*Discontinued* No Longer

The Summoning

Albus Dumbledore**

It'd been a blow to discover how entrenched all the teacher's memories of Evan were. If he were to remove them, the gaps would be far too obvious. Even had they not been apparent, he'd hired a few exceedingly intelligent professors, ones that would surely notice if Evan were well behaved up until this point, and suddenly became the unholy terror of a child that he was.

Breathing slowly, he stared at his old, gnarled hands. Perhaps getting the child expelled was in his best interests though, after all, it was far easier to cover this stuff up when he was more distant. And anyways, the brat got in his nerves.

In other news, however, was Harry's intelligence. The younger Potter twin had seemed so insignificant as a baby, yet here he was, shining like a star. It was clear the teachers adored him, even Severus, who he'd've bet good money on to hate any child of James Sr., seemed fond of him, albeit somewhat reluctantly. He'd been forced to revise his previous calculation from merely 'smart' to 'genius'.

The teachers, as of late, had been strangely quiet about the twins, not really coming to him as much as they ought, and becoming distressingly independent, if one can countenance such a thing. Albus was not happy with them either. Shouldn't they instinctively realize that he was just smarter than them and they should be relying solely on his decisions?

With his fingers impatiently tapping on the red fabric of the robes covering his thighs, he contemplated. Clearly he needed to have more power over those around him, so should he-

His eyes drifted to the shelf behind him, as though they were magnetized to the old book kept on the upper shelf. It was a small volume, just smaller than the length of his hand wrist to the tip of his finger, and it was bound in cracked brown leather than showed the signs of being well cared for at some distant point in time. It had neither title nor a name of it's owner, but once upon a time, it had belonged to the witch, Morgan LeFay.

Within it, there was a ritual that Morgan LeFay supposedly used to call supernatural forces to her aide. Well, Albus was going to see if it was true. Smiling with the full force of his madness, the crazy behind his civilized veneer, he stood on his old, creaky legs and went over to the shelf.

With a tremor of hope at the possible power awaiting him, he reached out a hand, and grabbed the book.

The leather hadn't been properly cared for, and the cracked surface was brittle from years of neglect. With careful hands, steadied even through his tremors by magic, he held it gingerly as he flipped through the half-transparent, yellowed sheets of parchment bound lovingly between the covers. Some of the characters, cramped together in a precise, tilt-free hand, were faded to the point of near incomprehensibility, but they were easy enough to understand.

When Albus found the page he wanted, he set the book down, the book staying perfectly open on his desk. There was some additional commentaries about the spell from the writer at the bottom of the page, but he didn't think it would be of any use, so didn't bother struggling through the mostly faded text.

With a spell, he ensured none of the tremors this accursed old body of his was prone to would interrupt his casting. He wished he'd created his horcrux younger, but he hadn't wanted the questions living in such a preserved state would arouse. Being old and just not dying was a common fate for powerful wizards, even aging backwards was a well-documented occurrence for them, but stalling in their prime was most decidedly not, and the only cases where it was reputably known to be true were for those wizards on the more sinister side of history. Albus refused to cast such a pall over himself, and his final decision was made to create his horcrux at a distinguished age.

There were other implements needed for this ritual of course, as it was a summoning, dealing with metaphysical powers one needed focuses to draw upon. Had the concepts of the desired result been understandable, simply magic itself could be the vessel of conjuration, but such was not the case.