It had to have been a dream.

Stepping into the church, taking in the familiar interiors, her mind almost numbed as if she had just fallen asleep and this was only an illusion.

This chapel, the Temple of Ambrosius, was only ever a dream world to her; the rainbow stain-glass windows that cast mingling splotches like blood and paint had only ever been an illusion to her. The unblemished oak benches reflecting the technicolor light from the windows were only ever something her mind created. This temple was not real; it had never been real. It had always lived in her head, nestled in a world she had created in dreams.

But it was here. The soft heat from the light streaming through the windows warmed her cheeks. She reached out, and her fingers grazed the solid oak of the nearest bench. All the way down the middle aisle, behind the oak altar, the same bearded man swathed in robes carved from marble stood grandly in the light, almost like a spotlight. She breathed the air, the real air, and it filled her lungs satisfyingly. This was real. This was real.

With every step she made, the sound against the cobbled floors echoed eerily. Her hands subconsciously played with the strap of her bag, her boots leaving damp prints in her wake.

"We don't get many visitors."

A voice, deep and calming, echoed through the chapel. Her body bristled and she readied herself to grab her wand from her jacket, but her eyes settled on a man standing in front of a door he had just come through.

She hadn't particularly expected any caretakers, but it seemed obvious that he was one: he was clothed in red Wizarding robes, the same red that stained the windows around them. He seemed perfectly relaxed, his demeanor friendly and warm, that of someone who was accustomed to leading and acquainting with people. What caught her eye, though, was not the Wizarding robes: against his dark-colored skin, his eyes gleamed an electric blue, the color of an electric spark between two active wires. They stood out like the dead garden peaking through the perfect snow outside: they seemed to almost glow against his dark skin as if they were colored with light instead of melanin.

The man swiftly walked to the opening of the aisle nearest to him and they faced each other, each at opposite ends.

"What brings you to the Temple?"

His voice, once again, echoed like a bass drum.

"I didn't know this was a place of Magic," she replied evenly. The robes, the almost vibrating electric current around the place, the odd connection to her dreams---this was a Wizarding chapel, disguised in the depths of the surrounding Muggle village.

Something in his eyes changed: what was once polite ease, his eyes now glowed with an apprehensive curiosity, one of someone who was normally paranoid and careful.

"We don't get many Magical folk around here anymore," he said. His voice changed, too---it grew more business-like, though it still maintained the air of kindness it had had before. "These are dark times. War is not a time for worship."

Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly, and she studied the large, marble statue of the bearded man.

"Worship of what?" she asked. "I hadn't had the impression the Wizarding world was much for organized religion."

"This is no religious church," he assured evenly. "Worship is not limited to gods. This, here, is the worship of greatness."

It was silent as she studied him, her stance strong and tall.

"'Greatness,'" she repeated lowly. She thought of her father. "Worshiping greatness often leads to dangerous things. War," she began, echoing his earlier words, "is not a time for worship. Especially the worship of something that breeds such darkness."

"Greatness is power," he said, his eyes narrowed slightly. "Power is not evil, if harnessed in the proper hands."

Through the silence, Diana stepped forward, her eyes idly lingering on the windows. Now, she was halfway down the aisle, and she could see his eyes glowed with a darker flame beneath, one of power and knowledge.

He spoke before she could.

"Though, I assume you know much about power, Diana Riddle."

Her eyes snapped to his, and he smiled slightly, thought not maliciously. He smiled as if she was an old friend he hadn't seen for a long time. Her breath caught in her throat and she hesitated, her body frozen.

He took a step forward, and his eyes had lost all of the flame they had before. Now, they were friendly and kind like they had been when she first saw him, almost happy, like he recognized her in great light.

"I was wondering when you'd come."

"How do you know who I am?" she asked finally, her voice strong and stern. He watched her with curiosity, the way she could become so powerful so quickly.

He cocked his head subtly to the side, his eyebrows furrowing with delighted curiosity.

"How could I not?"

"I don't understand."

He smiled, as if her confusion was endearing.

