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The
Prophets
There are the modern prophets here,
Though altars
totally are felt,
Their eyes are very deep and clear—
In
them, the flame of future set.
For them, the calls of fame are alien,
They're
pressed by mass and depth of words,
All they are frightened, pale
and sullen
In tombs of stony abodes.
And sometimes in the fits of sadness,
A prophet,
just repelled by us,
Rise up to skies his look of greatness—
The look of clear and beaming eyes.
He says that he's in bonds of madness,
But that
his soul's a light for us,
That he has seen in depths of
sadness
The shining face of Jesus Christ.
The dreams of Lord have many faces,
Kind is a
hand of him, who gives,
Not just the one, like him, in grace is,
And as a knight of kindness lives.
He says that World is not such fierce,
That he's
a prince of Future Dawn.
But just the towers' black spirits
Listen to him with mock and scorn.
Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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15. The Other Prophecy
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Draco's cold, gray eyes followed her as her small figure glided down the corridor with the inborn grace of a dancer. The afternoon sun shining through the windows illuminated her already light hair a radiant shade of pale gold. The Prince of Slytherin sneered in disdain. She dressed like such a Muggle. Although, a hot Muggle, his mind conceded as the young wizard's gaze lingered on her black tank top, suede miniskirt, and knee-high boots. It wasn't enough that Eliza Ashbery was the Muggle-loving Headmaster's special guest, but she had also been seen on many an occasion socializing with the Gryffindor Golden Trio ever since the Care of Magical Creatures incident.
"Come on, Draco. We're going to be late for Divination," Pansy tugged on his arm.
"Ouch!"
He jerked his arm out roughly of her reach, rubbing the tender underside of his left forearm while shooting her an angry glare. Pansy looked instantly remorseful as she reached for his larger hand.
"I'm sorry Draco, I forgot for a second." Pansy took a small step closer to him as she gently took his hand in her own.
The Prince of Slytherin allowed his hand to be squeezed once before quickly pulling it away, immediately recognizing the gesture as just another feminine wile his girlfriend was so fond of using. As Pansy gazed up at him through her long, thick, dark eyelashes, Draco couldn't help but compare her chocolate hued orbs to Eliza's luminescent hazel ones. The former's were an open book, while the latter's were about as transparent as the midnight sky. Draco looked back down at his girlfriend of over a year. Pansy Parkinson was one of the few Slytherins he could honestly tolerate for any extended period of time. She was pretty, Pureblood, well-bred, and filthy rich. Perfection in his parents' eyes. And they had made that fact consummately clear to him ever since the tender age of seven.
He loved it when the manor was like this. All shiny, glowing, and filled with the sound of music and soft chatter. In times like these, the mansion didn't feel as cold or empty. The walls never seemed to close in on him. Though Draco was loath to admit it, he welcomed the company, even of unfamiliars to the usual enfolding loneliness. The young wizard knew that Father would frown upon such weakness. One did not need friends when it was much more effective to sway by charisma and to rule by manipulation. Father himself was constantly surrounded by a glittering circle of distinguished wizards and witches who fancied themselves his friends. Draco saw them for what they were. They were not friends. They were associates who Lucius Malfoy had wrapped around the length of his elegantly long, tapered finger.
Draco was pretty sure that Father could coax a straight answer out of a Sphinx had he a mind to do it.
There was the smallest quirk to Draco's thin mouth as he watched Father rubbing elbows with the Minister of Magic himself, the headmaster of Durmstrang Institute, and various members of the Wizengamut. On this evening, Father was dressed to impress in the most expensive wizarding dress robes that money and privilege could buy. But more telling than his attire was the way Father always carried himself. From the upward thrust of his pointed chin to the infatigably straight carriage of his spine, Lucius Malfoy was the stuff of aristocratic royalty... cold and aloof but charming to the last. "Men are sheep," Draco distinctly remembered Father saying, "Give the impression of being a gentleman and they'll let you get away with mass murder."
Draco started as a hand squeezed his shoulder. The young wizard glanced up to see that Father had broke off from the group and was now looking down from his significant height over him.
"I trust you recall our discussions on the importance of purity?"
