Bohemian Rhapsody

moment thirty-six: sacrifice of angels (October 31, 1981).

Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk, and quietly sipped his tea, letting the words flow over him. Sitting opposite was the source of the babbling brook of language, Sibyl Trelawney.

"Headmaster, some of the students do not seem to recognise the esteemed wisdom and respect that they must hold for the Prophetic Arts and their practioners," she intoned, her gaze diffused by the large spectacles she wore. "I find it most unsatisfactory when I foretell a student's likely run-in with detention because of their doubting, and then even when my predictions come true, they continue to question the validity of the subject. It will not do at all."

Albus sighed gently, and looked over at Fawkes, not entirely sure if he should be gladdened or saddened by the unrelenting predictability of his Professor of Divination. In response to his questioning glance, the phoenix preened itself, removing a few moulting feathers from under his left wing. He only turned back when amazingly, he heard her voice stop, and found her manner quite distracted, her look solemn and unfocussed at the same time. "Sibyl?"

The teacup she was holding dropped from her hand, and crashed to the floor. Shards of china lay all over the carpet, its brilliant hues muddying to the dull brown of the tea. Albus may have been prepared for a lot of things, but this was not one of them.

Her gaze still curiously unfixed, she spoke in a low calm tone most unlike her normal voice. "The serpent's heir will walk the grounds of the lion; betrayal leads him onto hallowed ground."

Albus blinked, and quickly reached for quill and parchment, trying to jot it all down. It seemed that, miracles of miracles, Sibyl Trelawney was having a true vision.

"Deathless, forsaken, he shall bring death to the leaders of their time. Tonight he stalks, and tonight they shall die, for the lion's den cannot protect them."

Lion's den? Albus's eyebrows twitched irritably. That could only mean...But Severus would have told me, surely? And the cold, painful realisation that followed. Not if he didn't know. Dumbledore jumped from his seat and ran to the portal that lead outside his office, opening it to bellow out "Minerva! Hagrid! I need you, now!"

Behind him, the woman continued, her voice rising in emotion. "Look to the son, old man. For only one who could not be killed can defeat the one who cannot die, and the vessel shall be his undoing, as he who spurns Creation will be spurned by his own making. The sun will be blinded by a green light, and all shall change. The rules will be broken, and the final door shall be shattered." Her voice was feverish now, almost shrieking. "Look to the son! Only he can save us now! LOOK TO THE SON!"

If you looked very hard at the London skyline that night, you might have been forgiven for imagining you saw a motorbike flying through the air - except of course, motorbikes don't fly. On this impossible motorbike, a young man sat, his face torn with fear, his straggly hair flying in the wind, beseeching the bike to go faster due to sheer force of will. He had felt the sudden lurch in his soul whilst on shift, and muttered some excuse about a family emergency and immediately taken to the sky. Sirius had never felt anything like it before: this terrible, wrenching pain but he knew what it had to be. He could almost point to a location on the ground and say: this is where the pain comes from, so strong was the attraction, so hollow the break in his heart. He wept, alternating between a frenzied lament and a bitter curse. "James, oh dear God, James, please don't be dead, please don't", continued on throughout the night, followed by a single, whispered, "Merlin Peter, what have you done?"

Remus Lupin sat in their dining room, sipping a cup of tea, the light still on overhead, and waited for his partner to return home after work. He needed to calm his nerves after he'd come over all strange during archiving, as if something had been lost, or torn. He'd chalked it up to the stuffy air in the archives, and the lack of ventilation. After a few hours of waiting, he turned the light off, and curled up in a cold empty bed, keenly aware of the absence the hollow on the other side of the sheets made. It was an absence he would grow to hate.

And in Malfoy Manor, Lucius Malfoy crept through the household, a lamp raised in his left hand. Narcissa was asleep in her bedroom, as was his infant son, Draco, and he knew from Draco's past behaviour that there will little chance he would awake. Draco was a strangely silent child: content seemingly to watch the world around him, with eyes that seemed too old and too hungry. Lucius made his way through the deserted wing, up the wrought-iron staircase, and along the passageway into a small room, where belongings were stacked one on top of one another, and everything was covered with sheets.

He set down the lamp, and reached out to pick up a painting that lay face against the wall, turning it over to gently wipe the dust off the surface, and set it back so that he could see it. Taking a fobwatch out of his coat pocket, he squinted at it, in the half light, and nodded sadly at the time. Turning his attention to the painting, he smiled fondly at the image: a young man, standing in casual clothes, his square-jawed face crowned with black hair that defied combing, and black-framed glasses balanced precariously on his nose.

For the second time in his life, Lucius Malfoy broke down and wept, stretching his hand futilely out to the painting, as if he could recapture the lost past. "I used to say you were a weakness, James," he said softly. "And now, now that you must be gone, I wish that I'd been weak enough to keep you."