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── •◦இ•◦ ── October, 1910 ── •◦இ•◦ ──
Evelyn Blackthorn stood upon a precipice.
Not in the literal sense, of course. Technically, she was merely loitering outside the private quarters of Professor Dumbledore, her hand poised mid-air in a state of silent paralysis. Yet to her, it felt very much like standing at the edge of some vast and unseen abyss.
The castle lay draped in stillness, the hour unconscionably late—well past two, perhaps edging into the uncertain reaches of three o'clock. Not even the portraits stirred; the torches had long since guttered low. She had not intended to rise from bed. For over an hour she had lain awake, her body rigid beneath the weight of her blankets, haunted by the echo of yet another vision—this one more vivid, more chilling than any before it. In the end, the solace of sleep had proved an impossibility, and the cold had driven her feet across the draughty corridors in desperate search of sanctuary.
There were few to whom she could turn with such matters. Her parents had long since grown weary of her nocturnal disturbances, treating her Sight as something to be outgrown, like an unsightly rash or adolescent fancy. Her friends—dear though they were—could offer little more than awkward sympathy or wary silences. But Dumbledore was different. He understood. He did not flinch when she spoke of fire and blood, nor did he seek to minimise her fears with platitudes. He listened—truly listened—and where others recoiled, he drew closer. To him, her gift was not a curse to be cured but a faculty to be honoured. He was, in short, the only adult in her life who regarded her visions with neither dread nor dismissal.
Her fingers quivered as she prepared to knock. A part of her hesitated—was it truly fair to disturb him at this hour? Was she becoming too dependent on his counsel, too frail without it? The thought pricked her pride.
At last, with a breath she scarcely realised she had held, she knocked almost guiltily.
Seconds passed. Then footsteps. A latch shifted.
The door creaked open, revealing a rather rumpled Professor Dumbledore, auburn hair tousled in faint disarray, his robe loosely gathered about his frame. His eyes, though heavy-lidded with sleep, swiftly cleared the moment he beheld her—standing there as though carved from moonlight, wide-eyed and wan. Without a word, he stepped aside, ushering her in with quiet understanding.
Together they traversed the shadowed passageways. Evelyn remained close to his side, the faint scent of lavender and old parchment clinging to his robes. The dread which had coiled so tightly within her chest began, imperceptibly, to loosen.
They arrived at the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, its wooden panels gleaming softly in the flickering lamplight. Dumbledore unlocked the door with a practiced flick of his wand and led her to a desk near the hearth. He climbed the narrow stair to his study above and returned moments later bearing parchment, ink, and quill.