"Of course, Father," Draco answered as a small wrinkle creased his brow in confusion.
"And?" Lucius prompted with a slightly appraising look.
Draco unconsciously straightened his back just the tiniest bit as he answered without missing a beat, his voice striving to emulate the assured confidence that was his father's trademark, "That as the heir of Malfoy, it is my duty to guard the sanctity of the family name. I musn't taint the line with the filth of Half-bloods or Mudbloods."
"Precisely. And why is that, Draco?"
"Because, we are superior," Draco answered with ingrained conviction. He had long been taught that Purebloods were better than everyone, and that as a Malfoy they were doubly so.
"Excellent." Lucius graced his son with a rare smile of approval. "Now, then. There is someone I wish you to meet, my boy. You see, Miss Parkinson is also born of an ancient, respected, Pureblood, wizarding family much like our own."
Draco's gray eyes followed his father's gaze to settle briefly on the small brunette girl who was currently conversing with his mother by the refreshment table.
"You are no longer a young boy, Draco. It is time to shoulder some of those responsibilities."
Pansy Parkinson was like every other upper-class debutante he had ever encountered: snobbish, bitchy, and insipid. Actually, her only redeeming qualities were that she was the prettiest Slytherin in his year, that and she adored him to the point of infatuation, practically worshipped the ground he walked on. The Prince of Slytherin liked that in a girl. It was nice. Besides, Pansy provided some much needed intellectual stimulation whenever Blaise wasn't around, considering Crabbe and Goyle had only half a brain between the two of them. Draco glanced at the lumbering idiots faithfully flanking his sides and rolled his eyes.
Draco returned his attention back to the petite blonde as she disappeared around a corner. His father would have an apoplexy if he ever found out about Draco's growing little obsession with the American. The flaxen-haired wizard stopped mid-stride, whirling to face Pansy. "Hang on, I forgot something back in the dorm."
Pansy halted her step as well, frowning slightly, "Well, you'd better hurry. Honestly, Draco, if you were any more forgetful you'd be as bad as that Longbottom idiot."
Draco barely heard her remark as Crabbe and Goyle followed after his girlfriend like the mindless automatons they were. He rounded the same corner, hoping catch Eliza before she disappeared for another indeterminate number of days. Draco spotted the tiny blonde standing still in the center of a corridor junction, apparently lost in thought. He smirked to himself and slid into place close beside her.
"You know, Ashbery," Draco whispered conspirationally into her ear, "staring off into space in the middle of a busy hallway intersection isn't exactly a big indication of sanity."
Buffy whipped her head round to cast a glance the platinum-haired Slytherin before returning to gaze at nothing in particular. She had sensed his approach long before he spoke. "Sanity's overrated," she retorted without inflection.
There was a glint in Draco's gray eyes as they traced over her slight curves. If Buffy noticed, she either ignored it or didn't seem to care enough to call him on it.
"So, care to enlighten me on what you were doing?" Draco asked when it became clear that she wasn't likely to contribute further to the conversation.
Buffy lifted one shoulder in indifferent response. "I was debating on whether to torture myself with Double History of Magic today."
"Well, I've got Divination. Fancy a change from boring, dead blighter to a barmy, old bat?" Draco offered, attempting to keep the pathetic hopefulness out of his voice.
She repeated the apathetic half-shrug, and then turned to face him, her head cocked to the side. "And since when were we on speaking terms again?" Buffy asked. She was well aware of precisely how snippy she was acting. Something about Draco Malfoy just brought out her snarky side in the same way her 'inner bitch' always reared its truculent head whenever in the company of pre-soul Spike.
"I figured I'd given you enough time to see the error of your ways," Draco replied, crossing his arms over his chest pretentiously.
Buffy snorted. "Right. And the sky is green."
Draco scowled. Buffy simply arched a fine, golden brow in expectation. By Salazar, the girl was such a bleeding ice queen! How he adored her even as he glared. Merlin, could he pick them. Draco stared deeply into shadowed eyes that held his gaze unerringly. Seconds stretched into minutes of pregnant silence. Draco became fixated on her pink, glossy lips as an amused smirk played at its corners. He was overcome with an animalistic urge to grab Eliza by the hips and crush her pretty, little mouth to his.
