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Disclaimer JKR gets the credit – characters, settings, etc. is all hers. Anything you recognize is probably not mine. This chapter is based almost completely on my imagination, and I did no research whatsoever so it probably goes against canon in every possible way. The poem is all mine except for that one line from Harry Potter that you will no doubt recognize.

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Chapter 8: The Scar on his Forehead

Ginny heard Kingsley tell Lupin that he couldn’t open the closet, barely daring to breath. If she was discovered now... With a jolt she realized that he was pulling at the door, and she jumped back. But he didn’t open it... “Here...” said Lupin’s voice.

“No, it’s all right, there are some robes downstairs. I’ll fix it later, when we don’t have a meeting to get to.” That was Kingsley. Thank you... she thought gratefully, relaxing back into the robes that hung all around her.

She heard the two men’s footsteps retreating downstairs and the two pops that told her they had left. She slipped out of the closet and back into the bed, wrapping the blankets tightly around her.


“There you are, finally,” said McGonagall. “Do you have your research, Kingsley?”

“Yes,” he answered with a tight smile. He sat down beside Arthur Weasley and put his folder down onto the old wooden table. A butterbeer whizzed at him from the pantry and he opened it as McGonagall started the meeting.
“Thank you all for coming. We were hoping not to meet up again for a while, but something has come up that we fear may bring complications to our current plans,” she said with authority. She turned to the young wizard beside her. “Harry?”

“In my fifth year, I was taught Occlumency,” Harry began, carefully avoiding the name of his teacher. “This was to protect myself from Voldemort, and it has worked. I have not had a vision of him or heard him since the end of that year. However, I was just sitting in my dormitory a little while ago, and I heard him again. Now, you all know that he tried to protect himself from me as well, to stop this from happening. So why did I hear him? He said, So she’s dead, eh? He was obviously referring to Ginny. I think he wanted me to hear. But I don’t know why.”

The Order was silent for a few moments. Hermione nudged Ron and he awoke with a start. Kingsley scanned through his papers of research, wishing he could find something that might help Harry. There was nothing.

“Harry?” It was Arthur. “Do you still practice Occlumency every night?”

“Yes. I do what Sn – my teacher taught me, which is to clear my mind of all thought. I’ve even had Ron and Hermione try to break in a few times. They’ve never succeeded. So I don’t understand how this happened.”

Kingsley looked intensely at Harry for a few minutes, focusing on the scar. A sudden realization struck him and he looked through his research quickly, extracting a particularly messy page. “This is from an old book I found in the Hogwarts library...” he said, scanning down the hastily scribbled notes to find what he was looking for.

“One dark lord, and a boy yet so young
locked in a war for years to come.
A scar received so long ago,
none before have been just so.
A transfer of powers, the dark lord’s bane
has been revealed: a boy seemingly plain.
But the boy has powers the dark lord knows not,
with terror and sorrow his future is wrought.
The ones he holds dearest will die by his side,
one will be driven for his safety to hide.
The scar on his forehead, like lightning is its glow,
it links to the dark lord, his thoughts does it show.”

There was a huge silence, in which ever member of the Order stared at Kingsley. Then an uncertain voice started speaking. “One dark lord, a boy yet so young... Where have I heard that before?” It was Hermione, biting her lip and looking agitated.

Kingsley couldn’t help smiling slightly. “It’s on the very first page of Hogwarts, a History.”

Hermione gasped, looking as though she had been struck by the most astonishing thought ever. She stared from Kingsley to Harry, and tears filled her eyes. “I can’t believe it...” she whispered. “Harry, that poem’s talking about you...”

“I... kind of... realized that...” he said uncomfortably, wondering what was so amazing.

“There’s more, Kingsley, what’s the rest? Oh, I can’t remember!” Hermione cried, seemingly determined to gain more information about something. Harry had the strong feeling that he was missing something hugely important.

“That was it,” Kingsley said. “There may have been more, but it was very faded out.”

