FicWad

Chapter 3 : Foresight

Searing heat burned through his body like a torrent, scorching down his extremities and tortuously making their way through his gut, which felt like a volcano set to explode. The conflagration exploded behind his eyes and with a torturous cry, he fell back into the chair. Without warning the strange sensation of separateness returned, and with some effort, Harry managed to reassert his Occlumency barriers, shoving Snape out of his head in the process.

Snape was on his knees, taking in short breaths. Harry slumped in his chair, sighing, already mostly recovered from the ordeal. Looking back on it, dropping his Occlumency barriers just for Snape's curiosity seemed like a terrible decision. At least, he reasoned, he knew for certain now that it was his increasing ability in using Occlumency that was muting the experiences, not just the passage of time. With a groan, Snape finally made his way back to his feet.

"Your warning about the pain was severely understated, Potter," the hook-nosed man finally spat. "Had I known the pain was so severe, I'd not subjected myself to the full blast of it. My head is ringing like a church bell."

Harry shrugged, sitting up in the chair. "I didn't know it'd be back to full strength like this - I've never had a shared vision before, as you well know, Snape. I figured you could handle a little pain, anyway."

"Five points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter." Snape said with a gleam in his eyes. "You will call me Professor, if you must speak to me at all."

Harry smirked knowingly. "Let's not get on that topic again. You know as well as I do that Professor Dumbledore is keeping an eye on us - I wouldn't want another repeat of last year's disaster. We were both idiots, then."

Snape grimaced. After some silent minutes he coughed and started again, seemingly having some trouble. "I... would like to apologize for any undue punishment I have given you in the past."

"That took you some effort," Harry commented slyly. "You'd almost think you were told to apologize."

"Curse you, brat, you know as well as I do that the headmaster requested it of me." Snape twirled around, scowling. "If it were my choice, I wouldn't spend a minute in the room with you. Since it isn't my choice, I have elected to at least make the experience bearable. Even if it costs me a considerable amount of pride to do so."

"You owe him a lot, don't you, the headmaster?" Harry asked, peering up at Snape towering over him. "If it were anyone else, you'd tell them to stuff it."

Snape looked at him for a bit, then nodded with some reluctance. "I do not believe you'd understand, but I believe Albus may have saved me from worse than death, multiple times. It is by his request alone that I dare don the mask of a Death Eater again, or that I freely walk towards the Dark Lord. I've chosen to bear that burden because Albus asked me if I would."

"You sounded almost respectful there," Harry noted dryly. "You don't act like you like him much."

"I don't 'like' him." Snape spat, slumping down in his chair, surveying the many potions ingredients that'd been left over after a fresh batch of nettle-bark potion. "I quite often find myself disagreeing with him on matters of politics, ethics, even the rights of muggles. I find myself appalled at his fashion, choice of food and general cheerfulness. I have trouble keeping my tongue when he goes on about yet another of his old friends, mad ideas or ideals."

"Yet you respect him." Harry asked, intrigued. "If he's such an antithesis to you, why would you choose to spend your time in his presence? Why do you even trust him?"

Snape scowled for a long time, the silence stretching. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you of all people, Potter. It's hardly a topic you have any reason to know about." Harry didn't answer. "I will keep my secrets." Snape finally said, dismissively.

"Tell me if it ever becomes important." Harry merely said, knowing full well that this was a matter he should stay well clear of. "I do prefer to stay informed."

Snape nodded absentmindedly, as he sighed. "I am... glad to see that you have matured somewhat since last year. See that you maintain this type of behaviour, and we might not end up at each other's throats again."

"I've had a lot of time to think," Harry said, shrugging. "What happened at the Ministry changed things, I think. None of us are quite the same, I think. Ron's more serious about his school work, Hermione's less focused on her studies alone, and Neville... he's grown a backbone, I'd say."

"Longbottom? I doubt it. Has been spineless since he set foot into this classroom." Snape stated, sneering.

"You don't see him much any more. I'm not surprised you didn't notice." Harry answered. "Luna - honestly, I don't think I could describe her if I wanted to. An enigma, that one."

