July 31st, 1980 - Harry's Birth
I woke up on July 31st with a sense of inevitability pressing down on my chest.
Today. Today Harry Potter would be born. Today the prophecy would find its target. Today the dominoes would begin to fall in a sequence that would lead to Godric's Hollow, to Lily's sacrifice, to a baby with a lightning bolt scar becoming the Boy Who Lived.
"You're quiet today," my mother observed at breakfast. "Are you feeling alright?"
"Just thinking," I said, which was true.
"About what?"
About a baby being born who will be hunted by the darkest wizard in a century. About parents who have no idea they have fifteen months left to live. About a prophecy that will doom a child to either become a killer or be killed.
"Nothing important," I lied.
My father looked at me with concern. "Are you nervous about meeting Professor Dumbledore tomorrow?"
Right. The meeting. In all my anxiety about Harry's birth, I'd almost forgotten about my impending confrontation with Albus.
"A little," I admitted.
"Don't be. He's family. He just wants to meet you properly, give you your birthday present." My father smiled encouragingly. "It'll be fine."
Will it? I wondered. But I nodded and finished my breakfast.
The day passed slowly. I tried to train in the cellar, but my concentration was shot. I kept reaching for the phoenix fire, feeling its warmth, as if preparing for a battle I couldn't yet fight.
Evening came. The pub filled with its usual crowd. And then, around eight o'clock, I felt it.
A ripple in the magical currents. Subtle, but distinct. Like a stone being dropped into still water, the waves spreading outward.
New magic. Powerful magic. Magic tied to prophecy and destiny and fate.
Harry Potter had been born.
I closed my eyes, reaching out with my senses, trying to feel the shape of what had just changed. The prophecy had found its target. Somewhere in Godric's Hollow, James and Lily Potter were holding their son, not knowing that they'd just given birth to either a savior or a martyr.
Fifteen months, I thought. They have fifteen months left together.
The knowledge was a weight in my chest, heavy and suffocating.
"Cillian?" My mother's voice, concerned. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"
I opened my eyes to find her kneeling in front of me, worry written across her face.
"Nothing," I said, forcing a smile. "I just… felt strange for a moment. I'm okay now."
"You felt the birth, didn't you?"
I turned to see Aberforth standing in the doorway, his expression grave.
"Birth?" my mother asked, confused.
"The Potter boy," Aberforth said quietly. "He was born tonight. Every sensitive magical creature in Britain would have felt it—the prophecy settling into place, destiny crystallizing. Your son is more sensitive than most."
"He's three years old," my mother said, her voice rising. "He shouldn't be feeling prophecies settling into place!"
"I know." Aberforth looked at me. "But he does. Because he's not just any three-year-old."
My mother looked between us, then at my father, who had come over from the bar.
"What's going on?" she demanded. "What aren't you telling me?"
My father and Aberforth exchanged glances. Finally, my father sighed.
"Margaret, there are things about Cillian's magic that we haven't fully explained. Not because we wanted to keep secrets, but because we were trying to protect him—"
"Protect him from what?"
"From attention. From people who would want to use his power for their own purposes." My father knelt down beside my mother. "He's special, love. More than just magically gifted. The night of his first birthday, when his magic awakened… it was like nothing I've ever seen. Like nothing Aberforth had ever seen. And it drew attention. Dangerous attention."
"Albus," my mother said, understanding dawning. "That's why he keeps coming around. Why he's so interested in Cillian."
"Yes."
My mother looked at me, really looked at me, and I saw the moment she truly understood. That her son wasn't just precocious or bright or talented. That there was something fundamentally different about me.
"Are you in danger?" she asked quietly.
"Not immediate danger," Aberforth said. "But the magical world is… complicated. Power attracts interest. And interest attracts manipulation. We're trying to keep Cillian out of the spotlight until he's old enough to make his own choices about how to use his abilities."
"And this Potter baby? This prophecy? How does that affect Cillian?"
"It doesn't," I said quickly. Too quickly.
My mother's eyes narrowed. "Cillian Thomas Dumbledore, don't you lie to me."
The use of my full name made me wince. "It's complicated."
"Then uncomplicate it."
I looked at Aberforth, who shrugged as if to say your mother, your problem.
"The prophecy is about someone born at the end of July who can defeat the Dark Lord," I said carefully. "Harry Potter—the baby who was just born—he fits that prophecy. Which means Voldemort will come after him. Will try to kill him. And people around him will die trying to protect him."
"How do you know that?" my mother asked, and there was something sharp in her voice. "How does a three-year-old know about prophecies and Dark Lords and—" She stopped. "The ancient knowledge. The gift from the phoenixes. It included this?"
"Some of it," I hedged. "The patterns. The way prophecies work. The history of dark wizards who tried to thwart their destinies and failed."
