Disclaimer: Characters and premise of Harry Potter are property of JKR. Characters and premise of Chronicles of Narnia belong to CS Lewis. Will Stanton and his world are Susan Cooper's. The prophecy is taken from the internet, as I have vowed to never crack the spine of OoTP again; verbatim, it is not mine, but the alterations are.

A/N: Falls just after Shield of David, in the Universe of Elijah's Cup. A question of motivation answered; and some loose ends woven together into answers, if you pay attention. And just to clarify, this IS intended to be AU from the book, so my recounting of the night that Lily and James died is different, and it's supposed to be.

FORSWORN

How did I not see it?

The Headmaster's office was shadowed in the early dawn; the first golden rays reached weakly through the room. I did not see it. And now, all has changed.

Half-moon glasses perched, delicately as the feet of a butterfly, on a crooked nose. A silver disc rippled within the stone basin; Albus stared dejectedly at the pensieve. I should have seen it.

But the Pevensies had always been, as Muggles would say, a wild card. And he had had far too little appreciation for those of late. He had only seen the prophecy; Sibyll's words were about as laconic as a hurricane, howling and mumbling hoarsely in turn.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches . . . born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies . . . and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not . . . and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives . . . the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies .'

Prophecy was ineffable, inevitable. Ambiguous at times but always, ultimately, true. And a prophecy like this . . . Only in ancient times were the Seers so beset. Oracles of long-ago Greece had written their prophecies in leaves to be scattered by a careless breath; or had been so consumed by the Sight that without the priests translating every garbled syllable, their messages would have been lost for all time.

As this one should have been. It had brought nothing but tragedy, no matter that he had meant it for the best. I never thought to find myself decoding a Seer's visions. Literal, precise, difficult work, best left to those who had dedicated their lives to it, as he had not. Even the slightest mistake could lose the essence of the message, leaving falsehood in the place of truth . . .

Albus banished the thought; he couldn't believe that. Not now, with the time approaching. Still years away, but it had to be approaching, had to be soon. Their world could not long survive Voldemort again.

The Pevensies don't believe so, muttered a memory, tucked deep in his mind. But he dismissed it; those four were different by any standards, but their experience with the Wizarding world wasn't extensive enough for such judgments. Despite their ages, they know little more than second-year Muggle-borns about our world. There was, after all, no substitute for experience.

And Dumbledore more than any knew the strength of the Wizarding world. With Fudge as Minister, our government would not withstand Voldemort for long.

The granite of the pensieve chilled his skin. Cares were carved deeply into the face peering toward silvery depths. It was met by itself, with smoother features, though the worries that clouded sky-shaded eyes were unchanged. Albus knew this memory.

Sibyll's eyes rolled back, and he leant forward. But the voice that emerged was not what he expected. It howled.

The Headmaster could recall what happened easily enough, without the aid of the pensieve. How he had strained for each disjointed sentence, trying to make sense of her mumblings and muted screams, etching the meaning of the words deep into memory. And later, removing that silvery wisp of a memory for the pensieve, before pulling another copy to be encapsulated in the archives of the Department of Mysteries.

It had seemed so clear, when he had the two couples before him – the Longbottoms and the Potters. Easy to see their families held the future, and easy to see that some things would have to be done, to ensure the fulfillment of the prophecy. To ensure the victory over Voldemort.

If not for the Horcruxes, it would have worked. If not for the Horcruxes, he would have been killed, and the war ended that night.

Albus didn't hear the grating stone, but knuckles on wood jarred him free of the thought.

"Headmaster."

"Sirius." The last person he would have thought to expect at the knock. "What a pleasant surprise. Did Minerva show you in?" Sirius looked disconcertingly like the young man who had graduated from Hogwarts over a decade ago. There were a few more lines, and a few more shadows haunting the pale eyes – but he was unsettlingly unmarked by his time in Azkaban. At least on the outside.

The dark head shook. "Remus." It was the voice which startled him – sober and solemn, so different from the laughing boy who had been brimming with mischief.

Who else? "Of course. Please. Sit." Resettling in his own chair, Albus reached for a tin kept in the second drawer of his desk, and proffered it across the cluttered surface. "Lemon drop?"

Those disconcertingly pale eyes didn't even consider the tin. "No, thank you."

Rumor had it that there was Veritaserum in the candy. Rumor has been right, on occasion. Albus was at all times aware of how much truth floated in the many great falsehoods perpetuated in the Wizarding world. Sticky sourness exploded onto his tongue. "I'm afraid I wasn't expecting you, Sirius. It must be a matter of great urgency, to bring you here so early in the day. What do you wish to speak with me about?"