"I recall there being six of you," Snape commented. "Any further nonsense you wish to deposit in my lap for consideration?"

Harry ignored the jibe. "Ginny's... well, she seems to have backed off a bit, if you ask me. I think the whole thing might've scared her a bit more than the rest of us. She's been a bit subdued compared to normal, I think."

"Miss Weasley, subdued? She seemed quite vocal in class."

"You don't see the full picture, Professor. Classes are just a few hours per week." Harry countered. "I believe she's having flashbacks to her first year. She knows that her Tom - the memory from the diary - was actually V... well, the Dark Lord, and I think it terrifies her that she carried around his thoughts. Maybe she believes Tom's still in her head, somewhere."

Another brooding silence descended on the room, and the two both sipped slowly from their tea.

"Do you suppose we'll win this war, Professor?"

"Of course we will, Potter. We'll have to. Dumbledore believes you may be the key to defeating the Dark Lord, and I trust in his instincts. Immature brat as you are, you have significant advantages that we can exploit. The Dark Lord will create his own downfall by the very fact that he thinks he knows what you are like, and what you'll do. He thinks you're inferior."

"Is he wrong about that? I am hardly magically superior to Dumbledore - or you, I hear." Harry asked, frowning.

"Of course he's wrong, you blithering idiot." Snape suddenly blurted. "I can think of few beings that aren't superior to the Dark Lords in several ways. You yourself, one might well say it is fated that you two shall meet again on the battlefield. You may not have the power or experience - yet - but you are the reckless Gryffindor to his Slytherin."

"What an interesting choice of words, Professor. Fated." Harry commented, "I would almost think you believe in the likes of Trelawney."

Snape's twitch to that was less than subtle - he almost knocked his tea from the table.

"I see," Harry said, worriedly. "The Headmaster must trust you a lot. I didn't think he'd have told anyone else about the prophecy."

"He didn't." Snape spat, turning away. "It's late, Potter. I will have to research further on your fiery visions may mean, and I cannot do it with you breathing over my shoulder. Dumbledore also expects me to find ways to entangle the Death Eaters in internal rivalries - a difficult task. Your presence makes it aggravatingly different to concentrate."

Harry nodded, and stood up. "If you bring down the Dark Lord while I'm sleeping, come fetch me. Otherwise, I'll see you in class." Snape merely snorted as he turned back to his desk, shaking his head.

Neither of them noticed the third person departing.


Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody drank deeply from his flask, which he'd filled with the best firewhiskey he could find. It'd been well-tested for all types of poison, of course, as all his drinks always were. Tonight it was a particularly tough night, and that called for a good drink.

"Alastor, fancy meeting you here!" a voice called out, somewhat haphazardly.

"Go and fetch your bed, Meryn," Moody barked, glaring. "You've had far too much to drink already, and you really shouldn't hang around ex-aurors while out of your mind. You might just lose an eye or two."

"Got experience with that, do you?" the man, Meryn, bellowed. "Hah! Cat got your tongue?"

With a growl Moody whipped out his wand and blasted the drunk off his feet. "You'd better not be trying anything funny, I still have plenty of speed in the old bones to take on the likes of you."

"Stop whinin' Mad-Eye, most of us ain't done nothing worse than nick a few coins. We ain't exactly master thieves here, y'know. A man's gotta make a living, though." The speaker was a man in the corner that was taking deep swallows of a purple-and-green drink. "You ain't an auror any more, so stop your yapping."

"I might not be an auror any more, but that doesn't mean I stopped beating up punks who don't know better," Moody said in a soft voice. "If you don't watch out, I might just come over there and let you meet my leg from real close."

A jeer ran through the small crowd packed in the pub, and Moody turned around with a glare. "What're you looking at, lowlifes?"

"Oy, Alastor," A third voice said, softly. Moody's magical eye twirled madly until it find a face to fit it with.

"Arnold Peasegood! Can't remember speaking to you in weeks, though I guess with you one might never know, eh?" Moody gruffly said, smiling. "How've the years been taking care of you?"