"Fine! I'm sorry that you got hurt, happy now?" the Prince of Slytherin finally snapped, hissing in defeated exasperation.
Draco was stunned by his sudden outburst. It had been years since he last apologized to anybody. Malfoys were never wrong. It was a shame that Eliza could not grasp the gravity of the gesture.
"Not even close—"
Buffy smiled a sad smile that greatly perplexed Draco. It made her appear more world-weary than the school Headmaster for a fleeting moment. But then, she blinked, erasing all traces of melancholy and infinite age from her youthful features.
"—but let's go. I'm strangely psyched to meet a real, live seer."
Draco smirked, her enigmatic smile momentarily forgotten. "You're in for disappointment then. Professor Trelawney can't even see past her own glasses, let alone the future," he remarked.
They fell into step together for the long trek to the secluded North Tower while slipping into biting banter. It was the only tower the blonde hadn't gotten to visit during her extensive tour with Dumbledore, who had cited the excuse that the tower's atmosphere wreaked havoc on his nasal passages. Buffy shot the Slytherin Head Boy an incredulous look when they reached a circular trapdoor in the ceiling of a landing. Draco was half tempted to make Eliza climb the silvery ladder first, seeing as it would have provided him with a tantalizing view, but decided to act the gentleman instead.
They emerged in the attic-like classroom, their tardy arrival drawing everyone's attention but the professor's. Pansy glared furiously at Draco as she saw that he did not come alone. Draco ignored her as he pulled out an armchair for Buffy at Blaise's round table before taking a seat there himself. The bug-eyed Sibyll Trelawney sat perched on her enormous winged chair in front of the fireplace, lecturing the class in her soft, misty voice. "Pair up and read each other's tarot cards. You may use your textbooks for reference if the need arises."
"Hullo," Blaise gazed at Eliza in undisguised appreciation.
A hot stab of jealousy flared up in the pit of Draco's stomach when she briefly smiled at his fellow Slytherin in return.
Buffy felt herself growing drowsy in the tower room's heavily perfumed atmosphere as Blaise and Draco messed around with a stack of tarot cards. Professor Trelawney swept from table to table, each movement preceded by the jangling of her numerous bead necklaces and colorful bangles. The blonde Slayer had almost drifted off completely when a soft voice startled her out of her stupor. Professor Trelawney stood directly in front of Buffy, large, magnified, bespectacled eyes staring down intently.
"You, girl, I don't recognize you from before."
Buffy blinked. She had definitely seen the kooky woman at the faculty meeting. She sat up in her chair, feeling disoriented from olfactory sensory overload as the overpowering scent of the professor's perfume wafted up to her hypersensitive nose.
Sibyll leaned closer to inspect Buffy. Everyone in the room went very quiet with curiosity.
"Your aura is unnaturally dark, my child," she began in a faraway voice. She closed her eyes tightly, as though in deep concentration. Professor Trelawney refocused on Buffy with a sharp gasp. "Violence, peril, death, I sense surrounding you—"
The Divination Professor moved to lay a comforting hand on Buffy's arm. As soon as her ringed fingers grazed the blonde Slayer's skin, Sibyll's body went rigid. Buffy's eyes widened in surprise as the professor's eyes started to roll up into the back of her head. The class sat frozen in their seats, transfixed, as a voice deep, harsh, and very unlike Trelawney's boomed forth from the professor's mouth:
"BEWARE THE WINTER SOLSTICE. AT MIDNIGHT, A POWERFUL WEAPON OF TERRIBLE DESTRUCTION SHALL COME TO THE DARK LORD. IT SHALL BRING TO HIM GREATER MIGHT THAN EVER HE HAD. TRUE ALLEGIANCE SHALL BE TESTED AND THE FATE OF THE SECOND WIZARDING WAR DETERMINED. BEWARE... THE WINTER SOLSTICE... MIDNIGHT..."
