69 Agency

Albus Dumbledore sat alone in his office, the soft glow of the fire casting flickering shadows along the walls of old books and trinkets. The air was thick with an unsettling weight, one that had grown ever heavier since the events of the Triwizard Tournament began to unfold. The fingers of his left hand lightly traced the edge of a scroll on his desk, a prophecy, one of two, spoken on the same day, and by two very different seers, while his left one played with the crimson vial in his pocket, one of three remaining.

Sybill Trelawney's voice echoed in his mind, as clearly as it had sounded in the moment she'd uttered it, her eyes glazed, lost in that strange, all-knowing trance:

"In darkness born and shadows cast,

The storm will rise from bitter past.

Pulled by strings unseen, unknown,

The world shall reap what it has sown.

A child of fire, a heart of ash,

Dragged to power's twisted clash.

Should the world push far too deep,

A reckoning shall wake from sleep.

Blood will spill, a rising flood,

The rebel's hands shall bathe in blood.

No mercy left, no light remains,

Only fury's iron chains.

A slaughterer forged by cruel design,

He'll carve a path through fate's malign.

Beware the storm, for once it's bred

The world will break beneath his tread."

Dumbledore's hand stilled, his blue eyes clouded with concern. He had long since learned to take Trelawney's visions seriously, however erratic her abilities might seem to others. And this prophecy had struck him to his core. The "child of fire" was unmistakably Lucas Foster, the boy thrust into the deadly games of power surrounding the tournament, and the "reckoning" that awaited, should the world continue to push him too far, haunted Dumbledore.

He feared the storm that Trelawney foresaw, a storm that would rise not from the hatred of a dark lord, but from the anguish and fury of a boy whose soul had been twisted by those around him. Lucas had been pulled into a conflict not of his making, his life manipulated by outside forces, by threats and cruelty. Dumbledore himself was one of them and he certainly knew that the boy could be swayed into a path of destruction, if enough pressure was applied. If that were to happened, the prophecy warned of a slaughter the likes of which they had never seen.

But it was not too late, the prophecy was not yet set in stone. There was still a way out of that destiny. One he was willing to take by force if necessary.

But it was not Trelawney's prophecy alone that disturbed him. There had been another, spoken on the very same day. This one by Luna Lovegood, a girl whose visions had, until then, been dismissed as nothing more than whimsical fancies. And it would have remained as such, if she had not spoken of a real prophecy. Additionally, her words had an eerie resonance with Trelawney's, and Dumbledore had learned never to ignore the echoes of fate.

Her words had been softer, but no less chilling:

"When vengeance's blade is sharp and swift,

And all is lost beneath its gift,

What shall remain when blood runs dry,

When foes are dust, and none left to die?

A soul adrift, a heart in chains,

A hollow king with empty reigns.

The fire quenched, the storm made still,

Yet silence cuts a deeper chill.

He'll walk alone through fields of red,

The faces gone, the voices dead.

No solace found in victory's pyre,

Only ash from the lost desire.

The world once hated, now laid bare,

No love, no hope, no light to share.

In misery's grasp, the final toll—

A vengeance gained, but lost his soul.

Yet fate is fickle, paths still turn,

The future's flame can still yet burn.

But should he fall, and lose the fight,

He'll find no peace, no end in sight."

The lines echoed in his mind, the warning clear. While Trelawney's prophecy foretold the rise of a slaughterer, Luna's painted the aftermath. A bleak vision of a boy who had nothing left. Even if Lucas succeeded in taking his revenge on those who had wronged him, even if he carved a path of blood through the world, Luna saw a future where that vengeance left him broken, his soul hollow and chained by his own actions.

A king of nothing, ruling over a wasteland of regret and sorrow.

It only strengthened his resolve to do whatever was in his power to keep Lucas from this future.

Dumbledore rose from his chair and turned to the window overseeing the dark forest outside. Together, they formed a vision of potential futures, neither of them promising. It confirmed the danger he had seen in the boy and helped him find his resolve to do what he might need to do in the future with the crimson vial. The question now was how far they would go, the thread of this sweater of destiny had already begun unravelling.

He gazed out of the window, looking across the dark grounds of Hogwarts, and his heart grew heavy. Time was running out. The threads of fate were tightening, and the outcome lay in his hands once more. But this time he would make sure to force the outcome that would be best for Britain's future.

"The future's flame can still yet burn," Luna had said. "Yet fate is fickle."

Dumbledore closed his eyes, strengthening his resolve once more.

It was all for the greater good.

----

The Forbidden Forest was a different world at night. The moonlight barely reached through the thick canopy of twisted branches, casting long shadows on the forest floor. The usual sounds of the forest, the rustling leaves and distant howls, seemed muted, replaced by an eerie stillness that made every step Lucas took feel heavier, more deliberate. He was walking toward the designated clearing, the time and place clearly etched into his mind.

