…" she whispered, but the rest of her words died on her tongue.
Because at the center of the collapsing dome—right where the heart of the Obscurial had been—
Something small lay motionless.
The last ribbons of blue magic curled upward from the child's body like dying embers, then faded into the night air.
The dome was vanishing.
And what remained inside would change everything.
Dumbledore was already kneeling in the scorched grass, shoulders bowed, looking older and more exhausted than anyone had seen him in decades. His hands pressed into the blackened earth for balance, his breath slow and heavy. The strain of the mental battle—and the magic required to contain the Obscurial—had drained him to the bone.
Beside him, Snape stood unsteadily. His face was chalk-pale, his hair plastered to his temples with sweat. His wand hand trembled as though even the weight of it was too much. He drew in sharp breaths, each one ragged, as if he'd sprinted miles.
For a moment, neither man moved.
Then Snape forced himself upright and extended a gloved hand toward Dumbledore. "Headmaster," he said quietly, voice hoarse.
Dumbledore accepted the support with a weary nod. His legs shook as he rose, and Snape braced him with a steady grip—despite swaying slightly himself.
The moment McGonagall reached them, she slipped an arm beneath Dumbledore's other side. "Albus," she whispered, eyes filled with tight worry. "You shouldn't be standing."
He gave her a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "There was little choice."
By then, the Aurors and remaining professors were hurrying across the scorched field toward them. Kingsley, Moody, Tonks, Sprout, and Flitwick—faces marked with shock and concern—closed in around the trio.
"What happened?" Kingsley asked, voice grave.
"Is it over?" Tonks breathed.
"Is the child—?" Sprout began but couldn't finish.
Dumbledore took a slow breath, steadying himself as he leaned on both Snape and McGonagall.
His gaze drifted toward the center of the circle—
toward the motionless child lying amid the ashes.
And the weight of what they had witnessed settled heavy on all of them.
Dumbledore swallowed, his voice trembling slightly as he called out, "Minerva… Pomona… the boy."
McGonagall didn't hesitate. She and Professor Sprout rushed across the scorched ground toward the unconscious child. Kneeling beside him, Sprout pressed two fingers to his neck, her breath catching.
"He has a pulse," she said quietly—relief washing through her voice.
McGonagall exhaled shakily, then flicked her wand. A soft wool blanket appeared in her hands. She draped it gently over the child's fragile form before lifting him into her arms.
She cradled him against her chest with an instinctive protectiveness—like a mother who'd found a lost child in the rain.
Around them, the Aurors were already reacting.
Moody lowered his wand, his magical eye spinning with frantic precision, scanning the field for lingering threats.
Scrimgeour, jaw tight, barked commands across the smoking grass:
"Secure the perimeter! Check for witnesses—modify memories if needed! Move!"
But among all the tension and relief… one reaction stood out.
Professor Quirrell lingered at the edge of the group, half-hidden in the shadows. He wasn't watching Dumbledore. He wasn't helping. He was staring—staring—at the unconscious boy in McGonagall's arms.
Not with pity.
Not with concern.
But with hunger.
His twitching face went still—unnaturally still—and for a heartbeat, there was nothing nervous or stuttering about him at all. His eyes gleamed with cold, calculating interest… almost possession.
Snape's gaze snapped toward him, dark and sharp.
Quirrell flinched.
"A… a m-miracle," he stammered quickly, wiping sweat from his brow as he forced his usual mask back into place. "T-truly… a—ah—astonishing d-display of power."
Snape didn't believe a word of it.
Dumbledore stepped forward, McGonagall now beside him with the child held securely in her arms. The old wizard turned to Rufus Scrimgeour, who was striding toward them, frustration clear on his face.
"Rufus," Dumbledore said, voice calm but absolute, "I will be taking the child to Hogwarts. Madam Pomfrey must see to him immediately."
Scrimgeour bristled. "Now see here, Dumbledore—this is a Ministry matter! An Obscurial is dangerous—"
Dumbledore's tone softened… But the air around him crackled with unmistakable power.
"He is a child. And he has just endured hell."
His eyes hardened.
"I will not have him waking in a Ministry holding cell. Tell Cornelius that I will take the responsibility."
Scrimgeour had no answer.
Dumbledore turned to his staff. "Minerva, take my arm. Severus, bring the others. We return to the castle."
The professors moved in close, gathering around him once more. The ministry officials stood back, uncertain, outmatched, and thoroughly ignored.
As Snape stepped forward, he cast one last glance at the boy in McGonagall's arms. Her grip on him had unconsciously tightened, her face set with a fierce protectiveness he hadn't seen in years.
Trouble, Snape thought bitterly.
Nothing but trouble.
He took Dumbledore's arm.
A sharp, echoing CRACK split the valley—
and the entire group vanished into thin air.