Summary: London, 1924. A darkness is rising and it brings with it death and fear and destruction. Byron Trelawney, desperately trying to make a name for himself as an Auror, is sucked into the chaos of an oncoming war, trapped between what his duty asks of him and the visions of an infuriatingly cryptic Seer. It is a hard task to be a hero when you don't know how to fight for anyone but yourself.

"Do not go gentle into that good night."

Dylan Thomas

PROLOGUE

23 November 1924, London

The streets of London were deserted.

It was an uncommon sight, as usually the city was buzzing with a sort of perpetual bustle, a constant stream of mothers dragging their children from one store to the other and writers gallivanting up and down the walkways in search of inspiration. Automobiles honked at careless youngsters skipping school as throngs of chattering, well-dressed young women passed in clouds of cigarette smoke and perfume. Couples strolled along the pavement arm in arm, children traded comics for candies and shopkeepers stared longingly at the commotion from their windows.

Things were different in Fulham, of course, one of London's poorest districts. Here, daughters hung their laundry in the street if ever there was a fleeting patch of sunlight peeking through the grey clouds. Mothers called their children, running wild with dirt smudging their faces and mud staining their trousers, inside for a dinner of watery stew. Fathers trudged to and from their factories in woeful lines, their faces as dirty as their children's. Sons became hoodlums behind their parents' homes, whispering softly that anything was better than the poorhouse.

Not a soul was seen on the streets that night, however, no daughter, no mother, no father, no son. It might have been attributed to the rain, a steady pouring that had not seized for a minute in several days – but the British were accustomed to their own bad weather conditions and had learned to brave them. It was not due to the questionable nature of Fulham either. No, there was something quite different at work here, something that made the people of London retreat to their beds as soon as the sun had set, to bar their doors and shut their windows tight. There was something dark, crawling through the streets and settling around peoples' shoulders like an unfashionable shawl that could not be shaken.

Albus Dumbledore passed the houses with a sense of detached curiosity, holding an umbrella in one hand and clutching his wand in the other. His fingers had already gone slightly stiff with the chill of a November night. He noted that there were no lights in the windows of the humble stone houses, no signs of the families living in them. Fulham looked that night, for all it was worth, like a ghost town.

It was not a part of London that Dumbledore found himself in often. These days, he preferred the solitude of Hogwarts, of his office there, to the noise of roaring London with all its clubs and pubs and bars. He did, however, enjoy the colourful posters that advertised muggle products of all kinds from the walls around him, almost as much as he enjoyed a stroll down Diagon Alley. Dumbledore was fond in particular of the charming Cadbury advertisement, an absolutely delicious brand of muggle chocolate that he had become partial to.

There were no colourful posters here as he left the main road and crossed into an intercepting, smaller one. It was not much more than a narrow alleyway, ironically called Queen Victoria Lane, the houses even duller and in poorer condition than those on Main Street, a fact he had previously thought impossible. Everything was dingy, dripping with rainwater and smelling distinctly of garbage. His shoes sunk at least two inches deep into the mud with every step and made soggy noises when he tore them out of their confines.

Dumbledore stopped in front of the saddest of the houses, a dilapidated tenement building, Queen Victoria Lane Number 7, and heaved a sigh of relief. The sign announcing the house number might have once been bronze, but now it hung upside down from the mouldy stone wall, rusted and dented until it became near indiscernible. A lone candle was flickering in an upstairs window, but as Dumbledore climbed the few steps leading to the front door, it sniffed out as though extinguished by a sudden gust of wind. He closed his umbrella mindfully and stowed his wand away.

For years he had dreaded and longed for this night in equal measures and as Dumbledore finally raised his hand to knock, he found himself a little breathless. The paint of the door had always been an unattractive brown but now it was chipping and the wood felt unpleasantly yielding beneath his knuckles. He knocked once and as there was no response, moved to rap against the door again, a bit more urgency in his movement this time.

Again, nothing happened, until suddenly the crocheted curtains in the window just a few inches to his right moved and an old woman's head appeared behind the glass. Half of her face was still covered in fabric, but she looked less than pleased.

