A/N: Written for the 'post-hogwarts' contest at the Third Floor Corridor. Contest rules: write a story post hogwarts. Anything goes, as long as it does not take place while the main characters are in school there.
Sibyl Trelawny was not a woman to be taken seriously. This was a truth many of her students discovered halfway through their first Divinations lesson.
So when Sibyl Trelawny predicted her own death, thirty years after the defeat of Voldemort, it is quite understandable no one took much notice.
No one, but Harry Potter, the former child of prophecy. Having had his early life dictated by one, he was not inclined to disregard a real prophecy. And he knew a real one when he heard it.
And so it was, as Sibyl lay dying from a disease that had, ironically, taken her vision, she never saw who was with her. She wasted no time on fake predictions of Harry's death. She merely clung to the hand that unexpectedly held hers, grateful for the support.
"L'histoire se repête," she whispered. Harry briefly wondered why she spoke in French, until he remembered the parttime Seer had grown up there, and went to Beauxbatons.
Once more her voice went hoarse, and Harry shivered – not again!
"Another danger, another power, heir of the childless hero. Suffering under the same hands, grown up in misery as the one before him, once more a child with the power to vanquish shall emerge."
Harry paled as her hand went limp, and dropped to the sheet.
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After arranging the funeral – the former professor had no relatives left to do so – Harry, now 50 years old, returned to Hogwarts, his home.
"How was she?" A bushy haired witch, strands of silvery hair running through the still wild curls, assaulted him with questions as he sat down in the Great Hall for dinner.
"Hermione? What are you doing here?"
The witch frowned. "Arthur and John, of course. This time I've confiscated their Map for good. I threatened to burn it if they dare to nick it back during the holidays. As long as I was here anyway, I figured I might as well stay for dinner and have a chat with you. I was told you went to visit Trelawny. Do you really believe her 'prophecy', Harry? I mean, she constantly predicts death and destruction…"
"Well, this time she was right," Harry interrupted, "she's dead."
Hermione paled. "I'm sorry. Were you there when…"
"Yes. I've arranged for the funeral. It would be nice if you could find some other old students and staff perhaps, to attend. She was a Hogwarts professor, after all."
Hermione nodded, and they changed to lighter topics throughout dinner.
Later that night, Harry went up to the tower and entered his office. The many paintings of former Headmasters looked up when he came in. The most prominent was Albus Dumbledore's.
"Hello, my boy," it greeted warmly.
"Hello Albus. Honestly, I'll be fifty in a couple of weeks, no longer a boy."
"Irrelevant," the painting's eyes twinkled, "I still call Severus that, too. Not that he likes it…"
Harry smirked. Then he sobered and looked earnestly at the painting. "I need your advice, Albus. Sibyl Trelawny died today, but just before she passed away she made one last real prophecy…one that suggests another threat like Voldemort, and another Chosen One like me."
"Let's hear it, child," Dumbledore enthused, "and remember what I told you about prophesies in your sixth year; they are never fixed. If both parties choose to ignore them, they will never come true."
Harry slowly and clearly repeated the words Trelawny had spoken, and the portraits face fell.
"Can't we ever get some peace?" the painted Dumbledore muttered before popping a lemon drop into his mouth and sitting up straight.
"Well, my boy, it seems like there'll be a repeat of you and Voldemort, though it is unclear what the danger is. Your heir…well. That could be anyone, but 'suffering under the same hands' suggests someone you know. Perhaps your relatives."
"Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon are long gone," Harry said dismissively, "So is Dudley. Aunt Marge is not related to me…wait a second."
"What, Harry?"
Harry looked up, clearly trying to recall something.
"When Dudley was about nineteen, he got a girl really drunk…and himself too…and had a one night stand with her. Was quite awkward, really, especially when it turned out she was pregnant and Dudley accused her of sleeping around, so he wouldn't have to take responsibility. I think Petunia and Vernon paid off the girl and took in the resulting child."
"What happened to said child?" Dumbledore asked, a worried frown on his face.
"Don't know," Harry shrugged, "I was glad enough to be rid of them. The only reason I know about Dudley's kid is because it was about to be born when I removed the Dursleys to a safer location. I don't even know if it's a boy or a girl. At any rate, that kid should be about thirty years old now as well. I doubt it's magic, the Dursleys would never have stood for it."
"I still think you should check it out," Dumbledore advised, "check the book. If your cousin did produce magical offspring, the name should be in there."
"I don't even know if the kid had Dudley's last name!" Harry protested.
"Oh, alright," he conceded, seeing the portraits twinkling eyes, "I'll ask Severus to check."
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"Severus?"
Harry knocked on the slightly ajar door of his Deputy's office.
"Yes?" came the curt voice of the lead Potions Master.
"I have a problem. I need your opinion on the matter."
Harry quickly outlined the events surrounding Trelawny's death and the prophecy she made. The still mostly darkhaired man – though silver was beginning to appear at his temples – listened, a frown appearing on his face.
"And you believe this is a real prophecy she made?" he inquired.
"Well, I do agree that four correct prophesies in her entire life isn't that much, but she was accurate on some occasions. I've heard her make a real one before, and this was the real thing."
"Very well," Snape opened a large tome that sat in a corner of his office, and started leafing through it.
"If it is true, as Albus suggests, that this child is actually related to you…let me see. He would have turned eleven at around your 30th birthday, correct?"
He searched the pages. "No, there is no one…the Muggleborns in those years weren't related to you."
He went back to the last page and his eyes opened in shock. "I don't believe this," he muttered, tapping his wand to a name on the list.
"What?" Harry asked, moving over to stand next to him, peering over his shoulder.
He gasped. There near the top of the list, there was a name that immediately stood out.
Timothy Dursley.
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Severus Snape forced the Headmaster to sit down and handed him a cup of tea. He himself checked the book yet again.
At seventy years old, the former spy was still at Hogwarts – again at Hogwarts – when Harry had asked him to become his Deputy twenty-five years ago. Old grievances had been laid to rest and they worked as a team. The school thrived.
The prophesy shocked Snape. Having lived in the thick of war for half his life, he dreaded the rise of yet another dark lord. He had always considered Trelawny a fraud, but could not deny the few real prophecies she made.
And there it was. Timothy Dursley.
Harry looked up. "There's no chance this is another Dursley? One not related?"
The dark man shrugged. "Perhaps, but it is too much of a coincidence, even for you, Potter."
Harry smiled. The once insulting tone had mellowed to goodnatured bickering over the years.
"Wasn't one dark lord in my lifetime enough?" he complained, "just my luck. First I'm the Chosen One, and now I have to turn into Albus and train the next Chosen One."
As always, the Potions Master stiffened slightly at the mention of the former Headmaster.
"I propose visiting this child. If this prophesy is accurate, he will not be treated well. Relocation might be in order."
Harry shuddered, the demons from his loveless childhood not entirely forgotten.
"I concur. Will you accompany me? I tend to lose my grip on rational thought when confronted with something partaining to the Dursleys…" Imitating Snape's style of speech had become a private joke, and something Harry tended to do when he was nervous.
He glared at the book, fate, and the memory of Trelawny, for saddling him with yet another problem of this sort.
"Let's go find this Timothy Dursley, then," he groused.
