Of Dreams and Drowning - A Theseus' Scamander Fanfiction

3 - A Curse, Not a Gift

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October, 1910
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Evelyn Blackthorn stood on a precipice.

Technically, she was standing in front of Professor Dumbledore's quarters, her hand suspended mid-air, unsure whether to knock. But it felt like a precipice—one step forward, and the ground beneath her could shift entirely.

It was late. Far too late. The silence in the castle was profound, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. She was sure it must be past two in the morning, edging closer to three. She had been lying awake for over an hour, debating whether to leave her bed, summoning the courage to slip through the dark, cold corridors alone. The usual comforting warmth of her blankets had been no defense against the weight of her latest vision.

Dumbledore was one of the few people who understood. He knew about her visions, her struggle, in ways that no one else—not her parents, not her friends, not even her professors—could fully grasp. Unlike the others, he did not look at her with pity or impatience. Where others saw distraction, he saw potential. Where others feared her abilities, he quietly respected them. Even when the weight of foresight became unbearable, he had always approached her with calm understanding, his steady faith a lifeline she clung to.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she raised them to knock. For a moment, she hesitated, caught between her need for guidance and her fear of becoming too reliant on it.

Finally, she rapped softly against the door. The sound seemed to echo, small yet impossibly loud in the dead quiet of the castle.

Moments passed, each one stretching on until her heartbeat seemed to sync with the silence. Just as she was about to turn away, the door creaked open, revealing a slightly disheveled Dumbledore, his auburn hair tousled, his blue eyes bleary. Yet when he saw her standing there—pale, wide-eyed, her shoulders taut with tension—the fog of sleep lifted from his gaze. His expression softened, and in the silence between them, Evelyn felt understood.

Without a word, he gestured for her to follow. They walked through the deserted corridors, their footsteps soundless on the ancient stone. The quiet stretched on, a protective cocoon that shielded her from the lingering dread of her vision. She stayed close, catching the faint scent of lavender on his robes, each step calming her pulse a little more.

They reached the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, and Dumbledore held the door open for her, his movement calm and unhurried. She entered, the familiar scent of aged wood and candle wax settling around her like an old blanket. Dumbledore ascended a short staircase to his office and returned with parchment and a quill, placing them carefully on a desk before gesturing for her to sit.

Evelyn hesitated, her arms wrapped around herself, the remnants of her vision still coiled in her chest. She remained standing, unable to shake the feeling that speaking of it would somehow give it more power.

"Difficult night, Miss Blackthorn?" Dumbledore's voice broke through the silence, gentle yet grounding. His gaze was steady, his expression calm, as though he had all the time in the world to listen to her. It was this patience, this quiet acceptance, that finally allowed Evelyn to speak.

She nodded, glancing down at her trembling hands. "Yes, Professor. My visions... tonight they were particularly vivid." Her voice was barely above a whisper, fragile as a thin layer of frost that could shatter with a single touch.

Dumbledore studied her carefully, his sharp blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His expression softened into a reassuring smile, one that seemed to bear the weight of understanding without judgment. "Let us see what I can do to assist you," he said quietly, placing a piece of parchment before him, quill poised, ready to record every precious detail. "Please, tell me everything you've seen."