Year 1980 ,Hogsmeade
In the dusky shadows of the Hog's Head Inn, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood, old butterbeer, and pipe smoke. A quiet fire crackled in the hearth. The room was mostly empty save for a few hooded patrons hunched over their drinks and a solitary table at the back, where Albus Dumbledore sat across from a nervous young woman with large, bespectacled eyes and trembling hands.
"So, Miss Sybill Trelawney," Dumbledore began gently, folding his hands over the table, "I am well aware that you are the descendant of the great Seer Cassandra Trelawney. That alone gives weight to your application for the position of Divination professor at Hogwarts. With the retirement of Professor Ameen Vablatsky, the post is now open—and I am prepared to offer it to you."
A strangled gasp escaped Sybill. Her teacup clinked against the saucer as she jolted upright in excitement. "Truly? I—I'm honoured, Professor!"
But in her excitement, her elbow knocked over a tall tankard of butterbeer. The frothy drink splashed across the table and spilled onto Dumbledore's emerald robes.
"Oh! Oh no! I'm terribly sorry!" she gasped, snatching a napkin and leaning forward, dabbing at his robes with trembling fingers. "I didn't mean to—I was just—"
"It's quite alright," Dumbledore said with a chuckle, raising a calming hand. "Please, no need to panic."
As she fumbled to apologize further, Dumbledore allowed himself a small smile. Minerva is going to scold me for this decision, he thought privately. But perhaps… there's more to this girl than clumsiness.
Then, just as he was about to reassure her again, Sybill froze.
Her hand, still holding the napkin, dropped to her side. Her spine straightened. Her eyes—so fluttery and frantic only moments ago—glazed over. Her pupils vanished into white.
Dumbledore's smile vanished at once.
He recognized the signs. He had seen it before—in old friends and dangerous foes alike. He had seen it in the eyes of a young boy named Gellert Grindelwald, and again in Nicolas Flamel's mutterings beside a Pensieve. The gift—or curse—of prophecy.
And now it had come to Sybill Trelawney.
Sybill spoke in a deep, echoing voice, not her own:
{"Two shall rise with the power to challenge the Dark Lord…
The first, born to those who have thrice defied him,
Born as the seventh month dies,
Shall be marked as his equal,
Wielding power the Dark Lord knows not."}
Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed from beyond the door of the inn. The quiet murmur inside the Hog's Head fell silent, broken only by the soft clink of Sybill Trelawney's teacup trembling in its saucer.
Albus Dumbledore's head snapped toward the sound, his eyes narrowing behind his half-moon spectacles. A sliver of cold evening light spilled through the slightly ajar door, and in that narrow crack, he caught the briefest glimpse of a pale face—young, sharp-featured, eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and dread.
For a fleeting moment, their gazes locked.
The young man's breath caught. Then, as if burned by the contact, he staggered back, turned swiftly, and bolted down the alley.
"Oi! You little—" growled a voice from somewhere off to the side.
Aberforth Dumbledore stormed into view from behind the bar, his sleeves rolled up and wand already drawn. In a flash, he yanked the door open and stepped outside, his boots crunching on gravel as he gave chase. A string of muttered curses followed him into the night.
Back inside, the tavern seemed to breathe again.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, thoughtful now, his expression unreadable. The candlelight flickered across his lined face as he adjusted his spectacles and turned his gaze back to the trembling woman before him.
Sybill continued, her voice deep and ethereal:
{"….And either must fall by the other's hand,
For neither can live while the other survives,
The second, a child of snow, born as the seventh month dies, shall walk a path apart…
When the Wise One, the old light, fades from the world, the child of snow shall lead the way,
Guiding with strength where darkness lingers… their paths entwined to shape the light's return…"
"Their paths entwined… to shape the light's return…"}
Then silence.
A long breath escaped Sybill's lips as she slumped back into her chair. Her eyes blinked rapidly. She reached up to rub her temples.
As suddenly as it had begun, the trance ended. Sybill blinked, swayed, and touched her temple.
"Oh my… my head hurts," she muttered, slowly rising from her chair. "What happened? Why does my head ache?"
Then, she smiled faintly. "Oh yes… I've just been hired as the Divination professor at Hogwarts, haven't I? That old man accepted me!"
Dumbledore, still seated, was staring at her in silence. His mind raced. The words of the prophecy echoed in his thoughts, etching themselves into his memory like an Unforgivable Curse.
This… this was unlike anything he had heard before. A prophecy about Voldemort's downfall. A child born at the end of July. And another—a child of snow—with a separate fate, yet tied to the first.
He looked at the woman in front of him—odd, eccentric, clumsy—and realized at once: her life was now in danger.
If the Dark Lord discovered that such a prophecy existed, he would stop at nothing to uncover its contents. And worse—he might already have heard part of it.
"Sybill," Dumbledore said quietly, "you must come with me to the school immediately. I will arrange for someone to retrieve your belongings from your home."
Sybill blinked in confusion. "But… Professor Dumbledore, the term doesn't begin for another two months. Why must I go now?"
now?"
"You've just made a very dangerous prophecy," he said gravely. "And your life is in danger because of it. I must take you under my protection."
Sybill gasped. "A prophecy? I made a real prophecy?" Her eyes lit up. "A truly real one? Like—an actual Seer's vision?"
Dumbledore nodded. Sybill threw her arms into the air.
"Yes! I knew it! I am still a Trelawney! The blood of Cassandra flows strong in me!"
But then she stopped, her expression darkening. "Wait… why is my life in danger? What did I say?"
Dumbledore stood slowly. "It concerned the Dark Lord. And it was a prophecy of great consequence. If he learns of it, he will come for you."
Her lips quivered. "He'll come for me? My third eye is already warning me—I can sense the darkness! The aura of death!" she wailed, clutching at her shawl.
Dumbledore's lips twitched as he heard she was pretending . "Yes, well, let's keep that third eye out of trouble. Come—Hogwarts is safer than any place in Britain. You'll be protected there."
"Yes, yes—let's go, let's go quickly!" she cried, scrambling to gather her things.
They stepped out into the cool evening air. Outside the inn, Dumbledore's brother stood with his usual scowl, arms folded, blocking the path. Aberforth Dumbledore gave his older brother a look of deep suspicion.
"What is it this time, Albus?" he said, sneering. "Another mess from your past you're trying to fix? Seems like every time something terrible happens in the world, you're not far behind it."
Dumbledore sighed, used to the bitterness in Aberforth's voice.
"There's been a prophecy, brother," he said. "About the Dark Lord. I must bring this woman to Hogwarts at once. And soon, I'll need to summon the Order. We'll need a meeting here—at the Hog's Head."
Aberforth snorted. "Your Order again? This is an inn, Albus. Not your secret gang's clubhouse."
Dumbledore offered a knowing smile and said nothing. He knew his brother well. Aberforth would grumble and insult, but he would clear the inn for the Order when the time came—because, beneath all the resentment, he still cared.
Without another word, Dumbledore turned and led the new Divination professor toward the castle, his mind heavy with the knowledge that the war had just taken a new and dangerous turn.