THE PROPHECY OF FIRE
Book I: Taken
Prologue: What Dreams May Tell

Written by Kouri no Ryuu

* * * * *

Author's Notes: This is a fifth-year Harry Potter fic. It's quite good, in my not-so-humble opinion, but that's only because of my wonderful former beta-reader, Lily White. She did wonderfully.

This chapter alone has been in the works for well over two years now. The story has been fiddled with and such for about two and a half years, changing from names such as "Harry Potter and the Dragon Armlet" (later "Harry Potter and the Shadow Armlet") to "The Blood Bond" to other such nonsense, and it was filled to the brim with Mary Sue goodness. Then it reached "The Prophecy of Fire," and took a whole new twist.

It is the first in a four-part series. This story itself, "The Prophecy of Fire," is actually quite long (more than thirty chapters total, not counting the prologues and epilogues), but I have broken it into two Books: "Taken" (Book I) and "The Downfall of Hogwarts" (Book II), each fifteen chapters or so when it's finished. The sequel to PoF is "The Order of the Phoenix" (that would be my version, not the real book), and the sequel to that is "The Resistance." It has been planned out already, beginning to end, so don't worry about me losing my inspiration.

The quote that starts out the chapter is from the movie "The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers."

* * * * *

Will you look into the mirror?

What shall I see?

Even the wisest cannot tell. For the mirror shows many things: things that were, things that are ... and some things that have not yet come to pass ...

* * * * *

One week into summer vacation.

Ginny Weasley bolted upright in her bed and screamed: a loud, shrill sound in the still of the night. The moonlight cascaded in through her window, highlighting her bright reddish-gold hair and illuminating her alabaster skin. Her nightgown was plastered to her body with sweat, her eyes wide and her mouth open with fright.

Her bedsheet lay in a tangled heap around her, and her pillow had fallen to the floor.

What ...? she wondered vaguely, unable to make her thoughts coherent, even to herself. Her right hand scrunched a handful of her blanket tightly. Why ...? Forcing herself to take deep breaths, she slowly relaxed, and her body slumped until her chin was tucked to her chest.

"Gin? Gin! What's wrong?" a familiar voice demanded as they strode into her bedroom, almost slamming it against the opposite wall in their hurry. Ginny gasped and turned around just in time to see one of the twins, side-lit by the moonlight, his skin appearing to almost glow.

"Oh, you scared me! Fred or George?" She squinted, her eyes not used to the darkness and unable to identify the speaker.

"George. Did you have another nightmare?" His voice almost parental with worry, he sat down beside her. "Was it ... one of those?"

She took several more deep breaths. "That was ... it was scary. Yeah, it was a nightmare ... one of those ..." She stared at her royal-blue bedspread, not wanting to see his reaction.

"Another one? When was the last time you had one?" His reaction greatly resembled what she had predicted: terrified, concerned, apprehensive; the same things she felt. "I know you had a really nasty one when you were ten, and then year before last and this spring. What was it about this time?" He tried to speak comfortingly, reassuringly, as an older brother should, he thought.

"This was the first one since the spring." Her voice shaking and her hands clenched at her sides, Ginny forced herself to cast her mind back, to the terrifying minutes before while she slept ...

The dream ...

Someone screaming ... a woman in a cloak, bright-eyed and eager to prove herself ... a horrible, snakelike face ... red eyes ... the overwhelming presence of evil ... a high-pitched, shrill, terrible voice ... a snake, intimidating ... that odd green light ... the scent of death hovering in the air ...

She related this to George, slowly and haltingly at first, but slowly gaining courage from her familiar surroundings. He sucked in a deep breath after she had finished her story. "Wow, Gin, that's not good. Do you think--do you think it will happen again? You know, what happened last time?"

Ginny didn't answer for several moments. Shivering, she concentrated on untwisting her blanket from around her and wrapped herself in it loosely before answering. "I hope not ... That was awful ..." She glanced up at George again, her brown eyes bright with uncertainty and fear.