"Good, good," Arnold said warily. "Being an Obliviator's getting on my nerves. Had some work for the Unspeakabes last week. Y'think obliviators are safe from being memory charmed? I can't remember what I ate for breakfast. If I had any breakfast at all, really."

"An' you people call me paranoid," Moody grumbled. "Why'd you sign up for working with the Department of Misery anyway?"

Peasegood snorted. "Misery. I like it. Honestly, it's good pay and if it's a boring job, you don't remember anyway. Besides, there haven't been any missing obliviators for years, I'm sure it's safe."

"Arnold," Moody said, grimacing. "You of all people should've realized that if any of 'em went missing, you'd probably not remember."

The other man gulped, paling. "I went and forgot about that. Honestly, I can't see how some people keep this up. I'm thinking of getting myself signed up with the Hitwizards one of these days - I'm a fair shot with the wand."

"Any particularly juicy news that you picked up, down there?" Moody asked, interested.

"Jus' some rumours, nothing particularly staggerin'. Heard that the guys from the Hall of Prophecy found themselves another seer, though apparently it's not a particularly good one. One of them creepy tactile ones, I hear. One of the members of the Temporal Division is visiting London, too. Hear he's waiting for a colleague to appear from some experiment to travel into the future." Arnold gulped from his glass, then continued, "Beyond that, not a lot. Haven't been in half the London branch, let alone anywhere else. Site 17 - that's what the international part's supposed to be - is pretty much completely missing. Some say it's been stuck in the late 70's for decades now, and they've relocated after it was lost."

Moody shuddered. "I'm interested 'cos one my students got an invitation for a meeting, as you predicted. I'm thinking they might be trying to recruit 'im. Ain't a Ministry worker at all, though, so I'm not sure. Thanks to you, I had a fair warning, at least."

"They do the meeting thing, sometimes," Arnold said, nodding. "I knew about, well, your student 'cos I got lucky, nothin' more. I don't understand them Unspeakables - sometimes, it seems they know who's gonna be recruited months or years before the person's even applied. Before they even think of applyin'. I hear the Temporal Division has something to do with that. You'd think they'd be stuck with the six hours limit, though, so maybe they're using prophecies or something." the man looked up at the barkeep and quickly ordered another drink, as he had run dry.

Interested, Moody looked up from his flask. "Six hours limit? What are you talking about? Figured that was just the public ones."

"First Law of Temporal Transportation : Don't go back more than six hours from your original time. I understand it's pretty unbeatable. Unspeakables have been workin' on it for centuries. You can't travel back in time further than that by using a time-turner again, either - you'd end up missing, forever. At least, that's what I've heard. I had a job once cleaning up after some poor sod tried to use a time-turner to save his girlfriend from being run over by a carriage. Didn't work, of course, so he forced the thing to go back again and again. Eventually he seems to have tried going back to the previous day to get 'er out of town. 'Fraid all we found was a pile of dust and teeth." Arnold looked at the bar, annoyed, tapping his fingers on the counter. "Oy, where's my drink? What's taking so long?"

"That's just downright creepy, that," Moody muttered, as he drunk some more from his flask. Thankfully, it was enchanted to have much more in it than was readily apparent. "Did you ever run into any of the Temporal Division blokes yourself?"

"Once. I don't care to repeat it. Seems that since going backwards isn't workin' out much, they've started trying to go forward. Problem is, of course, they can't go back and tell anyone. So they just sort of wait around to see if their ideas worked." Arnold seemed exasperated with it all. "Honestly I don't understand half of what I've seen of the Department of Mysteries, and I don't care to understand the rest. I think I've met the least weird of the lot."

Moody grunted into his whiskey. "You'd have to be a little crazy to fit in there, I reckon. Hope we'll see each other again, soon. I've got an owl to send."


It was late at night when a man cloaked in a dark blue flowing robe stepped lightly into Hogwarts. All the lit torches immediately extinguished as he moved past, only to rekindle afterwards. The moon, at least, was in the sky, so he had a little illumination through the many windows.

With a confident step he moved around a corner, heading for his destination : the headmaster's office. From a corner of his eye, he spied a glimmer of blue.

