Chapter 1: The Unlikely Discovery
**Excerpts taken from Pensieve Transcripts BMoM-19051814-xii
"I killed Severus Snape three hours ago, and the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny is truly mine! Dumbledore's last plan went wrong, Harry Potter!"
The Dark Lord's terrible words echoed throughout the Hogwarts Great Hall bringing a sudden halt to the chaos. Everyone stopped to watch—even the house elves and the centaurs. Headmistress Minerva McGonagall stood among the brave Weasley family and soon-to-be-appointed Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Each of them, along with the rest of the illustrious Order of the Phoenix, possessed an air of grim determination.
The fear though, was palpable from them all. They seemed to think in that moment that it might all be lost after all, as though the appearance of Harry Potter himself might not be enough to save them. But that day was the one in which House Gryffindor first earned its undying glory. Not one of them turned to leave or to flee while they had the chance. Every last wizard stood strong, waiting to witness how it would all turn out.
"It's your one last chance," declared Harry Potter to the Dark Lord. He spoke with the sort of strong and carrying voice that would leave anyone wondering if he was truly but a seventeen year old boy.
"It's all you've got left… I've seen what you'll be otherwise… Be a man… try… Try for some remorse…"
And of course many scholars have brooded over what Potter meant by these words. How could he have seen what the Dark Lord would be? Was Potter actually a seer? In his year away from Hogwarts, had he perhaps come across the essence of the very divide between life and death itself? Did he truly know what lay waiting on the other side?
In Goldstein's biography of the hero, he discussed Potter's late-life obsession with The Veil, hidden in the Death Chamber in the belly of the British Ministry of Magic. But even Goldstein could not specifically account for the statement.
This author would present an alternate theory on Potter's words. While evidence of the fabled 'Deathly Hallows' remains scarce to non-existent, it is clear that Potter and the Dark Lord were discussing at least one of the Hallows—the Elder Wand, arguably the most dangerous and powerful of the three—as though it were real. This provides a clue to Potter's meaning.
"You still don't get it, Riddle, do you?" said Potter, calling the Dark Lord by his muggle father's surname (See 'The Fall of Slytherin' by Mead & McKellar). "Possessing the wand isn't enough! Holding it, using it, doesn't make it really yours. Didn't you listen to Ollivander? The wand chooses the wizard… The Elder Wand recognized a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realizing exactly what he had done, or that the world's most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance…"
Potter goes on to claim that then school-mate Draco Malfoy was actually the owner of the famed 'Elder Wand' (that is, until Potter in turn disarmed him and thereby gained the wand's allegiance). It remains unclear though, how Malfoy came to 'remove the wand from Dumbledore against his will' nor does Potter reveal how Dumbledore came to possess the wand in the first place. What is clear is Potter and his companions Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley studied arcane magics during the months they disappeared, wand lore being chief among the list of fields.
Potter's final words to the Dark Lord were these: "So it all comes down to this, doesn't it? Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does… I am the true master of the Elder Wand."
And then, with Potter's words still echoing around them all, the enchanted ceiling was suddenly filled with the red-gold glow of a dazzling sunrise. The Dark Lord at last looked away from Potter and he stared up at it, as if mesmerized. It's difficult to say for certain, but his slitted eyes seemed to widen in shock the longer he looked.
Evidence of Potter's extracurricular studies became obvious in the next moment as he lifted his Hawthorne wand to yell out a spell that began "Exp—!"
Most scholars agree he was about to yell out a form of the Patronus charm which usually has the incantation "Expecto Patronum". It is well-known that this charm was used for centuries to ward off the dark creatures known as Dementors (See 'The Ministry's Greatest Mistakes' by R. Galbraith). And it is this author's belief that Potter had discovered a way to ward off the Dark Lord using a variation of that charm. And so, when Potter claimed to have seen what the Dark Lord would be, what he actually meant was, he had seen the charm's effects on dark creatures before and knew that Lord Voldemort would soon be destroyed.
Of course, unlike Potter, the rest of us are left to wonder and wildly speculate over what would have happened had Potter actually been able to complete the charm. It is most unfortunate that the Dark Lord, realizing he did not stand a chance, decided to flee before Potter could finish. He transfigured himself into a pillar of black smoke and disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again.
Harry Potter biographer Benjamin Goldstein was among the scholars who sought evidence of exactly what Potter intended with his spell that day, but he was unsuccessful in locating any sort of Grimmoires or scrolls that might reveal the truth. It was hypothesized that Potter might pass the knowledge on to his children, but the Potter heirs were each as unforthcoming as Potter himself.
