Chapter 12: Of Prophecies, Death and Power

Harry blinked up at the ceiling, a little uncertain as to how he had arrived in his current position. Well, that wasn't entirely accurate; he certainly had the general gist. Dumbledore had beaten him in a duel, to put it charitably. It was the details he was missing. With an effort that felt Herculean, he attempted to raise his head to look at the elderly wizard. It proved impossible.

"Are you quite alright, Harry?" Dumbledore enquired, amusement tingeing his voice.

Harry paused for a moment to consider. He wasn't in any pain, and he could still feel his legs. "Yes, I think so. I can't move though."

"Do not worry, merely a Sticking Charm I applied once you hit the floor," came the answer.

"Ah, right ho." Harry waited patiently for a moment, then sighed. "Any chance you could let me go? It's not terribly comfortable down here."

"Am I to take it that you yield then?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes. I'd hold my hands up in surrender, but you know, stuck to the floor?"

"Of course," Dumbledore replied solemnly. "I accept your surrender happily, Harry."

Harry felt a burst of magic ripple across him, and he sat up, shaking his head to clear it. "Yeah…I didn't even see most of what you did there, never mind know how to counter it."

"Hardly surprising, Harry. I have over a century of experience more than you, after all. I would have been a little worried if you had beaten me. In all likelihood, and without wishing to sound too arrogant, you will probably never be able to beat me," Dumbledore told him. Despite his words, Harry would have thought him a little arrogant if it hadn't been for the simple, matter of fact way in which he had said it.

"So…how am I supposed to fight Voldemort then? Or beat him, anyway."

Dumbledore sighed. "I wish you didn't have to. However, while Voldemort is undoubtedly talented and powerful, much of that power comes from external sources. There are certain rituals, the details of which we need not discuss, that can enhance a wizard's power. It is this that makes Voldemort the formidable foe that he is; a magical strength that is truly unnatural and barbaric."

Harry tried to imagine how this could work, and decided he didn't really want to know. Something Dumbledore had said earlier flashed across his mind: "Magic is life, after all…" No, if that was the case, then he really didn't want to know how Voldemort could have enhanced his own magic. He valued the ability to sleep at night. Pushing it from his mind, he climbed to his feet, flexing his wand arm.

"No offense, sir, but I don't quite see how his magic being unnatural is supposed to benefit me…"

Dumbledore laughed harshly. "Well, quite. There are certain magics that Voldemort cannot use, due to the way that he has corrupted his power. Hardly everyday magics, true, but had he not done it, he would be capable of far more. And for all his talent, there are some branches of magic that he considers beneath him, unworthy of his attention. He places his own limits on his knowledge, a foolish thing to do – but it will aid all of us, I believe."

Harry shrugged. "I'll take your word on that. It's what he does know that worries me, if I'm honest. I'm guessing anything violent and dangerous is not unworthy of his attention, right?"

"You are sadly correct, Harry," Dumbledore replied with a wry smile. "But you will defeat him, I am sure of it."

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Remus knocked on the door to the flat. It troubled him more than he would like to admit that he wasn't entirely certain he would get an answer. A long silence passed, and he knocked again. Something trembled on the door, and Remus concealed his sigh of relief. If he hadn't been familiar with the flat, he wouldn't have spotted it; a hole in the protective wards that allowed Peter to see who was there, rather like a muggle spy-hole. At least his friend was willing to respond. The door creaked open, revealing Peter, his face blank.

"Remus."

"Good to see you, Pete. Can I come in?" Remus asked, trying not to let his concern show. Peter simply raised an eyebrow, and his friend sighed. He drew his wand – it pained him to see Peter's hand dart to his own pocket – and whipped up a privacy charm. "I am Remus John Lupin, Marauder and werewolf. I have known you since we were eleven years old, and you learnt to transform into a rat to keep me company on the full moon. My most embarrassing memory was when Sarah-Jane Bowles asked me to show her the true meaning of doggy style after our first Order meeting, and it's probably your funniest memory as well. Satisfied?"

He had chosen well. Peter was clearly holding back an ear-to-ear grin. "I'd almost forgotten that. Thanks for the reminder! Don't think we ever told Harry, did we?"

"And you're not going to, are you?" Remus said, narrowing his eyes playfully.

"If you say so," Peter said with a wink. He stood aside. "Come on in."

Letting out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding, Remus stepped inside.