"Petrificus!" he said softly, waving his wand widely. It was a small boy, probably a first-year, Ravenclaw. The boy's eyes were wide and the man could smell the fear.

"I'm afraid I can leave no witnesses," the man said sadly. With a swish of his wand the boy slumped against the wall.

"What do you think you're doing?" a second voice came - a girl's voice. "Have you been infested by Umgubular Slashkilters? They make you see things, you know."

"You're the Lovegood girl, aren't you?" the man said, in surprise. "I know Xenophilius, he's spoken about you before. Can't mistake that hair, can you? Aeron Croaker, at your service."

"Ah, I did meet you before, I remember!" Luna said, "You asked me questions after the attack, last year. You didn't believe me about the Rotfang conspiracy. What did you do to Euan?"

Croaker raised an eyebrow, "You seem to have fared better against ministry obliviators than most, if you can remember that much. As for the boy, he'll wake up thinking he just fell asleep while wandering the castle. Won't remember anything."

"Why are you skulking around in the dark? If you want to catch anything interesting, you'd better look out in the forest." Luna frowned, "Why didn't you wipe your feet when you came in? You're just giving poor Mr. Filch more work."

"I have a legitimate reason to be here : I'm sent to talk to the headmaster. I was supposed to obliviate any witnessed, of course - I'll have to do that in a bit, if you don't mind - but I'm curious what your excuse is for being out past curfew?"

"I followed Euan out. He wanted to find the Unspeakables in the halls." Luna answered, seriously.

Croaker blanched at that. "How in the world did the boy know I'd be here?"

"I told him, of course," Luna answered matter-of-factly. "I just wanted to tell you that you will know where to find me, when you need me, and that you should make sure you don't have any Death Eaters among you. I'll probably remember telling you this in a few weeks so if you ignore it, I'll be quite cross with you."

"You're as nutters as your dad," Croaker muttered, "Obliviate. You were searching for Euan here, who fell asleep in the hallways. You just now found him. You'd best take him back to the dormitories."

Croaker left the two behind, striding off towards the Headmaster's office. Luna looked after him in a daze, and though she didn't know why, she smiled slightly.


"Wormtail, stop grovelling." Voldemort commanded. The small man who'd been hunched over and bowing straightened up somewhat, though he refused to meet the Dark Lord's eyes.

"You truly are pathetic, Peter. You know I forgive you your errors - after the appropriate punishment. I have no interest in killing you at this time."

"T-Thank you, Lord," Wormtail answered, wincing. "Of course, my Lord."

"Bring in the ministry wizard, Wormtail. I will make a demonstration out of him." Voldemort smiled thinly, "Thank Lucius for me, will you?"

"Yes, my Lord," Wormtail answered, as he quickly moved out of the room, leaving the Dark Lord to think, alone.

"I know you're there, Potter." Voldemort finally stated. "I know, because I willed it. You're no longer capable of entering my mind at will - you, on the other hand, have no such choice in the matter. I wish you to observe what I shall do to you, when next we meet."

Wormtail returned to the room, dragging a bound body behind him - it was leaving a trail of blood-red droplets that disappeared around the corner. "I'm afraid he won't wake, my Lord."

"Leave us." Voldemort said imperiously, striding over with confident steps. "While your pathetic abilities may not rouse him, I assure you my own will be sufficient. I will not require company for the next hour."

Wormtail left quickly - Voldemort conjured a chair and levitated the unconscious man into it.

"This, Harry Potter, is Royden Poke. An employee in the Ministry, and under Imperius control for several months, until he was found out by Minister Scrimgeour, last month. He is, I'm afraid, thought to be a Death Eater by his ministry colleagues. They will not miss him."

Voldemort raised his hand lightly and spoke : "Rennervate."
"Wha? What's going on?" Poke said, groggily. "You look funny. What'd you do, splinch your nose?"

"Silence." Voldemort said harshly. "See here, Potter, the kind of person the Ministry would hire. He worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He is to make negotiations with the Goblins. There is little wonder why the Ministry has failed, thus far. I shall not."