The man sitting in a shaft of early sunlight was still for a moment. The frame was still slender, but no longer horrifyingly thin. If I hadn't known he'd spent the last twelve years in Azkaban, I wouldn't be able to tell. When Sirius drew himself up to speak, however, Albus was abruptly reminded that the young man who sat across from him was the last scion of one of the oldest pureblood families not only in Britain, but in the world – with the power and temper to match.

"My memory of the night that James and Lily died is . . . very clear."

White hair could only nod in response. Dementors. The velvet chair rubbed smoothly, with age, against Albus' stroking fingertips.

"It was only recently, however, that I realized that the version of that night which the rest of the Wizarding world received is somewhat different from what happened."

When he'd learned that Sirius had escaped Azkaban, Albus had wondered if they would ever have this conversation. It appears that my misgivings have come to pass. "Go on."

"When I arrived at James and Lily's house, it was still intact."

Fingers, out of sight behind the desk, stilled. "You went to Godric's Hollow?" Albus couldn't quite conceal his shock – and pale eyes were memorizing his every move. The dark head tilted slightly, Auror's body displaying the relaxed readiness of impending attack. "I went to check on Pettigrew that night, as we'd prearranged. I was going to visit James, Lily and Harry a few hours after midnight – bringing groceries, books, news of the outside world." Pale eyes stared at something Albus couldn't see. "James could never stand being cooped up for long."

Silence stretched, a taut wire, through the office. Fawkes shifted on his perch, but the rustling of phoenix feathers was swallowed by muffling sunlight. Albus slipped sound carefully into the blankness, not wanting to startle. "You went to Pettigrew's?"

Sirius blinked. "Around midnight or so. He was supposed to be expecting me, but I had to key myself past the wards, and his flat was empty. We'd all of us agreed that he should stay in, not see anyone, to reduce the chances that the Death Eaters would discover where he was. Or even that he was the Secret Keeper, and not me."

"While you planned to exercise obviously clumsy caution to draw them to you." It was a brilliant plan. Anyone who knew them -

Midnight-blue cloth covering thin shoulders shrugged. "Rookie Aurors make those kinds of mistakes," was the bald response.

"I have it on good authority that you never did," Dumbledore said quietly. For all he had been a prankster, the child who had been Sirius Black had been a powerful and controlled individual, intelligent and rarely prone to foolish mistakes unless his temper was roused. There was no reason to assume that the man was any different. Good authority, indeed. His mentor would never stand for such foolishness. "How is Alastor?"

The relaxed frame stiffened a moment, before tension slipped from each limb. "I don't know."

"Hmmm."

"Pettigrew wasn't there," Sirius continued, after a moment filled with aimless glancing about the office. The portraits were riveted to the conversation, even Phineas Nigellus Black was quiet and listening for once, through the sneer etched on features more softly echoed in his descendant. "And as soon as I realized that, I knew that he had betrayed us. I went to Godric's Hollow."

Albus only nodded, seeing now what must have happened.

"I was too late." A wealth of regret in that voice. But the pale eyes were hard, unyielding, locked on his own. "Lily and James were dead. But Harry wasn't there. The house was intact, with the Dark Mark hovering over shredded wards."

The office was beginning to lighten, the sun fully above the horizon. "I see."

"Do you?" Though Sirius still appeared relaxed, the deep voice was hard and the aristocratic features bloodless with anger. "Between the time when Voldemort was defeated and I arrived, someone took Harry, and left him with the Dursleys."

It wasn't a question, so Albus didn't answer. How much does he know?

"And between the time I left and the attack was discovered by Aurors and the press, someone arrived at the house and demolished it, to make it look as if Voldemort had blasted through the wards, killed James and Lily, and the house had been destroyed when he failed to kill Harry. The conclusion would be that Voldemort had discovered where they were hiding and overwhelmed the protections with sheer power."

The body was so contained, so unlike the Sirius of Hogwarts days, who would have been gesturing and nearly bursting with furious motion. "I know how Aurors operate. The Killing Curse had never been blocked before Lily sacrificed herself for Harry – the forensic wizards would know that the power behind the curse had to find an outlet somewhere. If the house wasn't rubble when they got there, they would see the destroyed wards as a result of the backlash from the curse. They would want to know how Voldemort got in – and it wouldn't be long before they concluded that someone must have let him in. And since it wouldn't have been the Potters, it must have been someone else. They would have gone looking for a traitor."