“No, there’s more! I know there is!” she cried, frustrated. “I read it once, in my first year, and never again! I thought it wasn’t that important! But it’s talking about Harry, and Voldemort, and now everything’s happening...” Hermione’s ranting dwindled into a hiss of anger directed at herself.

Harry stared at her for a moment, totally lost for words, and then cried out, “Will someone please explain what is going on?!”

“That poem, Harry, was written thousands of years ago, by Salazar Slytherin,” stated Kingsley. “He left it in his office when he left, wanting to frighten the other founders into calling him back. They knew he had the gift of Seeing, and they also knew he had a very pale lightning shaped scar on his forehead.”

Harry’s hand rose to his own forehead in horror. He looked more confused than ever.

“He never told anyone how he’d gotten it. At the same time, there was a steady rise of evil. There were rumors of a dark lord rising. Slytherin wanted the other three founders to reaccept him, and through his cunning plans and careful manipulations, he decided to play both the hero and the dark lord. It did not go as planned for him, and the Three Founders, now having permanently expelled him, thought nothing of his poem. But he remained firmly set on the fact that he alone was the hero in this story. When he died, his poem was passed on to his only son. It is said that it is still being passed down through the years. No one knows who has it now and the only written record of it, besides the original, is printed on the first page of Hogwarts, a History. Faithful Slytherins still believe that the hero in the poem is yet to appear.”

A shocked silence followed this speech. Harry was the first to speak. “And you think I am this hero? And Voldemort is this dark lord? That’s...” he couldn’t finish. Salazar Slytherin wrote this?! he thought. His mind was in turmoil. I can’t possibly be the one he’s talking about...

“... Unbelievable,” finished the Weasley twins together. “Honestly, Harry, we know you’re special, but for Salazar Slytherin to write a poem about you? Now that is insane,” added Fred.

“We need to find a copy of Hogwarts, a History,” said Hermione suddenly. “We need the final lines of the poem.”

Ron’s head snapped up. “Not again... Please don’t make us read it...” he muttered groggily, looking pleadingly at Hermione, who couldn’t help chuckling.

“We also need to know who has the poem now. If it still exists,” Harry said quietly.

“And what will we do with that information, Harry?” asked Kingsley. “I’m afraid we’re going in circles here. Yes, now we know that Harry is the one in this poem, and that we need the final lines of it, but how has that helped us in our original purpose? What Harry’s vision meant?” Kingsley said, bringing the meeting back to its purpose.

“I think that’s quite clear now, isn’t it?” asked a brisk voice, and everyone turned to see a down-to-business Tonks looking around eagerly, looking as if she had completely understood everything for once. “The final lines of the poem elaborate more on the topic of visions, Slytherin wouldn’t just leave off there if he was a true Seer. Yes, Hermione’s right, all we can do now is find the final lines and research some more on that tale that you were telling, Kingsley.”

The Order nodded at her words, and McGonagall stood up. “Then this meeting is over. Harry, Ron, and Hermione will come back to Hogwarts with me to see what we can find out. Be ready for another meeting soon.” With that, the four of them stood and left the kitchen.


Harry and Ron practically ran to keep up with Hermione in her eagerness to get to the library. Their footsteps echoed throughout the halls, and they hurried to get to the warmth of the library. Hermione muttered a greeting to Madam Pince, who was cleaning some bookshelves, before automatically turning down a certain isle and walking briskly to the end. There, she turned to the left and led them along a few more choice shelves before coming to rest in front of a regular bookshelf. She pulled the hugest book that Harry and Ron had ever seen from its shelf and set it lovingly down on the nearest table. Then she sat down, the boys sitting on either side of her. She opened the book and carefully separated the old pages to find the very first one. There it was. Hermione smiled slightly as she traced her fingers along the fancy O that started the poem. Her fingers slipped down. The ink became increasingly hard to read, faded and blotched, but as she reached the final line, disappointment was etched across her face. “That can’t be it...” she whispered to herself.