"Go away!" she crowed in an unpleasant voice that sounded like matches being stuck against the side of the box and confirmed Dumbledore's suspicions about her feelings.

"I am awfully sorry to disturb you," he called to her, "But I must speak to the Winslows."

At the mention of that name, the woman's face twisted into a grimace. "They aren't in," she bellowed and her face disappeared.

Dumbledore suppressed a sigh and fought to remain calm. "Madame, the matter is rather urgent I fear. Please let me in."

There was no answer, only the wind howling through the alley and ruffling his unfamiliar muggle coat. Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment before reaching into the pocket of his trousers and retrieving a few coins. "I have here," he said calmly, "two pounds for you if you would do me the kindness of opening this door." He shook the money so she could hear the distinctive sound of metal clanking against metal and would know he was not lying.

He could always just cast a spell, blow the front door off its axes and then climb up the stairs to the Winslows' flat himself, but he had been raised better than that. He would not destroy an innocent woman's property to get his way.

Two pounds was probably more money than this woman had seen in all her life, so Dumbledore was not surprised when he could hear a bolt being pushed aside and the door was ripped open hastily. The woman standing in the doorway reminded him, strangely, of a Bowtruckle as her skin was withered and leathery like the bark of a tree. Her mouth seemed to be frozen in a constant downward slope that made it seem as if she had just bitten into a lemon.

"Why, thank you." Dumbledore smiled at her and made to move past her and into the house but a bony hand with yellowed fingernails shot forward, palm up, and blocked his path.

"Money first," she barked and bared her teeth at him like some kind of animal. Perhaps, Dumbledore thought, he was doing the Bowtruckle an injustice by comparing it to this woman.

He did, however, not say this out loud and instead dropped the money into her offered hand. Greedy fingers closed around the golden coins that disappeared between the folds of her skirt so fast one could think the woman was afraid Dumbledore might change his mind and demand the money back. Then, finally, she opened the door wide and beckoned for Dumbledore to step inside the house.

Inside, it was no less cold than it had been out on the street and he understood now why the woman was wearing several shawls and what looked to be an old blanket around her shoulders. It was dark and unwelcoming and the woman led him to a creaking staircase without as much as a word. She was holding a single candle in her hand, wax dripping down the side already as the flickering flame painted grotesque shadows onto the walls.

"Girls are under the roof," the woman, most likely the landlord of the house, told him as they climbed the stairs. "Cheapest flat I got here. Not that they manage to pay the rent on time, ever. It's only by the kindness of my own heart that I haven't thrown them out on the street yet."

Somehow, Dumbledore doubted that kindness had anything to do with it.

"Are you their father?" the woman asked suddenly, eyeing his well-tailored suit suspiciously. Dumbledore should have known that his expensive clothes would raise some questions. "You ain't making eyes at one of those, are you?"

He was a little taken aback by her rude forwardness but shook his head regardless. "No. Just an old friend of the family."

The woman did not look convinced, yet seemed to decide that she did not care either way. "Well, alright. I have to tell you I wouldn't let you up if you were fancying one of 'em, anyways. I have a good reputation to uphold and this is a respected, Christian household, not some... trugging house."

Dumbledore shifted uncomfortably as he followed her up a second flight of stairs. His voice sounded much calmer and more collected than he felt as he answered, "Good thing you have nothing to worry about then, Madame. As I said, I am merely an old family friend."

She huffed loudly as they reached the landing, nodding towards an unassuming door. "There you go. And remind those lassies that my money's due tomorrow."

He waited until she had disappeared down the stairs, muttering profanities all the way and leaving him in darkness, before retrieving his wand and whispering lumos softly. Everything was tinged in a soft yellow glow, illuminating dark spots of indeterminable nature on the wooden floor which he avoided to step in as he approached the door. For the second time that night, he knocked and listened closely for any noise. There was a low shuffling and then a whisper too quiet for him to understand, but no one answered the door.

He cleared his throat. "There is nothing to be afraid of," Dumbledore called through the door, "this is Albus Dumbledore and I only need to speak to Rosemary Winslow for a moment. May I come in?"

