The Hog's Head smelled of wet earth, cheap mead, and the faintest trace of goat hair. It clung to the throat like a fog, making one breathe slower, softer, as though the air itself carried secrets. Shadows hung thick around the corners of the inn, crawling up warped wooden beams and settling into the faces of its few patrons — ragged silhouettes with pale, watchful eyes.
Outside, the cobbled lanes of Hogsmeade Village were silent beneath the frostbitten breath of early 1980. It was a silence born not of peace but of fear, the kind that seemed to hum beneath the skin. War had a way of suffocating even the noisiest streets, and here — in the all-wizarding village in Britain — people had long since learned to walk softly, to whisper, and to avoid the kind of glances that might end with their names scratched off the earth entirely.
Albus Dumbledore appeared at the end of the lane with the sharp, near-silent crack of Apparition. One long-fingered hand steadied the brim of his deep blue travelling cloak, and his other brushed away a curl of frost from his beard. His eyes — clear and pale, glinting like ice under moonlight — swept across the street, taking in shuttered shopfronts and the flickering lanterns of the distance.
The Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry stood still for a moment, letting the cold bite through his robes, as if grounding himself in the chill of the present.
" Such dark, troubled times," he thought, the whisper staying silent behind his closed lips. Parents were disappearing in the night. Children left on doorsteps like broken parcels. Friends became strangers, strangers became spies. Even here, so close to Hogwarts, even under its protective wards, the fear lingered like smoke that refused to leave.
" But Hogwarts must stand."
The thought burned brighter, fiercer than the cold. Whatever else happened, the school would remain. A sanctuary, perhaps the last one.
He stopped before a crooked signboard swinging faintly in the wind: The Hog's Head Inn.
The wooden door was battered and darkened by years of grime, the brass handle cold under his fingers. He rapped three times, the sound sharp in the quiet street.
A moment later, the door creaked open just enough to reveal a pair of pale, sharp eyes under heavy brows.
The man on the other side was grizzled, unkempt, and bore a faint resemblance to Dumbledore himself — though this resemblance had always been a point of irritation to the man in question.
"Albus," he grunted, voice like gravel dragged across stone. He did not open the door any wider, simply turned his back and stomped toward the bar.
Dumbledore sighed softly, as if exhaling a memory, and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The inn was dimly lit, a single lantern flickering weakly above the warped floorboards.
At the tables sat men and women draped in cloaks that had seen better days, their hoods low, their whispers lower still. None looked up for long — a passing glance, a subtle shift — before returning to their cheap mead and guarded conversations.
Dumbledore crossed the room in silence, his boots soft against the uneven boards.
"Anyone I should be concerned about, Aberforth?" he murmured as he reached the bar.
Aberforth Dumbledore — owner, barkeep, perpetual thorn in his elder brother's side — snorted derisively without looking up. He wiped a cloudy glass with a rag that smelled faintly of goat.
"And what," he growled, his voice low enough to be lost in the buzz of muffled chatter, "could trouble the great Albus Dumbledore? Far as I know, these are just rag-tags and petty thieves after a drink and somewhere warm to sleep."
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on his brother for a moment, unreadable, then softened almost imperceptibly.
"She is here then?" he asked quietly. "How is she?"
Aberforth made a guttural sound deep in his throat — somewhere between annoyance and exasperation.
"Nuisance," he muttered darkly, setting down the glass with a little more force than necessary. "Hasn't paid for her sherry in two days. Keeps mumbling about divining my future and death — and something about a bloody goat, for Merlin's sake. Goat, my arse."
The corners of Dumbledore's mouth twitched.
"You always did attract an… interesting clientele," he said mildly.
Aberforth shot him a look, sharp and flat.
"Don't start."
Dumbledore inclined his head in mock surrender.
"A quiet and private place would be appreciated," he said after a pause, tone soft but firm.
Aberforth grunted, jerking his chin toward a door on the far side of the room — a door so scuffed and narrow it could have been mistaken for the entrance to a broom cupboard.
"That one. Don't let her talk you into anything daft."
Dumbledore nodded once in silent thanks, turning toward the door, but Aberforth's voice stopped him just as his hand touched the handle.
"You're paying her tab."
Dumbledore glanced over his shoulder, one white brow arched.
"You hear me, Albus?" Aberforth added, pointing the rag at him like a weapon.
"Of course," Dumbledore said simply, pushing the door open and stepping inside without another word.
