If Divination was an imprecise art, cataloguing it was even more so.  And while the Ministry did have systems for storing things such as oral prophecies, tea leaf prophecies, and turtle shell prophecies, things became increasingly grey when it came to prophetic dreams.

Because, you see, prophetic dreams, like any other sort of dream, had its irregularities.  Firstly, unlike uttered prophecies, it could never be a memory, making collection rather more difficult without the official use of a Pensieve.  Then came their unreliability.  They were disturbed by and sometimes incorporated external stimuli—an alarm clock sounding, a snoring bedmate, or a barking dog could end a dream as easily as it could become a part of it—and as such, the prophecy itself could easily be shattered, altered, or lost altogether.  Still, Dreogan upheld compliance to Ministerial policies and procedures as best he might: he not only recorded each instance in a Dream Journal, he also attempted to extract an imperfect memory of an event which had never happened (and could therefore not be remembered). At best, it was fragmentary. Dreams never seemed to linger in their whole form when the Dreamer was awakened. 

These fragments he stored away in the frosted glass receptacle, the Oracular Containment Vessel  (OCV), which he was provided with on a semi-annual basis as a registered Seer.  Usually, these were collected by an Unspeakable in quite a jarring way.  (One might imagine the alarm you might get when an Unspeakable appears on your doorstep at 3am, when you have all the while been sleeping quite soundly).  This time, however, Dreogan requested he speak to the curator himself.  Because this prophetic dream was a mystery, and Dreogan was at a lost not merely for interpretation, but for what Ministerial collection protocol might even be.

What did one do when one had a repeated dream which was slightly…different?

It called into question everything.  Could something truly be a prophecy if it changed?  Was a prophecy determined by its eventuality, or merely by the potential of realization?  Was fate fixed or immutable?  And if it was fixed, did this mean that the repeated, altered dream mean that it was not a prophecy at all?  Was it simply some repressed subconscious manifesting itself rather than the cold, metallic, unyielding hand of fate?

Dreogan held fast to the notion that fate was changeable, as were prophecies: that fate could change, just as a person could, seemed to be essential to human existence.  And yet, Dreogan very much hoped this dream might turn out to be nothing at all.

And so, doubting the materiality of existential quandaries, Dreogan drifted through the Entrance Chamber.  As carried away in thought as he was, he hardly attributed his frequent confusion to the ever-shifting doors, calculated to disorient any outsiders.  After multiple attempts, Dreogan was able to enter the door which Curator Cuthbert had instructed he try. He recognized it by the shining silver knob in the middle of the door. 

It was silent as death—or the future—in the Hall of Prophecies.  Dreogan turned several times, looking first at what appeared to be monumental bookshelves, each carrying frosted glass containers—OCVs—of varying shapes: mostly orbs, but some cubes, like the one he held in his hand.  His eyes travelled upward to the ceiling, which didn’t appear to be there.  It was, quite appropriately, dark and fathomless.

Dreogan cleared his throat.  In a silence that rushed like the wind, he called out, “Mister Cuthbert?” but was not entirely certain that his voice carried. His voice sounded as it would in a snowfall: muffled, and cocooned.

It was cold. That was perhaps the most jarring realization Cillian had come to when he had first arrived at the Hall of Prophecies. It was damn near freezing as if having a lower temperature kept the prophecies themselves better contained. He had taken to hiding extra sweaters in his office because of it. The small torchlit room he had to call his own was much cozier than the large expanse of the rest of the Hall with it's towering shelves containing innumerable amounts of prophecies. The hall itself though never seemed cramped or overcrowded as if the design of the Hall itself constantly changed to accommodate any new additions to it's catalogue.

He stepped out of his office, huddled in a turtle neck that he normally wouldn't have worn this time of year and started to move down the long corridors of shelves. More than once he wondered how large the Hall would be if the the old prophecies hadn't been destroyed when Harry Potter had fought a contingent of Death Eaters here. He was still rather surprised how many still remained and how many new ones had been added within the last ten years.

As he walked Cillian juggled two empty prophecy orbs, rolling them around his fingers hands and arms like a practiced performer. It kept him occupied and calm within the large empty hall. When his name was called out Cillian almost dropped one of the orbs and caught it just in time. He paused for a moment wondering if he had imagined it all before he remembered the owl he had gotten about a Seer wanting to speak with him. He had almost completely forgotten he had told Mr. Eleor to visit him at the Hall itself.

He turned down another corridor and travelled the length of it till he came to what would be the front of the Hall, coming out only a few feet from the man in question, "Glad ye culd make it." Cillian nodded, "Mr. Eleor I presume?" Though he knew the answer he supposed he was just being polite. He noticed the frosted cube in the man's hands and cocked his head to the side. He knew the man was a registered Seer and that there was a section that was devoted to his prophecies alone - much to his surprise there was a large section devoted to all the visions Cillian had during the second war. Apparently Dumbledore had been able to extract many of his dreams while he was in a coma and submitted them to the Hall. He was surprised they had survived.

