Karacule glided down the stone corridor leading away from the gargoyle entrance, a sharp grin on her face. A sneaky little old man indeed, she mused.
But despite his transparent political maneuvering, she harbored no ill intent toward Dumbledore. In fact, she respected him. His ultimate goal was to protect his students and preserve the legacy of his sanctuary, a burden she understood intimately.
"Ohohohoho! What a delightfully silly old man," she laughed out loud, her voice bouncing off the ancient walls.
But her laughter was cut short.
The ambient air in the corridor suddenly turned heavy. Karacule froze. Her seasoned senses surged as she felt a strange, overwhelming aura piercing through the castle's standard wards.
It was thick with ancient, abundant mana, pulsing with an archaic authority that felt terrifyingly close to the divine grace of the Goddess Althea—yet fundamentally different, colder, and tangled with the threads of time itself.
How could such an entity appear here and now?! Karacule's analytical mind raced. I must contain this anomaly before it tears this castle apart!
Had Dumbledore been able to read her thoughts in that exact moment, he would have been profoundly relieved and deeply moved to see just how fiercely protective the grand sorceress already was of Hogwarts.
Instantly prioritizing the threat, Karacule canceled her levitation magic, her boots hitting the flagstones.
Without a single moment of hesitation, she focused her intent and blinked. Her peerless space magic warped reality, completely tearing her from the corridor and dropping her directly at the epicenter of the anomalous mana burst.
She materialized with her white wand gripped tightly in her hand, her magical core flared to its absolute limit, fully prepared for a lethal, apocalyptic standoff.
Instead, she was met with a familiar, entirely unthreatening back.
It was Sybill Trelawney, the disheveled Divination professor.
But the woman was unrecognizable from breakfast. She was standing entirely rigid, holding a massive crystal ball that was glowing with a brilliant, soft light reminiscent of a full moon. A thick, ethereal blue mist swirled aggressively around her ankles, rising up like a spectral shroud.
Karacule approached with intense curiosity, her battle-hardened instincts keeping her on absolute red alert.
Her fingers shifted on her wand, mentally preparing a complex web of spells.
First, bind her with gravitational force.
If she cannot be bound, execute a lethal laser barrage to kill.
And if the entity proves too immense to kill, immediately deploy an elemental shield and blink the fuck away.
Before she could cast a single hex, a mystical force—commanding and absolute, like the very dictator of fate itself—swept through the air.
Sybill Trelawney's head snapped back with a slow, unnatural, jerky motion. She leveled her gaze toward Karacule. Her eyes had rolled completely back, showing nothing but stark, luminescent whites.
Karacule was slightly startled, a rare jolt of surprise tightening her chest. Yet, guarded as she was, she felt herself helplessly drawn into the raw, unadulterated cosmic energy pouring out of the woman.
Sybill opened her mouth. But it was not her usual breathy, dramatic voice that emerged. It was a harsh, multi-tonal resonance that practically sang with the terrifying weight of a true Prophecy:
"The star that fell from a broken sky... walks the halls of stone... Her choices shall split the path of the chosen child and shatter the shadow's destiny... But beware the foreign light... for a presence unmade invites the sight... of the Ancient Banished... Jealous Eye... the crawling darkness from the abyss longs to rewrite the stars..."
The words were maddeningly cryptic, dense, and barely understandable, hanging in the frosty air like heavy smoke.
Karacule's eyes widened in profound, genuine shock as her brilliant mind absorbed the staggering information. An Ancient Banished? Jealous Eye?!
"What did you say?!" Karacule shouted in sheer disbelief, her voice cracking the mystical silence of the corridor.
Gasppp!
The blue mist vanished into nothingness. The luminescent glow in the crystal ball snuffed out instantly.
Sybill Trelawney violently shuddered, gasping for air as the divine trance tore itself away from her body. She staggered backward, her normal, oversized glasses slipping down her nose as she blinked in absolute terror.