Buffy caught Professor Trelawney as the witch lurched forward suddenly, coughing raggedly. Then, quite abruptly, Sibyll straightened herself from Buffy's restraining arms. She rubbed her throat with shaky hands in between forceful swallows, looking confused and flustered.
"Sorry, dear," she rasped mistily while padding down her bouffant, crimped hair. "Must have caught a summer cold..."
Sibyll seemed just at that moment to notice the gaping expressions hanging on her students' faces. "Something wrong, class?" she inquired obliviously.
"No! Nothing," Buffy quickly answered for them. "But you don't look too well, Professor," she continued in a cajoling tone with a convincing frown of concern. "Maybe you should take the rest of the day off."
"Yes, yes, my Inner Eye agrees that that shall be the best recourse," Trelawney turned toward the panicked group of Seventh-Year Gryffindors and Slytherins, absently smoothing the gauzy shawl that perpetually sheathed her torso. "Class is dismissed early today. Don't forget to do your readings."
She turned back to Buffy as the class recovered enough from shock to begin packing up their schoolbags. "What was your name again?"
The chair was already empty.
Draco stared after the flash of flaxen hair as it vanished down the circular trapdoor.
What the bloody hell just happened here?
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"Guys, you'll never believe what happened in Divination class today!" Seamus yelled, panting as he burst into the Gryffindor common room with Dean and Neville in tow, who also appeared to be short of breath. The common room was deserted for the afternoon break except for Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
"What's all the racket?" Ron mumbled, rubbing his eyes groggily as he lifted his head from the wooden table where it had been resting. The redheaded Gryffindor had slipped into much-needed slumber while Hermione was 'editing' his and Harry's Transfiguration essays on trans-species transformation.
"What is it, Seamus?" Hermione inquired, putting down her quill as the three winded Gryffindor Seventh-Years joined them at their table.
"I think Professor Trelawney made an actual prophecy today," said Dean, looking to Seamus and Neville for confirmation.
"Yeah." Neville nodded. "She sort of went rigid and her voice got all deep-like."
"We all thought she was having a fit of seizure or something at first," Seamus frowned.
Harry's breath hitched up his throat, where an uncomfortable lump was beginning to form. Their description of Trelawney's behavior was exactly the same as he remembered her from his Third-Year Divination final exam. "What did she say?" he prompted quickly with mounting dread.
"It all happened so fast. One minute, she was telling Elizabeth Ashbery that her aura was dark with violence and death, and the next she was prophesying about the Dark Lord getting a powerful weapon during the winter solstice that'll test allegiances and decide the war," Dean recalled uncertainly.
Harry felt an icy numbness seep into his limbs as the news sunk in. He leveled a grim, significant look at Hermione and Ron. Ron appeared as worried as he was, but Hermione didn't seem to reciprocate his concern. The black-haired Seventh-year remembered belatedly that he had never gotten the chance to tell his two best friends about that incident with Trelawney some three years prior. Something bad was going to happen during Christmas. They had to figure it out. They had to stop it. Harry repeated it over and over to himself like a mantra.
"It was really weird," Neville surmised after a moment, shaking his head in consternation.
"Yeah, and the really funny thing was that Elizabeth girl stayed so calm and collected the entire time," Seamus mused. "She wasn't even acting scared or shocked like the rest of us when Trelawney went mental right in front of her—or before, when Trelawney was predicting her death and doom, come to think of it."
"You guys have to go tell Dumbledore about this," Harry spoke up, his expression serious and voice grave.
"Yeh, you're right," Dean agreed. "See you later," he inclined his head toward them before heading for the portrait hole, followed by Seamus and Neville.
"How come nothing exciting like that ever happened when we were taking the class? Almost makes me wish we had Divination again," complained Ron after a beat.
"Right, Ron. It's not like you passed your Divination O.W.L. or anything. Besides, I reckon it was just some sort of desperate cry for attention on Trelawney's part," Hermione rolled her eyes dismissively and picked up where she had left off on Ron's pitiful attempt at an essay.
Harry remained silent for several minutes, his mind carefully mulling over his fellow Gryffindors' recount of the afternoon's events. When he finally spoke, his voice was leaden and strained.
"I don't think that's exactly it..."