Voldemort caressed the wizard's cheek. "This here is a rather nice analogy for our dear Ministry, don't you think, Potter? Bloated, full of himself, completely oblivious to what's going on around it, and entirely tied up in other affairs. Let us not forget the staggering lack of intelligence as well. Truly all it is missing is rabies, to represent the Minister."

Poke whimpered, as he finally snapped out of his daze. "I don't know anything, I swear! I can't - remember much. I've never had a very good memory. Please don't kill me!"

"Tell me, Royden, what do you know of the Department of Law Enforcement? The Minster, perhaps? Anything about the Department of Mysteries?" Voldemort slowly circled the chair. "You know none of these things, since you are useless. Why should I leave you alive?"

"I ... I don't know anything," Poke tried again, whimpering. "I've told the others all I could, and one, I think, read my mind. My head hurts."

"Knowing nothing isn't beneficial to our relationship, Mr. Poke." Voldemort coldly replied. He suddenly aimed his wand at the slumping man. "Crucio." He watched on with a cold smile on his face as the wizard twisted and screamed under the horrible pain of the curse.

"See here, what will become of all your friends." Voldemort spoke, holding his wand on Poke, who was foaming at the mouth. "I will get you, Potter, even if it means going through each of your allies in turn. You have no chance against me. You will cease your pathetic attempts at harming me through our connection immediately, or I will start seeking them out."

Poke had started trembling terribly, his screams cut short since his voice was leaving him. "I'm afraid our playtime is nearly over, Harry. Mister Poke here, I'm afraid, is fated to join those dear Longbottoms at St. Mungo's, now. Nevertheless, Lord Voldemort is merciful."

"Avada Kedavra." Voldemort hissed harshly.

"AAAGH!" Harry shot up out of his bed, almost falling out of it entirely. With a deep breath he lowered himself back to the bed, panting.

"What was THAT?" Ron asked from his bed, clearly wide awake.

"Voldemort." Harry answered, stepping out of bed. "I need to go see Dumbledore."

Ron just nodded. "I thought that was over and done with? You said you hadn't had a nightmare like that the whole summer."

"Apparently, Voldemort didn't get the message," Harry answered, quickly drawing a robe from his trunk and donning it. "He had a ministry wizard there, was torturing him. Wanted to give me a demonstration, the sick monster."

Ron paled. "That's horrible! Should I send a letter to dad?"

"I think Dumbledore will take care of it, Ron." Harry answered, "We'll talk about this later."


"Hello, Draco." Harry said, stepping out of the shadows. "You're up late."

Draco Malfoy turned with such a speed he managed to get his robe stuck and he slammed to the ground with some force. With a grunt, he pushed himself up, gingerly rubbing his shin. "What'd you need to act like a ghost for, Potter? Go bother some Gryffindors."

"I know what you carry, Draco." Harry answered, coolly. "I know you listened to me and Severus talking, earlier."

"What do you mean, Potter?" Draco asked nervously. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You were listening in when Snape and I mentioned our continuing efforts to undermine Lord Voldemort." Harry answered. "You have in your pocket a letter addressed to your mother, detailing exactly what you heard. It would severely endanger Severus if you sent it."

"How could you possibly know that?" Draco inquired, bewildered. "Have you been spying on me?"

"Draco, I know you're not a Death Eater, nor aspire to be one."

"Who have you been talking to?" Draco asked, panicked. "Don't talk about things like this, they're going to get us both killed!"

Harry smirked knowingly. "Don't send the letter. Professor Snape is in a position to assist you, when it becomes necessary. He can offer you a way out. Endanger his position within the Death Eaters, and you will close that road entirely. You're smart, Draco, do what's right."

"How do you..." Draco began, but Harry shushed him. "It doesn't matter how I know. The fact is, I alone know, at this point. Let's keep it that way for a while longer. Do take care of yourself."

Harry walked off briskly, leaving a bewildered Draco Malfoy behind. He took the letter to his mother out of his pocket, and stared at it.

"I'm sorry, mother." Draco said, as he swiftly cast a silent Incendio and watched the letter curl up into ash. "Who knew Potter was so well-informed?" he muttered under his breath, secretly impressed.