The instant the words had left his mouth, the door was ripped open with such force that it slammed against the wall several times. Marigold Winslow, as tall as ever, illuminated by the glow of oil lamps and wearing a muggles' nurse uniform, was a frightful sight. Her eyes seemed to be shooting fiery daggers at Dumbledore. "What," she asked, her voice ringing clearly through the hallways, "do you want from my sister?"

He registered that she was holding her wand in front of her, as if expecting an attack from him anytime and felt the sudden need to apologize for all that had happened to this family.

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment and then pocketed his wand, showing the girl in the doorway his empty hands. "I mean you no harm. I am simply in need of your sister's abilities."

Well my sister doesn't want to talk to you," Marigold snapped back at him. "So you better leave."

"I see."

Dumbledore observed her, saw the dark circles beneath her eyes, the sunken cheeks and frizzy hair. The oldest of the Winslow sisters was only twenty four, but she looked years older than that. Grief and toil had worn deep creases into her skin and had driven the light from her eyes. Once, she had been a student of his, a bright witch with potential the likes of which were found only rarely. It had pained him when he heard that she abandoned her training at St Mungo's in the wake of their mother's death and even more so when news of the family's retreat from the wizarding world reached him. "I'm afraid this is not a matter of negotiation, Miss Winslow. Our world stands at the brink of disaster and I – all of us – need all the help available. And it just so happens that your sister can help me."

Marigold did not blink. She did not hesitate a second. Her voice was crisp and ruthless as she said, "We no longer belong to your world, Dumbledore. We have no part in this."

Dumbledore took note of the finality of her words and his heart sank as she extended her arm towards the rusted door handle, moving to shut him out. But before she ever reached it, a pale hand appeared, touching Marigold's elbow gently.

"Mary," someone said, a soft, soothing voice drifting through the night like a spell, "let him in."

Rosemary Winslow looked nothing like her sister. Marigold was tall and dark haired and exuding an air of irrevocable confidence, a warrior ready for battle. Rosemary was small and blonde and looked as though she would rather be anyplace else. The astounding relation between the two girls had been a popular choice of topic in the staff room at Hogwarts, not only because of their differences in appearance but also because you were unlikely to meet two more varied characters.

"Hello, Professor," Rosemary greeted him in that peculiar voice of hers that always carried a rather unnerving quality in it. "Would you like to come inside?"

Marigold looked exasperated, but Dumbledore elected to ignore her in favour of smiling at the younger Winslow. Relief was making him lightheaded, just a little. "Yes, Miss Winslow. That would be too kind."

She smiled and stepped to the side to make room for him, pulling her sister along with her. Marigold allowed this to happen, most likely only because she was too bewildered by the turn of events to resist. "Rosie..." she began, distress obvious in her voice before her sister cut her off.

"Oh, it's quite alright, Mary. Professor Dumbledore won't hurt us." She sent her former teacher a smile that was void of any mistrust. "I don't mind talking to him."

At those words, Dumbledore released a breath he had not been aware of holding. Perhaps he had been less sure of himself than he had let on, after all. "I'm very glad, then. I wouldn't want to force you to do anything you are opposed to."

Rosemary smiled benignly as he entered their home. "You see, Mary?" she spoke to her sister. "Professor Dumbledore was always very nice to me, he won't do anything bad."

Marigold huffed. "It was a matter of principle."

Halfway through the motion of shutting the door, Rosemary paused. "What principle?" she asked, seeming genuinely confused.

"Rosie," Marigold sighed, sounding so deeply frustrated that Dumbledore felt a new kind of pity well up within him. It was obvious that this was a conversation the sisters had had before. "We said we were done with the magical world for good and that included any wizards or witches that might come to visit. Don't you remember?"

"Oh. Right." The younger girl seemed to mull this over for a second and then her face lit up. "But that's only for the people that weren't nice to us, right? I like Professor Dumbledore." She ignored – or perhaps she simply didn't notice – her sister opening her mouth for a response and skipped towards an ancient looking hearth. "Would you like some tea?"

"Why, yes," Dumbledore answered, remembering his freezing fingers. "Tea would be wonderful."

