Destiny—capital D, long robes, dramatic flair—had accumulated a rather chaotic résumé over the eons. People called her all sorts of things: Fate, Karma, That Mysterious Force Ruining My Plans, or, on one memorable occasion, "You cosmic menace!" (That one had been Zeus. He was being dramatic. Again.)
Regardless of the name, there were a few universal truths about her job:
First: she handled the great tapestry of human life and occasionally let Seers peek at a few threads—usually the messy ones.
Second: there was always a plan, even if it looked like a toddler with finger paints had drafted it.
Third: prophecies were supposed to be vague. It was part of the fun.
Fourth: wizards—especially elderly, bearded, suspiciously twinkly-eyed ones—constantly tried to "interpret" those prophecies. Incorrectly. Loudly. With way too much confidence.
Take Dumbledore, for instance. He'd taken her carefully ambiguous prophecy and immediately announced, "Ah yes! One child. This child. Definitely this child. They will destroy the Dark Lord. Friendship and love! Tra-la-la."
Which then made the Dark Lord go, "Challenge accepted," and attempt toddler-murder.
Humans. Absolutely allergic to patience.
Destiny crossed her metaphorical arms as time slowed to a crawl in a little house in Godric's Hollow. She hovered over the unfolding tragedy, muttering under her breath like someone who had lost control of a group project.
"Alright… let's review."
The prophecy she'd given Trelawney:
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…"
Blah blah.
"Born as the seventh month dies…"
Mhmm.
"Marked as his equal…"
There it was—the fun part.
"…and either must die at the hand of the other…"
Dramatic, poetic, ambiguous. Excellent work, if she said so herself.
But now she actually had to make this thing work.
A blast of pale green light hovered midair, inches away from a very tiny nose. Voldemort, mid-murder-attempt, looked like someone had hit pause on a very cruel remote.
Destiny stepped around Lily Potter's fallen form and crouched beside the crib.
"So," she said, hands on knees, "how to fix the mess you grown-ups made?"
The prophecy said the Dark Lord would "mark him as his equal," but at the moment the comparison was laughable.
Voldemort had:
– decades of magical experience
– power up the wazoo
– an army
– political influence
– charisma (the creepy sort, but still counts)
– relics, artifacts, followers, fear, and—oh right—
– immortality insurance
And the baby had:
– two dead parents
– a blanket
– maybe a future scar
– the ability to drool with tremendous enthusiasm
"Yep," Destiny sighed, "we're leaning very unequal."
So she rolled up her sleeves.
Knowledge? Off-limits. That would rewrite who he was meant to become.
Free will? Absolutely not. That was Humanity's prized possession.
Immortality? Nope. Creator said no, and she wasn't trying to get written up again.
That left power. Raw, old-school, myth-rattling power.
With a flick of her fingers, she set the baby's magical potential equal to Voldemort's at his absolute peak. Fair was fair.
"And intelligence," she added, snapping again. "Not actual knowledge—just enough mental horsepower to make Ravenclaws cry."
Potential blossomed: sharp memory, future genius, fast comprehension, tactical instinct, creativity, street smarts… basically everything Hogwarts wished students had.
Next: charisma.
Not mind control—just enough charm to make people circle around him like confused, affectionate moths.
Then talent.
She sprinkled in an unprecedented affinity for magic—something wild, instinctive, beyond textbooks. Something that would make wandmakers bicker for generations.
Still… something was missing.
"Power the Dark Lord knows not," she muttered. "How delightfully vague."
Well, if no one knew what that meant, she'd simply invent a few abilities on the spot. A handful of new magical instincts slid into place like puzzle pieces.
But even that didn't balance the scales emotionally or practically. He'd need a companion—not forced loyalty, but an unbreakable bond.
She scanned the room. No pets here. Then she glanced through the window.
On a snowy branch outside sat a pure white owl, tilting her head as if waiting for her cue.
Destiny's grin widened.
"Perfect."
One last tweak—strengthening the boy's innate reserves so all these gifts didn't snap him in half—and she stepped back.
She let time catch up.
The curse rebounded. Voldemort's soul shredded itself. The house shook.
Destiny smirked at her handiwork and dusted off her hands.
"Maybe next time," she said, drifting away, "people will stop trying to outsmart destiny."
She knew they absolutely would not.
And it made her job endlessly entertaining.