Angelystor had been dead for a very long time.
She had fallen in love with a local Muggle noble, only to be stabbed by him the moment she revealed her pregnancy.
As a Seer, she had always known she could not foresee her own future.
That knowledge brought little comfort now.
All that remained for her was to haunt this quiet graveyard in a tiny Welsh village.
There were no other magicals to talk to.
Her only real pleasure came on All Hallows’ Eve, when the veil between worlds thinned.
Then she could call out the names of those who would die in the coming year, and the Muggles could actually hear her.
It was a small joy, but it was hers.
She drifted around the massive yew tree whose trunk split into three at the base, giving the illusion of three trees growing as one.
Suddenly she stilled.
Something in the flow of time had shifted.
Her sight had weakened greatly since death, but she could still sense when the currents of fate stirred.
Movement caught her attention.
Under the bright full moon, a small figure crept cautiously from tombstone to tombstone, clearly expecting danger.
She floated closer.
It was a child—a boy.
When he noticed her, he recoiled sharply.
His shirt was tied around his head like a makeshift mask, leaving his chest bare.
“Wait!” she called, raising a translucent hand.
“I won’t hurt you!”
The boy hesitated, then turned to face her.
“You can see me, can’t you?” she asked, excitement bubbling in her voice.
“Only magical folk can. You’re magical, aren’t you?”
He gave a cautious nod.
“Who are you? There are no magical children in this village—I would know. Why are you here? Why couldn’t I see you coming? Are your parents magical? You can’t be Muggle-born or you wouldn’t even know you’re a wizard. Why can’t my sight see you?”
The boy watched her through striking emerald eyes barely visible through the cloth.
“Hello,” he said, voice guarded, body still tense and ready to flee.
“Um… hello,” Angelystor replied, suddenly embarrassed by her rapid-fire questions.
She hadn’t spoken to anyone in over two hundred years.
“I’m sorry, I must sound ridiculous.”
The boy relaxed a fraction.
“What did you mean when you said you didn’t know I was coming? Are you a Seer?”
“I was,” she said with a wistful smile.
“I still catch glimpses, but it’s nowhere near as clear as when I was alive.”
“And now you haunt this graveyard? There must be strong ambient magic here to sustain you.”
“It comes from the tree,” she replied proudly, swelling with ghostly dignity.
“This is the Llangernyw Yew—the oldest yew in Britain. Some say it’s five thousand years old, though no one knows for certain. It might only be three.”
“Really?” The boy sounded genuinely impressed.
“And how old are you, my fair lady?”
Angelystor mock-gasped.
“You never ask a lady her age, young man.” A playful smile touched her lips.
“But if you must know… it has been over five hundred years since I died. I was twenty-one at the time. My name is Angelystor, and on All Hallows’ Eve I call out the names of those who will die in the coming year.”
“The Muggles can hear you?”
“Only on that night.”
The boy was quiet for a moment, considering.
“My name is… Harry.”
Her smile bloomed like summer sunlight.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry. So tell me—what is a young wizard doing in this isolated village at midnight, with his shirt tied around his head?”
Harry hesitated again before answering.
“There are no other magicals nearby, right?”
“You’re the first I’ve seen in over two centuries.”
“And you can’t leave this place?”
“No,” she said, a touch of sadness in her voice.
“I am bound to the tree where I died.”
Harry nodded solemnly.
“I came for a single branch of this yew. I need it to craft a wand… so I can defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort.”
Angelystor’s eyes widened in shock.
“I have seen that monster in my visions. He is a terrible force. How can a child hope to defeat him?”
“I am the child of prophecy,” Harry replied quietly.
“Chosen by Fate herself to finish what the wizarding world cannot. I have no choice. Only I can do it.”
“And you have no allies?” She glanced around as if expecting legendary figures to appear from the shadows.
“There are forces working against me—powers that would rather see everything destroyed than allow me to succeed.”
A heavy silence fell between them.
Finally, Angelystor spoke.
“I do not like to see the tree harmed… but for a purpose like yours, I cannot refuse. Take what you need, Harry.”
“Thank you, Angelystor.”
Together they approached the ancient yew—boy walking, ghost floating—then rose to the very top where the freshest growth waited.
Angelystor stared in awe as Harry hovered effortlessly.
“You can fly…”
“Yes, fair lady. I can.”
Harry pulled a small folding hacksaw from his pocket and neatly cut a six-foot branch of supple new growth.
As he finished, the church bell tolled midnight with a single deep note.
“Happy birthday to me,” he whispered with a faint smile.
“Well, fair lady, this is where I must go.”
Angelystor hesitated.
“Harry?”
“Yes?”
“Before you leave… may I see your face?”
Harry floated motionless for several seconds.
Then he set the branch down gently, reached up, and removed the shirt from his head.
Angelystor gazed at the young face that promised future strength and nobility.
Messy black hair fell over his forehead, failing to hide the angry, lightning-bolt scar.
She drifted slowly around him, studying every detail from mere inches away, before stopping directly in front of him.
“Thank you, Harry,” she whispered softly.
“And good luck.”
Harry gave her a respectful nod, retrieved the branch, and with a single sharp crack, disappeared into the night.