Albus Severus Potter, the younger son, died in the year 1950; he was 129 years old. And of course James Sirius Potter died before the 20th century in a Quidditch accident. Neither of them had any children to pass along the knowledge of how their famous father planned to defeat the Dark Lord.
It was said that Lily Luna Potter, the youngest child of the famed hero married a muggle banker and disappeared entirely from the wizarding world shortly after finishing Hogwarts. It is unlikely that she passed along any useful information to muggle children.
Unfortunately, without any record of Potter's findings or his plan to defeat the Dark Lord, there is no way to know how to stop him if the Dark Lord should choose to return some day to Britain. It will be up to the ministry, or more likely some brave and outstanding wizard to determine how to defeat him as Harry Potter did long ago.
Because if we don't… then the Wizarding World will be most surely doomed.
"Have you about finished reading that rubbish, or should I come back in an hour or so? Maybe after sun-up?"
Seventeen year old wizard Edward Cullen had been sidled into a squashy armchair in the history section of Flourish and Blotts Wizarding Bookstore. He'd been concentrating though and so the unexpected interruption startled him enough that the book he was reading slid off his lap to the floor.
Crimson and gold letters gleamed up at Edward from the cover and beneath them was an artist's rendering of a green-eyed boy whose forehead was marred with a lightning bolt scar: Gryffindor's Finest Heroes by Godric Westfall.
"It's hardly rubbish," he said at once, ducking to retrieve the anthology, "Westfall is one of the most dedicated Potter scholars to have ever lived."
When Edward looked up again, he found himself face-to-face with a man he'd seen often enough behind the front counter of the book shop. He was medium set with dark hair and features and he was wearing the burgundy robes of the shop's uniform. On his tan face was a highly unconvinced expression.
"And shouldn't you be trying to sell me this book instead of putting me off it? You're not a very good employee, Mister…" Edward leaned forward to see the nametag attached haphazardly to the shopkeeper's robes, "Livingstone".
Far from looking offended at the sentiment, the shopkeeper snorted a rather dry chuckle and held his hand out for the book. Edward reluctantly gave it to him.
"You know, you're not a very good customer when we get right down to it, now are you?" said Livingstone, flipping through the pages of the book, "Almost every day this summer you've come in here to read and you haven't purchased a single book beyond your basic school list. And what's worse, here you are past closing time, nose pressed into the pages of this tripe when by now I could have apparated home for the evening."
Edward glanced out the shop's windows to the indigo sky. Several stars peeked out from behind clouds, twinkling merrily in the night, but a quick look at his watch revealed it was only a few minutes past closing—not nearly enough to warrant the shopkeeper acting so put-upon.
"I had been waiting for you to get this one in for ages," said Edward, pointing back at the book, "I've been trying to get ahold of a copy ever since the bicentennial celebration but they always seem to be out-of-stock. Same with Goldstein's biographies. I notice you still haven't gotten a shipment of those."
"Goldstein is even worse than Westfall," asserted the man, "At least Westfall was able to write about someone besides Potter every now and then." He grabbed with thumb and index finger the thickest chapter in the book and then pointed to the first line on the page.
Edward adjusted his glasses and read. "Few men have lived for whom less need exists to justify a biography. Harry Potter was one of the greatest Gryffindors of all times—and in the opinion of many, not one of the greatest, but the greatest."
"You see?" said Livingstone, sloppily stuffing the book back on the shelf. "Rubbish! And Goldstein is worse than that! If you want to read about Voldemort's regime, you're much better off with something less… stupid."
"Stupid? Westfall isn't… How could you even… The man's brilliant" declared Edward.
Livingstone gave an unconvincing "hmm" of acknowledgement and then walked down the opposite aisle. There were more history books here, but on the whole they appeared a great deal stuffier than the aisle where Edward had previously been reading. For one thing, the bindings were much thicker and the covers were all a stiff black or brown—no pictures at all.
Edward followed the shopkeeper, still arguing on behalf of the author. "Did you know he holds the highest score on any History of Magic NEWT from the last 300 years. And he's been nominated for the Wullizer Wizarding Historian Award nine separate times. "
"Is that so," said the shopkeeper, "Doesn't mean he has a shoddy clue about dark wizards like Voldemort."
