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Chapter 688: The Hidden Part of the Prophecy
🕑 Added 2025-04-09 11:46:05 +0000 UTC"I should never have agreed with Fudge to come to Hogwarts and teach Defence Against the Dark Arts!"
The next morning, the Hospital Wing stirred as everyone woke up. Tonks lay in her bed, glancing at the bandages wrapped tightly around her.
"I knew this day would come," she murmured, resigned. "Just look at Alastor. It's been a year since he left, and he still hasn't shaken the Curse."
"Don't be ridiculous," said Moody, seated beside her. "Being an Auror means getting injured is part of the job. What does that have to do with the Defence Against the Dark Arts curse?"
"Then why is Kingsley fine?" Tonks shot back, her lips pursed.
"Because he's strong enough," Moody replied sharply. "Whether it's Kingsley, Remus, or Sirius, when they're at the peak of their powers, they have the energy and reflexes to fight off Death Eaters."
His tone grew heavier as he leaned closer. "And the same goes for you. You're too laid-back and not using your strengths to their full potential. As a natural-born Metamorphmagus, fighting head-on with enemies is the stupidest thing you could do. Why not take on the appearance of a Death Eater instead?"
"And what about your vigilance? When you first joined the Aurors, I reminded you countless times to always be ready to cast a Shield Charm in combat."
The ward felt like a classroom as Moody began listing Tonks's past mistakes, leaving her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
"The Death Eaters all wear black hoods and masks," she argued weakly. "Our clothes are different, so changing appearances wouldn't help."
"Ah, really?" Moody replied coldly. "Maybe I'll have a chat with Minerva. I'm sure she never taught you how to change your clothing in Transfiguration class."
"I can vouch for that—we learned it in third year," Kyle chimed in with a grin as he approached. To demonstrate, he tapped his wand lightly against his robes, which immediately morphed into a pure black cloak identical to a Death Eater's.
"Tsk," Moody muttered, his voice calm but cutting. "Looks like I was wrong about Minerva."
By now, Tonks had turned her head away, feigning sleep to escape the conversation. She had meant to thank Kyle for saving her life, but at this point, she felt the score was settled.
Laughter rippled through the ward, lightening the mood.
Lupin entered just then, his curiosity piqued by the laughter. "Did I miss something?" he asked.
"It's like this," Ron began eagerly, but Tonks cut him off, opening her eyes and speaking loudly. "I'm an assistant professor, and that's important. If you tell anyone about this, I'll give you ten times the Defence Against the Dark Arts homework—and trust me, I can manage that."
Ron clamped his mouth shut immediately.
"And you two," she added, shooting Kyle and Hermione a warning look.
Kyle shrugged nonchalantly, deciding to stay out of it, while Hermione wisely said nothing.
Lupin, however, seemed uninterested in the explanation. Placing a bag of sweets from Hogsmeade on the table, he smiled. "You seem to be recovering well. Sirius and I were debating whether to send you to St. Mungo's."
"Absolutely not," Tonks replied, shaking her head vehemently. "I can't stand the smell there. This is fine—at least there isn't the stench of a hundred different potions."
"Fair enough," Lupin said, "as long as Madam Pomfrey has no objections."
"I don't want to go to St. Mungo's either," Ron muttered.
"You don't have much say in the matter," Lupin remarked, shaking his head. "That decision rests with Arthur and Molly—they’re on their way now and should be here soon."
"Oh no," Ron groaned, diving under his quilt to hide.
"Hermione," Lupin continued, turning to her, "are you sure you don’t want to inform your parents?"
"Absolutely not," Hermione replied quickly. "They're Muggles; they wouldn't understand. Telling them would only worry them unnecessarily. I'll be fine soon—there’s no need."
After a moment’s hesitation, Lupin nodded. "All right."
Hermione had sustained the lightest injuries and could technically have been discharged that day, but Madam Pomfrey insisted she stay a few more days for observation.
"I still want to thank you for saving us, Kyle," Moody said suddenly. "If you hadn’t arrived in time, none of us would have made it."
"It’s nothing," Kyle said with a small shake of his head.
"You should never have become Senior Assistant to the Minister for Magic," Moody said regretfully. "The Auror’s Office would have been the perfect fit for you—you would’ve been brilliant there."
Kyle suppressed a sigh. Being Senior Assistant or even an Auror hadn’t been his choice, but it was a reality he had to accept. Before Moody could delve further, Kyle deftly changed the topic. "Where’s Harry? Didn’t he come back with you?"
"No," Lupin replied, refilling Tonks’s water glass. "He said he had something to discuss with the headmaster and left before you arrived. He didn’t go to Hogsmeade with me."
"I see."
Kyle wasn’t surprised Harry had gone to see Dumbledore, though he found it odd that Madam Pomfrey had allowed him to leave. It was likely on Dumbledore’s orders. With Voldemort’s connection to Harry’s mind, it wasn’t far from being a kind of strengthened Imperius Curse. Without the headmaster’s approval, Pomfrey wouldn’t have let Harry out.
Soon, Mrs. Weasley’s voice rang out from the corridor.
"You’re his brothers—how could you let him go to such a dangerous place?"
