June 28, 1980

He perched himself at the edge of the bench and smiled politely at the woman shifting nervously in her seat across from him. Two dirt-smudged tumblers of spiced rum sat between them on the scarred wooden table, the color of the liquid suspect at best, as was trademark of the establishment they had chosen to meet in – the Hog's Head. It was late, and the bar was empty save for themselves and the barman, who had disappeared into the back room shortly after handing them the drinks with a glare.

In front of him, the woman's hand shot out and gripped her glass and attempted to take a gulp – for liquid courage, he imagined – but her hands shook so much she poked herself in her large thick glasses with the lip of the bottle. Turning red, she quickly set it down again.

"So…. Ah… Ms. Trelawney.", Albus Dumbledore spoke up. "You were saying, about your great-great Grandmother, the Seer Cassandra Trelawney?"

"Ye-yes. Yes, she had the Sight, of course, and it was passed down in my family."

"Yes… of course. And has the Sight appeared in others in your family since then?"

"Well – no. These things often, erm, skip…three generations, as you know."

The woman blushed and shifted her eyes.

"…Of course." Dumbledore replied politely. "Could you tell me more about what kind of things you have Seen?"

Through the thick coke-bottle glasses, the woman's eyes looked huge. No doubt it was a look that helped heighten her self-created image of mysticism. She raised her hands in front of her and twirled her fingers like those muggle fortune tellers did. Her many large rings flashed in the reflection of the thin beam of light from a lonely candle in the sconce above their table.

"I – yes, I have Seen manythings…of course… In fact, I have Seen something about your future, Headmaster. You – you shall soon be in GRAVE danger." She declared dramatically, arms circling faster. "Peril stands in every corner and you – you are going to… to be meeting them – soon." She finished lamely.

"Ah… well." His heart sank. "Yes, thank you, Ms. Trelawney, for your forewarning." Dumbledore replied lightly.

Not that he had had much hope upon entering their interview, but her behavior and response confirmed that the poor woman across the table had not an ounce of Seer ability in her, despite her attempts to play the role. Internally, he sighed. With no promising applicants to take up the post of Divinations Professor, it looked likely that he would have to cancel the class. Though it was hardly a loss – the Sight was certainly a real phenomenon, but it had been over a century since the last known Seer lived, and the subject's increasing lack of applicability to students had resulted in a declining interest in attendance in Divinations in recent generations at Hogwarts. Making up his mind, he turned back to the woman and said, not unkindly,

"Well, thank for you coming to meet me tonight, Ms. Trelawney, but I'm afraid you may not be suitable for the post, though I'm sure your talents are great indeed."

Her face fell instantly and she looked on the verge of tears. He felt sorry for her, but there was nothing to be done about it.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Trelawney."

"I…I see…well, thank you a-all the same, Headmaster," she said in a choked voice as she clutched her multitude of shawls.

"I'm afraid I must take my leave now, Ms. Trelawney, but I wish you the very best. Good night."

He smiled apologetically, placed a galleon on the table for their drinks, and stood up, adjusting his cloak.

He had just turned and taken a step to leave when it happened.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches."

It was a raspy, loud, mechanical sounding voice. No inflection or emotion, most unlike Trelawney's usual fluttery whisper.

He turned around quickly and stared at the woman in alarm. Her head was bent at a bizarre angle, to the side and up, towards him, chin out; her mouth agape and eyes open, unblinking. She continued to speak in the same harsh tone – it was most certainly her speaking, in front of him, but at the same time, not…

"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..." She trailed off, and her eyes closed as if she had fallen asleep.

Dumbledore stood rooted to the spot, shocked, his mind spinning.

He quickly deduced that the Trelawney woman was having a rare and real occurrence of the Sight - this was a legitimate prophecy.

About the Dark Lord. Voldemort. And a Vanquisher. Born at the end of the Seventh month… July. It was already the end of June. The child that the prophecy referred to would be born soon, then.

But how much stock could, and should, he put into this prophecy? He knew that despite common misconception, prophecies were not bound to occur, necessarily, though Fate sometimes pushed hard for certain prophesies to happen. Human action, and reaction alike, did have some say in the determination of whether a prophesized outcome would be become reality.

"The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not". But what could that possibly refer to? The prophecy could not have been more vague on that account. There were too many unknown factors here. A mere babe, foretold to vanquish Voldemort at the height of his prime, with a power 'the Dark Lord knew not'?

His head hurt. Maybe doing nothing with this prophecy would be the safest option.

But no...he could take no risks. He had to act on the assumption that the prophecy would be a reality. It told of a way to end Voldemort's reign, and if there was any slim chance, he had to take it. He had no choice.

Already whispers had reached his ears, deadly, insidious whispers… of Voldemort's boasts to immortality. Whether they were true, he did not know. But it could not be denied that Voldemort's power was increasing at an alarming rate, his followers ever growing. Attacks were occurring weekly, on the households of muggles, muggleborns, and non-sympathizers, including Order members.

The Order was scrappy and persistent, even hopeful, still; but there was no denying that they were being pushed back, slowly but surely. Only two weeks ago, the Prewett brothers, two of the Order's strongest, had killed in a vicious surprise attack by five Death Eaters in their home. Seeing the green tinge of the Dark Mark hovering over the Prewett house had been nauseating.

Renewed desperation and hopelessness seized on him. He knew many believed that Voldemort feared him – that that somehow simultaneously implied that he had the ability to defeat Voldemort. But it was not true – it was fast approaching the pinnacle where he knew he would not be able to match the powers of the man he once knew as Tom Riddle. Voldemort had tapped into the darkest of arts, and the skills that he, Dumbledore, possessed – fortitude, knowledge, and magical ability – even in his own great capacities – would not be able to stop him.