"And you're saying you know more than Westfall, then?" challenged Edward, "He's got to be at least four times your age, first of all. And he's a renowned researcher."
The man stopped and looked at him, bushy black eyebrows lifted up past his untidy fringe. "Maybe not," he admitted, "But I do happen to have excellent taste in reading material, and Westfall is still stupid."
"So you don't agree with a single thing Westfall says about the Dark Lord?"
Livingstone looked up from where he was perusing a stack of thickly bound leather texts, "No, Westfall made one good point and that's it. He said the Wizarding World would be absolutely bushed if Voldemort ever decided to come back. Of course he we went about clarifying the point stupidly saying how it will all be up to the ministry or some unknown hero to take care of Voldemort if he returns."
"He did sound rather paranoid there," conceded Edward.
"Paranoid?" repeated Livingstone dropping his hands from the bookshelves altogether, "Hardly. We should all be prepared if Voldemort returns—not waiting on the ministry or some… hero… to stop him. That's just mental."
Now it was Edward's turn to look exceptionally unconvinced. "And how exactly do you propose we prepare ourselves then?"
"Simple. By learning proper defense against the Dark Arts," said the bookseller passionately, "I know for a fact that Headmaster Chaferson has been attempting to reinstate the course at Hogwarts since he took over the school two decades ago. The average wizard who leaves Hogwarts doesn't even know how to cast a Petrificus Totalus nowadays. If Voldemort returned today, the level of resistance he would meet would be laughable at best."
"Petrificus Totalus? The petrification charm? Why would we need it?"
"So you can fight!"
"Isn't that what the Aurors are for?"
"And if the Aurors happen to be infiltrated by the Deatheaters?"
"Death-Eaters?" repeated Edward skeptically, unfamiliar with the term, "You mean dementors?"
Livingstone looked highly annoyed at the question and instead of answering he turned away and moved onto to the next stack of books, moving them around, clearly searching for something. Hidden between a set of texts which Edward immediately recognized as older works by Godric Westfall was in fact a quite ancient looking volume that must have been on the shelves at Flourish and Blotts for years.
The shopkeeper snatched it up and shoved it toward Edward. "Here," he said brusquely, "This will tell you anything you could want to know about the last Wizarding War and how Voldemort was all but defeated when he fled."
Edward warily read the cover: The Rise and Fall of Voldemort (And several useful spells for living on the run from Deatheaters) by: Jean Wilkins.
He flipped through it and saw miniscule print filling each one of the 800 pages, separated only by the occasional diagram.
"It's comprehensive," said the shopkeeper.
"I see that."
"And on sale for the extremely reasonable price of three galleons."
"But what about the book I was reading before?" protested Edward, "I wanted to buy that one. I told you, I've been waiting for it all summer."
"And I told you, this one is much better."
Edward considered arguing. He really had been waiting on that book for weeks. But, in all honesty, he'd already read the portion of the book that interested him in Gryffindor's Heroes. So why not purchase this one instead? And if Livingstone was the one in charge of ordering books at Flourish and Blotts, then it would be a very long time before any of Goldstein's works came in.
Finally he nodded.
The shopkeeper gave him a fairly grim sort of grin and then led him toward the front of the store. "Would you like this gift-wrapped?"
"Gift—why one earth would I want it gift-wrapped? It's for me, isn't it?"
"Are you interested in creating a line of credit here at Flourish and Blotts? Your loyalty could earn you rewards such as a jar of disappearing ink or even meetings with authors like Iris Cather from Caring for Kneazles."
"No thank you."
"Have you placed a subscription with any of these fine wizarding periodicals yet?" Livingstone pushed forward a catalogue with titles such as: Transfiguration Today, Witch Weekly, and Potion News.
"I highly recommend The Quibbler. It's been in circulation for over two hundred years you know."
"No," said Edward.
"Fine then. Your loss. Your total for today's purchase comes to three galleons and one knut."
Edward removed his money pouch from the pocket of his trousers and the shopkeeper quickly deposited the coins in the till. But then as Edward turned to leave, Livingstone startled him. It seemed as though one moment he was behind the sales counter and the next he was standing right next to Edward, grabbing his arm.
"Wait," he said.
Edward whipped around so fast his glasses came askew. "What? I don't want any periodicals or coupons to the Leaky Cauldron or whatever it is you're required to offer me."
The shopkeeper was still grabbing his arm, staring down at his hand—or more accurately, his wrist, "Where did you get that watch?"
