The Divination Tower had always seemed a world apart from the rest of Hogwarts, perched high and narrow, as if reluctant to share its space with the rest of the castle. The air was thick with the heavy perfume of incense, mingled with the faint tang of candle wax that had long since spilled and hardened in lumpy rivers across tables and stands. Dust lingered where the moonlight caught it, floating in slow, deliberate spirals. Shadows stretched across the crooked shelves, twisting in the draft that slipped beneath the curtains of faded velvet.
At the very center of the round, cluttered chamber rested a low circular table. Upon it, a single crystal ball pulsed faintly, its heart glowing as though with a breath of its own—light swelling and fading, like the rhythm of a heartbeat. The glow threw soft reflections across the glass beads dangling from the rafters, setting them trembling with tiny sparks.
It was late. The tower should have been empty, silent. Yet a woman sat hunched in one of the high-backed chairs, her shawl slipping from her shoulders, her fingers wound anxiously around the handle of a teacup. She was a frail thing, not yet thirty, with sharp angles in her face and eyes made enormous behind a pair of thick glasses. Sybill Trelawney looked less like a professor of anything and more like a moth caught in her own light—trembling, restless, unable to settle.
Across from her, calm and watchful, sat the Headmaster.
Dumbledore did not speak. His long fingers rested lightly on the carved arms of his chair, his half-moon spectacles gleaming with the reflection of the crystal's glow. His presence seemed to fill the chamber without effort, his stillness a counterpoint to the cluttered chaos around them. He studied the young woman before him with a patience that seemed infinite, as though he were waiting for something he already knew would come.
Trelawney raised her teacup to her lips, but her hand shook. The clink of porcelain against her teeth rang louder than it should have, and she froze, blinking rapidly. Her voice, when it came, was thin and uneven.
"I—I sometimes see… flickers. Flashes. But not now. Not—not in front of—"
Her words cut off with a sharp gasp. Her eyes widened; then, in an instant, the pupils vanished, clouding over until nothing remained but a swirling, silver mist. The teacup slid from her fingers and shattered on the stone floor, tea spreading across the rug in a dark, steaming pool. She did not notice.
Her breath rasped once, twice. Then her lips parted.
The voice that spilled forth was not hers. It was deeper, heavier, carrying with it a resonance that made the glass beads tremble as though struck by wind.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…"
The words echoed against the walls, low and rolling. Dumbledore did not flinch. His gaze sharpened, fixed wholly upon her.
"Born to those who have defied him thrice, born as the seventh month dies…"
The air in the tower thickened, as though pressing in upon itself. The flame of the nearest candle flared blue, guttering high before sinking back.
"And the Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal…"
Her voice broke off suddenly, strangled in her throat. The silence that followed rang sharp, alive with something unsaid. Her body convulsed once, her thin shoulders jerking, and then she slumped back into the chair. For a moment it seemed over.
But then her head lifted again, her mouth opening with a shudder that raked through her frame. What came now was no prophecy's rhythm. This voice was not simply deep—it was otherworldly, as though a chorus of whispers spoke in unison, hollow and unhuman.
"The one of power greater than all shall draw near…"
Dumbledore's fingers tightened on the chair arms, ever so slightly.
"Born of a mysterious bloodline, favoured by Ashes…"
The candles dimmed almost to nothing, leaving the chamber cast in a weak, silvery glow from the trembling crystal ball. Shadows stretched thin, writhing up the walls like serpents seeking escape.
"Born to the ones who defied the Dark Lord's hand,
Born as the ninth month shadows the land…"
The sound crawled along the stones, a whisper that rattled in the marrow more than in the ears. The crystal's glow pulsed erratically, as if in distress.
"And the Dark Lord shall mark him… not as his equal, but as his greatest peril…"
The last word was nearly inaudible, fading into silence so absolute it seemed to smother even breath. For one suspended moment, the world itself seemed to hesitate, as though waiting for something more.
Then the woman collapsed. Her body folded, shawls and bangles clattering as she sprawled across the chair like a puppet with cut strings. Her chest rose once, shallow, ragged, then again, weaker. She looked for all the world like a corpse, waxen and still, eyes rolled back in her head.
Dumbledore rose at last. The movement was slow, deliberate, robes sweeping the stone as he crossed to her side. He bent and lifted her carefully, setting her back against the cushions, his touch as gentle as a father's hand. With a small flick of his long fingers, the shards of porcelain on the floor drew together, knitting back into the shape of the teacup, steaming liquid restored within. It hovered for a moment in the air before lowering silently onto the table.
The Headmaster stood over her, his eyes glinting with a strange, unreadable light. His face betrayed nothing, yet his silence was louder than any outcry.
When at last he spoke, it was not to her—for she was beyond hearing—but to the shadows that still clung, restless, to the edges of the chamber. His voice was quiet, calm, but it carried.
"Intresting," he murmured, "Greater than any, was it?"
The words drifted like smoke, fragile and thoughtful, but weighted with the kind of meaning only he seemed to hear. He straightened, his expression unreadable, and his eyes—behind their half-moon spectacles—gleamed with an old, unyielding resolve.
For a long moment, he remained there, the echo of the prophecy pressing like a weight upon his mind. Two voices. Two futures. Two children. One marked as equal. One marked as peril.
And the Dark Lord would fear them both.
The candle flames steadied once more, the shadows retreating as though embarrassed by their own intrusion. The crystal ball dimmed to nothing, its glow fading until it reflected only Dumbledore's face.
He turned without haste and made his way to the tower door. The hinges groaned as it opened, spilling a shaft of cold moonlight into the room. He did not look back.
The woman stirred faintly, breathing shallow and weak, shawl clutched in limp fingers. She would remember none of this. She never did.
Then he was gone, robes trailing behind him, leaving only silence and the faint scent of incense in the lonely tower.