As Rosemary went to put the kettle on and Marigold eyed him with obvious disdain, Dumbledore took the time to look around the flat. It was in even worse shape than the rest of the building, a miserable sight. Just one cramped room, the ceiling so low that he could not stand upright and instead had to crouch down slightly. The air was damp and the walls were covered in mildew, stockings and shoes of various colours and sizes strewn all over the floor. It was obvious that in the sisters' decision to abstain from the wizarding world, they had also chosen to forego any magical repairs. A table with a few untrustworthy looking chairs stood to his right and – on a large bed that was pushed against the wall beneath a stained window – a girl of no more than thirteen sat.

"Ah," Dumbledore said, smiling, "and you must be Daisy, yes?"

It was apparent when looking at Marigold and Daisy with their brown hair, dark eyes and lanky bodies that the middle Winslow girl was the odd one out. Ignored by her classmates at best and tortured by them at worst, Rosemary had always been rather odd. She had not excelled in any of her classes, not for lack of talent but rather because she simply did not seem to be interested in putting any effort into something that did not fascinate her. It had been Dumbledore's conviction while teaching her, and still was to this day, that she could have been one of the brightest witches of her class, much like her sister, if she had only tried. Sadly, her fascinations had always lain with things the majority avoided, her head rather high up in the clouds. The only subject she had consistently received the highest marks in had been, unsurprisingly, Divinations, a class that Dumbledore himself had always found to be rather dotty and useless.

How ironic, he thought, that it was such dottiness that had led him here today.

"Yes," the girl answered, resting her elbows on her knees and laying her chin in her upturned palms. She looked at him with the sort of appraising look that seemed to be a direct copy of her oldest sister's. "And you are Albus Dumbledore."

He smiled and inclined his head. "Indeed, I am. I brought you girls some candy, would you like some?"

Daisy watched him for a moment, suspicion strong in her eyes, and then she nodded and extended her hands. Awkwardly, Dumbledore fumbled for the striped bag he had picked up from Honeydukes earlier that day inside his jacket and tossed it to the girl. "The Sugar Quills are a personal favourite."

She peeked inside and her eyes widened in delight. At Marigold's loud noise of dismay, Daisy tried to hide her excitement but failed quite spectacularly.

Rosemary did not seem to care at all about her older sister's displeasure. "Leave some for me!" she chirped as the kettle began whistling loudly. She was humming a cheery little tune under her breath, as though she hadn't a care in the world, and carried a tea set over to the table, gesturing at one of the chairs with a smile. Dumbledore noticed only now that her stockings were mismatched, one brown and the other black. Her blouse was sticking out in several places where she'd tucked it into her skirt and she seemed to have no intention of fixing her appearance.

Dumbledore sat down, as did the two older Winslows, Marigold glowering with an intensity that actually intimidated him, a feat no one had accomplished in a long time. He cleared his throat and looked towards Rosemary instead. He found that her carefree, absentminded smile was no less troubling.

"Well," Marigold bit out as her sister poured the tea, "get it over with. It's late, I'm tired. Ask my sister what you need to know and then leave us alone."

"Don't be rude," Rosemary said, but there was no sharpness to it. Instead she sounded like she found her sister's manners rather amusing. She handed Dumbledore a tea cup, an obvious relict from the family's glory days. The Winslow's coat of arms was painted onto the porcelain, a magnificent winged serpent taking flight with a bouquet of flowers clamped between its jaws. Beneath that, the family motto spelt out: Gloria, super omne. Dumbledore averted his eyes.

"Miss Winslow..."he broke off, staring into his tea that had a strange yellow-ish colour. "May I call you Rosemary?"

She grimaced. "Please, no. Call me Rosie."

"Rosie," he repeated, nodding. "Rosie it is. Well, you must be wondering why I came here today."

"Wondering," Marigold repeated, her tone mocking. From her position on the bed, Daisy giggled.

Dumbledore ignored them, focusing only on the girl in front of him. "Rosie, you're a Seer-"

"We already know that," Marigold piped up, aggressively. "Also, that wasn't a question."

He paused, then nodded. "Yes, you are right, I am an intruder here. I apologize, Miss Winslow, I'll try to be quick about it." Dumbledore folded his hands in his lap and leant back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier, clearer than it had been before, "In the past week, there have been a number of... incidents at the Ministry. Several high-ranking members of the Wizengamot vanishing without a trace, no word to their families or friends. Yesterday, Perseus Scrimgeour, one of those that went missing, was found in his office. Murdered. In his pocket, the authorities found this."