Fred and George’s voices followed, sounding indignant.
"Mum, how could we have stopped him? He was riding a Thestral—"
"Yeah, it’s not like we could fly out there and grab him—"
"Or break his legs in advance!"
...
Kyle glanced over at Ron, who was shivering and curled up in bed, looking utterly defeated.
“You’d better just admit your fault,” Kyle advised gently. “Don’t talk about how much help you were, don’t make excuses—just apologize and keep quiet about the rest.”
“Huh? Why?” Ron asked, startled. He had been considering whether to embellish his role a bit more. After all, they had managed to thwart Voldemort’s plan, something even the Order of the Phoenix was working towards.
“Because whatever excuse you can think of, Mr. Weasley has already thought of—and repeating it won’t help you.”
Before Ron could respond, the door suddenly burst open with a loud bang.
Mrs. Weasley rushed in, her face tear-streaked and full of worry. She made a beeline for Ron, enveloping him in a tight hug.
“Thank goodness you’re okay,” she said, her voice trembling as she fussed over him, inspecting him from head to toe. Once she was assured he wasn’t seriously injured, her expression shifted to one of stern disapproval.
“How dare you go up against Death Eaters! Yesterday, the magical clock showed you and your father in mortal danger—I nearly fainted!”
Ron opened his mouth, ready to mention he hadn’t been alone, but Kyle’s earlier advice came back to him. Swallowing his words, he instead muttered, “I’m sorry, Mum. I won’t do it again.”
Mrs. Weasley’s eyes filled with tears once more, and she pulled Ron into another hug.
Behind her, Mr. Weasley stood in the doorway, blinking in surprise but clearly relieved.
“Oh, and you…” Mrs. Weasley said as she turned to Kyle, pulling him into a warm hug.
“You saved both of them. Thank you.”
“It’s nothing…” Kyle said modestly, shaking his head. “And Mrs. Weasley, I think I’ve heard this thank-you a million times since yesterday, so let’s call it even.”
“That’s because we hadn’t seen you yet,” Mrs. Weasley countered, pulling him into another hug before glancing around the room.
“Where’s Harry? Arthur mentioned he was hurt too.”
“Harry’s probably in the Headmaster’s Office,” Lupin answered. “He said he had some questions for Dumbledore.”
...
Meanwhile, in the Headmaster’s Office, Harry looked away from the swirling, silvery-blue figure above the Pensieve.
Silence filled the room. The portraits on the walls remained still, their usual commentary absent. Not a word was spoken.
“Professor Dumbledore...” Harry’s voice broke the stillness, soft and hesitant. “Is this... the complete prophecy?”
“Yes,” Dumbledore confirmed with a solemn nod.
“I don’t understand... What does it mean?” Harry’s thoughts circled back to the words he had just heard from the figure in the Pensieve:
"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..."
“It means,” Dumbledore said gravely, “that the only person with the power to defeat Voldemort was born at the end of July nearly sixteen years ago.”
Harry felt as though an invisible weight pressed on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
“That person... is me?”
A wild thought flitted through his mind, absurd and impossible. But he quickly shook his head. How could he be Voldemort’s equal? It didn’t make sense.
Dumbledore sighed deeply.
“If you focus only on the first part of the prophecy, it may not necessarily be you,” he said softly. “That year, two boys were born at the end of July. One was you, and the other was Neville Longbottom. What’s more, both of your parents were members of the Order of the Phoenix, and both defied Voldemort three times and lived to tell the tale.”
“But if Neville also fits the prophecy, why does it point to me?” Harry frowned, struggling to grasp the distinction.
“That,” Dumbledore said slowly, “is where the second part of the prophecy becomes crucial. Voldemort himself would mark his enemy as his greatest threat. In other words, he chose you, not Neville.”
“But, Professor,” Harry stammered, still trying to wrap his mind around it, “there must be some mistake. I’m no match for Voldemort. He can even... control me so easily.”
“Perhaps not as easily as you think,” Dumbledore replied, raising his wand. The swirling figure above the Pensieve reformed into a shimmering silver light.
“You possess a power Voldemort does not. It was this power that compelled you to save Sirius in the Department of Mysteries last night."
“In fact,” Dumbledore continued, “I believe that even without my intervention, you would have freed yourself from Voldemort’s control through the strength of your own heart.”
Harry blinked, startled. Free myself? He didn’t quite believe it—how could he possibly overpower Voldemort?
But as he mulled it over, another thought struck him.
“Wait, Professor,” Harry said, his mind racing. “Kyle was also born at the end of July, wasn’t he? Could the prophecy be talking about him instead? After all, it only mentions the month of birth.”
Dumbledore hesitated for a moment, as though considering how to answer. Finally, he shook his head.
“I’ve considered that possibility as well, but I’m afraid it’s not the case,” he said gently.
“Why not?”
“Again, it comes down to the second part of the prophecy,” Dumbledore explained, his gaze fixed on Harry’s lightning-shaped scar.
“Voldemort would mark his chosen adversary. When he gave you that scar, he sealed his choice. He marked you as his greatest enemy.”