It wasn't a complete lie. The ancient knowledge did include all of that. I just wasn't mentioning the part where I'd read seven books and watched eight movies about exactly what would happen.
"And you're worried about this baby," my mother said. "This Harry Potter."
"Yes."
"Why? You don't even know him."
Because I do know him. Because I know he'll grow up without parents. Because I know he'll be abused by his relatives. Because I know he'll carry the weight of the world on his shoulders from age eleven onward. Because I know he'll die—briefly—to save everyone else.
"Because no baby deserves to be hunted by a dark wizard," I said simply.
My mother pulled me into a hug, holding me tight. "You have such a good heart," she whispered. "But sweetheart, you can't save everyone. You're three years old. This isn't your responsibility."
But it is, I thought. Because I know what's coming and I have the power to change it.
But I didn't say that. Instead, I just hugged her back and let her believe that her three-year-old son was just empathetic, not burdened with foreknowledge of tragedy.
August 31st, 1980 - One Month Later
The day of my meeting with Albus Dumbledore dawned gray and drizzly.
"You look like you're going to an execution, not a birthday celebration," my father observed as he helped me into my best robes—deep blue with silver trim, formal enough for meeting the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
"I'm fine," I said.
"You're many things, Cillian, but 'fine' isn't one of them." He knelt down to my level. "What are you really worried about?"
Everything. I'm worried about everything.
"What if he asks questions I can't answer? What if he figures out what I really am?"
"Then we'll deal with it. Together." My father squeezed my shoulder. "Aberforth said you've been practicing what to say. Trust your training. Trust yourself."
Easy for him to say. He wasn't about to face down one of the most powerful and perceptive wizards alive.
We Flooed to Hogsmeade at precisely ten o'clock. The trip was disorienting—my first time using Floo travel in this life—and I stumbled coming out of the fireplace in the Three Broomsticks.
"Steady there, young master Dumbledore," said a cheerful witch behind the bar. "First time on the Floo Network?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said politely.
"You'll get used to it. Now, Professor Dumbledore is expecting you up at the castle. Do you know the way?"
"I'll manage," my father said, taking my hand.
We walked up the path to Hogwarts, and I felt my breath catch despite myself. The castle was magnificent—even more impressive in person than in the movies. Towers reaching toward the sky, windows glinting in the weak sunlight, magic thrumming through every stone.
In eight years, I'll be a student here, I thought. In eight years, I'll walk these halls, learn in these classrooms, pretend to be normal while hiding what I really am.
The front doors opened before we reached them, and Professor McGonagall stood in the entrance, looking stern and proper in her tartan robes.
"Mr. Dumbledore," she said formally to my father, then looked down at me. "And young Master Dumbledore. Welcome to Hogwarts. The Headmaster is waiting in his office."
She led us through corridors I recognized from the movies but were somehow different in reality. More lived-in. More real. Students' laughter echoed from somewhere—summer school or remedial classes, perhaps.
We stopped in front of a gargoyle statue.
"Fizzing Whizbee," McGonagall said, and the gargoyle sprang aside, revealing a spiral staircase.
Of course his password is a candy, I thought.
The stairs led up to a heavy oak door. McGonagall knocked twice.
"Come in!" Albus's voice called.
The office was exactly as I remembered from the films, yet not. More cluttered. More personal. Silver instruments whirring and clicking on every surface. Books piled in precarious towers. Portraits of former headmasters dozing in their frames.
And behind the desk, looking younger than I'd ever seen him but with those same piercing blue eyes, sat Albus Dumbledore.
"Thomas! Young Cillian! Welcome, welcome!" He stood, coming around the desk with a warm smile. "Thank you for bringing them, Minerva."
McGonagall nodded and left, closing the door behind her.
"Please, sit," Albus said, gesturing to two comfortable chairs that definitely hadn't been there a moment ago. Conjuration or transfiguration? Hard to tell.
"Thank you for inviting us, Professor," my father said as we sat.
"Nonsense, we're family. Please, call me Albus." His eyes fixed on me with that characteristic twinkle. "And how are you, Cillian? Three years old now. Quite the milestone."
"I'm well, thank you, Uncle Albus," I said, remembering Aberforth's coaching. Polite but not too formal. Bright but not too knowing.
"Your father tells me you're quite the reader."
"I like books."
"What kind of books?"
"Adventure stories. And books about magical creatures. I really liked the one about phoenixes."
"Ah, phoenixes." Something flickered in his eyes. "Fascinating creatures. Did you know I have a phoenix? His name is Fawkes."
As if on cue, a trill filled the office, and I turned to see a magnificent phoenix perched near the window. Crimson and gold feathers, intelligent eyes, radiating warmth and magic.
But not like the ancient phoenixes from my awakening. Fawkes was powerful, yes, but mortal. Bound. The ancient ones had been… more.