"Why d'you think you have dreams like these?" Wistfully George looked at the floor.

Ginny's head jerked up to look at him, her eyes strangely thoughtful.

"I hate them, they're not normal ... They scare you, I know they do," he continued.

"Yes," she said softly. George cast a sidelong glance at her.

"Why does this sort of thing have to happen to you? You, of all people?" He let out an exasperated sigh--not at Ginny, but himself. "At least it could be someone older--someone more able to handle them ... Me, or Fred, or Percy or someone."

"You think I can't--can't handle them?" Her voice became sharp and clear, as opposed to the sleepy, guttural murmur he had heard in the moments before. It sliced through the sudden tension in the room like a Severing Charm through silk.

George shook his head. "You know that's not what I mean. This has been happening for a long time now ... I mean, why does it have to be you? What do they mean?"

"I don't know," Ginny whispered. "Maybe ... I shouldn't want to. Maybe it would lead to more bad things ..."

George nodded. "Do you want to ask Mum to give you one of those dreamless sleep potions?" he asked concernedly. Ginny shook her head hard, her red hair bouncing around her profile.

"No ... Mum wouldn't understand. She'd just tell me I was being childish and that they were just silly nightmares." Her voice defiant, the corner of Ginny's mouth twisted into a smile, although with a trace of bitterness.

George drew in a deep breath and nodded. "Well, do you want me to stay with you for the night?" he suggested, putting a brotherly comforting arm around her shoulder. Brushing it off, Ginny shook her head and avoided her brother's eyes, staring at the vase on her nightstand as if it held the secrets to the universe.

"That's okay," she muttered. "I'm too old for that now, aren't I?"

George nodded again, understandingly, his lips pressed together as he didn't approve of leaving her alone, and left, perhaps uttering a "hope you sleep better." Ginny didn't pay attention.

Ginny couldn't shake the fact that it seemed important. It was just a nightmare ... if a particularly gruesome one. Ginny swung her feet over the side of her bed, sitting up, and picked her pillow up off the floor and deposited it on her bed. She only half-noticed that her hands trembled. Ginny collapsed onto her bed and tried to forget everything about the dream, but it had just seemed so real, so ... so vivid ...

* * * * *

The next night.

"I have no more use for you. I've had enough insubordination from you," hissed a low voice silkily.

The snakelike voice, always somewhat terrifying, made Lucius Malfoy tremble now. "What do you mean, Master?" He bent forward to kiss Voldemort's robes, but the Dark Lord shoved him away pitilessly. The thick black robes enveloping Voldemort shielded his face from view.

"I mean, Lucius"--here, Voldemort drew out the name like an insult--"that I have had enough of you." The wand in his hand rose to point at the shaking man.

"NO!" the elder Malfoy cried in desperation. "I'm still useful! I can still help you!" Voldemort eyed him carelessly, his wand hand held unwaveringly.

The group of twenty-plus Death Eaters stood in a circle surrounding their Master, who sat on a throne, and the singled-out servant cowered in the middle of their circle. A dark, damp dungeon housed all the people in black robes and cloaks. Only a tiny shaft of light came through to the room, and a rotten smell constantly wafted through the air.

The snake at Voldemort's feet hissed plaintively. "Don't worry, Nagini," Voldemort soothed softly in Parseltongue. "There will be food for you yet." Though no one else in the room could understand their Master, they all had an idea of what he said and shifted uncomfortably and fearfully. Desperate tears streamed down Lucius's face as he pleaded, almost incoherently, for his Master to spare him.

"Lucius, Lucius, Lucius," said Voldemort softly. "What about your name? The fallen angel? Are you fallen yet, Lucius?"

Lucius remained on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

"'For Satan'--that is Lucifer, you know--'can disguise himself as an angel of light.' Lucifer, O Lucifer, what have you done? You have fallen, fallen hard, taking a third of the angels with you, down to the pits of hell ..." He gazed at Lucius. "That is from the Muggle Bible, of course."