"Go on then. I'll send her in."
The hinges groaned faintly as the door swung shut behind him, sealing off the dimly lit, smoky main room.
Inside, the private chamber was warmer, though no less worn — faded curtains sagged against small windows, and the only light came from a single enchanted candle flickering steadily on the low table at its centre. Shadows danced lazily along the walls, as though alive.
Dumbledore paused, letting his eyes adjust, and took a slow step forward.
The candle guttered in the cramped chamber, shadows shivering along the cracked plaster walls as if some unseen wind had stirred them. Outside, inn creaked softly beneath the weight of the cold night, the silence of the night settling like frost over the slumbering street.
The door opened with a whisper, and a tall, thin woman entered, swathed in layers of mismatched shawls and trailing silks that smelled faintly of incense and cheap sherry. Her enormous spectacles caught the candlelight and magnified her wide, darting eyes until she seemed half owl, half apparition.
She settled opposite Albus Dumbledore, folding her hands over one another in a slow, deliberate motion, and for a moment the silence stretched between them like a drawn string.
"Sybil Trelawney, I presume?" Dumbledore said softly, his voice cutting neatly through the hush.
The woman straightened, her lips curving into a thin, mysterious smile.
"Indeed I am," she replied in an airy, lilting tone, as though every syllable belonged in a riddle. "Headmaster Dumbledore."
Dumbledore's blue eyes glimmered faintly, their usual twinkle tempered by something quieter tonight, something contemplative.
"Headmaster?" he echoed, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. "Surely, Ms. Trelawney, you couldn't have predicted your acceptance so early?"
Sybil gave a delicate shiver, her fingers brushing the rim of her teacup though it was empty.
"The Inner Eye does not lie, Dumbledore," she whispered, each word drawn out, caressing the space between them. "I see myself in those hallowed halls, guiding young minds through the veils of the mystic. The realms of shadow and flame will open to them… through me."
Dumbledore regarded her with polite neutrality, though inwardly his thoughts were less restrained. Cassandra Trelawney's bloodline carried weight, yes — her great-great-grandmother had been the most revered Seer of her age. But this woman before him, with her perfume of faded incense and faint desperation, seemed less like a Seer and more like someone performing the role she believed fate had written for her.
Still, he listened.
For nearly an hour, Sybil spoke in low, conspiratorial tones about portents and omens, the alignment of Mars with Saturn, the deathly hue of last night's clouds. Dumbledore nodded when appropriate, sipped lukewarm tea, and allowed her words to drift past him like a river of smoke.
And slowly, steadily, disappointment settled over him like a heavy cloak.
Divination, it seemed, would remain untaught at Hogwarts.
At last, he raised a hand gently, cutting through her ramblings about Death Eaters secretly housed beneath Gringotts.
"Ms. Trelawney—Sybil," he said, his voice as soft as the falling snow outside. Her large eyes blinked owlishly behind her spectacles, finally focused on him.
"Sybil," Dumbledore repeated, folding his hands atop the table. "I fear the timing is not right. But if you should ever wish to teach another discipline at Hogwarts, in the future, you would be welcome to apply. Your expenses here — and for waiting until today — shall, of course, be reimbursed."
He rose to his feet, smoothing his cloak.
"I wish you a good and safe night."
He turned toward the door — and heard the thud behind him.
Whirling, his wand already half-drawn, he found Sybil slumped in her seat, her head tilted back, mouth slightly open. Her spectacles glinted as her eyes rolled back, and when she spoke, the voice that left her lips was not her own.
It was low. Hollow. Unnatural.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…"
Dumbledore froze, his breath caught between heartbeats.
"Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…"
Her body sat rigid, hands clawing slightly at the table's edge, yet her voice carried on, deep and rasping, as though some ancient force spoke through her.
"And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal,
but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…
And either must die at the hand of the other,
for neither can live while the other survives…
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord
will be born as the seventh month dies…"
The final syllable bled into silence. Sybil slumped forward, unconscious, her breath shallow but steady.
For a long moment, Dumbledore did not move. The words seemed to linger in the air, etched into the walls, burned into his very thoughts. A prophecy. A true prophecy.
And then — chaos.
From outside came a yell, loud and sharp enough to rattle the warped windows.
Dumbledore's wand was in his hand before the thought had fully formed. He muttered a protective charm over Sybil's limp form, veiling her in soft blue light, and stepped swiftly from the chamber.