"What's got ye trubbled?"

Dreogan extended his hand to shake the man's in a welcome.  "Mr Eleor, I presume?"  As though it could have been anyone else.  "Glad ye culd make it." Dreogan gave a bright laugh at this, which seemed to echo cavernously in the place. He looked about, slightly disconcerted as he traced the echo. "Well, I am glad I found the place--you're a difficult man to find, Mister Cuthbert. I imagine they plan it that way." He smiled earnestly at the man. He didn't seem the sort to fit into this place.  The man had a welcoming smile. He was approachable. He wondered how he liked this cold, dark work of cataloguing, all alone.

A seer's life was always a little solitary.  Mister Cuthbert's position only seemed to magnify it. He wondered if he often had visitors up here, like himself. Due to the difficulty of finding the place, he rather doubted it.

"What's got ye trubbled?"

With a strained smile, Dreogan ran his fingers over the frosted glass receptacle, which glowed with the contained dream. "Ah, this," he said, holding it up for Cillian, without offering it.  "I have a dream in here. One I had three nights ago," he said. "I've been debating since then whether I ought to give it to you--whether I'm supposed to, I mean," he said, looking back up. "It's nearly identical to one you already have in here. Only," he hesitated, "with some striking additions. Which rather change the dream. Really, I'm not sure if it's a prophecy at all--if any of them are. Can they change like that?"

Cillian chuckled, "Aye, they keep us locked op 'ere like some dirty lil secret." He scratched at his stubble lined chin. Even with the addition of facial hair he still didn't look his age. He often wondered if it was genetics or if it had something to do with his magic induced coma. Since he no longer had any family to speak to on the matter he supposed he would never know.

Cillian tilted his head to the side regarding the cube held in the other man's hand. Since it was obvious the man hadn't been handing it to him he didn't make any move to remove it from him. He nodded along with his explanation his own features becoming troubled. Dreogan was very much like himself in that they were not only both Seer's but were both 'afflicted' by prophetic dreams. Cillian had been having said dreams since he was a young child but never in his years had any of his recurring dreams changed.

As time went by he was able to better discern which dreams came from his subconscious and which were visions of the future. There were times that it was hard to differentiate but he couldn't recall any of the dreams changing on him, at least none of the ones he knew to be visions of the future. How he had wished the visions of the Ides of March had changed. There had been many restless nights with visions of wolves ravaging faceless bodies.

He swallowed hard nodded again and without a word walked back down one of the aisles. With an expert hand he snatched a similar looking cube off the shelf before leading the other man into his office at the very back of the hall. The small torch lit room was much cozier than the hall itself. It didn't seem so cold and empty. Cillian placed the other cube down on his desk before folding up a map of Europe that had notes scribbled along it with several X's and circles spread across the landscape. He motioned for Dreogan to take a seat across the desk from him.

He then motioned to the cube, "This is thee original dream ye submitted ta me, 'ow 'as thee dream changed?"

"Aye, they keep us locked op 'ere like some dirty lil secret."
 
Dreogan smiled kindly at the man. He seemed much more friendly, much warmer than his surroundings.  It was a horrible work environment; bleak and desolate. Dreogan began to wish he'd invited the man to his office instead. Or to an off-site lunch, like he'd done with Jonas Trevelyan and his brother a few months back. Next time, perhaps.
 
"Have you seen the original dream?" Dreogan asked, uncertainly. It made him feel vulnerable, that someone--even the Curator of the Hall of Prophecies would see. . . that.
 
"It's, ah... perhaps changed isn't the proper word. There's more in it--I'm not really sure if it's just that I dreamt longer or observed more. There's a new person in it, that I didn't think--or know--was there before, and that would seem to change..." he sighed. This was all so imprecise and he didn't really want to give specifics, if he didn't need to. "It would seem to change the outcome of the events in the dream...and, to be honest...how I interact with this person."
 
With a cleansing breath, he forged on. "I'm in this dream. And when I started having this dream...sixteen months ago, I didn't know the added person. I met him in December. But he's only just entered my dream, in April. I don't know why. And if he's involved in the events, in here..." His jaw set as his voice became more resolute. "I don't want him in it. In my dream, or in my life." The words echoed the pronouncement, testing Dreogan's resolve. His features crumpled. "I just don't know what to make of it, either, I suppose... Do you have them, too?"
 