As he approached the spot, the trees parted to reveal a small, circular clearing bathed in faint silver light. A large, dark figure stood waiting in the middle, hooded and draped in dark robes.

The man turned slightly as Lucas entered the clearing, his face obscured by the shadows of his hood. His voice, when he spoke, was cold and authoritative, carrying the weight of centuries of dark magic behind it. His magic was different to anything he had ever felt, it was practically vile and assaulted his senses, causing nausea and a headache. Lucas couldn't pinpoint how strong whoever stood in front of him was and he liked to keep his distance.

"You came," the man said, his tone flat, as if Lucas's presence were nothing more than expected. "Good. I was beginning to think you might have misunderstood your… situation."

Lucas remained on the edge of the clearing, maintaining his composure. His expression was unreadable, though his heart pounded in his chest. "I don't take orders easily, especially when they come wrapped in threats."

A low chuckle escaped the man, and he raised his head slightly, revealing piercing eyes that glinted with malice. "This isn't about whether you like orders, Foster. You have a role to play, and it's not negotiable." His voice dropped an octave, growing darker. "You have disappointed us greatly. We expected more from you, however, it is not too late to change that."

Lucas's fists clenched at his sides. He had known this could happen ever since he had been dragged into this twisted game of power and politics. But the mention of his mother and Akane hit him like a punch to the gut, regardless. His mind flashed to the two of them, alone, vulnerable, and far from his reach. And yet their minds were as tranquil as ever, not a sign of a threat in sight.

The hooded figure got something out of his robes and threw it at Lucas, who caught it effortlessly.

It was a small vial, with nothing but a drop of a transparent liquid inside.

It felt unnaturally cold in Lucas's hand, as if the liquid inside was somehow sapping the warmth from the air around it. He turned it over, watching the way the single drop seemed to glisten in the moonlight, deceptively harmless. His jaw tightened.

"Poison," Lucas said flatly. "And what exactly am I supposed to do with this?"

The hooded figure's lips curled into a thin smile, though the rest of his face remained hidden. "This Foster, is precisely the change I was talking about. A single drop is able to poison a whole lake or a hot spring in our case."

Lucas's stomach churned as he looked back down at the almost empty flask. "What about the antidote? I suppose I will get it if I do what you want."

A low chuckle escaped the hooded figure. "That's the fun part. That is the antidote. As long as you have enough of it in your system nothing happens, but if you for some reason stop getting it, then... I think neither of us wants to see that happen, do we?"

The clearing seemed to close in around Lucas as the words sunk in and the small vial in his hand felt far heavier than it should. Nothing mattered anymore except the hooded person in front of him, everything else faded into the background.

*BOOOOOOM*

With a loud explosion his head exploded into a gory mess. Chunks of his brain littering the forest floor and fragments of his skull embedded themselves in the trees.

A nonchalant sigh echoed in the clearing, coming from the now decapitated corpse. "Couldn't you have kept your mind to yourself? Look at the mess you made."

"Well, it doesn't matter. We will deal with this at our next meeting. As for now I hope you will cause some chaos. I really would hate to hurt those women. Such delicate flowers deserve a good life, don't they?"

Silence returned to the forest. The man's last words hung like a guillotine above Lucas' neck.

The frustration and anger that he had kept in himself finally bubbled over.

"AHHHHHH!"

His scream tore through the forest, raw and guttural, reverberating through the towering trees. Lucas let go of the control, of the forced calm he'd clung to. All the frustration, all the anger that had been simmering inside him came rushing out in an uncontrollable torrent of power.

The ground trembled beneath him, and the air around him buzzed with a violent surge of raw magic. Trees that had stood tall for centuries groaned in protest as their roots were torn from the earth, ripped out by Lucas's unleashed fury. Thick trunks splintered like fragile twigs, crashing to the forest floor with earth-shaking force.

Wind swirled violently, the very fabric of the forest bending under the weight of his power. Leaves flew in all directions, torn from their branches as the storm within Lucas raged without restraint. His magic crackled around him, alive and untamed, feeding off his emotions as they swirled together into a chaotic force.

As the last of the trees toppled, leaving a once dense part of the forest reduced to a barren wasteland, Lucas's energy finally began to wane. His chest heaved, breath ragged, his fists still clenched at his sides. His magic flickered, sputtering out like a dying flame, leaving only the echo of destruction behind.

But the anger remained, simmering beneath the surface, waiting. His vision cleared, and focused on a different direction.

The castle.

With a final glance at the destruction he'd left behind, Lucas turned and began running back toward the castle, his steps swift and determined. The wind howled around him, like it wanted him to leave the forest with all its might. He was done playing the puppet in someone else's sick game.

Tonight, he would get answers. One way or another.