Dear readers,
I am thrilled to introduce my debut fanfiction, exploring a unique side of the Harry Potter universe. With excitement and a hint of anticipation, I invite you to join me on this creative journey.
As I delve into the complexities of charm, manipulation, and ambition in the wizarding world, I welcome your reviews and feedback. Your insights will help shape the story and enhance my writing skills.
Thank you for being a part of this magical adventure with me. Warm regards,
Magic Verse
The Thirst for Power
The prophecy
In the heart of the Scottish high hills, on a cold and wet night, an aged man embarked on a journey down a dimly lit alley. His tall, thin figure commanded attention, draped in purple robes that billowed with an air of mystique. A silver mane cascaded down his back, merging seamlessly with a beard so long it could be tucked into his belt. With half-moon spectacles perched on his nose, he exuded an aura of power that sent whispers rippling through the night. Heads turned, following his every step as he made his way to a pub.
Inside the pub, a single room suffocated in darkness, only a feeble glow attempting to penetrate the smoky air. The scent of something vaguely reminiscent of goats hung heavy, blending with the patrons' murmurs. Above the crackling fireplace hung a portrait of a young girl, her beauty frozen in time, forever etched in the man's memory. It was a sight that brought forth a tear, no matter how many times he beheld it. Behind the worn bar stood a tall, grumpy figure, a crown of long grey hair crowning his discontented scowl.
Aberforth, the proprietor of the Hog's Head pub for countless forgotten years, was having a wretched day. Wannabe Death Eaters had nearly ignited a brawl earlier, driving him to the brink of his patience. He had cast them out, but he could sense their impending return, multiplying in number. As the aged man entered, Aberforth's scowl deepened, his day spiraling further into misery.
"What do you want, Albus?" Aberforth growled, his voice laden with animosity.
"Ah, it is good to see you too, brother," Albus replied, a sad smile gracing his weathered face. Decades of hostility had grown familiar to him, yet the ache of estrangement persisted.
Aberforth's scowl etched itself deeper, the term "brother" a bitter reminder of their fractured bond. Yes, his day was indeed worsening.
"What do you want?" Aberforth demanded once more, his voice sharper.
Albus let out a weary sigh, the weight of regret lingering in the air, as he revealed his purpose: an interview for the divination post at Hogwarts. Aberforth simply stared, unable to fathom the true depths of his brother's presence. He averted his eyes, relieved that Albus would not witness the desolation that had consumed him. Watching his brother offer a sad smile and ascend the stairs to an empty room, Aberforth knew that their shattered relationship held no easy path to healing.
In solitude, Albus found solace in his thoughts, shielded from the outer world by the four walls of the room. The war raged on, the ruthless carnage claiming the lives of countless friends and students. It was inconceivable to him that the charismatic young wizard he once introduced to the magical world would emerge as one of the most feared dark wizards of all time. His followers, the Death Eaters, reveled in acts of murder and torture, while those who championed pureblood supremacy saw him as their dark savior. Albus marveled at the irony—a half-blood leading the cause of pureblood dominance, a testament to Tom's Slytherin cunning.
From all corners of the country, desperate witches and wizards beseeched Dumbledore to combat Voldemort. He, the only wizard that Voldemort truly feared, yearned to seize his wand and confront the Dark Lord head-on. Yet, the ravages of time had eroded his once-indomitable physical form, leaving only a flickering presence as the sole shield safeguarding Hogwarts and the innocent children within its walls. If he were to fall, they would be left vulnerable to Voldemort's malevolence.
Lost in contemplation, Albus was abruptly interrupted by the arrival of a middle-aged lady. Clad in a shawl, her oversized spectacles framed eyes too small to be seen. Sybill, the granddaughter of Cassandra Trelawney, a seer of prodigious talent, carried the weight of ancestral prophecy. Albus hoped that within Sybill resided the gift of divination, a skill that had eluded him. For him, it had always been an elusive subject.
Their interview stretched on for what felt like an eternity, disappointment seeping into Dumbledore's heart. He was ready to depart, convinced that the hopeful spark had dimmed. But then, an extraordinary occurrence seized Sybill, her body stiffening, her eyes losing focus as she succumbed to an otherworldly trance. Harsh words spilled forth from her lips, a discordant melody unlike her own.
"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..."
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the Grand Sorcerer, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, stood stupefied. For decades, he had confronted adversaries, both Grindelwald and Voldemort, but nothing had ever left him truly stunned. Yet now, a long-lost twinkle reignited within his brilliant blue eyes. The prophecy had revealed itself, a glimmer of hope amid the shadows of despair.
With renewed purpose, Dumbledore swiftly made his way back to the pub, intent on retrieving the information he needed. However, Aberforth barged in, his urgency palpable as he revealed the presence of a "greasy-haired" eavesdropper. Albus's mind raced, recognizing the intruder instantly. He had to find Severus, to ensure Voldemort would never lay his hands on the prophecy. Sending his phoenix Patronus to alert the members of the Order, Dumbledore vanished with a subtle pop, reappearing in the heart of the Ministry of Magic.
Passing through the Time Room, he pressed forward, his determined steps leading him to the Hall of Prophecies. It loomed before him, a cavernous chamber as vast as a cathedral. Towering shelves lined the room, housing countless glass orbs, each containing swirling mist and dancing blue flames. He weaved through the labyrinth of knowledge until he found what he sought—a confirmation, a fragile hope held within a delicate vessel.
A smile, small yet resolute, graced Dumbledore's lips. It seemed that not all was lost, that the forces of destiny had not forsaken them. The prophecy, now firmly in his possession, held the key to vanquishing Voldemort. With this newfound revelation, he would rally the allies, unite the forces of good, and lead the charge against the encroaching darkness.
As he departed the chamber, the weight of responsibility settled upon Dumbledore's shoulders. The fate of countless lives, the destiny of an entire world, now hung upon the slender thread of hope. The battle against Voldemort would test their strength, their courage, and their unwavering resolve. Yet, within the depths of his ancient heart, Albus Dumbledore embraced the challenge, knowing that where there was darkness, there would always be light.