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"How can you be so sure?" Harry asked. Dumbledore looked at him, clearly weighing something up.

"Well, perhaps it is time…" he muttered, just loud enough to be heard. He whipped his wand around, and two of the previously banished chairs flew towards them. "Please, take a seat."

Nonplussed, Harry did as requested. He had thought it a simple enough question – what was all this about? Dumbledore opened the door of the cabinet that contained his various trinkets and artefacts, and pulled out a silver basin; his Pensieve. Sitting down in front of Harry, the Headmaster held the Pensieve steady in his hand, and with his other, tapped his wand to his forehead. When he brought it away, he brought a silver strand of memory with him. He shook it off into the Pensieve, and poked his wand into it. The shimmering mist began to coalesce into a human figure. Bending over, Harry strained to examine the construct, and blinked in surprise.

It was Professor Trelawney.

Harry looked up at Dumbledore questioningly. "What is it?"

"A prophecy." Dumbledore raised his hands as Harry let out a derisive snort. "I understand your reaction, Harry, but you know that they can be real – you have seen one yourself."

Dumbledore was right, Harry admitted grudgingly to himself. He had seen a prophecy made, by Professor Trelawney in fact. It had been one of the weirder and more disturbing incidents of his life. "Ok, so it's real – why are you showing it to me?"

"Because it is about you."

Harry froze. That was impossible. "That's insane…"

"Is it? Professor Trelawney made a prophecy about you, and about Voldemort, and that is why he attacked you and your parents. This prophecy is why your parents are dead."

"My parents aren't dead because of a prophecy, sir. They're dead because Sirius betrayed them," Harry corrected him, bitterly.

"And he betrayed them because of the prophecy – because he told Voldemort what he knew of it. I have never quite decided whether it was fortunate or not that he never knew the exact details."

"What do you mean?"

Dumbledore sighed wearily. "The prophecy is not exact. Prophecies rarely are. However, had Voldemort known the precise wording, he might not have attacked you."

"Does it say how I'll kill him?"

"It doesn't even guarantee that you will."

Harry laughed hollowly. "Of course not. That would be simple…"

"Harry, I understand how you must feel-" Dumbledore began, but Harry cut him off.

"Do you? Really? Everything that's happened to me…I thought it was just co-incidence, y'know? Bad luck. And now I find out that I've had this hanging over my head since before I was even born!"

Silence fell. Harry sank his head into his hands, trying to calm himself down. Dumbledore did not push him, recognising the delicate atmosphere. Eventually, Harry spoke again, without looking up.

"You say that it doesn't tell us what I'm supposed to do, just that I'm the one to do it?"

"More or less, yes," Dumbledore agreed. Harry latched onto the words swiftly, finally looking up at his headmaster.

"More or less?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said, nodding. "The prophecy refers only to Voldemort specifically – but the terms of the prophecy left two candidates for his opponent. Yourself and Neville Longbottom.

Harry scowled, the familiar shard of pain digging into him once more. "This could have been Neville's life?"

"Until Voldemort attacked you as a baby, yes. Harry, this really would be easier if you would let me show you the prophecy itself…"

Harry ignored the hint. "No."

"No?" For possibly the first time Harry could remember, Dumbledore seemed confused.

"No. I don't want to see it. I don't care about it."

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Remus had been able to work his way in through humour; sadly, his well of amusing tales had dried up once he sat down. Peter's flat had appalled him

Peter had never lived particularly well. He was a man of simple tastes, for the most part, and his flat had always been fairly shambolic. Remus had never seen it dirty though. It looked like Peter hadn't cleaned for a month or more. Worse, much of the rubbish was in the form of empty bottles.

"Why are you actually here, Remus?" Peter asked. "I'm assuming it's not really a social call."

"Can't it be?"

"Not if you're going to be this antisocial, no," Peter responded bluntly. "You haven't said two words since you set foot in the hall. What's wrong?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Remus shot back, and immediately regretted it. Peter scowled.

"What makes you think there's anything wrong with me?"

"I haven't heard from you in a month. You've clearly been drinking, and well-" Remus picked up an empty bottle and sniffed at it, grimacing. "It's not exactly a glass of wine with the evening meal, is it?"

"Yeah, I've been busy, and I like to relax at the end of the day. So what?"

"Caradoc tells me you're killing again."

Peter looked away. Remus honestly couldn't tell if it was because of shame or apathy. "Yes, I am."

"The wandmaker in Diagon Alley?"