"Of course, my Lord ..."

"'Of course,'" mocked Voldemort. His voice was gentle--almost tender--and somehow, it made the hairs on the necks of everyone in the room stand on end.

The Dark Lord's voice became hard, losing all of its former thoughtfulness and false gentility. "While good, loyal servants are hard to come by, Lucius, thanks be that you are not a good servant." Lucius quaked beneath his robes. "I have told you, time and time again, that the wretched Potter boy is protected by that wizened fool's Familius Charm. Yet you try, Lucius, time and time again to capture him!" Voldemort had started speaking at a normal level; now his voice rose to an enraged shout. "How many times have you endangered everything we stand for?! Sudden death is too good for you, I think. Before death, however ..." Voldemort paused, then whispered, "Crucio Maximus," his wand pointed at Lucius.

A jet of light sparkled at the tip of the Dark Lord's wand before hitting the former Death Eater square on his torso. A high-pitched scream rent the air, and Voldemort looked on expressionlessly as Lucius thrashed and shrieked on the stone floor. Pain, intense pain, spread like wildfire through his entire body. Lucius thought his throat would rupture from all his screaming, pleading and shouting. "I warned you about the price of failure, Lucius," said Voldemort softly, his wand still raised. "Is it my fault you didn't bother to listen?"

"No, Master, DON'T!! Please, I beg of you! PLEASE!" Lucius panted wearily after the torture spell ended. He clutched his right leg; he'd twisted it--maybe broken it--thrashing on the stone floor. Drool dripped from one corner of his mouth, and his eyes were tormented and dark. Pain still shot through every cell of his body; his muscles twitched from the curse's aftereffects.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Green light flashed throughout the stone dungeon, illuminating Voldemort's hideous face for a single instant.

"Be that a warning to anyone who crosses me!" roared the Dark Lord.

"Step forward," Voldemort ordered in a low, softly dangerous voice. A cloaked, hidden figure stepped out of the circle of Death Eaters.

"Master," a woman's voice whispered reverently, as she bowed at his feet. A lock of blond hair fell out of her black hood.

"I trust that you will do a better job than our dear departed friend Mr. Malfoy ...?" The Dark Lord's voice may have risen at the end, but as it was issuing from his lips, it sounded more like an order than a question.

The woman's emerald eyes sparkled malevolently, even in the poor light, as she rose to her knees before Voldemort. "I will, Master."

The Dark Lord's tone sounded challenging when he spoke. "You had better." The tone of his voice altered subtly. "Wait, Nagini. There is time before you must feed again. We will save Lucius's body as a testament to Lord Voldemort. We'll fly the Death Eater mark in the sky once again, my pet ..."

* * * * *

Act like me ...

Why should I? Draco thought hazily, suddenly. For one precious moment, his mind rose out of the mist engulfing it, and the thought was clear, and straight as a poisoned arrow. I hate you ... Why would I want to be you? ...

The thought returned more forcefully: Act like me!

Yes, Father, I will ...

The next moment, he felt a horrible shock, as keen as pain in its own right. It lanced through his body, and he nearly fell to the floor, gasping for breath. The haze in his mind had disappeared, leaving only the realization that he was free. Free from Lucius, free from the Death Eaters ... free from Voldemort, maybe.

What's happened? Draco thought fearfully. He never takes off the Curse unless he beats me. But he's gone to some Death Eater convention ... that's what he said, anyway ...

Draco desperately wanted to try to figure out what had happened, but then a more forceful urge hit him--the urge to leave before Lucius came back. Slowly he rose to his feet, aware that the curse hadn't been taken off him for nearly a year and that he was barely familiar with his body anymore. Draco broke out into a clumsy run towards his bedroom, stumbling often as he did.