Clever, clever boy. Who had had over a decade in Azkaban to puzzle this out. Still sitting in shadow, Albus went cold. Pale eyes trapped his inexorably.

"But the house was destroyed, the evidence confused, and the reality of what happened that night was lost. So that no one would know there had been a Secret-Keeper at all."

Albus stared at the dimming sunlight and dancing dust motes, trying to avoid the memory of James Potter's blank, accusing eyes, and Lily's body lying limp not far from where her little son had sprawled, unconscious against the blood-spotted rug. The wards around the house had been shredded not from Voldemort's attack – the Dark Lord had known the ward-key, after all – but from the massive efflux of power that had burst from Voldemort's flesh as the curse turned back on itself. It was a sacrifice for the cause. And it would have worked -

"Until the Death Eaters leaked that information to the press. Some of those incarcerated in Azkaban felt pretty strongly that Pettigrew was responsible for that. Which makes me wonder." Aurors were trained to be relentless. In this case, they just encouraged a natural tendency. "If the Death Eaters destroyed Godric's Hollow to protect Pettigrew, why would he risk undermining their efforts by leaking the existence of a Secret-Keeper to the press? Despite his plan to assure the Wizarding world of my guilt?"

Any pretense at carelessness had been consumed by anger. The young wizard erupted from his chair, crossing the room to stand motionless before the Headmaster. Knuckles shone white on clenched fists; Albus was only glad that Sirius was resisting reaching for his wand. "Unless Peter didn't know – if it wasn't the Death Eaters that arrived in Godric's Hollow after you got Harry out."

Could he still salvage the situation? "Who else could it have been?"

"The Order of the Phoenix."

There was nothing Albus could say. He wouldn't admit the truth that Sirius had uncovered, and there was no way a lie would be believed. Even the sunlight seemed to agree, soaking the man before him and casting the Headmaster in shadow.

"The Dark Mark was hovering over Godric's Hollow before the house was destroyed." Blackness soothed his eyes as Albus' lids swept down. I was not as careful as I thought. How could he have known that Black had been there? The boy had been well-trained enough to leave no sign. Damnation.

"I believe Voldemort put it up before he even used the ward-key. He was certainly arrogant enough to do so. But what I don't understand," Sirius continued quietly, "was why you'd need to do it in the first place. You never agreed with Lily and James' decision to use me as Secret Keeper -"

Some minute expression, something he wasn't even aware of, must have betrayed Albus at that moment. Or perhaps Sirius simply knew all along, and only discovered it now. The man was certainly smart enough for it.

"You knew it was Wormtail." It was almost a growl.

Knew he was the Secret-Keeper, knew he was the traitor . . . Albus sighed around his lemon-drop. There is little point in dodging the issue now. "Yes."

Sirius' soft exhalation was the only sound; Fawkes was still as death and even the portraits were frozen, almost Muggle-like in their stillness. "Ah." Fury was on a tight leash now – and it was aimed unerringly at him.

Be furious; it cannot change the past. Cannot change the fact that Harry was best left with his relatives and the protection that rested on him there, no matter how they treated him. Cannot change the fact that the best place for you, Sirius, was in Azkaban, out of the way. There were enough spells and restrictions on both of them in this room that the rage in pale eyes would never manifest through magic. Aurors took an oath to protect and serve, one that was not negated by time or Azkaban. And Dumbledore had power of his own.

Albus could nearly hear the questions swirling in the short meter of space between them. Sirius asked only one. "Why would you want to protect Pettigrew?"

"He was an asset to the Order." Dumbledore didn't have to force his voice to briskness. Unpleasant as this conversation was, he had made the right decision twelve years ago, regardless of the consequences. I will not – cannot – second guess myself now. What good would it do?

"You knew he was a Death Eater."

"I knew." Albus' gaze drifted contemplatively over the standing wizard's shoulder. The soft cushions of the Headmaster's chair enfolded him. "He became one about a year before he -"

"I know." A sharp hand sliced down. Albus' puzzlement was met by a thin smile. "Azkaban strips people down to the core of themselves. There's no room for lies." Pale eyes darkened. "And Death Eaters scream the most interesting things in their sleep."

There was little he could say in the face of that; but guilt did not touch him. "I did what needed to be done." And was overconfident enough to believe that no one would listen to the words of a man purported to be an insane murderer. Not sending a member of the Order to Azkaban to remove Sirius' memories had been a greater mistake than he could have imagined.

