The Chessmaster

A chill breeze swept arrogantly throughout the tower room, mussing the edges of detailed hand-woven tablecloths and sending the tassels of chintz chairs into a spinning, twirling dance. Gliding swiftly throughout the room it sent a sole candle flame into a fit of epilepsy; twitching and flickering in abandon. In delight new shadows evolved within the enclostered room, chasing and teasing each other in interwoven play.

A single woman sat within this room, uncaring to the volley of elemental tomfoolery occurring around her. The only indication she gave was a delicate shiver, as the breeze, adolescent in its desire to break from the traditional muggy summer heat, wrapped its icy arms around her.  One delicately boned hand snaked out, perfunctorily wrapping a sheaf of gauzy material more snugly around small chiselled shoulders.

She sat, immobile, at a central table, her hands curled protectively around a luminescent crystal ball. Illuminated by the soft light, this woman appeared ethereal; her smooth, unlined face incandescent and her eyes filled with depth and mystery, reflecting knowledge of the world more powerful than any mere mortal should possess. She shrouded herself in soft gauzes which cascaded artfully around her shoulders and down her back, barely revealing her delicate frame. Soft, woven brown hair framed her face, the ends curling gently in silent caress.

Rhythmically, one of her hands would lift, gracefully stroking down the curve of the glowing ball, while from time to time shapes seemed to appear within its depths; forms which evolved, coalesced and disintegrated, moulding into one another or disappearing into nothingness. The woman watched them all as if watching the creation of Earth itself, eyes wide, enraptured, and full of a meaning that was lost to everyone but her.

A young child, scared and alone, asking a kindly red-haired family for help.

A crooked wizard pouring through musty books for answers to unfathomable questions.

A black-clad man staring with horror and revulsion at a tattoo upon his arm which, until this moment, has not burned for years.

A criminal dressed in rags huddled alone in a jail cell, desperately trying to retain his sanity.

A malevolent spirit, ripped from its corporeal body, hunting, screaming and dripping its insinuating evil throughout a far-away forest.

Although they did not know it, time was marching on and the chess pieces in this war would soon be receiving their call to arms. But although the players in this game were almost defined, their outcome was not - for the future, after all, is not concrete. The paths of destiny are ever changing, fluidly, languidly, but constantly altering with each infinitesimal decision made. It would be up to her, as master of this empiric chessboard, to subtly sway the choices and decisions of those around her, and ultimately, decide the fate of the coming war.

 Simple moments of time, which if played the wrong way could be cataclysmic in their outcome –

... A hand of alliance, proffered by a blond aristocrat, to a boy unwilling to refuse any offer of friendship...

It would need only a little interference on her part to tip the scales, a simple will-empowering spell, cast so lightly from the shadows to be undetectable to the multitude of wizards within that hall. A spell to enable the child to overcome his desire to please and his fear of being friendless,  to choose to walk away from an offer which would have culminated in enticement into the darker arts of sorcery.

Moments of time which appear so seemingly insignificant in the grand scheme of things to be almost unnoticed, but with consequences so far-reaching that only this time-reader could acknowledge their importance -

... An act of childish extravagance in a flying lesson; a moment conspired both of desire to boast to an enemy and save something precious for a new-found friend. Spiralling outwards from that moment, however, was a Seeker’s position, entrusting to the child the flying skills necessary to save his life some four years later when confronted with a dragon...

Again, a simple courage spell aimed at the young boy would be enough to tip him onto his broom. Trickier would be manoeuvring the Transfiguration professor; the cog in the wheel which would start off the child’s Quidditch career. Simply cornering the woman after breakfast, however, to begin a discussion about the dangers her Inner-eye had foretold for the future would be enough to send her hurrying back to her office as quickly as possible... just in time to watch the Potter child’s first Quidditch catch.

Then there were the moments of time when everything hinged upon a single choice-

... A black-haired youth, cowering behind a tombstone, deciding to meet Death on his own terms by engaging the most feared Dark Lord in battle...

... A sour man, smelling of potion fumes, agreeing to return to his former master, knowing as he did so that he signed his own death certificate...

... A man with a lightening shaped scar across his forehead willing to stand still as green light blasted towards him, willing to sacrifice his own life to save those he loves and vanquish an evil once and for all...

These would need her careful preparation; years, perhaps, of guidance in order to achieve the ends necessary. But time, for the moment, she had on her side - time to perfect plans and lay the groundwork for future decisions. For ultimately, throughout the interchanging and interwoven destinies she saw laid out before her, between all the shifting uncertain outcomes of everyday events, there lay only two possibilities for the end of the war.