"I didn't set out to kill him. I gave him a chance to get out, but he tried to kill me. If you expect me to apologise for self-defence, you've got another think coming, Remus."

"Of course I don't," Remus told him softly. "When have I ever judged you, for anything?"

Peter flicked his eyes over at his friend, but didn't say anything. Remus continued. "Why are you doing it?"

"Someone's got to," he said with a disinterested shrug.

Remus arched an eyebrow. "Really? Assassination has got to be done?"

"Don't try that with me, Remus," Peter said in exasperation. "We went over that chestnut years ago, remember? We agreed to disagree then, we can agree to disagree now."

"Maybe. But last time you weren't one of the guardians for a young boy," Remus pointed out, trying to keep calm. "What would Harry say if he found out?"

Peter hesitated, just for a second. "I rather think he'd be disgusted with me. Ashamed. I hope he would be."

Remus shook his head. "I really do not understand you at times, Peter. How you can say that but still claim that assassination is acceptable…"

"I've never said it was acceptable, Moony. I think it's necessary; there's a difference."

Remus inclined his head, acknowledging his friend's point. "True. But why you? It almost destroyed you last time, can't he find someone else?"

"I wouldn't let him," Peter admitted. "The moment I heard he was planning on assassinations again, I volunteered."

Not for the first time in the conversation, Remus was reduced to speechlessness. "You volunteered?"

"Of course." Peter turned in his chair, facing Remus head on. His eyes were bright, fierce. "What, you think I should have stood aside? Let someone else take it up?"

"Well yeah, pretty much."

"Like who? Tonks, perhaps?

Remus growled for a moment, before realising what he was doing. He wondered whether Peter had chosen Tonks deliberately; the young metamorphmagus had been flashing him some very interesting – and interested – looks at meetings lately, and he had to admit, he found the attention rather flattering. It would be typical of Peter to pick up on the flirtation. Sure enough, his friend acquired a knowing look.

"Exactly. I've been an assassin before, I can deal with it. I'm already damaged goods. What's the use in letting anyone else sully themselves with it?"

Remus began to reply, and then tailed off. When faced with logic like that, he found it difficult to refute his friends' point. What use indeed? "I don't want to lose you too," he admitted in a hoarse whisper. Peter's gaze softened.

"I'm not going anywhere, Remus. There's no-one tough enough to take me down, you know that."

Remus chuckled. "Nice try, Peter. We both know that isn't true."

"And we both know there isn't going to be a winner here – we're both arguing the same point, essentially. The only difference is that I think it's a necessary evil."

"I know, I know," Remus responded, spreading his hands to show submission. "I just…I just needed to make sure you were alright."

"You're a soft-hearted git, you know that? I'll be fine."

Remus gave up. He had tried – maybe not terribly hard, but if he was honest with himself, he had known before he arrived that it was a futile argument. "At least come out tonight. We'll have a meal somewhere – Moor Alley?"

Peter grinned. "I haven't been there since…Merlin, can it really be ten years?"

Remus nodded. "Yep. Hard to believe, isn't it?"

"I don't believe it. In fact, I'm just going to pretend I don't know that it's ten years. Alright, a meal out."

"And no more drinking alone?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Yes mother…"

Remus didn't say anything more. He knew Peter; knew that Peter would be fine, now someone else knew. "And then after that, maybe you can meet Caradoc for that drink."

Peter blinked. "What? Oh, fuck you, Moony!"

Remus's barks of laughter could be heard from the street.

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"I said, I'm not interested."

"Harry, you could find this exceptionally important! Voldemort would kill to know the contents of this memory!"

"I'm sure he would," Harry said, as calmly as he could. "But I'm not interested in prophecies. I'd prefer to make my own way."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, and eyed Harry contemplatively. "Oh?"

Harry matched his gaze, meeting the Headmaster's eyes without flinching. "I've never claimed to be a leader, don't much want to be either. I'm perfectly happy taking orders. But I'm my own man. I'll fight Voldemort, and if I have to I'll kill him. But I'll do it for my own reasons, not because some woman said I was going to before I was born."

The Headmaster's face creased with a smile. "Do you know, Harry, I believe that Voldemort has been focussed above all on finding out the contents of the prophecy since his resurrection. Given your tendency to escape and survive his schemes, I do not think he would be willing to risk attacking you again until he knows the full and exact wording. I rather think he would be infuriated to know that you have turned down the knowledge he so desperately seeks."