Glacial chill touched the aristocratic features; slammed through the air between them to skitter across Albus' bones. This is the face that the Death Eaters see. He knew it, absolutely. A demand snapped out at him. "Pettigrew was an 'asset'? Why?"

Because he could be used, and while the Death Eaters would never trust a traitor, they would not care overmuch for his presence. And because Peter would not require much . . . persuasion, to reveal what he knew. But Albus could say none of that in the face of Sirius' anger, waiting for an opportunity to burn him. "Why did you come here today, Sirius?"

"Voldemort has returned."

It was only when he felt his heart start beating once more that he realized it had stopped. Frozen half out of his seat, Dumbledore fell back onto waiting cushions. "You know this?"

"Snape will confirm it for you shortly, I am sure." Not even a hint of a sneer there. Just enough rage to drown in. "I came to ask you what your intentions are, Headmaster."

"Intentions?"

Harry Potter's godfather was not fooled by pretended misunderstanding; stony features did not bother to hide their anger with him.

"I'm afraid we'll have to continue this discussion later." The smile felt false, but the Headmaster wore it anyway.

"Oh?"

"I have an appointment for an interview, with a possible new History of Magic professor. I must be in London in a few minutes." It was only a slight exaggeration – but this discussion would go no further. Sirius was not a member of the Order of the Phoenix, but he was an Auror. And there were times when the battle against Voldemort could not pause for the whimsies of justice.

Especially not the 'justice' of Fudge's Ministry. Twelve years of Cornelius in office had weakened Wizarding Britain, despite how the government had been structured to avoid such corruption.

"Really."

For the first time in longer than he could remember, Dumbledore felt tongue-tied. "Professor Binns has more than earned his retirement."

Teeth bared in an expression that could in no way be compared to a smile. "Very well. Good day, Headmaster."

The gargoyle ground into place behind the departed wizard. It took many minutes for Albus to regain his composure. "Well, Fawkes," he murmured, though the bird paid him little mind. Think on it later. While the memory of the conversation was fresh, he placed the tip of his wand to his temple, tickling out a copy. It dropped easily into the forgotten pensieve at first, but seconds later the silvery liquid roiled with emotion.

Worries that had been pushed aside with the unexpected arrival of Sirius Black came back then, full-force. Restless energy contracted his muscles; Dumbledore paced across the worn red carpeting. The portraits were shifting again, their muttering a soothing rumble above his head. "The prophecy," Albus muttered. All-encompassing use of the masculine pronoun. But in ancient times, it didn't matter.

One hand stroked at the wiry white beard as he thought. "Thrice defied . . . The White Witch, I remember, and then Grindelwald, and young Tom – defying the Dark. It could very well be . . . 'Born', well, from what I've heard from her family she has certainly changed, and been reborn, since they reunited . . . And she was marked as his equal. After all, what is a greater mark than love? And their time in that land has made them different . . . it was obvious even fifty years ago. Certainly, it is the power Riddle 'knows not'." And a possibly power strong enough to defeat him, in and of itself.

A soft weight settled on his shoulders, pointed claws gripping gently, barely pricking skin through thick layers of robes. "Ahhh, Fawkes." Red feathers tickled his knuckle as Albus ran crooked fingers over the phoenix's head.

"Today seems to be a day for difficult conversations." Susan – the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord? He couldn't quite believe it, but it fit. More perfectly than Harry Potter or Neville Longbottom, who had been far easier targets.

But the question really was – would her family believe it?

Velvet padding welcomed him as he sank once more behind his desk. A curved beak nibbled gently at his ear; one green-inked quill sat forgotten in his hand. Albus stared blankly at the parchment. Born at the end of July. And physically – dark hair, blue eyes – the parallels cannot be denied. She wielded a bow, of yew – and Tom's wand was of that wood as well. The wood of death.

The letter was brusquely written, and sent before he could contemplate further how he was going to tell the Pevensies of the prophecy, the depth of the war, and other things they had not needed to know. Peter will not take it well. He could not imagine any of them accepting that their sister was fated to destroy Voldemort – especially since Susan remembers little of the time they spent at Hogwarts during Grindelwald's rise.

In light of what he had just learned . . .

What her family felt did not matter. There were few places the Pevensies could go, and be safe from the Death Eaters; especially now that questions were being asked about them in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Not by those in power, but he had begun the ball rolling just the same. We must defeat Voldemort, no matter the costs – because the alternative will be far worse than we can imagine.