"He's beautiful," I said, which was true.
"Would you like to meet him?"
I nodded, sliding off my chair and approaching slowly. Fawkes tilted his head, studying me with those intelligent eyes.
Then he sang.
The song was pure and clear, filling the office with warmth and courage and hope. But underneath it, I heard something else—recognition. Acknowledgment.
Little brother, the song seemed to say. Little brother of fire and rebirth.
I reached out, and Fawkes hopped onto my arm. He was heavier than I expected, but his talons were gentle, careful not to pierce my skin.
"Remarkable," Albus said softly. "Fawkes is typically quite selective about who he allows to touch him."
"He knows Cillian is family," my father said, but there was uncertainty in his voice.
He knows I carry the phoenix fire, I thought. He can sense it.
I gently stroked Fawkes's chest feathers, and he trilled again, softer this time. A greeting between kindred spirits.
"Well," Albus said after a moment. "I believe I promised you a birthday present."
He returned to his desk and pulled out a small golden key on a delicate chain.
"This key will grant you access to the Dumbledore family vault at Gringotts," he said, holding it out to me. "The vault has been in our family for generations. It contains gold, of course, but also books, artifacts, and family heirlooms. Your father can take you there whenever you wish."
I took the key carefully. It was warm to the touch, almost alive with magic.
"Thank you, Uncle Albus. This is very generous."
"Family should take care of family," he said, but his eyes were watchful. "The vault contains much knowledge, Cillian. I hope you'll use it wisely."
"I will."
"I'm sure you will." He settled back into his chair. "Tell me, young Cillian, have you given any thought to what house you might want to be sorted into? When you come to Hogwarts, I mean."
Trap question, I realized. He's trying to understand how I think.
"I don't know yet," I said carefully. "Father says the Sorting Hat decides based on your qualities and values, not what you want."
"Very true. But we all have preferences. Dreams of where we might belong."
I thought carefully about how to answer. "I think… I think I'd like to be somewhere I can learn. Where I can understand things. And somewhere I can help people."
"Noble ambitions." Albus's expression was unreadable. "Your great-uncle Aberforth tells me he's been teaching you about family history."
"Yes. He tells stories about Great-Aunt Ariana."
Pain flickered across Albus's face, quickly masked. "Does he? What kind of stories?"
"Happy ones, mostly. About how she loved animals and flowers. About how she was kind to everyone, even the people others thought were strange or different." I paused, then decided to push. "He also told me about how she died. About the duel."
The office went very quiet.
"Did he," Albus said, and his voice had lost its warmth.
"He said it was an accident. That no one knows whose spell it was. But that all three of you—you, Uncle Abe, and Grindelwald—were responsible because you were dueling near her when you knew it was dangerous."
"That is… a simplified version of events."
"Is it wrong?"
"No," Albus admitted quietly. "It's not wrong. Merely incomplete."
"What's the complete version?"
"Cillian—" my father started, but Albus held up a hand.
"No, Thomas. The boy asks fair questions." He looked at me directly. "The complete version is that I was young, arrogant, and convinced that my brilliance and my plans were more important than my responsibilities. I chose friendship with a charismatic dark wizard over the safety of my vulnerable sister. And when confronted with the consequences of that choice, I fought instead of de-escalating. The result was Ariana's death."
The blunt honesty caught me off guard.
"Do you regret it?" I asked.
"Every day of my life."
"Then why do you keep making the same choice?"
The office went very, very quiet.
"I beg your pardon?" Albus said, and there was steel in his voice now.
But I'd started, and I couldn't stop. The past month had been building to this—watching the newspapers, hearing the whispers, knowing what was coming. And something in me snapped.
"You're doing it again," I said, sliding off my chair to stand. "You're playing chess with people's lives. You know about the prophecy—everyone knows about the prophecy by now. You know Voldemort will go after Harry Potter. And you're already making plans, aren't you? Already deciding who lives and who dies in service of the 'Greater Good.'"
"Cillian!" my father said, shocked.
But Albus held up a hand again, his eyes fixed on me with laser focus.
"Continue," he said quietly.
"Ariana died because you chose your grand plans over protecting the people right in front of you," I said, and I could feel the phoenix fire stirring inside me, responding to my anger. "Grindelwald killed hundreds, thousands of people because you didn't stop him when you could have. Because you were too conflicted, too caught up in your feelings and your guilt."
"You cannot possibly—"
"And now Harry Potter is born, and you already know what's going to happen, don't you? You know Voldemort will come for him. You know his parents will fight. You know people will die. But you're not going to stop it, are you? Because it serves your grand strategy. Because sometimes people have to die for the Greater Good."
"That is ENOUGH!"
The words cracked through the office like a whip, and every instrument went silent. Even Fawkes stopped singing.
Albus stood, and for the first time, I saw