 

Cillian sat back in his chair, his feet propped up on the side of his desk, his fingers steepled and his brow furrowed in thought. He nodded along to the other man's words, first to confirm that he had watched the original dream and then to simply let the man know he was following along. However the more Dreogan spoke the more concern was etched across the young Irishman's face. The dream itself was already disturbing but to find that it had been altered, changed, was even more so.

He rubbed at his chin for a moment considering the possibilities of why the dream would have changed. It would seem that initially this new addition - this other man - was not meant to be there but somehow in the few months that they had known each other fate had been twisted and set upon a new path therefore placing this new man in the prophecy, one that he was not meant to be in. Cillian wished he knew Dreogan better - not to mention the identity of this new man - perhaps then they could have pin pointed what had happened in the past few months that would have placed such a man within this vision.

However when Cillian finally spoke it was in answer to Dreogan's last question, "Aye, I've had them since I was a wee lad. Neva been very pleasant ta be honest wit ye. Me parents were muggles, they thought me to be mental, sent me to a whole bunch of doctors. Neva knew much bout it till I got me Hogwarts letta." He steepled his fingers again, "though I've neva come across somethin like this before."

"Your dreams were all omens as well?" Dreogan said, voice sympathetic. "I can only imagine what a family, unprepared for something like that, might think."  He scratched his cheek, considering.  So Cillian Cuthbert'd seen the Dream.  Dreogan felt somewhat like he'd had layers of clothing--or skin--removed and was sitting, quite vulnerable before the man.


"This Dream--it's like a lot of the others I've had. It's in the obvious future, but not too far. But. . .it's the first one where I've been in it. And the outcome of it. . . it would be a gross understatement to say I wasn't a little self-interested in the outcome."


Aside from Adon's death, Dreogan was very aware that at the end of the dream, Dreogan was wounded, pinned to the ground, and wandless, looking into the face of his brother's murderer.  It was too much to hope that he'd leave the encounter in tact. "And I'd hoped that that meant that perhaps the dream was not prophetic. I suppose the question. . ."


Dreogan looked at Cillian and gave a helpless laugh.  "Maybe there isn't a question. Only. . . is there a way to tell if a dream's prophetic or not? You were notified when the Dream occurred, so I'd felt pretty certain it was. . . but if it wasn't, or if it was a different sort of, of changing dream, then perhaps it's possible that it adapts with circumstances, and the outcome--"


His voice was very nearly arriving at a plea. He sighed and looked at the glass between his hands. "Perhaps it might be a good starting point for you to see the new one?"

Cillian was finding himself increasingly intrigued and suddenly involved in the man's plight even though only mere seconds had passed. He felt a sort of kinship to him. In the years since Hogwarts where Cillian had gone abroad to seek out other Seers and learn as much as he could about the condition and the art connected to it he had never come across someone he had felt such a strong connection to. Perhaps it was the fact that they both experienced their visions through dreams. Perhaps it was the similar age or perhaps it was the sense of distraught longing that he could see in the other man's eyes, the look he knew he got himself everytime he was made aware of some great tragedy that would soon occur.

Once again he nodded along letting the other man speak his piece. He didn't feel it necessary to step in just yet. While he had often wondered the same thing that Dreogan was wondering now, none of his dreams had ever changed nor had they directly involved himself. He was well aware of the toll this was taking on the other man, especially considering the dreams' final outcome, the fact that he had been made aware of the dream was enough to believe that it was a genuine prophecy. Then again there were still loop holes in the system, still technicalities that one could get around. After all the greatest prophecy in recent history - the downfall of Voldermort - had it's own loophole. The whole one must die so the other can live thing, The Famous Harry Potter let himself die so he could come back and finally defeat Voldermort.

Cillian opened his mouth to speak when the man across from him gave his reluctant request. Clamping his mouth shut Cillian took the cube and activated it. He remained quiet as the small device allowed him to view the dream, acutely aware of how invading and awkward it must be for Dreogan. When the dream finished he once again steepled his fingers in thought leaning back in his chair. He tried to recall every dream he had, every horrible vision that had come true, from his first tangible one of his aunts death to the most recent one of the werewolf attacks. None of them had felt like this, none of them had changed so drastically and yet seemed as if they hadn't changed at all.

"Fate's a fickle mistress." He spoke almost to himself before raising his hazel eyes to the other man, "Ye think perhaps thee whole reason 'e wasn't in thee original dream is 'cos ye didn't know 'im then?" Cillian kept in mind that Dreogan had mentioned that it was months after their first meeting that the man had appeared in the new version of the dream but like any dream - being a odd jumble of the subconscious mind during the sleep circle - it's possible that he had been there right from the start. Without a conscious substance to connect him to it took that long for the man to finally materialize. With that thought in mind it's possible that the dream may not have changed at all but that Dreogan's mind was finally open to the all aspects that the dream always held.