Two stairs down, he ran into Potter again.

"You're still roaming around, Potter? Shouldn't you get back to your tower? Or are you off to banter with more Slytherins?" Draco drawled.

Potter just gave him a bewildered stare, then quickly moved on, holding a hand to his forehead, as if in pain. "Sod off, Malfoy" he muttered as he moved past.

Draco shook his head, striding off towards the dungeons. Gryffindors : insane, the lot of them.


"Ah, Mr. Potter." Dumbledore stated as Harry strode into the headmaster's office. "I seem to be having a particularly eventful evening. Please, sit."

Harry slumped into one of the chairs tiredly. "Voldemort's sending me dreams again," he said shortly. "It's the same as last year, with Sirius. He's intentionally sending me a message. He tortured a ministry wizard - from the department of magical animals, or along those lines - and then killed him."

Dumbledore frowned over his glasses. "And what message would Voldemort want to send you?"

"Apparently," Harry began, licking his lips. "I need to stop trying to harm him via our connection, or he'll start killing people close to me."

Dumbledore's face slackened slightly, eyebrows raised. "Really now? I believe Severus will be pleased to know that one of his hypotheses has now been confirmed. I do believe that Tom Riddle should count as an expert on the nature of mental assault, regardless of how he achieved such a status."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, mystified.

"I mean, Harry, that the visions you've been experiencing of late, are not in fact originating with Lord Voldemort - he would hardly try and threaten you into stopping what he is orchestrating. Considering your link is unique but magically relatively inert, this leaves only one option."

"Me." Harry said wonderingly, "I'm sending these visions to Voldemort through the connection, instead of the other way around?"

"This seems the best explanation, yes." Dumbledore acknowledged. "Of course, this gives us little information on the nature of these visions, save that they are not in fact originating from an attack by Lord Voldemort. I do believe that I have found another avenue of information that will help us understand the nature of your recent episodes."

A cough sounded from the other side of the room, past Fawkes' empty stand.

A tall, dark-skinned man approached, clothed in a long dark-blue flowing robe with a large cowl that was slung over his shoulders. His hair was short, spiky black and he wore two bright silver earrings in one ear. A thin silver necklace hung from his neck, ending in a small device Harry immediately recognized as a time-turner. "Good day, Mr. Potter. I am Aeron Croaker. I work for the Department of Mysteries."

Harry nodded in acknowledgement, holding out his hand. "Harry Potter, pleasure to meet you."

"It's a please to see you again, too." Croaker answered, smiling. "I'm afraid you don't remember last time, but it'll come to you with time, I'm sure. I'm here on behalf of the custodian of the Hall of Prophecies."

"Is this about the fight again?" Harry groaned. "Luna said we'd been over that, already."

"She did, did she?" Croaker said airily. "This is not, in fact, about your previous experiences at our Department - that regrettable adventure is thankfully over - nor about the first two prophecies you have been involved with."

"There's been a new prophecy." Harry said, dread bubbling up from deep within. "Just what I needed."
Harry's insides felt like they'd turned to stone. Another bloody prophecy. As if one that said he'd have to kill Voldemort wasn't quite enough.

Croaker nodded uncertainly. "Well, yes, there's been a new prophecy, yes. There's new ones all the time. It's sort of what the Hall of Prophecies if for, you know." Croaker fumbled with his robes, then straightened again - in his hand was a small golden sphere. "I have it with me here. Of course, only a few people could possibly remove it from this gold container."

"It's about me, again." Harry asked, his stomach flip-floppping. "Was it Trelawney again?"

Croaker flustered slightly. "Um, no. You see, this is the peculiar thing. We do know the identity of the Seer - and it's a bit of a surprise, you see. We've been looking back and forth through our records, and, well, there's never been very many tactile seers, of course - last one was in the 8th century, I think -"

"Mr. Croaker," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling slightly. "Do get to your point before this night is over."

"Well, yes." Croaker relented, looking curiously up at Harry. "The Seer, you see ... was you."

