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The Third Prophecy of Trelawney



Nearly forty years before, on a cold night in January, Sybil Trelawney, the divination teacher of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was moving through the dark halls, past the snoring portraits that lined the walls, the beads on her many shawls clicking with each step, her eyes protruding behind her spectacles. She toted along a bag full of empty sherry bottles and snuck along, down the moving staircases, wobbling slightly with each step she took, until she’d arrived in a hall lined with suits of armor, quite far from any of the dorm rooms and away from the glowing eyes of Argus Filch’s old cat, Mrs. Norris.

Carefully, trying not to make a sound, though she shushed herself loud enough to cover the noises she made, she removed the head from the coat of arms and very carefully began to plunge the empty bottles, one by one, into the space within the metal knight’s chest. “There we are,” she muttered, “In you go… Nothing to see here,” she added to the empty hall, chuckling to herself, “No reason anyone should ever be in here to find these.”

She’d nearly finished emptying her bag of the bottles when suddenly there was a tremulous feeling that overtook her, like ice water being poured upon her spine, she felt momentarily paralyzed. The last thing that Sybil Trelawney saw before blacking out was the ceiling of the hallway as she landed on the burgundy carpet and the armor falling toward her, sherry bottles falling from the neck of the hollow knight.

When Sybil awoke, what seemed like mere seconds later, she found herself surrounded by broken bottles and the pieces of the armor upon the floor. Dumbledore, in a long striped pajama and cap, leaned over her, peering over the half moon spectacles that rested low on his nose. “It seems you have fallen, Sybil,” he said.

Not wanting Dumbledore to guess her errand, Trelawney sat up quickly, though she still felt a wee off balance, and her mind felt strange as though there’d been something there that now was not. “Attacked is more like,” she said, “The armor fell from its plinth upon me!”

Dumbledore’s eyes were knowing, but he said, “I will have Mr. Filch look at all of the suits of armor at once to be certain none of the others are on the verge of falling upon passersby.” He held out his good hand - the one that was not blackened and withered from destroying the first Horcrux - and helped Sybil Trelawney to her feet.

She snuffed as though in hearty disdain and quickly magicked her bottles up from the floor. “Now if you will excuse me,” she said in her shivery, mistic’s voice, “It is late and the Inner Eye requires much rest if one is to be expected to perform correctly.”

“But Sybil, you’ve spilled all of your sherry from those bottles,” said Dumbledore, “Would you like some help in cleaning it up?” Dumbledore pointed his wand at the floor and said, “Tergeo.” But of course there was nothing to siphon up.

“These were already empty, headmaster,” Sybil said quickly as Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “I’ve only just collected them from the… er… the house elves in the kitchen. They are for… my classroom… I use them as… candlestick holders.”

“I see,” said Dumbledore, “How very resourceful of you. And I especially appreciate your dedication to the cause that you are willing to travel all the way down to the kitchens at this hour of the night and risk not getting the rest that the Inner Eye requires.” He smiled in a friendly way.

“Yes… yes,” muttered Trelawney, unsure if Dumbledore were being facetious or sincere. “Well I can only hope that you remember my dedication and the events of this night when it comes time for reviewing your staff, Professor,” she said and she swept her long scarves up over her shoulder and hurried off down the hallway, back the way she’d come, “Good eve.” She wobbled as she walked, only just keeping her balance from all of the sherry in her veins.

“Yes…” Dumbledore murmured, “I certainly shall…. and a good night to you, as well, Sybil.” He watched as the light of her wand and the clinking of the bottles and beads and stumbling gait had ventured far away down the halls, and then he reached into his pajama pocket and removed a tiny vial, glowing with moon-beam-bright liquid that churned of its own volition. He studied it for a moment, then rushed down the hallway himself to his study. “Sugar wands,” he announced to the gargoyles, who jumped from the door, and he rode the enchanted staircase up, up, up into his headmaster’s office, high in one of the turrets of Hogwarts castle.

Fawkes looked up from his perch, his feathers droopy, only a few days away from a burning. He croaked out a tiny noise, a bit of smoke rising from his beak, as he turned, gripping his perch to watch Dumbledore pull open the heavy cupboard doors that guarded the pensieve. He pulled the gilded bowl from it’s shelf and carried it carefully to the desk, his hands trembling as he placed it down and held up the vial to stare at the swirling liquid inside once again. Then he tipped it into the pensieve.

The ghostly figure of Sybil Trelawney rose from the bowl in a plume of smoke. The phoenix cocked his head to one side as he watched along with Dumbledore as her form took shape above the bowl. Her voice was lower than the supposedly mystic one she donned in consciousness, raspier, sterner, spookier. Only twice before had Sybil Trelawney spoken in such a voice… and both times she’d spoken her only two true prophecies.

The House of Gaunt shall rise once more,” the ghostly Trelawney said, “The Heir of Slytherin then and not before; and Heir to the Diadem - not destroyed, still lost - will face the Gorgan at greatest cost.” Dumbledore stared up at the pale smokey face, listening aptly as she continued, “Both inherited their ancestor’s fears to face… One their destiny shall fight, the other one embrace: One Heir shall fall but there will be another - and at their hands will die the Other.” When the words were finished uttering, the ghostly figure sank back into the pensieve and dissipated, the smoke clearing in the silence that followed.

Dumbledore sank into his headmaster’s chair behind the desk, his palms curling around the arm rests, eyes intently focused on the bowl. “Very curious indeed,” he murmured, placing the fingertips of his withered hand against his lips as he contemplated. “But it has nothing to do with Harry Potter,” he murmured. Or did it? The House of Gaunt -- why that was Tom Riddle’s ancestors, but the line was dead, even before Voldemort, for it had died with Morfin, the last male in the long, corrupted pureblood line. How could it rise again when there was nothing left? He drummed the pads of his fingers against his mouth.

Another thing he had to figure out before the dark magic that threatened his life consumed him. He pulled his hand away from his mouth, staring at it, loathing the magic that had cursed it, the magic that would take him away too soon to save those whom he sought to protect… He dropped the hand down, turning his eyes away from it, unable to look at it any longer. Just another failure to protect those who needed him, just another time that he would not be there for someone… He tried not to think about how much was yet to do in the fight against Voldemort, how much he would be leaving for Harry Potter… and now, this… this new concern… this new uncertainty, this new threat...

Dumbledore got up and paced the length of the office, his mind weaving over horcruxes and the prophecies of Trelawney and the House of Gaunt. Finally, he turned on the spot, changing his garments from pajamas to his traveling cloak and he waved his wand to return the pensieve to the cupboard, the contents of it returning to the vial, which slipped into a drawer in his desk. “I shall have to get some answers,” he said as he collected the things he would need and departed in search of them.