“And there’s another crucial point,” Dumbledore added. “Neville and Kyle are both pure-blood wizards. Only you are half-blood—like Voldemort.”
Harry stiffened, confused. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Because Voldemort was also a half-blood,” Dumbledore explained. “Although he professed a belief that only pure-bloods were true wizards, his father was a Muggle. This is a fact you already know."
“Perhaps it’s this shared identity that caused him to see a reflection of himself in you.”
“Me and Voldemort... the same?” Harry murmured, the words chilling him to the bone. He felt cold, numb, as if all warmth had drained from the room.
“It’s just what he believed,” Dumbledore said firmly. “We both know you are nothing like Voldemort.”
But Harry wasn’t listening anymore. Dumbledore’s reassurances faded into the background as Harry’s thoughts spiraled.
No, that’s impossible!
He denied the connection vehemently in his mind, trying desperately to latch onto anything that could prove Dumbledore wrong.
“Right, the prophecy…” Harry’s expression shifted as something occurred to him. He spoke aloud, “When the prophecy globe shattered before, I heard something, but it was completely different from what we just heard. You must have made a mistake.”
“Oh?” For the first time, Dumbledore looked genuinely surprised. “What did you hear?”
Harry thought back carefully. “It was something like, ‘At the moment of victory, a new and powerful figure will appear...’ It was so chaotic, with screams everywhere, that I didn’t catch the rest. But you can ask Kyle and Mr. Weasley—they were nearby.”
Dumbledore said nothing, his gaze fixed on the Pensieve as though lost in thought.
“Professor,” Harry pressed cautiously, “you must have made a mistake, right? That wasn’t part of the prophecy we just heard.”
“The strange thing, Harry,” Dumbledore said after a pause, “is that it is actually there.”
With a wave of his wand, the silvery figure reappeared in the Pensieve.
"The one who can vanquish the Dark Lord approaches..."
The familiar words filled the room again. Harry, ready to argue, opened his mouth, but Dumbledore raised a hand to stop him.
“Wait a moment,” Dumbledore said. “Keep listening. Be quiet.”
Reluctantly, Harry closed his mouth and continued to watch.
After a brief silence, the figure in the Pensieve moved again, its mouth forming words. But instead of hearing speech, there came a strange, droning hum, like a swarm of bees.
“What did she say?” Harry blurted out.
“I don’t know,” Dumbledore replied calmly. “Because that is exactly what I heard. This part of the prophecy is concealed.”
“A prophecy can be hidden?”
“Of course it can,” Dumbledore said, turning toward the window. He gazed out, speaking in a low voice. “I found it puzzling at the time, but I later understood."
“The prophecy is like a dark, frozen lake. When I saw it, it was winter, and I could only glimpse what lay above the ice. What remains beneath will only reveal itself when spring comes, when the ice melts.”
“Time?” Harry ventured uncertainly.
“Exactly,” Dumbledore confirmed. “The prophecy will only be complete when the time is right.” He turned back toward Harry. “Are you certain you don’t remember what came after that?”
Harry wracked his brain, then shook his head, frustrated. “I’m sorry, Professor. It was chaos—there was screaming everywhere. I couldn’t hear clearly.”
“That’s all right,” Dumbledore said gently, nodding. “Perhaps we were never meant to hear the prophecy in full.”
Another silence fell over the office.
This time, however, Harry noticed something different—the figures in the portraits, who had been feigning sleep earlier, were now wide awake and whispering to each other. Their quiet murmurs indicated that even they were intrigued by this elusive prophecy.
After a long pause, faint noises drifted in from outside the office. Voices could be heard in the distance—students heading toward the Great Hall for lunch.
Realizing the time, Harry felt a pang of hunger. The unanswered questions swirling in his mind had distracted him all morning, and now he felt light-headed, his legs weak.
“Oh, has it been so long already?” Dumbledore said with a smile. “If you have nothing else pressing, I suggest you go to the Great Hall for lunch. Today’s menu includes pork cutlets and eggplant pie, both of which I personally recommend. But don’t overeat—you’ll need to save your energy for the competition this afternoon.”
“Competition?” Harry echoed, confused.
“The Quidditch match,” Dumbledore reminded him. “Have you forgotten? This afternoon is the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff final. The winner will take the Quidditch Cup.”
“Oh!” Harry exclaimed, suddenly remembering.
The match had originally been scheduled for early June but had been postponed for reasons no one had explained.
“Goodbye, Professor!” Harry said hastily, turning to rush out.
Before he reached the door, however, he stopped abruptly and turned back. “Professor, can Ron be released from the hospital early? He’s our Keeper, and we need him!”
“You’ll need to ask Madam Pomfrey,” Dumbledore said with a touch of humor, “but I doubt she’ll allow it. You might want to start looking for a replacement Keeper."
“And even if she does release him, I’m afraid Mr. Weasley won’t be in top form so soon after enduring the Cruciatus Curse.”
Hearing this, Harry groaned inwardly but quickly dashed out of the Headmaster’s Office.
The prophecy, for now, was forgotten. His immediate concern was finding a new Keeper in the two short hours remaining before the Quidditch final.
