Albus Dumbledore did not like surprises.
They complicated equations. They introduced variables where there should have been none.
Godric's Hollow lay quiet beneath the winter sky as he approached the Potter cottage, snow crunching softly beneath his boots.
From the outside, it was exactly as he remembered—warm, lived-in, protected by layers of magic both ancient and improvised.
Too protected.
Too untouched.
'Voldemort should have struck by now,' Dumbledore thought coolly, fingers tightening around his wand inside his sleeve. 'Fear sharpens prophecy. Delay dulls it.
The prophecy needed activation. A catalyst. A sacrifice, if necessary. That was how the world worked, whether one admitted it or not.
And yet—nothing.
The Potters still lived. The war dragged.
The Dark Lord circled but did not bite.
And worst of all—
Twins.
It was impossible. Dumbledore had ensured it was impossible.
He had performed the spell himself—subtle, precise, ancient—designed to reveal the shape of fate surrounding Lily Potter's child. The magic had shown one. One life-thread. One destiny. One child born as the seventh month died.
Harry Potter.
And yet Rose Euphemia Potter existed.
Born the same night. Same blood. Same magic signature—and yet not. Her presence had not appeared in the spell, nor in the prophecy's resonance. She was a blank space where there should not be one.
A blind spot.
Those unsettled him most.
---
The door opened warmly, Lily's smile bright as ever Harry balanced on one hip. James followed close behind, Rose clutched against his shoulder.
Dumbledore's gaze fixed on her instantly.
Hazel eyes. Too sharp. Too knowing.
The faintest pressure brushed his magic—testing, not touching. He hid his reaction behind a genial smile.
"My dear Lily. James," he said warmly. "And happy birthday to the little ones."
Rose watched him without blinking.
Not with curiosity the curiousity usual for a child her age.
No she watched with intense assessing eyes.
'Interesting,' he thought.
---
The celebration passed pleasantly enough. Laughter. Cake. Sirius's booming presence. Remus's quiet watchfulness.
The twins were eventually ushered into the sitting room, where Sirius promptly sat on the floor to entertain them with transfigured sparks of light while Remus supervised with careful restraint.
Dumbledore waited.
He always did.
Once the adults had settled, tea steaming gently between them, he made his move.
"There is…something we must discuss," he said gently, folding his hands. "The protections on this house are strong, but the nature of the prophecy—"
James stiffened. Lily's smile faded just a fraction.
"I believe," Dumbledore continued, "that the choice of Secret Keeper deserves reconsideration."
Sirius snorted from the other room. "Oi, you saying I'm not good enough now, Albus?"
Dumbledore did not look toward him. "On the contrary. You are too obvious."
James frowned. "What are you suggesting?"
"A quieter option," Dumbledore said calmly. "Someone unassuming. Loyal. Easily overlooked."
He paused—just long enough.
"Peter Pettigrew."
The silence that followed was sharp.
And then—
"No."
The word was small.
But it carried weight.
Dumbledore turned slowly.
Rose stood in the doorway.
Standing stronger than a babe usually would at her age.
Her small arms were crossed over her chest, posture rigid with intent. Her hazel eyes were dark now. Her magic surged outward in a wave so subtle it bypassed wards entirely.
The Elder Wand vibrated violently against Dumbledore's arm.
For the first time in decades—
He felt something dangerously close to unease.
James startled. "Rose, sweetheart—"
Lily moved immediately, reaching for her daughter. "Come on, love, back to—"
"No Peter," Rose said clearly, voice steady and wrong for a child barely a year old. "Siri better."
The room froze.
Magic pressed.
Dumbledore's wards whispered warnings he had not programmed.
Rose's gaze never left him.
She did not glare like a child throwing a tantrum.
She stared like someone who knew him.
And did not approve.
James scooped her up, shaken laughter breaking the tension. "Kids say the funniest things, eh?"
But Lily did not laugh.
Remus had gone utterly still.
Sirius stared, eyes sharp now, no humor left in them.
Dumbledore smiled.
Because smiling was what he did when recalculating.
"Well," he said softly. "It seems…we have time yet."
As Rose was carried away, her eyes never left him.
And for the first time since the prophecy had been spoken, Albus Dumbledore wondered-
Not how to guide the future.
But whether it had already slipped beyond his grasp.