Why had Trelawney slipped into that prophetic trance? Was it tied to her ancestor Cassandra, the legendary seer? Or perhaps to his adoptive father, Gellert Grindelwald—and the prophetic gaze said to run in the Grindelwald line?
Back in his first year, the centaur Firenze—now Hogwarts' Divination professor—had sensed something unique in him, reading it in the stars with unshakable conviction. The centaurs had even shared their own prophecy about him. Were these gifts simply inherited?
"I should make time to visit the centaur herd," he mused. "Not sure if Firenze could even arrange it. Probably not—he's vanished without a trace."
...
In the Headmaster's office, Trelawney was still sniffling, her eyes wide with terror as she faced Dumbledore.
"Albus, Sybill just prophesied in Divination class!" McGonagall said urgently. "Her state was... unnatural. I've never seen anything like it. She was like she was possessed. And she doesn't remember a word of what she said."
"You don't recall the prophecy?" Dumbledore leaned forward, his eyes distant, as if dredging up old memories.
"What did she say, Minerva? Repeat it verbatim."
McGonagall's recall was sharp as ever, even under pressure. She recited it flawlessly, word for word.
Dumbledore's brow furrowed. "She blurted it out right after Mr. Grindelwald handled the crystal ball?"
McGonagall nodded. "During Sybill's lesson, she asked him to try some Divination. He made a prediction about her—something about her being sacked from Hogwarts. She overheard at the door, burst into tears, and fled. I caught up, tried to calm her, and brought her back. But she wasn't fit to teach, so I told Mr. Grindelwald to pack away the orb. That's when she changed—like someone else entirely."
"Wait, Minerva." Dumbledore's tone sharpened. "The prophecy came after he put the crystal ball away?"
"Yes."
He sank into thought. It echoed the day he'd interviewed Trelawney years ago. She'd seemed a fraud, peddling mysticism without true sight, descended from prophets but lacking the spark. When he'd gently refused her, she'd crumbled. In consoling her, she'd suddenly prophesied—Voldemort's downfall at the hands of a boy born to parents who'd defied him thrice.
Did extreme distress unlock her gift? If so, perhaps dismissing her could trigger another vision. But that notion stayed locked in his mind; aloud, he soothed her with grandfatherly warmth.
"Sybill, calm yourself. No one's sacking you. You've been here for years—if we meant to let you go, we'd have done it long ago."
"Truly?" Trelawney's fogged mind cleared at his words. It did make sense.
"Of course. Hogwarts doesn't dismiss professors lightly."
He left it vague, hedging for the future. If her prophecies proved vital, a calculated firing might be worth it.
Relieved, Trelawney dabbed her eyes, flushing. "Headmaster, I... I'm so sorry. I lost my composure."
"Nonsense, Sybill. We all have our breaking points." Dumbledore waved it off kindly.
With McGonagall's help, they eased her out. Then, alone, they turned to the heart of it.
"Albus, do you believe it? Her prophecy?"
"It's genuine," he said, gesturing for McGonagall to sit. "The trance matched the one from her interview. She's the real deal—when it counts."
McGonagall's skepticism cracked. She'd always dismissed Trelawney's vague ramblings and fluttering shawls. Without that eerie episode, she'd have marched her straight back to quarters. But Dumbledore's certainty shifted everything.
"She mentioned Sirius Black storming Hogwarts, killing innocents... reuniting with his master?"
"I'm afraid so." Dumbledore's nod was heavy. "Minerva, we must brace for the worst."
"The worst?" McGonagall struggled to picture it. Hogwarts teemed with acolytes, Aurors, and vigilant staff. How could Sirius breach it? And spark a massacre inside?
But Dumbledore's "worst" cut deeper. "If she's right, his master... Voldemort... could rise again."
"Voldemort!"
The name hit like a curse. McGonagall had fixated on the bloodshed, overlooking the reunion. If Sirius served anyone, it was him—the scourge who'd terrorized Britain with his Death Eaters. She'd fought Grindelwald's war, endured Voldemort's reign. Now, eyeing retirement, another dark revival? Exhaustion weighed on her.
She thought of the prophecy's boy: Harry. And Argus. A quiet sigh escaped her. If only a decade more could pass—the young ones would be ready. With Argus's brilliance and Harry's courage, the burden wouldn't fall to her generation.
"Minerva, stay extra vigilant. Watch Harry closely. If Sirius slips in, the boy's his prime target."
Even Dumbledore couldn't fathom Sirius's entry. All they could do was heighten defenses.
"I will," McGonagall promised. "But so many students overheard. Won't that tip Sirius off?"
"Prophecies unfold on fate's terms," Dumbledore replied, staring through the wall as if peering into the ether. "Twists and turns lead inexorably to their end."