Harry smirked. "That's just more reason to ignore it. Unless you think I'm doing the wrong thing?"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "You would sacrifice your principles at a word from me?"

"No," Harry said. "But as the wisest wizard currently alive, I'd be a fool not to take your advice under consideration, at least."

"Harry, you flatter me. But no, I will not counsel you away from this course. I think it an admirable decision. Your parents would be proud of you."

For a moment, Harry found that he had to look away. Dumbledore sat in silence, waiting for the younger wizard to recover. After a moment, Harry looked back at the Headmaster, his eyes shining fiercely. "Is there any way he could find out what it says? Apart from this memory, I mean. Could he take it from Professor Trelawney?"

"You cannot take a memory that someone does not have – and I do not speak of memories that have been removed through use of Memory Charms, Harry. In a sense, it was not Sybill Trelawney who made that prophecy, but the power for which she is a vessel. You know that she does not remember making prophecies afterwards; for her, it has not happened."

"So the only way for him to find out would be to take it from you?" Harry asked. "Well, that basically means he's never going to get hold of it then!"

"Your faith humbles me, Harry – but no, I do not think he would be able to take any of my memories, let alone such a significant one. However, there is another copy of it, deep within the Department of Mysteries."

"How did they get hold of it?"

"Automatically," Dumbledore said. "All prophecies appear within the Hall of Prophecy the moment they have been spoken, complete with the Prophet, the Witness, and the Subject – or Subjects, as it might be. Only the Subject of a prophecy can retrieve it though, and I do not think Voldemort is eager to attack the Ministry just yet. With any luck, he will be defeated before he can attempt it."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "That's something then. Gives me a bit of an advantage over him."

"Indeed," Dumbledore said with a brisk nod. "And on that cheering note, I must point out that it is nearly ten o'clock, Harry. I will give you a note for being out past curfew, of course, but I am sure you must have homework to do."

Harry stood up. "Only an essay for Professor Snape, and he'll be happier if I don't hand it in, it'll give him an excuse to rant at me."

"Very public spirited of you, of course, but nevertheless…" Dumbledore's solemnness was rather undermined by the amused twinkle in his eyes, and Harry grinned.

"Goodnight, Professor. Thanks for not beating me too soundly."

"Nonsense, you put up an excellent fight! Goodnight, Harry. And Harry?"

Harry turned round as he made his way to the door. Dumbledore met his eyes, and his expression was business like. "I know you have rejected knowledge of the prophecy, but equally I know that to be a pawn of destiny is no easy task. My office is always open if you need to talk, I hope you know that."

Harry nodded. "I do, sir. Thank you. Goodnight."

He closed the door behind him, making his way down the stairs. As he walked, he felt Titus stir at the back of his thoughts.

So…there's a prophecy, and you turned down the chance to hear it. Harry, you really are a fucking idiot.

"How so? It's not important," Harry replied dismissively as the gargoyle swung shut behind him.

Yeah. That whole 'knowing when you lie' thing? It works both ways. I know it's worrying you, and it bloody well should! Morgana's breath, have you no common sense in here?

"Doubtful, you're taking up all the space," Harry muttered. "Yeah, all right, I'm worried about it. But I trust Dumbledore; if there was anything useful in the prophecy, then he'd tell me what it said. If it's just saying that I'm destined to kill him – well, it's not like I can't take a hint. He's tried often enough already, after all. It's my life, Titus, and I'm not going to sign myself over to some mystic mumbo-jumbo."

Harry, you're a wizard. What part of your life isn't governed by mystic mumbo-jumbo?

Harry paused for a moment, considering that. "Ok, fair point, but you know what I mean."

Yes, and I think you're an idiot. You don't turn down an advantage like that!

"Titus, will you shut up?" Harry demanded. "Just get it into your head that I have free will; I am not destiny's bitch!"

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The Dark Lord Voldemort surveyed the Death Eaters assembled in front of him. Those who had been rescued from Azkaban would have been a pitiful sight, had he understood the emotion. The hellish fortress had ruined most of them. When he looked at Bellatrix, her eyes wide with madness and her mouth flecked with drool, he could feel his magic soar, eager to smash and burn and destroy. At least there was some use to her, though. His eyes flicked over Rawle and Dutnall, knelt at his feet. He could smell their shame, and he relished it, for he knew that they were right to feel ashamed.

They could no longer use magic.

