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Summary
There were prophecies you could simply read, and prophecies you had to earn.
The one carved into the rock beneath Hogwarts' foundations, in a chamber none of the four Founders had ever dared name in their writings, belonged to the second kind. You didn't find it by looking. You found it when blood — the right kind, the wrong kind, the kind the wizarding world had spent centuries sorting into categories — chose to mix against every prediction ever made about it.
No one saw it for seven hundred years.Then came an autumn when a Malfoy and a Granger collided in a corridor, and somewhere in the dark beneath the castle, the stone began — imperceptibly — to warm.