Scotland - March 13, 1995 - The Prediction
Scotland - March 13, 1995 - The Prediction
Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, bathed in the golden glow of the morning sun that streamed through the high windows. The delicate silver instruments on his desk whirred and hummed softly, sending up occasional puffs of smoke as they monitored the countless enchantments woven throughout the castle. Hogwarts was, as always, alive in its own peculiar way, and today was no different.
March had settled upon the Scottish Highlands, bringing with it a crisp chill that even the castle's enchanted fires struggled to dispel. Outside, the lake remained half-frozen, its surface a mosaic of fractured ice and shifting water. The grounds were alive with students scurrying between classes, their voices carrying up through the stone walls of his tower. The excitement of the Triwizard Tournament had not yet waned, though tension had begun to coil beneath the surface of the school. The final task loomed ahead, and with it, the uncertain fate of a boy who had been thrust into danger against his will.
Dumbledore sighed, steepling his fingers as he studied the parchment before him. Reports from his network of informants lay scattered across the desk, each carrying whispers of shadows stirring in the dark corners of the world. There was no doubt in his mind—Lord Voldemort was growing stronger. He could feel it in the air, in the way old alliances shifted uneasily, and in the silent dread that had begun to creep into the faces of those who remembered the last war.
The door creaked open, and Severus Snape entered, his black robes billowing slightly as he strode into the room. His expression, as always, was inscrutable, but Dumbledore had long since learned to read the tension in the younger man’s shoulders, the flicker of unease behind his obsidian eyes.
"Severus." Dumbledore greeted, his voice as calm as ever. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Snape’s mouth tightened.
"Karkaroff it's getting on my nerves. He's growing restless. He knows the Dark Lord is stirring. Not only that, but he fears he will be summoned soon." He told him directly.
Dumbledore nodded gravely.
Karkaroff had always been a man driven by fear. It was woven into the very fabric of his being, evident in the restless flicker of his eyes and the careful, measured way he carried himself. His betrayal of Voldemort had not been an act of defiance, nor of conscience—it had been pure self-preservation. He had bartered away names and secrets in a desperate bid for survival, yet deep down, he must have known that no amount of cooperation would ever truly grant him safety. The Dark Lord did not forgive. He did not forget. And Karkaroff, for all his outward bravado, was painfully aware that his past choices had marked him for death.
"And you?" The Headmaster asked.
There was a pause. Snape’s fingers twitched at his sides.
"The Mark is darkening."
The words hung between them, heavy with implication. It was as Dumbledore had feared. If Voldemort's followers were being summoned, then the inevitable was near. He studied Snape for a moment, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the sharp lines of his face. There were few men Dumbledore trusted as deeply, and yet, fewer still ached under the weight of the burdens he placed upon them.
He had always harbored a quiet fondness for Severus, though he knew better than to voice it. Affection, in the younger man’s world, had been a currency of manipulation and betrayal—never of solace. Still, Dumbledore saw him for what he was: not simply a former Death Eater seeking redemption, but a man who would be forced to carry the kind of duty that would break most. The road ahead for Severus was not just difficult; it was one of sacrifice, of relentless deception, of walking so close to the abyss that it might one day consume him.
A part of him wished he could speak to Snape about simpler things—about his occasional forays into Hogsmeade, about the quiet hours he spent in the company of that enigmatic witch. It would be easy, almost natural, to ask if he found any joy in those evenings, if they provided him with something akin to peace. But he refrained. To acknowledge it would be to validate it, to give Severus another reason to indulge in distractions when his mind, his very being, needed to be focused. A single misstep, a moment of weakness, could cost them everything.
So instead, Dumbledore only inclined his head slightly, the familiar twinkle in his eyes dimmed by the weight of what they both knew was coming
"You will keep your cover. When the time comes, you will do what must be done." He reminded him.
Snape inclined his head ever so slightly, but his jaw remained tight.
"And what about Potter?"
Dumbledore exhaled slowly. That was the question, wasn’t it? Harry was at the centre of it all, unwilling and unprepared, yet destined to face the darkest force the world had known. If Voldemort returned, Harry’s life would never again be his own.