Suddenly, he turned on his heel, and he beckoned her to follow. She did, though cautiously, and he led her through the door he had come through and into a dark, stone corridor. Lit only by the flickering candles on the walls, it reminded her of the dungeon corridors at Hogwarts, windowless and eerie and dim, slightly off-putting as if someone was watching.

He led her down the corridor until they soon reached the top of a staircase. They went down, down, down, until the darkness thickened and it suffocated her, and the candle light was no longer enough to allow them to comfortably see.

"Ah," he muttered to himself. "Here we are."

At the bottom of the steps, they was a dusty and old stone door, carved with intricate designs that were nearly dizzying to the eye. He heaved it open, and he ushered her through, closing it behind them.

The room was nothing like the corridor: it resembled a royal drawing room, lit with sunlight from an unknown source and decorated with colorful, red curtains and intricate couches with flowered cushions. It was a room in which a queen might dwell, dressed in puffy dresses, where she might ignore the needs of her kingdom and bask in the beauty of her wealth. This room was one taken straight from an old castle. She could imagine Marie Antoinette sitting spending her days in a room like this.

"What is this place?" she breathed, stepping into the royal room. The ceiling towered high above her, carved into beautiful arches and patterns.

"Well, for all intents and purposes, this is your home."

She looked at him, meeting his electric eyes.

"My home?" she said. "I don't have a home."

He passed her, leading her to the left-most wall decked in faded flowered wallpaper. A grand portrait in a brilliant golden frame hung in the middle. Oddly, like most Wizarding pictures, this one did not move.

The portrait was of a bearded man, eyes a chocolate brown. He wore brown robes that resembled those a commoner might wear, through painted in his lift hand was a long, thick wooden wand.

"I forgot to ask," said Diana abruptly. "What's your name?"

The dark-skinned man turned his eyes away from the portrait.

"Ambrosius," he said with a smile. The Temple of Ambrosius. "And this--" he gestured to the portrait "--is Merlin."

Diana took in Merlin's dark eyes, the way they held so much power. The paint strokes seemed to hum with energy, each color in his hand magical and each painted wisp of his hair powerful.

"Your mother told me you'd come," Ambrosius said. "She told me you'd need my help."

"When did she tell you that?"

"I remember she had been severely pregnant at the time," he said with a small laugh. "She told me that she feared for your safety."

Her breath hitched.

"My safety?" said Diana.

Ambrosius said nothing, but ran his fingers softly over the golden frame of Merlin's portrait.

"How can you help me?" she said.

He sighed, dropping his hand.

"What do you know about Merlin?" he asked, ignoring her question.

She shook her head, shrugging. "Not much is recorded about him, isn't there? I only know that he was extremely powerful."

"Merlin," he said, his eyes trained on the portrait, "was my greatest friend."

It was silent.

"That was centuries ago," she said dumbly.

He smiled. "I was a great prophet, then," he said. "I was Merlin's adviser, as well as his best friend."

"You said 'then,'" she noticed. "You're not one anymore?"

"I fear my senses have dulled with age," he said sadly. "But not my wit, nor my intelligence."

"How can you help me?" she asked again.

Again, without answering her, he ushered her to the flowered couch. She sat, and she noticed the way she sunk uncomfortably into the cushions. He sat across from her in a matching armchair.

"What do you need my help with?" he asked.

She stared at him stupidly, opening and closing her mouth like a fish.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "Didn't my mother tell you?"

"No," he said simply. "She only told me that you'd need my help, not why you'd need it."

"I need to find her," said Diana. "I need you to help me find her."

He nodded solemnly, as if he had feared such an answer.

"Ah," he said. "I'm afraid I know not where she is."

"Is there any way you could help me? I don't know, channel some powerful voodoo stuff or something?"

She was growing desperate now. Her palms became slick with the thought, how her only viable lead was starting to slip through her grasp.

"Look," she said after he said nothing, "she sent me here. She sent me to you. There has to be a reason for that, right?"

He stared at her, his eyes cloudy with something difficult he seemed to be thinking about.

"She sent you," he said. "How?"