Harry blinked. And again. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, you can have it," Croaker said with a nervous smile. "The Department of Prophecies - they're the people that catalogue the prophecies, and stock the different Halls - found a newly formed prophecy earlier this summer, that noted it was both created for and witnessed by, well, you. Understandably things got a little confused, and Scrimgeour got his fingers in as well."

"The Minister of Magic, Harry. He's replaced Cornelius Fudge." Dumbledore clarified, though Harry knew he'd heard the name before, somewhere.

"Yes, well," Croaker continued, "It seems that the prophecy in question is an atypical type known as a tactile prophecy - that is, it is not conveyed via words but other sensations, usually visual images. The prophecy in question - this prophecy - has been causing us some problems since almost none of our researchers are able to get any information at all from it. Many feel nothing when studying the prophecy."

"I thought only the person it's about can pick it up?" Harry wondered, his mind spinning. He was a SEER of all things?

"Correct, though that is only our means of storage; before they are stored, Unspeakables in charge of the Department of Prophecies can freely research the prophecies. Any and all research, however, stays within the Department; we use an interesting spell that allows one to only remember the existence of prophecies one is studying, but not their contents, unless one is in a Hall. Quite ingenious, I believe."

"I'm a Seer." Harry finally stammered. "That wasn't exactly on my list of plausible reasons for my visions." He still couldn't believe it. "Honestly?"

"You were having visions and you didn't consider a form of clairvoyance?" Croaker asked, perplexed. "It'd be the first thing I'd think of. I wish you'd come by and have us test you for the talent."

"I do believe that is something the Ministry does not need to concern itself with." Dumbledore commented lightly. "I must remind you that Mr. Potter is a student of this school, and therefore enjoys my protection, regardless of what magical abilities he might possess."

"So, wait, the visions are going to come true?" Harry asked, suddenly horrified. "That's horrible! It's bad enough when I have to deal with waking dreams!"

"It's a prophecy, of course it's going to come true." Croaker said haughtily. " The few researchers who were able to study the sensations from the prophecy concluded that the most likely cause for the sensations is an obscure Dark Arts curse - rather volatile, I understand - namely the 'Fiendblood Curse'. Apparently it turns one's blood into fiendfyre for a brief moment, generally killing the subject swiftly."

"Fiendfyre?" Harry asked, paling. "Isn't that..."

"Cursed Fire. Living flames, yes." Dumbledore answered for Croaker. "A most grievous danger indeed, should you ever be exposed to it. There are, however, several possible treatments, not the least of which is a significant dose of phoenix tears - which I expect I will be able to retrieve with considerable ease for such a purpose."

Croaker was visibly twitching, now. "Yes, well, the best thing to do about that curse is to break the connection. I don't think many wizards can do it, but if you can manage to knock out the caster in time, you'd have a pretty good chance of survival. I would suggest, considering this is in your future, you might want to invest the time to defeat it when it comes."

Dumbledore looked over his half-moon glasses, eyes twinkling, wandlessly casting a deafening charm at the poor Unspeakable. "I do have an interesting idea, Harry. What if it's not in fact Lord Voldemort that would curse you with this? You are well aware of the other prophecy about you, and what is capable of killing you, and what is not. What if this - prophecy - allows you to prevent what would otherwise be your death?"

"You're saying fate is giving me a bit of help on my next encounter with death since I'm already got one scheduled?" Harry asked incredulously. "I knew Ron was right, you are mad!"

"Fate... or something else." Croaker commented softly, evidently unaffected by Dumbledore's charm - or a lipreader. "Mr. Potter, this wasn't all that I was here to do, tonight. I was sent to deliver this letter to you, personally. I'd have given it to you in the morning, when I'd planned to have this conversation."

The letter was terribly familiar. It was the same type of largish envelope with the seal of the Ministry of Magic imprinted on it. Harry quickly opened it.

"On behalf of the Minister of Magic , Rufus Scrimgeour, you are hereby officially invited to join the Department of Mysteries, in the position of Unspeakable, specifically : Field Agent in Training."

It continued on, but Harry dropped the letter to the table in shock.

"So," Croaker wondered out loud. "When can we expect you?"