She looked up to find the new, imposing DADA professor gripping both of her shoulders with an unyielding, iron-clad intensity.
"P-Professor Fairystar?!" Trelawney squeaked, clutching her crystal ball to her chest like a shield, her voice returning to its usual high-pitched, trembling state.
"Wh-whatever is the meaning of this? Why are you holding me so tightly?"
"You..." Karacule breathed out, her sharp eyes scanning Trelawney's bewildered face. "You just made a prophecy. A real, binding declaration of fate."
Trelawney's terror instantly transformed into ecstatic, gasping delight, though a heavy dose of disbelief remained. In all her years at Hogwarts, she had never been able to consciously control her passive, hereditary gifts in divination.
She spent her days relying on mundane tricks, fabricated omens, and reading tea leaves just to get by.
"Did I... did I really prophesy, Professor Karacule?!" Sybill gasped, her chest heaving with excitement. "Oh, the Inner Eye! It has spoken through me again! What did I say? Was it a terrible omen of doom?!"
Karacule stared at the eccentric woman, completely confused by her total lack of awareness.
But then, she remembered the ancient shamans and erratic magical beings from Lagendia. Many who possessed the sight were mere vessels, entirely unable to control or remember the volatile gifts running through their blood.
Slowly, Karacule let go of Sybill's shoulders, smoothing her purple robes with an air of regained composure.
The prophecy was deeply concerning, but a grand sorceress does not cower before cryptic words. Besides, looking at her pocket watch, she realized the noon hour was fast approaching.
"Never mind what you said, Sybill," Karacule replied, her signature, haughty smirk flashing back onto her face.
"You gave me a very fascinating puzzle to solve. But I have a much more pressing matter to attend to—an entire faculty that needs a thorough lesson in magical dominion."
Turning on her heel, she began to float once more, her mind locked and loaded for the grand display at the Quidditch pitch.
She made a firm mental note to contact Albus about this profound revelation... but only after she secured her absolute victory.
"Ohohohoho!" her theatrical laughter echoed through the halls once more as she glided toward the grounds, ready to show the four Heads of House what a true Fairystar sovereign could do.
---
An hour before the designated time, the Quidditch pitch was a whirlwind of frantic activity. Madam Hooch was in her absolute element, striding across the emerald grass and barking out commands.
"To the left, Hagrid! No, your other left! Move those heavy trunks completely off the boundaries!"
Hagrid grunted, easily lifting a massive crate of reserve Bludgers under each arm, his forehead glistening with sweat.
Meanwhile, Hooch was multitasking with brilliant efficiency, weaving her wand through the air to transfigure four colossal silk banners—Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff—which snapped proudly in the wind at specific vantage points around the oval. At the edge of the pitch, she conjured a neat row of spectator chairs, placing Dumbledore's magnificent, high-backed golden chair dead center.
Nearby, the four Heads of House stood in a tight circle, waiting for their opponent.
"I must admit," Professor Flitwick squeaked, checking the alignment of his wand, "the sheer audacity to challenge all four of us simultaneously is breathtaking! I am quite looking forward to seeing what kind of prowess a true 'sorceress' possesses. It's been decades since I've faced a completely unknown casting style!"
"Audacity is one word for it," McGonagall murmured, her lips pressed into a thin, razor-sharp line as she adjusted her traveling cloak.
"Arrogance is another. To look down upon the collective mastery of this staff is an insult to the institution itself."
Severus Snape, who had been standing in brooding silence with his arms crossed, suddenly stepped forward.
With a swift, fluid motion, his dark robes billowed as he pulled several crystal vials from the hidden pockets of his coat. He held them out to his colleagues.
"Drink," Snape commanded in a low, dangerous whisper. "A bottle of high-grade Maxima Potion, Edurus Potion, and a concentrated Wiggenweld Potion for each of you."
The other three professors looked at the shimmering liquids with distinct reluctance.
