"Lost will be found when the fourteenth year is in bloom…
As the dead arise and the living falls,
the one who trifled with fate shall contribute with blood…
For fate does not dance, it rules…
And as the year pass by, she who lived must die…
for neither can live, while the other survives…"
The words came rushing out of the thin woman — the shawl that had covered her frizzy hair slowly drifted to the floor of the divination classroom, placing itself in between the seer and the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore; a silly looking old man to anyone not familiar with his school and the concept of magic… Or, well, even to the trained eye he could appear silly.
However, that night had no time, nor place, for silliness, it would seem. Albus Dumbledore, a great wizard with a heavy heart, had been on his nightly stroll through Hogwarts, a school for witchcraft and wizardry, when he heard the breaking of glass from his Divination teacher's nest up in the North Tower. Unable to write the noise off as one of Sybill Trelawney's mishaps after a nightcap (or two), the headmaster had — albeit a little reluctantly — climbed his way to the classroom only to find the witch huddled in a corner, pale as a sheet.
Albus Dumbledore had, as any sane, empathetic person would, opened his mouth to enquire about why Trelawney was in the state that she was, only to be cut off before he could speak by a familiar tone and manic state he had only once heard before — almost exactly two years prior.
That time Dumbledore had heard the prophecy about the boy who, against all odds, lived and would be destined to be the one to defeat Lord Voldemort… this time, however, Dumbledore struggled to comprehend exactly what it was he had heard, and in regards to whom. The seer, Sybill Trelawney, of course, was of no use for answering his questions after she had sunk down into the floor and passed out (drunk and exhausted) in a heap on the floor.
So after getting the unconscious Trelawney into one of her bean bags to sleep whatever was in her system off, Albus Dumbledore exited the classroom and, with rushed steps, strolled back to his own office where he was met by a cooing Fawkes. The phoenix seemed deeply in tune with Albus, for it eyed him with restless, concerned eyes.
"Lost will be be found when the fourteenth year is in bloom…" the old wizard mumbled under his breath as he sat down behind his desk and intertwined his hands. "Patience, my dear Fawkes, is indeed a virtue."