They were not Squibs, of course. The magic was still within them, dormant, just waiting to be called upon. However, the years of exposure to both the elements and Dementors, combined with a mediocre ability even before their imprisonment had left them burnt out. Their wands were lifeless sticks of wood in their hands. They could not even apparate. To any other wizard, they would have been useless.

Voldemort was no ordinary wizard.

He stood up from his throne, the green light from the ceiling above him casting an eerie glow over his shadowy robes. Spreading his arms wide, he addressed his followers: "My friends. My loyal, faithful friends. Welcome! Welcome back to life, to freedom! For too many years you have sat within the walls of Azkaban, suffering torment and degradation simply for following your beliefs – for seeking a better world for all of us!"

There were a few angry mutters of agreement amongst the gathered Death Eaters, as he had known there would be. He paused, letting them rile themselves up further for a moment before continuing.

"The Ministry for Magic would have the world believe that you are monsters. That you are criminals. That we shame the magical world merely by existing! Yet they sit there – sit there in their offices, behind desks – and they talk about miscegenation! About pandering to the weak, to the Mudbloods! They would have us breed with them, my friends! Ally ourselves with those who hunted us, who killed us! Magic is life. We all know this. How can these cattle, these Muggles, be truly considered alive without magic?

"They demand that we forsake tradition, that we abandon our magical heritage – that we place limits on ourselves to better accommodate the weak. Who amongst you thinks this right?"

There was a cacophony of angry denial, and the Dark Lord bared his teeth in a vicious smile. "You all know the myths – of the Shining Ones, of Tamuz and his sorcerers. We know that the sorcerers destroyed each other, and the wizards inherited the earth. And we know that there were those who were stripped of their power, denied magic forever more. Muggles," and he spat the word. "They were rejected by gods, and the Ministry would have us believe that they are just like us, instead of an abomination! But we know the truth, do we not?"

"There is only power, and those too afraid to use it. Magic is might, and Magic is life," intoned his followers. Voldemort could see Sirius nodding fervently with every word. He spread his arms once more.

"You are the finest examples of wizardry. You know the meaning of your power, and you seek only to spread it. But there are those among you who have succumbed to fear."

In front of him, Rawle and Dutnall bowed their heads.

"I do not blame you, my friends. The Mudblood lovers have done this to you – subjected to torture by animals. I promise you, they will pay."

"Thank you, my Lord," Rawle said, Dutnall echoing him.

"I know what you think, Rawle, Dutnall." The Dark Lord took a step forward, placing a hand on their heads. "You think yourselves worthless, useless to your Lord. Is that not correct?"

They nodded silently.

"Fear not, my friends. Lord Voldemort does not forget the faithful. I will always find use for those of pure blood. Sirius."

The Death Eater approached the front of the room, a silver goblet in his hands. It was engraved with certain runes, that fairly shimmered with power. Voldemort had made himself, during his explorations in Albania. He took it from Sirius, and held it in his left hand. With his right, he drew his wand. A muttered word, and the wooden tip turned to metal, a razor sharp point on it.

"Rawle. Rise."

The blond Death Eater jumped to his feet, respectfully not meeting his Lord's eyes. Voldemort held the goblet next to the man's neck. "Do you still wish to serve me, Rawle?"

"I do, my Lord. I want to make a better world."

"What will you give me?"

The Death Eater had been coached well. "I will give you everything, my Lord. I will give you myself. I will give you my magic."

"Magic is life," Voldemort whispered.

"Magic is life," Rawle replied.

And Voldemort ripped his wand across the man's throat. Blood sprayed, staining the Dark Lord's pale flesh crimson. Most, though, fell into the goblet. The moment the blood touched the bottom, the runes began to give off an eldritch glow. Rawle's corpse remained upright, suspended by a thread of Voldemort's will, as the Dark Lord drank deep of his life blood. The glow from the goblet became ever brighter as Voldemort swallowed, eventually obscuring his body entirely. As he drank the last drop, the light vanished within him, and the runes faded. Voldemort shuddered orgasmically as he felt Rawle's magic add to his own. It was a ritual he had performed many times now, increasing his power with every drop of wizard blood. He turned his attention to Dutnall, and Rawle's body slumped to the floor.

"Dutnall. Do you still wish to serve me?"

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A/N: For a reminder of the myth of the sorcerers and the Shining Ones, turn to chapter 5 of 'An Awful Shadow'.