“How can you read that?” asked Ron in amazement, still trying to make out the first word.

“Sh,” snapped Hermione. “I’m trying to concentrate...” She traced her fingers along the last line, reading and rereading its fancy script. There was nothing. She looked in the space below, where the rest of the poem should have been. Nothing. Wait... The faintest trace of a delicately curved T, the harder lines of an I... Excitement surged through her as her keen eyes searched for more. Gradually she could see that there were two more lines, but she could not make anything out. It was too pale and faded. After several minutes, she shut the book, frustrated. She replaced it on its shelf and grabbed another copy, finding the same situation. She pulled down book after book, but all of them had the same faded out lines. Her frustration winning over her, she collapsed at the table angrily. “It’s there!” she fumed. “I saw it! But it’s just too faded out!”

“Hermione...” Ron said, putting a hand on her shoulder. She turned to face him. “I don’t know if you noticed, but they all looked the same. As if... as if someone wanted the lines to be unreadable. That wasn’t natural fading, it was supposed to happen. And –“

“I’m going to Dumbledore’s office,” Harry said, not noticing what Ron had been saying.

“What?” asked Ron.

“Dumbledore’s,” Harry repeated, turning and vanishing around the corner.

“What was that all about?” Ron muttered, confused.

“No idea...” muttered Hermione. “I don’t understand anything anymore...”


Harry left the library quickly, almost running toward Dumbledore’s. He had only just remembered McGonagall telling him that he had to go there. Somehow it felt urgent all of a sudden, and Harry skidded to a stop beside the gargoyle out of breath. He was about to open his mouth to say the password when he realized that he had no idea what it was.

The gargoyle seemed to look at him for a moment, then it jumped aside, saying in a low, rumbling voice, “Professor Dumbledore is eager to speak with you, Harry Potter.”

Harry stepped onto the spiral staircase, thoroughly confused. Dumbledore had died! There was no way he could speak to Harry! Harry stepped off the stairs and knocked on the door, feeling extremely foolish.“Come in,” said Dumbledore’s cheerful voice. Harry gasped and stepped back, alarmed. But Dumbledore was dead! Nevertheless, he tentatively pushed the door open, almost scared of what he might find...The office was empty. Totally empty. Not even Fawkes the phoenix was there. Bewildered, Harry looked around.

“Over here,” came Dumbledore’s voice, hiding a chuckle. Harry turned wildly and found himself facing the desk, on which several pieces of paper were laying. He frowned, looking around. And there, right above the desk, was a portrait of Dumbledore that now smiled merrily at him. “Hello, Harry. Might I inquire as to why you have kept me waiting so long?”

“M-McGonagall just told me to visit you a few hours ago, but then we had to have a meeting with the Order. Because my scar hurt again.”

Strangely enough, Harry thought he saw a hint of triumph pass over the headmaster’s face. “I thought this would happen soon. Perhaps this visit will help you. On my desk is a paper on top of all the others. Petunia and Vernon Dursley sent it to me the minute you arrived on their doorstep, saying it had been wrapped up inside the blanket that was around you. I feel that this is the time to show you. Apparently, your father meant to give it to you.”

Harry turned towards the desk nervously. “Go on,” Dumbledore urged when Harry stopped, uncertain. He approached the desk and picked up the top paper, a piece of parchment so old and worn he could have sworn that it was hundreds of years old.

As he read the handwritten words, shock and fear coursed through him. It was Salazar Slytherin’s poem.

One dark lord, and a boy yet so young
locked in a war for years to come.
A scar received so long ago,
none before have been just so.
A transfer of powers, the dark lord’s bane
has been revealed: a boy seemingly plain.
But the boy has powers the dark lord knows not,
with terror and sorrow his future is wrought.
The ones he holds dearest will die by his side,
one will be driven for his safety to hide.
The scar on his forehead, like lightning is its glow,
it links to the dark lord, his thoughts does it show.
This link cannot be broken, it will always remain,
it is only this that keeps them both sane.

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