Grindelwald had been another matter entirely – Gellert (he could not stop himself from still thinking about his old friend by his first name), had certainly been magically powerful, but had used primarily charisma and the gravitas of a social movement, not the dark arts, to power his campaign through Europe. He and Gellert had been matched in magical ability during their iconic battle… but Voldemort had the true dark arts in his favor – an unknown subject to Dumbledore. It would have to take something else entirely to bring about Riddle's defeat.

He not of course not told anyone this – it would inspire utter panic amongst the Order. The chaos of the news alone would bring about their light side's own, even faster, downfall. But he could not lie to himself about the sheer hopelessness that was fast turning into a reality as the tide of numbers turned in Voldemort's favor in recent months.

No, he thought, a coldness seeping into his bones. He needed to act, and act fast. The prophecy had made no mention of a timeline aside from the birth of the child – he would have to assume it would take years for events to play out – decades, in fact, before the child would be able to grow to adulthood and face Voldemort. He had to plan for the long game, then.

A loud snore from behind him shook him out of his thoughts.

"Wha-what? What happened? Did I doze off… oh! Oh I'm so sorry, Headmaster! I don't know what happened!" Trelawney stumbled over her own words, wringing her hands in embarrassment at the thought of falling asleep in front the person she was supposed to be impressing.

Dumbledore turned toward her, looking most serious.

"I… was just staying that Hogwarts would love to have you, Ms. Trelawney. As its Divination teacher this year."

He would need to have the woman close to keep an eye on her, keep her under the protection of himself and the school, what with this turn of events. If anyone were to find out about the prophecy… she would be in great danger indeed.

A wide-eyed Trelawney stared at him for a long second then promptly burst into tears with gratitude.

"Yes, I'll be sending instructions for the start of your employment via owl in the coming week. But I must be off now, I'm afraid. Congratulations again." He rushed as he made a small bow and walked quickly to the door, the sounds of her sniffles intermixed with her professions of thanks following in his wake.

Late that evening, he was seated in his office at Hogwarts, soft snores coming from the portraits of previous headmasters surrounding the walls of the circular room. The soft undertones of their peaceful sleep juxtaposed the thunderclouds of his thoughts, roiling about in his head.

He had to make plans...plans that not only assumed this prophecy a reality, but ones that would help guarantee its fated result. It was the only foreseeable chance at winning the war, now. Especially if he himself were to be killed… he grimaced. the Order would most certainly disband if that were to happen. He couldn't hope that a group with a dead leader and nobody else to pin their hopes on would last long under extended pressure from the opposition.

He focused his mind once more. He needed to pinpoint the prophecy's second character – the child.

"Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…"

He could be thankful for small wonders, he supposed – the prophecy had been specific enough to narrow down the possible choices by many a degree. To have parents that had thrice defied Voldemort meant ones who battled him often – likely Order members, then. He couldn't recall having ever heard of any non-Order civilians surviving even a first "defiance" with Voldemort, never mind a second and third. Amongst the Order, then… it would have to be the Longbottoms… or the Potters. Both, he knew, were expecting. Yes, and both couples had faced Voldemort three times, if he counted the instances – each twice at Diagon Alley in the early spring – those had been bloody encounters, indeed – and once on the outskirts of Hogsmeade last year.

The Longbottoms had told him early on - months ago, now - that they were expecting a boy. But the Potters, youthful, hopeful, romantics that they were, had chosen not to spoil the big secret for themselves – the gender of their child was unknown.

Either way, he would have to make contingency plans for both scenarios. The prophecy had referred to a "he" – a male child, if the language was to be taken at face value. If the Potters had a girl, then it would automatically eliminate her as a possibility. It would be the Longbottom boy, then, that he would have to secret away into hiding, along with his Auror parents. But if the Potters had a son as well, then he would need to evaluate both boys.

Magical aura and magical strength could be detected from birth in wizarding children. But it was a nuanced ability that very few wizards had anymore, however, due to the sensitivity of magic one needed within themselves first, to be able to reach out and detect the faint tendrils of magic in infants. Powerful pureblood families from centuries past had used this ability to detect squibs in their family tree from birth, but that art had been lost through time with the dilution of magical power that came from inbreeding. Not long after, the knowledge of how to do so, along with the ability, had become almost nonexistent.

However, it had been a subject of magic he himself had pursued doggedly for many years, viewing it as an invaluable skill to possess as Headmaster of Hogwarts and more personally as a proponent of integrating muggleborn magical children into his school.

Yes, he supposed he would have to evaluate the magical skill of both the Longbottom and Potter boys if it came to be so. To disappear both families would be noticed immediately by prying eyes, both friendly and not – the couples were too prominent in the resistance to hope that Voldemort would not hear of both disappearances and not become instantly suspicious. No, to ensure the greatest chance at safety, he would have to choose only one boy and his family to hide, the boy with the greater magical aura. Hide them, and then help train the child in preparation for his destined confrontation with evil. A thankless fate, indeed.

Dumbledore sighed, removed his half moon glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He despised making these kinds of decisions – they seemed so cold, but then again, necessary. Few people realized how prominently calculation and cold hard logic featured in his thinking, deluding themselves into the belief that his twinkling blue eyes were windows into an all-encompassing heart incapable of such a cruelty.

He did not gain the reputation for being the world's greatest wizard by being that naïve. He would make the choice between the boys when the time came.

He took a lemon drop from a bowl on his desk and popped it into his mouth, savoring the sharp tang as the sour candy hit his tongue.

Small comforts like this would all he would have to look forward too in the long years to come.