"Her diary. I saw her in my dream, and she told me to come here."

"This diary," he said slowly, "may I see it?"

Diana reached into the depths of her bag and pulled the leather-bound book from it, handing it to him gently. He ran his fingers over it, examining it carefully.

"I used to see her writing in this," he said quietly, more to himself than her.

Wordlessly, he pulled an old, long wand from his scarlet-colored robes and waved it lightly, and an ancient Pensieve, much like the one at Hogwarts, appeared and floated between them.

"This was Merlin's," he said as she tried deciphering the odd pictures and hieroglyphs carved into it. She saw a snake, and it wound all the way around the Pensieve like a ring, and a purple gem was in the place of its eye. It looked much like the one she had seen at Tom Riddle's cave, carved right onto the wall.

Ambrosius put his wand to his temple, and he extracted a wispy, silver bundle of strands from it, the same color as his eyes. He placed the memory into the Pensieve and swirled it with the tip of his wand.

"I'm afraid it doesn't hold much meaning to me," he murmured, "but it might to you."

He gestured toward the disk, and just as she had always done in Dumbledore's office, she placed her head into the gas and began to fall into the depths of Ambrosius' memory.

She landed in the very room she had been sitting in, though the mysterious sunlight was dim like it was nighttime. On the very same couch, Vera Beauregard, the same ageless glow to her features, sat comfortably. Diana noticed a slight baby bump, and an odd shiver went down her back.

In the very same chair, Ambrosius sat, and they seemed to be having a conversation.

"The old Bat came 'round today," said Vera. She picked up a tea cup from the table between them and took a sip. "In the Hollows. I told her. About the baby, I mean."

"What did she say?" Ambrosius asked. Though this was just about eighteen years ago, he looked no different than he did when Diana saw him. Though, in this memory, he wore bright yellow robes that glowed against his skin.

"She's worried," said Vera, her eyebrows drawn together. "She's worried about the baby's safety."

"Safety?" he said. "What could possibly harm your child?"

Vera cleared her throat delicately and looked down at her hands. "Tom," she said. "She's worried that he could feel threatened."

After a few moments, she spoke again. "She says I should hide the baby when it's born."

"Hide the baby?" he said. "Nothing can be hidden from Voldemort for long."

She looked at him scoldingly, though it was halfhearted. "I don't like it when people use that name."

"Why?" said Ambrosius. "That's who he is now."

She said nothing, though she turned her downcast eyes to the portrait on the wall.

"Do you think the baby will be a boy or a girl?" Ambrosius asked, changing the subject. He smiled lightly, proud that she will be extending the bloodline.

She smiled softly, and she pushed away a lock of hair that had fallen over her face.

"I think it'll be a girl," she said. "I just feel it."

Ambrosius smiled. "What will you call her?"

"I've always loved the name Diana," she said gently.

"Ah, the Huntress. Fitting choice, I'd say."

She smiled. "If I have to hide her, I want her to be strong even when I'm not there. I'd say Diana is a strong choice."

Diana was yanked upward toward the ceiling, her mother soon dimming out of view. She appeared in the same drawing room, though Ambrosius was once again swathed in crimson robes and she now took the place of her mother on the couch. She emerged, first taking sight of the smiling man who watched her with anticipation.

Diana shook away her emotion from the memory she had just witnessed and steeled herself for a moment.

"'The old bat,'" she echoed from the memory. "Who was she talking about?"

Ambrosius gave a deep laugh.

"Old Bathilda Bagshot, in Godric's Hollow."

"My mother knew her?"

"Oh yes," he replied. "Bathilda was like a mother to her."

It was silent while Diana thought about it. If her mother had talked about it with Bathilda early on, could the woman know where Vera was now?

"I'm sorry I can't help you more. She didn't talk about it again."

The sourceless sunlight had begun to dim as the sky on the surface began to as well. She met the eyes of Merlin in the portrait, and she noticed just how similar they were to her mother's.

Above, though she could not see, the crescent moon rose against the dying sun into the bank of stars, and she finally felt at peace.

Idris Elba as Ambrosius