Guilt settled in Dumbledore’s chest like an old companion, one he had long grown accustomed to carrying but never quite learned to silence. Harry was just a boy, and yet, the weight of a cruel destiny rested upon his shoulders with an inevitability even Dumbledore could not alter. At times, in the quietest hours of the night, he wondered if there had been another way—some means to keep the boy from all of this, to grant him the childhood he deserved rather than prepare him, knowingly or unknowingly, for war.
If he could, he would bear the burden himself. If he could, he would take Harry’s place without hesitation, stand in Voldemort’s path and face him with everything he had, all his magic, all his life. But fate had not granted him that role. It was Harry who had been marked. Harry who had survived the Killing Curse. Harry who was destined to be at the heart of it all.
Dumbledore remembered him in his first year, eyes wide with wonder as he beheld the Great Hall for the first time, hesitant in a way that spoke of a boy unused to warmth and belonging. He could still see that child in the fourteen-year-old now, one who had been thrown into a dangerous tournament, forced to confront trials that would challenge even seasoned wizards. How was he coping? Was he sleeping enough, or were his nights plagued with nightmares? Did exhaustion weigh upon his bones? Was the strain beginning to wear him down?
His thoughts drifted to the upcoming task of the Triwizard Tournament. The maze would test endurance as much as skill. Harry would have to face creatures, enchantments, illusions… and whatever Voldemort had been plotting from the shadows. Would he withstand it? How much more could be asked of him before he broke?
For a fleeting moment, Dumbledore closed his eyes. Then, with a soft sigh, he opened them again. There was no time for regret. He could only press forward, guiding Harry as best he could, hoping that, when the time came, the boy would have the strength to face it all.
"I fear for him, Severus." Dumbledore admitted, his voice tinged with quiet sorrow. "He is but a boy, yet he carries the weight of prophecy on his shoulders."
"He will have to grow up fast." Snape said and his lip curled.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted them. Severus Snape turned slightly as Dumbledore gestured for him to open it. With a flick of his wand, the door swung inward, revealing a lone owl perched on the threshold, a letter tied neatly to its leg.
Dumbledore extended a hand, and the owl fluttered onto his desk, allowing him to untie the parchment. As soon as the letter was freed, the bird took off, disappearing through the high window. The wax seal bore the crest of the Ministry of Magic.
"Fudge" Snape murmured, his tone edged with disdain.
Dumbledore broke the seal and unfolded the letter, scanning its contents with a measured gaze. Cornelius Fudge had once again evaded the truth, dismissing concerns of Voldemort’s return as baseless speculation. The Minister’s refusal to act could prove disastrous.
Unfolding the letter, he read it quickly. The words were carefully crafted, polite yet distant. Fudge had once again ignored his cautions, brushing aside concerns about Voldemort’s return. The weight of bureaucracy was pressing down upon the Ministry, and Fudge would rather cling to the illusion of peace than prepare for the coming storm.
Dumbledore set the letter down, his fingers tightening slightly around its edges.
"He wont listen." Said the Headmaster with clear sadness.
Snape scoffed under his breath but said nothing.
Dumbledore stood, moving to the window where he could see the castle grounds stretching below. Students milled about, unaware of the darkness looming over them. He had spent decades fighting this battle, and it seemed history was determined to repeat itself.
"I will continue to try to make him come to his senses." he said finally. "Because if we do not prepare, the consequences will be dire. Voldemort does not seek merely to reclaim his power—he will bring war. England will burn, and Harry..."
His voice trailed off. Harry, the boy who lived, who had survived so much already. If Voldemort returned, Harry’s fate was sealed. And if he failed…
Dumbledore’s gaze hardened. No. He would not let it come to that. He would do everything in his power to ensure that this war would not end as the last one had. He turned back to his colleague, his voice steady, resolute.
"We must be ready. Whatever comes, Hogwarts must stand."
Albus Dumbledore descended the spiralling staircase from his office, the echo of his measured footsteps filling the quiet corridors of Hogwarts. The castle was alive with murmurs of students and the occasional flicker of a moving portrait, yet Dumbledore’s thoughts remained focused on the task ahead. The Triwizard Tournament had already tested the students in ways he found unsettling, and the final task loomed ever closer.
He reached the heavy wooden doors of the staffroom and pushed them open. Inside, the long, dimly lit chamber was lined with high-backed chairs, some occupied by the various professors of Hogwarts. The scent of parchment, ink, and faintly of tea lingered in the air.