The main room of the Hog's Head was in disarray: chairs overturned, mugs spilled, mead dripping onto warped planks. The shadows seemed thicker now, as though some unseen presence had slipped through them.
Behind the counter, Aberforth Dumbledore reappeared, breath ragged, his sleeves rolled up and one hand already clutching his wand.
"What happened?" Albus asked sharply, conjuring a glass of water and pressing it into his brother's hand.
Aberforth drained it in one gulp, then slammed it down.
"After the girl went in, I cleared the tables near your stall," he growled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Then this bloke comes in. Hood up, dark robes. Orders a drink, sits near your door."
His voice lowered, taut with anger.
"One moment I step into the back, and when I come out again, I see him — peeking in. Little rat bolts the second I catch him. I yell, chase him, but he's gone. And when I get back, the rest of these bastards"—he jerked his thumb at the empty tables—"scarpered. Scum."
"Did you recognise him?" Albus asked, his voice very quiet.
Aberforth gave him a long, hard look.
"That bad, eh?" he said at last, his tone half-accusation, half-warning. "One of yours, then."
Dumbledore's silence was answer enough.
"Name, Aberforth."
Aberforth's jaw clenched.
"Severus Snape," he said finally, each syllable spat like venom. "Heard he's wormed his way deep into their inner circle."
Albus exhaled slowly, his hand brushing the silver fringe of his beard. What had been a delicate matter was now a precipice. A true prophecy had been spoken — and the Dark Lord's spy had heard enough to set the world alight.
Inside the private chamber, unnoticed, Sybil stirred. Her lips moved faintly, soundless at first — and then words began to slip into the room like smoke curling under a locked door:
"But shadows stir beneath the veil unseen,
A rift where the Nether whispers through the void,
And from the deep shall rise a hungering silence
To swallow light where mortal feet dare tread…
The balance shall tremble, the weave shall fray,
Old wards will weaken, ancient pacts dissolve,
And where the stars bleed into falling embers,
New powers shall wake, neither dark nor light…
Yet from the ashes, a phoenix takes its flight,
Wings of dawn through a night without end,
Its song shall kindle hearts grown cold and weary,
And blaze the path where hope is born anew…"
But no one heard her. Not Dumbledore. Not Aberforth. Not the hooded man already melting into the night.
---
Unknown Location, Britain — That Same Night
Severus Snape knelt, head bowed low, the aftershocks of the Cruciatus Curse still crawling like fire through his nerves. His breath came shallow, measured. He did not dare raise his eyes.
"Ah, Severus," a voice hissed softly, chilling and intimate all at once. "You need not mind my little… punishment. Pain, as I have learned, is a most excellent teacher."
"Y-yes, my lord," Severus managed, his voice raw from swallowed screams.
A pale hand emerged from the darkness, curling lazily around the arm of a throne wrought from bone and stone.
"Tell me again," Lord Voldemort murmured, his scarlet eyes glinting beneath the hood of shadow. "Every word."
Snape obeyed. But he could give only the first half. And for that failure, he had already paid in pain.
Voldemort sat silent for a moment, considering. Then, softly:
"How curious… that a quack like Sybil Trelawney would speak so boldly of my downfall."
His tone shifted, colder than ice.
"And yet… Cassandra's blood runs through her veins. To dismiss her entirely would be unwise. Wouldn't you agree, Severus?"
"My lord is wise," Snape murmured, bowing low.
"I am," Voldemort agreed smoothly. "And I am merciful, too. Find them, Severus. Those who have thrice defied me. Seek out the spark before it becomes flame… and I shall quell it before it spreads."
Snape swallowed hard, his throat dry as ash.
"Yes, my lord. It shall be done."
---
October, 1980
The search began. Quiet. Ruthless. Endless.
And in the end, only two families fit the prophecy's cruel measure:
the Potters… and the Longbottoms.
---
31 July, 1980 — Godric's Hollow
In a small, ivy-draped cottage, James and Lily Potter held their newborn son for the first time, their laughter ringing soft and fragile against the night.
---
Night Before— Longbottom Manor
In a house not far from the rolling hills of Lancashire, Neville Longbottom was born just before the seventh month breathed its last.
And by sheer chance — or perhaps by fate's cruel precision — his birth passed unnoticed, his family spared… for now.
But fate, ever patient, always takes its due.