Chapter 42: The Prophecy of the Savior
Did James Potter go easy on the greasy-haired loser? Ryan doubted it. From Snape's own telling, the two were hardly respectful rivals. They were mortal enemies who would have danced on each other's graves.
"Oh, Ryan," Dumbledore said, pulling him from his thoughts. "James and Lily possessed an extraordinary courage that allowed them to face Voldemort directly. And at the time, there were many wizards who were willing to fight against him. They were all in contact with the Order of the Phoenix."
Ryan understood perfectly. "Extraordinary courage" meant that James and Lily's magical skills were average, probably on par with an official Auror. "Many wizards willing to fight" meant they had ganged up on Voldemort. And "in contact with the Order of the Phoenix" meant that after holding him off for a little while, Dumbledore had arrived to save the day. "I see," Ryan said with a nod. "That's perfectly reasonable."
"I thought you would ask about the prophecy, and about Harry," Dumbledore said, changing the subject.
"The prophecy is quite clear. Harry is the child who will defeat Voldemort. The past decade of peace in the wizarding world is proof of that, is it not?"
"That is where the problem lies, Ryan," Dumbledore said softly. "There were two children who fit the prophecy." He looked genuinely troubled. "The other was Neville Longbottom."
"It's obvious, Headmaster," Ryan said, spreading his hands. "'The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal.' Voldemort chose Harry as his rival. He must have decided that Neville did not meet his requirements. We can't have two saviors, can we?"
"Voldemort may have chosen his opponent based on his own blood status," Dumbledore said slowly, as if thinking aloud. "You may not know this, Ryan, but Voldemort himself was a half-blood, as is Harry. Neville, on the other hand, is a pure-blood. From what I have been able to discover over the years, Voldemort's mother was from an ancient, magical family, but his father was a Muggle."
The leader of the pure-blood supremacists was a half-blood. It was a cruel joke. "Leaving the matter of blood status aside," Ryan said, "I truly do not see what power Harry possesses that Voldemort knows not. And on that night, how did the Potters manage to make Voldemort vanish for so many years?"
"It was love, Ryan," Dumbledore said, his eyes full of a deep, sad wisdom. "The magic of love."
Ryan scoffed. "With all due respect, Headmaster, before our little adventure in the Forbidden Forest, I might have believed that. But a wizard whose magic my own spells can't even touch will not be defeated by a single word like 'love.'" If "love" was so powerful, Voldemort would have been defeated long ago by all the people whose families he had murdered. And if the Potters truly had such power, they wouldn't have had to retreat from him three times; they would have finished him off themselves.
Ryan laid out his arguments for Dumbledore, point by point. "Perhaps 'love' was a factor in Voldemort's defeat," he concluded, "but it was certainly not the decisive one. The key to their success must have been a massive, usable source of magical power, one powerful enough to have a devastating effect on him. Otherwise, they wouldn't have been able to even scratch him."
"Oh, Ryan," Dumbledore said, pulling him out of the Pensieve. "You are still too obsessed with power, too obsessed with magic."
What is a wizard supposed to be obsessed with, if not magic? Love affairs? Ryan thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as they returned to the Headmaster's office.
"As an old man who has seen a great deal, please indulge me, Ryan," Dumbledore said earnestly. "The magic of love is something Voldemort will never be able to understand. I hope that one day, you will be able to master it."
And that is where we differ, Ryan thought, but he just smiled and nodded, pretending to have been moved by Dumbledore's words.
"But," Dumbledore said, his tone shifting, "I am not worried about you." Ryan had been expecting a long, rambling lecture, and was surprised by this sudden change of topic. He could only assume it was because he had friends, whereas Voldemort only had minions. "Is it because I have friends?"
"Let's say, just for the sake of argument, that Miss Clearwater, Mr. Selwyn, and the others were threatened, and forced to do something against their will…"
"Who would dare?!" Ryan interrupted, his voice rising in anger. "Who would dare to touch my friends?! Do they not know that they are members of the Adventurers' Club?! They wouldn't survive the day!"
"And what about Mr. Larvin and the others who have already graduated?"
"They are my friends, too! Who is this brave person you're imagining? Even if it were Voldemort himself, I would make him regret the day he was born!"
Dumbledore laughed. "And that is why I am not worried about you. Voldemort would weigh the pros and cons and abandon his Death Eaters in a heartbeat. But you… you would do anything for your friends."
"You proved that in your second year," he said softly. "That is love, Ryan. I only hope that you will make more friends, that you will be able to call every white wizard in the world your friend."
Ryan had a sudden, overwhelming urge to record this bizarre conversation and mail it to Nurmengard. He wondered if it would be worth a Fiendfyre curse in return—a city-destroying, nuclear-level Fiendfyre curse, the kind that could unlock a whole new questline. But he knew Dumbledore would detect the crystal-camcorder the moment he took it out.
Then, he remembered something. "About Neville," he said. "I also had a prophecy about him, during his Sorting." He repeated the intel: "A boy who narrowly missed his date with destiny now stands at the beginning of a story. Beneath his quiet exterior lies courage; within his hesitation, resilience. A lion cub without a pride will soon find its claws among lions."
"I didn't understand it at the time," Ryan said, "but now I see. He narrowly missed becoming the prophesied savior."
"'Courage beneath a quiet exterior'… a fitting description for a Longbottom," the pajama-clad Dumbledore said, listening intently. He began to share stories of the old days, all traces of sleepiness gone from his eyes.
No wonder Neville seems so timid, Ryan thought. Both of his parents are in St. Mungo's, and he was raised by his formidable grandmother. A lion cub without a pride, indeed.
"The Longbottoms," he asked, "will they ever be able to recover from their injuries?"
~~~
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