The Prophecy Is Delivered

It stormed. Flashes of lightning threw shadows against richly hued stone walls, and occasionally deepened the creases on the old witch's face. A troubled face. She reached within her burgundy dressing gown and withdrew her wand. It's friendly familiarity warmed her fingers, but still - the stirring tingle of magic was slow in coming. In fact, even slower tonight. Her lips pursed.

"Still up for that hot toddy?"

McGonagall turned from the window at the quiet question. "Poppy. Of course, I am."

Hogwarts' mediwitch was still in her uniform, save for her trim white bonnet. Her golden brown hair curled around a heart-shaped face. She closed the Headmistress' office door and summoned an overstuffed chair. It took her a few tries and some concentration before the spell took hold, and even then the chair scraped ridiculously across the floor. She tisked, but sat, tired.

"How are the students in the infirmary?" Minerva produced a dusty bottle of firewhiskey from within her lumbering cherry desk.

Poppy shook her head. "They're afraid mostly. They don't understand what's happening."

"Well. None of us do." She handed the other witch a tumbler. "And even I am afraid."

Poppy stared into her libation. Swirled the amber liquid with wizened fingers. "Do you think it's true? What the Evening Prophet said?"

McGonagall attempted a dismissive scoff that wasn't terribly convincing. "That this is the end of all magic? Nonsense." She sipped. Winced. "There's always an explanation. And a solution."

"That's true." Poppy's expression was one of determined hope. "Hell, Minnie. We didn't survive the second wizarding war to lose our magic to… What?" She waved a frustrated hand. "Some...plague? If it's that, I have to believe there's a cure."

"There's no cure for Dragon Pox."

"That's negative thinking."

Minerva chuckled darkly. "You know. In the olde times, the Great Dragon was believed to sleep every hundred or so years. To rest and...recharge the land's magic. Perhaps that's happening again."

"You believe those old myths?" Poppy asked. "You believe there's a dragon at the earth's core?"

"Oh, I don't believe they're myths at all, Poppy." Fondly, McGonagall stroked the edge of Albus Dumbledore's hourglass. At her touch, its sands began running upward. Little magics, it seemed, were still amok. "I have to believe in something."

A knock at her office door and both witches looked up. "That'll be Sybil. Come in, Sybil!" Minerva called.

The Divination professor stumbled through the door with her usual grace. The bells at the hem of her skirt caught on the door jamb and when she looked down to free them, her thick glasses clunked onto the floor. "Oh!" She exclaimed genially. "My my my…"

Poppy and Minerva watched her with smiles. Sybil was a love. A charming mess, but a true love. "Come along, you wobbly witchy," Poppy tutted. "Have a little toddy with us."

Sybil's magic was as daunted as theirs it seemed, and after a time, she wrestled a chair into position in their huffed tiredly and sat, bells tinkling and scarves settling. "Thank you, Minnie." She accepted her tumbler.

"We didn't see you at meals today, Syb," Poppy said. "Everything alright?"

"Bit off today." Sybil answered on a swallow. She hissed at the strength of the whiskey and waggled a hand. "The energies of the universe are off kilter."

Minerva slapped her knee. "Well, that's it then! Go at once and fix the energies, Sybil. We must have balanced energies."

"Don't mock the energies!" Sybil admonished. "They'll kick your arse."

"Minerva and I were just discussing our theory that the dragon at the center of the earth is the cause for the magical abatement. Apparently every hundred years or so he has to take a nap. What do you think, Sybil?" She grinned at the soothsayer. "Sybil? Sybil!"

Poppy's firewhiskey sloshed over the rim as she leapt from her chair. "Minnie! Give me something for her to bite on! She's seizing!"

Indeed she was. While Minerva scrambled for a gag, Sybil pitched straight in her chair. Her tumbler tumbled onto the rug beneath them, and her eyes - milky white - rolled in their sockets. Poppy pulled their friend from the chair and into her lap, kneeling. Healer's instinct ran strong. Minerva settled for shoving her own wand into Poppy's waiting hand. It was relatively useless of late, anyway.

"There, there, Syb. Here, bite down." Poppy attempted to press the wand into Sybil's mouth but the other witch trembled too strongly, hands clawing on Poppy's arm. "It's alright, Syb! Come now. Bite!" She pressed again, this time succeeding in getting Sybil to latch onto the wand.

Sybil growled like an animal - like a thing untamable. Minerva knelt alongside Poppy, fear and concern controlled on her features. "What do we do?"

"Just let it pass," Poppy instructed. "It's happened before." She rocked Sybil as the tremors started to subside. "Shhhh, shhh, shh. There now. See? That's better. It's passing, Syb. Poor love."