And Albus had long since come to the realization that he would do whatever was needed to win.

Gong!

The clock chimed for his attention; and with good reason. If he didn't hurry to clear the Anti-Apparition wards, he was going to be late. Voldemort has returned.

Flat blue eyes glanced at the parchments gripped in a curled hand. The gargoyle gave way before him, and though old, Dumbledore was by no means infirm. The sound of the portal closing followed him down the corridor as he headed towards the Great Hall.

William Stanton. Youngest of nine children, grew up in Buckinghamshire, England. A Muggle, as was his family – but friends with Nat Cauldwell, Hufflepuff who graduated twenty-one years ago.

So there was a connection between this Muggle and the Wizarding world, though it was a small one. His sources had been unable to find anything else, though Stanton had been recommended to him through the School Governors. A most unusual situation.

But he was due to meet the man in The Three Broomsticks five minutes ago. Opening his eyes, Dumbledore moved down the street of Hogsmeade into the pub, catching a smile from Rosmerta as he did. Her head tilted to the middle of the room.

Albus approached the seated man calmly. The clothes were formal, after Muggle fashion – shoes and slacks, the buttoned shirt appearing even lighter blue against the deep gray jacket. "William Stanton?"

"Headmaster Dumbledore, I presume." The man was quite ordinary, unremarkable of feature with straight chestnut hair that fell into gray eyes. His grip was firm, as was his voice, and he was purely Muggle.

It was quite early; the pub was empty but for them and a shock of white hair snoring atop the bar. "I'm curious as to what you know of the Wizarding World, Mr. Stanton. You came recommended to me through . . .unusual channels."

The small smile which touched Stanton's face did not disturb the serenity of his features. His voice, explaining his reasons for applying for the job, was clear and precise; Albus was, for the first time in years, startled by a Muggle.

"Ancient history?"

"All history," was the unperturbed reply. Gray eyes never wavered. "Muggle and Magical."

"You seem quite young to have amassed such knowledge," Albus probed, too curious to care about niceties like subtlety. The Governors wish for me to hire you. Why? And using Stanton's steady eye contact, he sent out a gentle feeler to brush over the thoughts screened behind straight brown strands.

"Thirty-eight is not as young for non-magic folk as it is for wizards, I'm afraid."

No emotion. Nothing. It was present in the voice, but Legilimency was failing him. Albus' frown went unseen behind heavy brows and thick beard. He is no wizard, to know Occlumency. . . but rare were the occasions on which he had practiced this particular skill on Muggles. Memory charms were the more common currency employed with non-magic folk.

Rosmerta bustled across the room in a jangle of dangling ear-bobs, sliding a glass of water and a butterbeer onto the table. "There ya go, luv."

"Thank you."

Polite, Albus noted over the lip of his butterbeer bottle. One sip of water later, the man was waiting calmly for him to speak. Very calm. "You do know the age range of the children you'll be teaching?"

"Ten to eighteen." Stanton sat back against the chair, fingers laced not far from the water glass. A wry smile tugged at his mouth. "I grew up as one of nine children, Headmaster. Granted, they were all older than me, but it was a rare day when all of them acted like it. My brother James particularly – though of the twins, Robin was a bit less mature than Paul, for all he was bigger than the rest of us. Even my oldest brother, Stephen, could act like a kid on occasion, and my sisters were just as bad." Affection warmed each word, brushing softness across the neutrality encompassing Stanton's body.

Touching, but how will he be able to maintain control over a classroom of children with abilities he can't understand? "Magical children are quite a bit different from anything you'll have experienced before."

"I've no doubt. But I have also heard that there has been a recent influx of Muggles into Hogwarts, filling teaching and counseling positions."

Frizzes of beard scratched against rubbing fingertips. Albus waited.

Stanton sat forward, energy suddenly crackling through his every move. "I've heard stories of History of Magic at Hogwarts," he said bluntly. "Horror stories, from students who found themselves woefully unprepared for their OWLS and NEWTS and for the flexibility of thought and application of history demanded of them in both tests and the real world. The students learn primarily from texts. While there is nothing wrong with that, these texts are secondhand sources from individuals recalling long-ago events. And memory can distort the reality of the past. Your students need to be taught to look beyond what their books tell them. I have it on good authority that many students use the class as a free study period, or to sleep."