Minerva McGonagall sat near the hearth, a deep line etched between her brows as she studied a roll of parchment in her hands. Nearby, Filius Flitwick adjusted his seat, legs swinging slightly as he peered over his own stack of notes, his tiny hands making precise adjustments to the parchment before him. Pomona Sprout, her robes dusted with soil from her morning work in the greenhouses, listened attentively as Rubeus Hagrid muttered about the magical creatures he had been preparing for the labyrinth.
On the other side of the room, Severus Snape sat stiffly, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he surveyed the discussion with his usual air of scepticism. His black eyes flickered towards Igor Karkaroff, the Durmstrang headmaster, who lounged in his chair, idly stroking his beard as he observed the proceedings with detached amusement. Opposite him, Madame Olympe Maxime, the statuesque headmistress of Beauxbatons, sipped delicately from a goblet, her expression unreadable.
Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody stood off to the side, his magical eye whizzing unnervingly around the room, while he leaned against the wall with arms crossed. His rigid stance contrasted sharply with Charity Burbage, who, despite her usual joviality, wore a pensive expression, fingers drumming idly against the arm of her chair.
“Albus.” McGonagall acknowledged as he entered, looking up from her notes. “We were just discussing the final challenge of the Tournament. I still maintain that the safety of the students must remain our utmost priority.”
“Indeed.” Dumbledore said, his blue eyes twinkling as he took a seat beside her. “The third task is meant to challenge their courage and intellect, but we must not allow recklessness to lead to catastrophe.”
“It’s a ruddy labyrinth,” Hagrid interjected, his voice gruff but earnest. “I say we stick with magical creatures. Test their mettle.”
“It must not be a mere obstacle course.” Flitwick, ever precise, cleared his throat. “There should be layers of enchantments and puzzles. A test of wit as much as skill.”
“A challenge…” Karkaroff drawled, folding his arms. “... should not be merely a test of survival. It should demand true magical prowess.” His gaze slid towards Maxime, who merely inclined her head, offering no direct agreement or disagreement.
“I can place the Cup at the centre.” Moody gave a low chuckle, while offering to carry out that task. “Let them fight their way through. Only the strongest will reach it.”
“We are not sending them to battle, Moody. This is a tournament, not a war.” Snape scoffed.
Dumbledore watched Moody carefully. Barty Crouch Jr., disguised beneath the illusion of Moody’s battered exterior, played his role with unnerving precision. Too well. The old Auror’s paranoia, his brusque mannerisms, his ever-roving magical eye—each trait so meticulously mimicked that no one questioned his authenticity. His gruff remarks and sudden bursts of suspicion, once unsettling, had become an expected part of his presence, a quirk to be tolerated rather than scrutinized. Among the gathered professors, there was no flicker of doubt, no hesitation in their trust. If anything, Moody’s wariness was seen as a boon—a necessary perspective amidst the careful deliberations. And so, unnoticed and unquestioned, the imposter remained hidden in plain sight.
“We shall weave together the elements.” Dumbledore finally said. “A labyrinth filled with trials—creatures, enchantments, illusions—and the Cup shall stand as the final prize.”
“I still worry, Albus. These children are only seventeen—” said McGonagall, pursing her lips.
“They are of age.” Séptima Vector interjected, though her tone held some worry. "But the dangers must be measured.”
The words were abruptly cut off by a sharp, rattling breath. Across the room, Sybill Trelawney, who had been seated quietly in a shadowed corner, suddenly let out a strangled gasp. Her shawls fluttered as if caught in an invisible wind, her large, unfocused eyes rolling back. A violent shudder coursed through her body, her hands clawing at the air before she collapsed forward, knocking over a teacup.
A tense silence fell over the room. For a moment, no one moved. Then, McGonagall shot to her feet, her chair scraping against the stone floor.
“Trelawney?” she called sharply, moving towards her, but Dumbledore raised a hand to halt her.
Dumbledore was on his feet instantly, moving toward her just as McGonagall reached out to steady her. Snape, who had narrowed his eyes, stood abruptly, his expression surprised and upset.
“We must get her to the hospital wing,” McGonagall said urgently, gripping Trelawney’s arm as another tremor wracked her body.
“No.” Dumbledore’s voice was quiet but firm, his gaze locked onto the seer’s face. “Not yet.”