Poppy's hands stroked Sybil's suddenly sweat soaked hair. Her head scarf had fallen away, revealing messy blonde curls. Sybil groaned, but her body quieted. She huffed heavy breaths. Spat Minerva's wand which Minerva caught blithely. "It comes," she whimpered.

"What?" Poppy leaned toward her. "What comes, dear?"

Sybil's eyes had not cleared. Like some living dead, she sat bolt upright, a hand to each startled companion's shoulder. And then - voice not her own - she spoke:

"The magic of the land doth wane and be gone,

and heroes of olde quest newly strong

must recover that which from us is torn.

They seek to part the mists of Avalon,

but need the magic of the singular one

coupled fast with the dragon sun.

From past dark pitch,

with future light rich,

seek ye out the white black witch."

Message delivered, she crumpled. Poppy caught her, and caught Minerva's wide eyes. "Was that…"

"A prophecy." McGonagall replied.

Poppy looked down at their limp companion. "Bloody Hell, Syb." She kissed the sometime clairvoyant's head. "You really know how to spice up an evening toddy."

Possibly a thousand miles away - easily perhaps 500 or probably a million - another witch sipped a toddy, too. It wasn't firewhiskey painting the innards of a bone-carved goblet but a thick and suspiciously ruby red libation of unknown origin.

The witch is of unknown origin, as well. Or the origin of myth. She is legend quite real. Her fingers are old as time, clutching a staff dangerous with thorns. Her hair - an odd white and black amalgamation that has never known a scissor - is practically writhing with the static beneath her feet. She hasn't felt magic this strong in weeks.

A calculating mist presses in around her. It obeys less and less of late. She thrusts the thorny staff into the stony sand. Waves crash somewhere far below. The static charges to a lightning strike and for a second - if she could be seen - she would appear almost skeletal.

Her other hand spills the last of the goblet's contents. The earth drinks thirstily. The dragon is desperate. The mist feels it, and swirls nervously. The witch knows. Her eyes glow.

The prophecy is delivered.

It was early Saturday. Ronald Weasley was lounging on the tatty couch. Harry Potter was reading a wizarding comic. Hermione Granger was sitting on the floor, half lying over the tea table. The boredom in Grimmauld Place's drawing room was palpable. A sigh resounded. It could have come from anyone.

Then a tapping.

"What's that?" Harry asked, glancing over the corner of his comic.

"Probably those damn doxies." Ron sat up straight. "I told you they'd get in the walls. I'll get mum over with the spray again."

"Huh." Harry looked back to his comic. Hermione resettled her messy head in the crook of her arm. Then the tapping came again.

"It's an owl!" The witch leapt first. The wizards were hot on her heels as they scrambled into the kitchen.

"Who's it from?" Ron asked. They all struggled to open the window, annoyed with their own waning magics. "Ow!" Hermione unceremoniously shoved the ginger out of the way and an impressive horned owl swept over their heads.

It settled impatiently on the table, regarding the trio with some disdain. It had been kept waiting. Preening, it offered forth its missive like an afterthought. Harry took the tightly rolled parchment, viewed it, then handed it over. "It's for you."

"Me?" Hermione snatched it. "It's from McGonagall!"

"McGonagall?" Ron's brows rose. "Can we get detention when we're not even at Hogwarts anymore?"

Hermione was avidly reading. Harry and Ron avidly watched her. When she finished the short letter, she bit at her lip. Forehead creased. "Well?" Harry urged.

"She wants to see us. Something about a prophecy."

"A prophecy?" Harry reached for the letter. "Let me see."

"You're a magnet for prophecies, mate." Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder.

"She doesn't say what it's about." He re-rolled the letter. "Just says she thinks it involves us."

"Of course it does," Ron grumbled. "Should I get the tent ready?"

"I'm going to get dressed," Hermione announced, looking down at her rumpled pyjamas. "If she's like her owl, we'd best not keep her waiting."

Harry and Ron watched her leave the room. "Are we doing this again?" Ron asked.

Harry shrugged. "I guess so. Whatever this is."

Flooing was difficult. The weakened magic made for slow travel, and iffy travel at that. Some people found themselves re-directed to strange locations - like Zimbabwe - and stranded there until the routes stabilized, sometimes days later. But fortune favoured the Golden Trio as usual, and after a burp that landed them in an abandoned Cornwall pub for a few hours, they oozed out of the floo into Minerva's office.

Technically, at least to Harry, it would always be Dumbledore's office. And the new Headmistress had changed little about it. Though there was more plaid now.

Minerva was expecting them. She bustled over as they dusted themselves off. Hermione was the first to receive a hug, still teacher's pet after all this time. "Professor!" She embraced the older witch. "Or should I say Headmistress?"

"Oh, Hermione," McGonagall groused. "I believe you can call me Minerva now. Harry!" She hugged him next. "And you, Mr. Weasley!" After hugs, she regarded them warmly. "Look how you've all changed!"