He drew his wand from his pocket, ignoring the way Marigold stiffened. Gently, he tapped the tip of his wand against the milk jug and a burst of red light broke free, enveloping the object in a brilliant explosion. Dumbledore was not teaching Transfiguration without reason but he smiled indulgently when he heard Daisy gasp from somewhere to his left. The light faded and instead of the milk jug, a small silver coin had taken its place on the table.

It had been pure coincidence that Dumbledore had been the one to find Scrimgeour, a dear friend he had only meant to visit briefly. After he had given the alarm and Aurors had streamed into the cramped office, he had been granted only a single glance at the coin, but it had been enough for the sight to burn itself deep into his mind. A black dragon, its wings bound with heavy shackles, breathing a wave of dark fire. The other side was completely blank.

As the girls examined the coin, Rosemary extending a hand to run a single finger around its edge carefully, her face full of wonder, Dumbledore took a sip of his tea – and immediately came to regret it. The taste in his mouth reminded him of things he'd rather forget. Belatedly, he noticed that Marigold had turned her cup over, refusing any tea, and vowed never again to try anything that had been prepared by Rosemary Winslow.

"What's this symbol?" Marigold asked and Dumbledore suppressed a smile. It was endearing to see her curiosity after she had been so eager to appear dismissive and disinterested moments before. It reminded him of his classroom.

"I do not know," he answered candidly, "I have never seen it before in my life. But there are certain beliefs that are spreading, taking root in our community, and it seems they have reached even those at the very heart of it. It is no coincidence that the vanished wizards and witches are all known to be strong advocates of the Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. Certain people think that instead of hiding, our kind should take control over the Muggles, take back this world for our own." Dumbledore fell silent for a moment. "Many believe the time has come to show the Muggles their rightful place, one far beneath witches and wizards."

"Grindelwald," Marigold said, her face expressionless. Her hands, however, were shaking.

Dumbledore nodded. "I cannot say for sure that he has any connection to these crimes, but it is my personal conviction that where trouble goes, Grindelwald is not far."

Marigold did not look convinced. "Be that as it may, if you're looking to have my sister tell you how to bring Gellert Grindelwald down, I'm afraid you've wasted your time. Her premonitions don't come on demand and I doubt she could manage what the entire Ministry has so far failed at. No offense, Rosie."

"I don't think Professor Dumbledore is looking for a new prophecy, Mary," Rosie spoke up suddenly. Something about her seemed to have changed profoundly in the few moments that Dumbledore had taken his eyes off her. The almost endearing owlishness that was so characteristic of her had made room for a darker kind of detachment from reality, a vacant look on her pretty face that was as disconcerting as the fact that she seemed to know exactly why he was here. "I think Professor Dumbledore wants to know about a prophecy I have already made. Isn't that right, Sir?"

He swallowed. "When we first met," he said softly and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the tabletop, "you were only a girl. But you told me something, something I have not been able to shake since, you said..." Dumbledore paused, realizing with a sudden start his own eagerness, his hunger for knowledge. He cleared his throat and forced himself to relax, just a little. He should not be giving this much away, not when every look from Marigold Winslow made it feel like she were seeing deep into even the darkest corners of his mind."You told me that there would be a time of darkness. When brothers turned against each other and even the sky would burst into flames. That time, that darkness... it is coming now, isn't it?"

A beat of unbearable silence passed in which he felt as though the very world was holding its breath in anticipation.

"I'm afraid you're wrong, Professor Dumbledore..." The girl's voice was faint and her eyes were focused on the air above his shoulder, as her fingers, frantically, began twisting the coin over and over in her hands. "It's already here."

Author's Note: Well, I'm... not quite sure what this is? I've been working on it for some time and have the first two chapters written already, so hopefully they'll be coming your way in a little while.
I'm actually extremely nervous, seeing as this is the first time I've ever shared any of my work, but I really hope you enjoy it and would like to read more! I'm always open for questions, just send them along to my tumblr ( .com)!