Dumbledore's spine straightened as an unpalatable thought made itself known. "Stories from whom?" If the Pevensies –

"Nathan Cauldwell is a good friend of mine." Stanton didn't miss a beat. "Surely you're aware that his son Owen will be Sorted this year. I've kept in touch with Nathan and am familiar with several of his colleagues who took the course, and who have children at Hogwarts presently. I'm concerned about this situation, Headmaster."

"I have heard few complaints about Binns." Most of the querulous quacking sounded from disgruntled students about Severus, and every year finding a new Defense Against the Dark Art teacher brought a flurry of problems. Except this year, thank Merlin.

"Binns is a fixture of the faculty," said Stanton, gently but firmly. Not in the least apologetic. Perhaps he could keep a handle over the classroom. The man's manner was undeniably compelling. "History is more important than dried facts – what is to keep students from making the mistakes of the past if they have no knowledge of it?"

The butterbeer was soothingly sweet against the inside of his mouth. Albus' eyes caught Rosmerta bussing the tables with a wet cloth. Hiding in plain sight with her colored and low-cut robes, the witch grinned to be caught unabashedly eavesdropping.

"A very true point." Grindelwald, Voldemort. Mistakes of the past, indeed. "But the fact still remains that you will be dealing with students who can use magic, and you cannot oppose, regulate it, or enforce any bans on it within the classroom, Mr. Stanton."

Stanton's head tilted inquisitively. "And there is a great need for wands when learning about history?" The man's head shook. "In my classroom students will have no need for their wands. But when it comes to preventing students from – oh, say, hexing me, as I am sure you are alluding to – you have a valid point." The jacket shifted in a shrug.

But the gray eyes didn't change.

You will not mention the rumors you've heard about spells that I laid on the Pevensies, but you know about it. And that spoke more strongly to the man's character than anything thus far.

The Governors want him hired. There was no real reason why not, from what he could see of the man's knowledge and attitude. They were most insistent in their last owl – and he appears to be at least as qualified as Lockhart, if not more so. The complications that arose from his being a Muggle could be compensated for, after all.

Wrinkled fingers stroked his beard. "I believe I have seen all I need to see." Something unnamed flashed across Stanton's still features – Albus caught hints of surprise, distrust, and grim confirmation. "Mr. Stanton?"

A brief smile met his query. "To be honest, I was expecting a longer interview, Headmaster."

"I don't see that one is necessary." Dumbledore waved a hand about the pub. "You appear qualified for the job, and I see no reason to deny you the position."

"I see." Stanton appeared somewhat startled, blinking.

"I'd like you to return here a week before classes start. To get familiar with the castle, and the enchantments I shall place over you, to keep the students from testing our limits. You should have lesson plans worked out for each year by then. I'm aware that it is somewhat short notice -"

"It won't be a problem." Standing, Albus was taller than the other man; Stanton's frame had elements of the sturdy boy he had been, though slendered by growth and age. Young, Albus decided. No matter what he says. He was feeling every one of his one hundred and fifty-four years.

"Welcome to Hogwarts." This handclasp was warmer, and he peered deeply into the other's thoughts, seeking for a hint of even surface wonderings. Nothing. Unusual. "I will have a written contract sent to you for your perusal before the day is out. Is that satisfactory?"

"You gave me your word." Gray eyes caught a shaft of sunlight and turned to steel. "I know the weight wizards give their oaths."

The weight that wizards give their oaths.

For no reason at all, Albus found himself fighting back a shiver.

A stone basin rested on the desk of the deserted office. Within the pensieve's silver-tinted depths, a memory swirled.

"Sibyll?"

The face was that of a girl just barely grown to womanhood, the chrysalis recently shed. Glasses magnified large eyes to desperate proportions; but the orbs were rolled back, staring white into the future. When her mouth opened, the words rose and fell from howls to scratchy whispers. She spoke.

'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches . . .' A shuddering gasp heralded the death of her scream; it re-emerged as a naked whisper, concealing itself behind mumbling lips. 'Born to those who have thrice denied him, born as the seventh month dies . . . and the . . . will mark him as his equal.' A solid chant began to build in volume, the tempo running at the pace of an adrenaline-soaked heart. 'But he will have power the Dark Lord knows not . . . and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives . . . the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies .'

Stone grated into the silence as the gargoyle began to move. Dust motes sparkled in a ray of lone sunshine that ignored the desk and its heavy burden to caress a carpet faded from years of such ministrations.

Alone but for the recollections of someone else's lifetime, the memory waited.

Fin