ALOHOMORA | CEDRIC DIGGORY

63〝sixty-three〞

FOR A MOMENT, ELLIS WAS disappointed in Dumbledore's answer. Then he spoke anew into the raptly silent classroom.

"Divination is a curiously ironic thing," he said. "Whilst it lets in a select few on the secrets held by the future, it is, to the best of my knowledge, not possible for the Inner Eye to See at will, not least for whom one desires. Of course, I am not speaking of fortune-telling methods such as crystal-gazing or palmistry. I cannot hope to explain to you the true art of Divination, having never studied the subject myself. Nonetheless, evidence suggests it is a field of magic that is rather—forgive me—unpredictable.

"As I have mentioned, it exhibits itself in widely different manners. Some enter into a trance and emerge from their forecasting without so much as the slightest inkling that they had done so. Some, like your great-grandfather, could maintain full awareness whilst Seeing. He was even able, with the aid of suitable tools, to project his visions to others—rather handy for him, if you ask me. His competence, moreover, was such that he could predict events even more than a decade into the future (not that he knew it at the time), whereas most Seers prophesy more immediate phenomenons.

"While you share his talents, the latter appears—for now anyway—to be a more fitting description of your case, wherein Ginny's so-called fate was glimpsed only several months in advance."

"Hers wasn't the only one," mumbled Ellis.

"Oh?" But Dumbledore looked only mildly surprised.

"I saw Colin, Mrs. Norris, and Justin, too," confessed Ellis wretchedly. "I tried—I tried to help Colin, but he still—and Justin, I wanted to—I was trying—but I didn't know when—"

"Ah," said Dumbledore, with the air of having something dawned on him, "there, is another paradox of Divination, for it deals with that which is so delicate—time. As you have encountered firsthand, your visions, apart from clearly marking out the target, are otherwise far from straightforward, never mind prophecies that are typically vague and cannot be interpreted without considerable guesswork. But to deal with time in conjunction is to complicate matters to the utmost, for time is such that it can be both fixed and in flux, certain and uncertain. Some events, despite valiant efforts, cannot be prevented; others more malleable. As to which are which, it is most imprecise.

"With training, and appropriate instruments to channel them perhaps, your skills might still be honed—I wouldn't know—such that more clarity, or Signs, could be gathered. Whether this amounts to the promise that the Known, good or bad, could be guided into fulfillment or avoided by intervention, however, it remains—again, pardon me—to be seen. Personally, I have my reservations, for the implications of our actions are always so intricate, so manifold... Perhaps, the Inner Eye is not so much as a gift than it is a burden...

"All the same, I do believe there is a good chance we have evaded Ginny's demise with your help tonight. If all goes well, why, you may still have contributed to the delay of something much more terrible that a first-year's death—and that is saying something."

"What are you talking about?"

"Have you ever heard of the name Tom Riddle, Ellis?"

The label not ringing any bells, though evoking some riddles all right, Ellis glanced at Snape, who was looking at Dumbledore in unadulterated disapproval. Dumbledore either didn't notice or didn't care.

"I believe you have seen him," he added to Ellis, peering down his crooked nose significantly.

Something odd clicked in Ellis's head.

"The prefect?"

Dumbledore beamed.

"But there's no Slytherin prefect called Tom Riddle," said Ellis, puzzled. Snape now looked as if he was curbing the urge to shout at Dumbledore.

"Not at present, no," said Dumbledore serenely. "I beg you to bear with me, Ellis. I will explain everything in a while, for I do not wish to repeat myself. Now, though"—Dumbledore rose to his feet, Snape copying—"I think it is time for us to proceed next door; there are some people I wish for you to meet. Severus"—he turned to Professor Snape—"I suggest you retire for the time being; I expect it will be a restless night."

Snape was positively enraged by the dismissal, but he did not defy the headmaster. Giving Ellis a swift glance, he nodded very begrudgingly at Dumbledore and departed. As the last of his black robes rippled out of sight, Dumbledore beckoned Ellis to follow him. Halfway across the classroom, however, the question that had been swirling sickly in the pit of her stomach for a while now burst forth.

"Why didn't you say it wasn't you?"

Dumbledore refaced her in a swish of silver, smiling, but said nothing.

"How could you just let me hate you for all this time and not say anything?!"

"It is my impression that you haven't won the favor of many of your peers either. Did you ever say anything to them?" Wide-eyed, Ellis could not counter. Smiling slightly wider, Dumbledore continued, "Rather like yourself, I recognize my own worth. I do not yearn to seek the approbation of others. Besides, you are quite entitled to hate me still..."

"What—?"

"Sit down, Ellis," said Dumbledore, gesturing to their recently vacated chairs. They reseated themselves, and solemnly, he said, "Credence—as I prefer to call him—would never have cursed your family if it hadn't been for me. As I said, he was very emotionally-broken, and your great-grandparents' behavior, which he deemed as treachery, devastated him.

"It is my supposition, for I have no proof, that he did not bother to determine what inspired their relation in the first place. It could be that it made little difference at any rate—she had been his only true friend, and her infidelity could very well have been tantamount to treason. It could be that he had already shown mercy, for he did her no harm, though I am inclined to believe that it was but an act of love. For it is my hope that he might have had a change of heart altogether should he have been aware that your great-grandmother had only done what she did in a bid to keep them together.

"You see, your great-grandfather and I had reached a stalemate. He was on the brink of a revolution, and I, a thorn in his flesh, but we could not fight each other outright. When he came across Credence, he had due reason to believe that he was key to removing me from the equation once and for all. He was already winning Credence's allegiance when your great-grandmother saw through his charismatic methods for what they really were. She was not enticed by his promises and knew that when it came down to it, she would fail to sway Credence, and they would have to go their separate ways. So, she did what any desperate lover would do: She endeavored to change your great-grandfather's mind about Credence. Needless to say, she had been unsuccessful.

"I do not pretend to understand wherefore your great-grandfather acceded to the deed. Perhaps he planned to use her as a pawn, for it did precipitate Credence's joining of his army. Why—you may ask—had he committed himself to someone who had caused him so much suffering? Well, he had an ulterior motive—two, in fact—but it is irrelevant to your question.

"So, you see, if it had not been for me, your great-grandfather would never have sought out Credence. In turn, your great-grandmother would never have attempted to dissuade him, and the series of unfortunate events which ensued would never have transpired."

He finished, leaving Ellis with the sense that he was being rather hypocritical: How could he expect her to forgive herself when he was incapable of it himself?

"My conscience," he said, with a knowing gaze, "rather like yours, despite the extenuating circumstances, resists absolution, and you will sympathize with my eagerness to make things right for you. As I have maintained with your mother: It is my duty.

"Now, however, that really ought to be bringing you next door."