"It's a family heirloom," said Edward, pulling his arm out of the man's grasp, "I don't think they sell them anymore."
"Right, sorry. It looked… familiar for a second. Reckon it was just a trick of the light."
Edward shrugged and made to continue on his way.
"Your surname's Cullen, isn't it?"
Edward nodded.
"I don't think I've heard of the Cullens before."
"You wouldn't have," he replied, hardly keeping the acid from his voice, "I'm muggleborn."
"I see. Well, have a pleasant evening then."
Edward nodded again and made to leave, not entirely certain if he was being mocked or not. It was difficult to say with wizards sometimes, and then Livingstone was a bit of an odd bloke on top of it.
Edward walked out into the humid summer night. He tucked the book into his jumper and prepared to apparate home when unbelievably, the mad shopkeeper called out to him yet again. "Wait, Cullen!"
Entirely annoyed, Edward crossed his arms over his chest and waited, "What now?"
"It was only two galleons. Her… her book, that is. Wilkins' book, it was even more of a bargain than I'd thought. I owe you a galleon back."
As soon as he finished speaking, the shopkeeper flipped a galleon out of his pocket and sent it arching through the air towards Edward. Unthinkingly, Edward snatched the golden coin while it was still an arm's length out in front of him, examined it, and then deposited it in his jumper pocket. When he looked up again, Livingstone was gazing at him very approvingly, as though Edward has just passed some sort of examination—though Edward could hardly fathom what it was.
"Nice reflexes, Cullen."
"Er, thanks."
The shopkeeper gave him another grin—the same grim, not entirely jolly grin, just like he'd done earlier in the shop. And then he disapparated.
It was very sudden and Edward was not certain he'd seen quite right. The usual bang that accompanied apparition, like a car backfiring, or a gun discharging, was conspicuously absent. In its place was a soft snapping sound, almost like popping the lid off a fresh bottle of milk. Edward had never heard anything like it.
With a final exasperated shake of his head, Edward turned on his heel and pictured his sprawling, ivy-covered home on the southern edge of Bath. Not a moment later, there he was, standing in the front entranceway and stowing his jumper in the cupboard by the door.
"Mum, I'm home!" he called.
"In the kitchen, dear!"
There was a long tiled corridor between the front of the house and the kitchen, with doors on each side that concealed sitting rooms and studies leftover from when the house had served as a rectory. The sweet smell of cinnamon and nutmeg permeated the entire area, easily drawing Edward to the back. And when he pushed open the door to the kitchen, Edward was surprised to see not only his mother, icing biscuits on cooling racks, but his father as well, reclined in the kitchen nook with a number of files and a laptop laid out in front of him.
"'Lo Edward," he greeted, looking up from his work to sip from a floral patterned cup of tea, "Have a nice day in Diagon Alley?"
"Not bad. I spent most of my time at Flourish and Blotts."
"Oh, the bookstore, was it? Did you come across anything interesting?"
Edward snagged two of the beautifully iced sweets from the tray closest to him and took a seat across from his father. The man grinned when Edward handed one over.
"Those are supposed to be for the children!" exclaimed his mother when she spotted them, dunking the biscuits in the lone cup of tea between them.
"Oh come now, Esme dear, surely you expected to share at least a few with Edward and I, didn't you?"
"What I expected, Carlisle, was for you two to be well above taking sweets from the sick children at your own hospital. Clearly I was mistaken."
Edward's father, Carlisle Cullen, guiltily lowered his biscuit to his plate. Edward on the other hand thought the sick children at Il Sandra Medical Center had had far more sweets from Esme than he, Edward had ever had. And he was supposed to be the woman's own son! (Biologically speaking, she was technically his aunt, but that was neither here nor there).
"Have you no shame, Edward?" she protested as Edward finished off his biscuit.
"I'm not sure," he replied, "Maybe I should try out another and see if any comes to me then?"
His father chuckled and sipped from his lukewarm tea.
"Impossible, the both of you!" declared his mother and returned to her work decorating the little pastries.
Carlisle took the opportunity to return to his work as well—typing up some of his case files, or so it appeared to Edward. And Edward had his book from Flourish and Blotts resting on the table before him. He had already spent hours reading earlier in the day and his eyes were strained, but he could read just a little bit longer, he thought.
Edward swiped at his eyes beneath his glasses and tried to rub some wakefulness back into them. Esme deposited a tea setting in front of him and he smiled at her gratefully. He opened to the first page and focused on the tiny print.