“For neither can live while the other survives.�

The hushed whisper escaped her parted lips and hung, tangible, in the air around her. Seven years from now the world would be a changed place; that in itself was certain. Which of the two masters remained to rule it was something far more insubstantial.

Soft footfalls sounded on the stairs outside her tower sanctuary, interrupting her solitary planning. Rising lithely to her feet, the lady twitched her wand around her person several times, expertly transfiguring beautiful, stately cloth into the drab, worn and mousey clothing of her other persona. Another swish turned her cascade of soft curls into untamed fuzz, standing out eccentrically from her scalp in parody of an aura. Slipping a pair of madly oversized spectacles onto her nose, she moved quickly to the door, arranging her features as she crossed into those of the ridiculous conjuration her colleagues knew as Professor Trelawney.

There was an art to moving chess pieces, after all. Remain unnoticed and the hammer of suspicion would never fall, leaving the board free for manipulations and subtle interferences. Who, in the end, would ever deduce the hysterical, eccentric Divination professor as Master of this convoluted war? Who, even, would seek to befriend such a creature, or impose upon her for any meaningful amount of time? Thus, as it was, she was left largely in peace to study the fabricating world of destiny and alter the fate of those around her when needed.

Clasping the door handle, she swung open the bastion to her inner sanctuary, smiling vaguely in the direction of her visitor; the whiskered headmaster himself.

“Ah, Sybill!� he crowed, in apparent delight. “How lovely to see you again, my dear.�

Inwardly, she sighed, pained to have to continue this farce. Outwardly, she smiled, and blinked owlishly at the unwanted intruder. “It comes as no surprise to me, Headmaster. I was just now immersed in my Inner-eye, and saw your approach.�

“Indeed?� He twinkled at her in amusement. She seethed.

“Well then, my dear, has that fine Inner-eye of yours seen you joining us for supper this evening? It would be lovely to have all the staff together before we are once more over-run with this year’s batch of mischief-makers.�

She produced a tinkling little sigh, and blinked a few more time for good measure. “I’m afraid I must decline, Headmaster. The Inner-eye does not see upon command, you realise. I have much to do before tomorrow.�

“Ah, a pity, a pity,� he muttered.  “Well, if you change your mind, Sybill, you are always most welcome to join us.�

“Thank you, Headmaster,� she replied mistily, and withdrew in relief.

The wizarding world at large believed Albus Dumbledore omniscient.  Sadly, they were mistaken. The truth, she supposed, was that he was a very kind wizard with a great supply of wisdom; gained not from the stars like her own, but from his own personal and harrowed experience. He was a man who looked beyond who a person was, to who they could be. A man who trusted in those others would not dare to, fought for those who were lost, and defended those who could not defend themselves.

A great man, indeed, but not an omniscient one.

In that moment, she wished, just for an instant, that she could warn him, that she could save him.

If you only knew... what is to come, what we are all to become...

If he knew, if any of the great witches and wizards dining many floors below her realised the depths and depravities to which these children arriving tomorrow must not only endure, but descend to, what would they change? If they knew that innocence would be destroyed, laughter and gaiety eliminated, or that justice would waver into a delicate shade of grey, dealt out and meted by those who should never be trusted with such power – would they stay, or would they run away?

If Albus Dumbledore knew that the children he watched over so lovingly would become soldiers, with professors their brothers in arms, what would he say? If, indeed, the Headmaster knew that in order for the boy he rested such hopes upon to grow into a man and truly accept the mantle of responsibility, he himself must fall and travel that deep and winding road into death’s enfolding grace... what then would he do? Would he fight to change his own destiny, or go willingly into the unknown, recognising that every person has their time both to live and die?

To these questions there are no answers. What she is certain of, however, is her role within this drawn-out battle. For there is much to prepare on this eve, much to put into place.

Gently, this mysterious lady rose from the table and walked sedately to her tower window, looking down at the trail which would soon be laden with excited, burbling children ready for the year ahead. One child, though, would hold her interest above all others - for tomorrow was the day Harry Potter would arrive at Hogwarts, and with him the moon and stars themselves would bend and curl towards the strands of destiny entwined within his soul.

Letting that chill breeze play against her face, the lady thought about the trials that were to come and sighed, the burden of knowledge pressing down against her.

 If you are lucky, if you are very lucky, my silent hand may guide you all to victory.