Through slender stained-glass windows, Draco could see black lightning strike outside--Wait, black lightning? he wondered for a moment, but pushed the thought away for the moments. Several seconds later, thunder rumbled, shaking the foundations of the Malfoy Estate. Draco jumped. Idiot, Draco thought to himself without rancor, this Estate has stood for years through even the most powerful of magical storms, it's not just going to fall down on your head because it doesn't want you to leave.

He pulled out the trunk he always used for Hogwarts (it was in his rather spacious closet) and opened it. Hurriedly, for he was still afraid that Lucius would return, he dumped some wizard gold into it along with his school robes and books.

It's time to leave this dump behind ...

* * * * *

Harry's hand shot straight up to the jagged scar on his forehead as it tingled painfully. Not again, he prayed silently, this can't happen again. He remembered this time, last year, when he had woken up with his scar hurting, when Voldemort had killed someone.

But this time he had been awake, wide awake, for he hadn't been able to sleep that night. Perhaps luckily, he admitted to himself. He didn't care to wake up screaming around the Dursleys, or overexcite his sleeping owl, Hedwig.

Then he remembered what his godfather, Sirius, had told him the year before: go straight to Dumbledore if his scar hurt ever again. Harry paused, considering. Well, I'm probably not going to get to sleep again, he thought, might as well bloody write to Dumbledore ... Harry glanced at the clock and groaned softly. In bright green letters it read, 2:46 a.m.

Harry's eyes fell on his owl's cage. Hedwig was a sweet snowy white owl by nature and often she carried messages and letters between him and his friends. But now ... Now there was a lock on her cage. Harry didn't know how to pick locks, and he didn't dare break the code for the restriction of magic outside of Hogwarts to let her out. But Sirius had told him to tell Dumbledore ... How could he do that, with his only means of delivering it in a locked cage?

Sighing, Harry quietly pulled up a wooden floorboard. Underneath it lay all of his schoolbooks, his favorite eagle-feather quill, some parchment, and ... a hairpin. He had snitched the hairpin from his aunt Petunia one day after it fell out of her hair. He'd hoped to use it to unlock the cupboard and Hedwig's cage, but he hadn't been sure how.

Should've asked Fred and George when they came and rescued me before second year, he thought ruefully. Oh, well ... no time like the present to learn. Picking it up, Harry first used it to tap lightly on Hedwig's cage, trying to wake her up. "Hedwig!" he whispered. "Shh, shh!" he added when she opened a sleepy eye and came as close to glaring as an owl could. Harry hoped she could understand his furious gesticulations to not make a noise.

After six long minutes (he would have sworn that it took longer than an hour), he heard a faint click and pulled the lock off. "Shh," he repeated softly, looking sternly at Hedwig, who looked at him, sleepily irritable.

Fortunately, the Dursleys had foregone barring his window this year, probably on account of Sirius Black, his godfather and convict. "Just a minute, Hedwig," he whispered.

Grabbing his quill and a scrap of parchment, Harry scribbled a short note to the Headmaster, keeping in mind the warning not to use Sirius's name.

Professor Dumbledore, it ran

My godfather told me to tell you whenever my scar started hurting again. It did tonight, and I was already awake and all of a sudden, it just started aching. I wasn't dreaming or even daydreaming.

Harry

He quickly folded the note and tied it with an emerald-green ribbon. He stuffed the letter in Hedwig's mouth and she gave a muffled squeak of protest. Harry opened the window and whispered, "Take this to Professor Dumbledore, quickly."

Hedwig squeaked lightly again and almost stepped outside her cage. Fluttering her wings a few times to become re-used to open space, Harry's owl hopped a few times on the nightstand, and finally spread her wings and launched off the nightstand and flew his open window, soaring into the night. Harry watched Hedwig fly away until she faded into a speck in the distance.

Three seconds after Hedwig disappeared, Harry realized a fatal flaw in his plan: The Dursleys would most definitely notice that Hedwig was gone.

Harry felt like slapping himself on the forehead.

Oh, shoot, he thought.