"The first and most important thing a student of wizarding history should understand about Lord Voldemort's reign is that it had begun before the child known as Tom Marvolo Riddle was ever born. A prejudiced society full of inherent benefits for a certain class and an obstacle course of pitfalls for the opposing class—that is what brought on the reign of a Dark Lord such as Voldemort. Only carefully seeking to understand this past along with an air of conscientiousness on the part of all wizarding society can prevent the same from happening again. We can only hope—."
"Ugh, my eyes," complained Edward snapping the dratted volume closed.
Carlisle looked up at him. "Do you need your prescription updated? You really should have mentioned that at your eye appointment last week. An optometrist can only accomplish so much without the patient's cooperation, you know."
"You need a new prescription already, dear?" asked Esme, slightly exasperated, "What is with those eyes of yours, anyway? You know the Platts always had perfect vision, my sister Elizabeth included. You must have inherited your eye troubles from the Masens. Your father always wore glasses you know."
"My prescription is fine," muttered Edward, folding his glasses up and laying them on the table beside the book, "I've just spent too many hours reading today. My eyes need a rest."
Carlisle was considering him still. "What is that you're reading anyway? You've finished all of your school texts already, haven't you?"
"It's considered Wizarding History," Edward explained, "It's about a dark wizard who lived 200 years ago and almost took over all of Britain, all without the muggles having the slightest clue."
"Ah yes, Voldemort. You've mentioned him before. Defeated by a boy your own age unless I am remembering incorrectly. Harry Potter, wasn't it?"
Edward nodded and looked down at his watch, it was getting late. Seeing the watch though, made Edward think of the shopkeeper's strange reaction to it earlier. "Mum?" said Edward, "Can you tell me more about my…" he paused and gave Carlisle and apologetic look, "My birth father?"
Carlisle closed his laptop and Esme slid into the nook beside him looking warm, but serious. "Always, dear," she told him, reaching across to pat Edward's hand on the table, "Now let's see, where to begin? Edward Senior was a lawyer and just like your mother he moved to America for University. He actually grew up in Devon, not far from where Elizabeth and I were born. They were married in Chicago and lived there for several years before you came about."
Edward knew this already and nodded his acknowledgement.
"They were coming to visit Carlisle and I when the accident happened," she continued with a watery smile, just as she always did when telling the story. "They were so close too. Just outside Bath. And the ambulance of course brought you straight to Il Sandra where Carlisle and I took custody of you. It was our first time seeing you, you know. Not even a picture before then."
Esme sniffed sadly. "You were a beautiful baby. Same head of copper hair that you have now, and who could ignore those brilliant green eyes?"
Edward waited for her to recover herself. Carlisle rubbed her back and offered her some of his tea.
"Do you think… well… is it possible that my parents were wizards?" he asked at last and his heart rate quickened accordingly. This was the question that had been bothering him ever since the shopkeeper had commented on his watch. He fiddled with it and slid it off his wrist to study the familiar engraving inside: F. P.
"Not your mother. Elizabeth couldn't have been. We were very close growing up and I think I would have noticed had she gone away for nine months out of the year to study magic," said Esme apologetically.
"And Edward Senior?"
"Mind, I didn't know your father nearly as well as I knew Elizabeth. Carlilse and I only met him a handful of times, but he always seemed fairly normal—though I admit we wouldn't have known what to look for back then."
"I suppose not," said Edward, sliding the watch back onto his wrist.
Carlisle noticed and picked up the story, "Your father was always wearing that when he visited," he said, motioning to the watch, "He once told me his father gave it to him on his seventeenth birthday as a sort of coming-of-age gift and his grandfather did the same beforehand. It was the same for generations, always on the seventeenth birthday."
"Why not the eighteenth?" asked Edward, just as he had asked when his mum and dad first gave him the watch back in June.
Carlisle shrugged, but smiled as though he had a theory.
Edward watched him and then felt his eyes open wide with surprise, "Wizards come of age at seventeen," he whispered. He hadn't thought of it before. He hadn't really had any reason to give it serious thought, but apparently Carlisle had.
Carlisle just nodded and refilled his tea.
"You don't think…"
"I couldn't say with certainty one way or the other," said Carlisle, "But you are a wizard and so the chances of Edward Senior being a wizard are well… fairly good."
