Going back a few months to the late winter of 1980.
The Hog's Head always smelled faintly of goats, stale beer, and secrets.
The windows were clouded with years of smoke, and the candles guttered as though reluctant to stay lit in such a place.
Few came here for comfort.
They came because the Hog's Head forgot.
At a shadowed corner table, Albus Dumbledore waited.
His half-moon spectacles glinted faintly in the light, his long fingers folded around a cup of steaming mead that he had hardly touched.
He looked, as always, entirely at ease — but in truth, he was watchful.
Across from him sat a woman wrapped in layers of shawls, her hair a tangled halo that caught every flicker of flame.
Sybill Patricia Trelawney, great-great-granddaughter of the famous seer Cassandra.
Her hands trembled slightly as she clasped a teacup, though whether from nerves or the weight of her family legacy, Dumbledore could not yet tell.
"I must confess, Professor," she said, her voice lilting with an odd mixture of pride and insecurity, "that I was most surprised to be considered for a post at Hogwarts. I had thought—well, that is—I did not believe my talents so valued in… establishment circles."
Dumbledore smiled gently.
"Every talent has its place, Miss Trelawney. Hogwarts has been without Divination for some time. I wish to remedy that. The question, of course, is whether you are suited to the task."
Her eyes widened behind thick spectacles.
"Oh, Headmaster, I assure you, I am. My Inner Eye has never faltered."
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his voice mild. "Then perhaps you might demonstrate. A small prediction, if you please. Something to show me the strength of your gift."
Her lips parted.
She adjusted her shawl, clearly flustered.
The teacup rattled slightly against its saucer.
"Well, the Sight is not a trick to be summoned on demand, Headmaster. It comes when it comes, and only to those with true perception."
"Of course," Dumbledore said, inclining his head. "And yet, I find that when tested, true gifts tend to emerge. Please. Humor an old man."
The fire crackled.
Somewhere near the bar, a stool scraped.
Neither noticed the man in black who sat half-shrouded in shadow, nursing a glass of firewhisky.
His long hair curtained his face, but his ears were sharp.
Severus Snape, marked and bound to Voldemort, but never able to resist the pull of his old master's territory — or the curiosity that sometimes dragged him into dangerous places.
He had come for solitude, for a drink in anonymity.
Once more mourning the death of a friendship, for this day was the very same in which he made the worst mistake of his life, in a fit of anger saying a forbidden word to his one true love, causing her to disappear from his side forever more.
But when he heard the name Dumbledore drift across the room, his eyes had flicked toward the corner.
He listened now, silent, his hand tightening around his glass.
Sybill drew in a breath, clearly preparing to improvise some fortune about Dumbledore's future.
But then—something shifted.
Her back straightened.
Her glasses slipped slightly down her nose.
The trembling of her hands ceased.
Her voice, when it came, was not the fluttering soprano she had been using, but something deeper, older, resonant with a power that shook the stale air of the Hog's Head.
As all the flames within the room ceased to exist as if they'd never been lit to begin with, and an oppressive cold rolled in like a Dementor had just entered the room.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…"
Dumbledore froze.
His eyes sharpened behind his spectacles.
Sybill's pupils had rolled back, her eyes white and unseeing.
Her body trembled as though another force were speaking through her.
"…born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…"
The words hung heavy in the air.
Severus had set his drink down, forgotten.
His breath caught.
The Dark Lord.
The words twisted into his ears like hooks.
He leaned forward, straining to catch every syllable.
"…and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…"
Dumbledore's expression did not change, but inside his mind whirled.
A prophecy — a true prophecy, spoken by a Seer in trance.
He knew the weight of such things.
"…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…"
Severus's hands clenched into fists.
A child.
A child foretold to stand against the Dark Lord.
He knew Voldemort would want these words — every fragment, every syllable.
And yet… something twisted painfully in his chest at the thought, knowing instinctively deep within that something was wrong.
"…the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…"
The final words left Sybill's lips in a shuddering exhale.
Her body slumped forward, her glasses nearly falling off entirely.
She gasped, blinking wildly, confusion overtaking her face once more.
"Oh! Goodness — forgive me, I… did I say something? I fear I may have drifted…"
She adjusted her shawls again, looking embarrassed.
"What were we discussing?"
Dumbledore did not answer at once.
His gaze lingered on her, thoughtful, almost sorrowful.
He had just heard the axis of the coming war shift.
"Nothing of consequence," he said softly. "You were doing quite well."
He rose, offering her his hand.
"Miss Trelawney, I believe Hogwarts could indeed benefit from your talents. You will have the post."
Her face lit with relief, mistaking his calm for approval.
She grasped his hand eagerly, still oblivious to what had just left her lips.
But in the shadows, Severus Snape's heart pounded.
He stood slowly, leaving his drink unfinished.
He had heard enough.
Too much.
The prophecy would change everything.
His master would demand to know.
Yet as he slipped from the pub, his mind was already splitting, caught between two truths: loyalty to the Dark Lord… and the faint, gnawing dread of what this prophecy might one day cost.
~
Left alone Dumbledore continued to sit at the table his mind shaken by the prophecy that had just been delivered to him, but duty came first.
The divination position at hogwarts needed to be filled, to ensure the young witches and wizards could receive proper education such that they could hopefully not follow in the footsteps of Tom Riddle who as we speak was terrorizing England.
Her excited form was sitting across from him.
"I think you would do well as a member of our staff, if you are still open to accepting the position that is?"
He drawled out simply.
"Oh! Yes, but of course headmaster, i could never refuse such and offer i swear by my ancestors name to spread her teachings far and wide, and one day uncover the next great seer to guide our world forward."
Her response came rapid and bubbling like a potion set on dragon fire.
Having concluded his business Dumbledore extended his hand to his newest professor preparing to part ways with her as he needed to get his news to the Order and Ministry respectively.
But just as he clasped her hand.
The cold that had filled the room before return, but greater than before.
The very warmth of life itself light was stole away.
As the entire room became a void, save for two glowing cloudy white eyes floating before him.
The old raspy voice once more filling his senses.
"As the Seventh month wanes, a new darkness is born..."
Dumbledores thoughts practically ceased to exist, only moments before he had finally received word that Voldemort his old protege could be defeated and yet now...
Now a new power would rise anew.
"A shadow created by the creation of light..."
Focusing harder than he'd ever done before to record everything in his memory for extraction later to be reviewed again and again to discover this prophecies meaning.
"Cast out by treachery's stain. A dark lord of despair shall rise, eclipsing all who came before..."
A far worse dark lord... Tom for all his failing was driven by his intense desire to survive, but this new lord... it's reason for rising was for a far more deadly reason... revenge, and rising greater than Voldemort, Grindlewald, Salazar, Herpo...
"heart unmoved by love's refrain... Realms of magical and mortal men tremble, as all shall fall before him..."
A threat not only to magical britain it seems, but instead to the world as a whole as his friend Grindelwald has been decades ago.
"Born of Betrayal, forged in pain, shall know of no equal, love's gentle touch in vain..."
...
...
...
The eerie blackness finally retreated and the warmth of the world once more crept back in.
"Headmaster? Weren't you leaving?"
Sybill tilted her head, while staring at Albus who was stalled as if he'd been struck with a petrification hex.
But then with a simple cough to cover up his oddness, he absconded letting his robes flutter behind him as he quickly set about recording and sharing this new information with those he needed to.
Unaware of the changes to the future his actions would take.