"Severus," Sprout questioned, wrinkling her nose. "Is this entirely necessary for a faculty demonstration?"
"You must remember how that arrogant witch spoke to us at breakfast," Snape hissed, his eyes flashing with a cold, venomous fire.
"She explicitly stated we could use everything at our disposal. I have spent the last three hours in my laboratory ensuring these brews are of the highest caliber. I have personally tweaked their formulas to maximize their potency and duration. Drink them. They will not kill you—but they will ensure she cannot break you."
Tucked deep within his own cuff, entirely hidden from view, Snape kept a golden vial of Felix Felicis. He intended to down the Liquid Luck the exact moment the match began. He was taking absolutely no chances.
Driven by a collective surge of pride and thoroughly tired of being looked down upon, the professors accepted the vials.
Pomona Sprout stepped toward Snape, reaching into her enchanted dragon-hide pouch.
"If we are combining our talents, Severus, then let me make my contribution," Sprout said with a fierce, determined nod. She handed him a bundle of rare, highly concentrated magical flora. "These are raw, premium ingredients I cultivated personally in Greenhouse Three. They will replenish whatever standard stock you depleted for those brews." She then glanced toward the edge of the pitch, a grim smile on her face.
"And don't worry... I have already prepared some of my deadly little babies. They are buried just beneath the turf, waiting for my signal."
Minerva stepped into the center, her voice taking on the commanding tone of a true general.
"Listen to me closely. If she utilizes spatial magic, we must not allow ourselves to be separated. Filius, you will lock her down with continuous, rapid-fire jinxes. Pomona, restrict her movements from below. Severus and I will dismantle her shields from the flanks—"
"Ohohohoho!"
The brilliant, theatrical laughter shattered their tactical meeting like brittle glass.
The space directly in front of the four professors violently warped, a localized tear in reality that cracked like thunder. From the shimmering violet distortion stepped the Defense professor.
Karacule floated a few feet off the ground, her deep-purple robes trailing through the air, her face the very picture of playful haughtiness.
"My, my, what a fascinating little coven meeting," Karacule teased, casually resting her white wand against her shoulder as she glided closer.
"Are we quite finished drawing lines in the dirt? I certainly hope so. I made a solemn promise to Albus that I would leave you all in one piece, and I would hate to break my word just because you spent all morning panicking."
Snape took a step forward, his face pale with a calm, murderous furiousness.
"Hold your venomous tongue, witch," he spat, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Save your strength for the match. You will desperately need it."
Without giving the sorceress another single opportunity to verbally slap his face, Snape sharply turned his back on her, marching toward his designated starting position on the pitch.
The remaining three heads of house exchanged incredibly awkward glances. Despite the looming magical battle, their deeply ingrained British professionalism and etiquette overrode their anger.
One by one, Minerva, Filius, and Pomona gave Karacule stiff, formal bows of greeting, acknowledging her as a peer before following Snape's lead.
Karacule wasn't offended by their coldness, but something deep within her regal, diva mind clicked. A Fairystar sovereign was not a creature to be slighted, ignored, or dismissed by anyone—least of all by a localized alchemist.
As she stared at Snape's retreating back, a sound erupted from her throat. It was not her usual, theatrical Ohohoho.
It was a deep, unadulterated, and chilling laugh. It was the smooth, musical sound of a supreme being who found it genuinely, profoundly amusing that a mere bug truly believed it was superior to her.
The sound made a cold shiver run down McGonagall's spine. The four heads of house had absolutely no idea where this woman had come from. They didn't know her history, her world, or the apocalyptic horrors she had slain.
Even Snape, for all his deductive brilliance, only knew one thing for certain, whatever secret lay behind Karacule's origins, it was so closely guarded by Albus Dumbledore that it defied everything they knew about the magical world.
And as the golden clock neared the noon hour, they were about to find out exactly what that secret felt like.