"At least a thousand times more likely than if I were a muggle," agreed Edward and he felt as though he had a great deal to think about. Of course it didn't matter to him if his father had been a wizard or a muggle, but it was nice to imagine some sort of history for the man. Edward didn't remember him at all, but as he fell asleep that evening, he imagined a man with hair much darker than his own, though just as unruly. He imagined the man with glasses and a kind expression on his features. And it was not a difficult endeavor to imagine him with a wand.
In a town several hundred miles north of Bath, the wizard Brian Livingstone sat alone, staring at his dinner plate so hard that it might have cracked from the intensity. The small dining room was decorated much like the rest of the small house—with piles upon piles of books and the occasional dark detector scattered about the place.
A house elf ambled into the room with hardly a wayward glance at the clutter. "Master is not eating his dinner," said the elf, "Is Master wanting something different? Silo can be making some baked potatoes, or Silo can be making a mince pie or—."
"Er, no thanks Silo. I'm fine."
Brian pushed some food around his plate and looked up at the elf again. Silo was studiously ignoring the nearest untidy stack of books.
"Silo, we've been together for over twenty years, is the mess still bothering you?" asked Brian, somewhat relieved to have a distraction.
"Of course not, Master. Silo just wishes he were allowed to clean up every now and then."
"Fine," said Brian, "Go ahead, Silo. I'm not going to stop you."
The elf looked absurdly delighted at the prospect. Only after he had piled a number of loose papers into a stack and begun organizing the nearest set of books did he realize how strange his master's behavior was.
"Is Master certain he wouldn't like a mince pie?"
"I am one hundred percent certain, Silo, thank you."
"Then something must be bothering Master," said the elf, "Master has not eaten two bites of his dinner." Silo knew it was not normally the place of someone in his station to question his or her master. But Silo's master was a peculiar wizard—most unlike any other wizard Silo had encountered before. Silo knew he wouldn't mind. And in fact, the wizard smiled down at Silo and patted the seat next to him indicating that Silo should sit down.
Silo did and brushed off his uniform (which long ago Silo had decided did not technically count as clothes). "What is troubling Master?"
"I never told you this Silo, but about five years ago, a muggleborn first year came into the shop in Diagon Alley. She was alone; she'd gotten separated from Professor Cope. But of course, I didn't know that at the time. All I knew was she had found her way to the center of Flourish and Blotts and the moment she reached it, she began to give a prophecy."
Silo listened attentively, wondering why his master had never mentioned he'd heard a prophecy before.
"Once I got to her, I cast a charm so no one in the shop could hear what she was saying. But I heard it. I didn't think to cast the charm on myself too, and now… now I've spent years preparing for what she said would come to pass. Only, I had to guess at some of the details and I think… I think I was wrong about part of it."
"She said to me, 'The work of the Master is nearly done. But a little longer must he wait. It will be completed by his living son. When at last returns he who brings fear and hate.'"
Silo stared at his master, filled with awe. Not only was it the first time Silo had been told the words of a prophecy, but the prophecy itself was an important one. Silo could feel it.
But he didn't understand.
"The Master?" said Silo.
"I think she meant Harry Potter, the Master of Death according to the legend of the Deathly Hallows."
Silo gasped.
"Which means his work would be to defeat Voldemort, the one who would bring fear and hate if—well really when he returns."
"Does Master think the one who will defeat Voldemort is—?"
"A descendent of Harry Potter. The only living descendent of Harry Potter. I admit I had thought the part about being a 'son' would be up to interpretation. I realize now I was mistaken…"
Silo was quiet then. His master was a scholar and had taught him a great many things while Silo had worked for him. One of those things, and arguably the most important of them all, was about a dark wizard known as Voldemort, who had been temporarily defeated two hundred years ago. Silo could almost imagine how frightening it would be if the dark wizard returned to power.
According to the prophecy his master had heard, though, someone would finish him off—someone would be able to defeat him—and permanently this time too.
"Who?" asked Silo.
"He was at Flourish and Blotts today," replied the wizard, "He spends a lot of time there, always reading. He's a Ravenclaw. A prefect even, and going into his seventh year. His name is Edward Cullen."
"Cullen?" said the house elf, "Silo does not know that name. How does Master know it's him?"
"Because he was wearing Harry Potter's watch."
Disclaimer: I do not own the intellectual property rights of J. K. Rowling nor Stephenie Meyer. None of this would be possible without their inspiration... and I would probably be doing something far more productive with my time if I'd never met them. On a side note, this was posted on a bit of a whim that I may soon regret.