"Look how Hogwarts has changed," Harry said. "I can't believe it's only been a year. It already looks good as new."

"Loads of elbow grease," Minerva assured. "And we had quite a bit of help. But you'll remember that." Their last weeks at Hogwarts had been spent on repairs, mostly. Final testing was simply a technicality of sorts. "Thank you for coming so promptly. Sit." She gestured them to chairs facing her desk. "I know travel is...difficult of late, and I know you're eager to see why I've summoned you."

From the topmost drawer in her desk, she pulled a parchment. "This is the prophecy."

"Where was it found?" Hermione took it carefully if eagerly.

"Right here." Minerva waved. "Sybil Trelawney spouted it over hot toddies Thursday night." The trio froze. Glanced at each other. McGonagall caught the exchange. "I know what you're thinking. But...this one is different. Just read it."

Granger was already reading. She analyzed every word while her friends waited with baited breath. It was obvious some of the Hogwarts professors had already had a go at it. Binns had tiny detailed notes in the margins. There were arithmancy equations scribbled here and there. Even a rudimentary star chart and crude map on the back. Finally, she spoke, passing the picked apart parchment to Harry. "I understand why you think it speaks of us, but…"

"I know." Minerva placed her chin on steepled fingers. "There's a great deal of mythological reference."

"Avalon." Hermione breathed. "But many believe Avalon to be real."

"Yes. I know that, too."

"The dragon sun?" Harry asked.

"Possibly the Great Dragon that resides in the earth." Hermione informed. "The one who gifts us with magic."

"There is also a constellation called The Dragon," Minerva pointed out. "And when you compare it to a map of Britain, it creates a match to ley lines in Scotland and Ireland. The brightest star of that constellation - a sun sized star - lies in the northern sea. Off the coast of Ireland."

"Possibly the location of Avalon," Hermione murmured. She took the parchment back from Ron. "Incredible. It's basically pointing us in the right direction."

"But this bit," Ron gestured to the prophecy. "The white black witch. That makes no sense."

"That is a bit daunting," McGonagall agreed. "You see, white witches are quite rare. And in all of our research, we can't find any known ones who are black."

"What's a white witch exactly?" Harry asked.

"White witches are elemental witches," Minerva explained. "They...are particularly gifted when it comes to earth magic. Many have great power and can even control the very elements. In the past, and unfortunately even now, they were...shunned by many in the magical community. Too powerful. Some of them...used their power for more nefarious purposes. But mostly it's frightening to see a witch make volcanoes erupt with a finger snap."

"Mum says there's that one famous witch who set Greenland on fire." Ron leaned forward excitedly. "I always loved that story."

McGonagall frowned at him. "Yes, Mr. Weasley. But the Great Ice Fire was nothing to sneer at. Many muggles and magical people alike died in the flames that raged for fourteen days."

"Yeah." Ron nodded. "Fourteen days. That was my favourite bit."

Harry scowled. "So even if there is a white witch out there, she might not admit to it. Makes it rather difficult."

"Black witch…" Ron was pondering. "Maybe she's in Africa!"

"Ron. There are black witches outside of Africa." Harry pointed out. "There are probably hundreds of them. This could be harder than hunting Horcruxes."

"Perhaps not." Hermione spoke slowly. She'd been pondering, too, and her pondering was generally more productive than Ron's. So she had all attention. "What if it's not the colour of the white witch, but the name?"

Minerva blinked. Ron scratched his head. Harry stood. "Gods!" He exclaimed. "A white Black witch! The Black family! Hermione, you're brilliant."

"I know." She nodded. "But Harry, there are only two Black family witches alive now as far as I know. And technically, neither of them are Blacks anymore."

"It's got to be Andromeda," Harry said. He began to pace. "She's a strong witch. We've seen that. She could be a white witch."

"There's only one way to find out." Hermione looked at McGonagall. "Can we take this? We may need the map soon." They were excited, on the right path, hurrying to be on the way.

"Of course." McGonagall stood, too, followed them to the floo. "You'll be in touch? Let me know immediately when you speak to her? And be bloody careful in this thing." She slapped the floo mantel.

"We will." Hermione embraced her mentor once more. "And hopefully we'll have good news for you."

"For the whole wizarding world," Minerva amended. "Again. Good luck!" She wasn't certain if they'd heard her. Harry had barked a destination, and they were gone in an unpredictable green fizz.

AN: It's time for the milf's summer adventure to begin. This one is already finished. I'll update once a week, and take us cleanly to the end of summer vacay. If you're not familiar with Arthurian legend or any other magical lore, brush up on this one. I highly recommend The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley if nothing else. You'll enjoy it, and feel a little closer to the heart of this story. Indulge my guilty pleasure with this one - I love mythology.