McGonagall shot him a questioning look but nodded, and Minerva, Severus and Albus carefully guided Trelawney toward the door. They had barely made it into the corridor when Sybill’s body convulsed once more, and her lips parted.
In a voice not entirely her own, she spoke:
“With eyes as black as midnight and an ancestry steeped in shadow, she will rise. The Supreme Witch, greater than the Dark Lord, an intertwined force of chaos and order, of fascination and terror. She will be born into a home full of Muggles, but her magic spans centuries. She will be a beacon of light and darkness alike, and she will have no equal.”
The three of them froze in place. The echo of her words seemed to linger in the air.
Dumbledore’s breath was slow and measured, but his mind spun with the weight of what he had just heard. Another prophecy. Another dark force looming on the horizon. He had spent years carrying the burden of Sybill’s first true prophecy, the one that had set Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort on an irreversible path. Now, fate wove its threads once more, and he could not help but wonder—was this the continuation of that tragedy, or the birth of an entirely new one?
His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the edge of his sleeve.
The Supreme Witch. Greater than the Dark Lord.
His gaze flickered to Snape, who looked at the woman with such dismay that Albus could sense his thoughts without needing to delve into his mind. McGonagall looked at him, concern etched across her features, but Dumbledore did not yet have an answer to give.
Who was she? And, more importantly, had they already crossed paths with her?
McGonagall’s grip on Trelawney tightened.
“Albus.” she said sharply, eyes flashing with something between fear and disbelief. “Another prophecy?”
Dumbledore did not answer immediately. He helped Sybill onto a bench in the hallway, his expression unreadable. She blinked rapidly, dazed, as though she had no recollection of what had just transpired.
“Oh, dear me.” She murmured, pressing a hand to her temple. “I seem to have... lost my balance. How terribly embarrassing.”
Dumbledore’s eyes met McGonagall’s, then flicked briefly to Snape, who stood rigid, his face pale. The Potions Master was not easily unsettled, yet there was something in his sharp, calculating gaze that told Dumbledore he too understood the weight of what had just been spoken. Dumbledore knew that hearing predictions surely revived old wounds.
A Supreme Witch, one stronger than Voldemort himself. A force of both darkness and light. The implications were profound.
For years, Dumbledore had believed—had hoped—that Voldemort was the apex of darkness, the most dangerous shadow cast upon the Wizarding World. He had spent decades preparing for the inevitable confrontation, shaping the pieces on the board, guiding Harry Potter toward his destiny. But now, Sybill’s words suggested something more. Something greater.
His mind raced. A Supreme Witch... He had never heard the term before, and yet it resonated with an ancient weight, as though it had existed long before their time, a title forgotten or deliberately buried. And the description—eyes black as midnight, a soul steeped in shadow—offered him little solace.
Was this figure an ally or an adversary? A balance to Voldemort’s chaos, or something that would throw the entire world into further disorder?
He needed answers.
Dumbledore had long been acquainted with the world’s greatest Seers, though few possessed true prophetic insight. Bathilda Bagshot had once introduced him to an oracle in México, Emilda Cortez, a woman so aged she could barely speak, yet whose visions had shaken even his understanding of time. Then there was the reclusive Susana Veccio, a professor of Castelobruxo who lived in Buenos Aires. Then there was Amalia Sánchez de Ruíz, a gypsy witch from Spain, who studied cosmic alignments and their ties to magical upheaval. If anyone could shed light on this new prophecy, it would be them.
His fingers twitched slightly as he considered his next steps. Should he consult the Wizengamot? The title of Supreme Witch echoed in his mind. Would be linked to the title he himself held of Supreme Mugwump? Was there a connection? The idea sent a rare chill through him. He had assumed his role was one of governance, diplomacy. But what if it was something more? What if the title of Supreme had always been meant for another?
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to rein in his thoughts. He could not afford to be distracted by paranoia. Not yet.
“Albus, this isn’t something we can ignore.” McGonagall’s voice pulled him back.
“No.” he said quietly. “It is not.”
He turned back to Sybill, who was still rubbing her temples, oblivious to the storm she had just unleashed.
“Perhaps, Minerva,” Dumbledore murmured at last, “our concerns extend beyond just the Tournament.”
And for the first time in many years, Albus Dumbledore wondered if Voldemort was truly the end of their worries—or merely the beginning.