A dark haired woman huddled in a corner of her rundown apartment. She was a young woman but already she was weighed down by the burdens of the world. The father of the child she now carried had been slain earlier that month. He had done nothing to deserve it. Rather, he had simply been randomly selected by the Dark Lord as a play-thing. It was an honour really, to be chosen to give the Lord pleasure, to satisfy the Lord's desire for torture and destruction. It was an honour. She should feel honoured to be carrying the child of a chosen. But she didn't.

In the hall, the clock struck ten. She felt scared and alone. And the baby was late. It should have been born safely in the middle of the month but the days had passed agonizingly slow and the baby had not come. Now the end of the month approached. There were only a few hours left before the start of the seventh month. If the baby didn't come soon she would lose it too.

The baby would die, like its father. Then she would be completely alone. Why didn't the child just come?

Why would it have to die? She knew only that decree proclaimed that no child be born during the seventh month. She had asked her Master once why it was so. He hadn't known. "Our Lord had his reasons," he had replied. "He is the only one who knows. He is the only one who needs to know." She hadn't asked again but she had heard rumours. Rumours spread by her fellow muggles. Rumours that the Lord was afraid. Afraid because someone born in the seventh month was destined to kill him.

She had disregarded the rumours. The Lord was not afraid. He was never afraid. Nothing could hurt him, the oldest human being alive. Nothing, especially not the child of a lowly muggle. The Lord had lived for centuries and he was powerful. Even all the masters combined could not harm him.  He has made sure of that.

In the hall, the clock struck eleven. If her baby did not come soon it would die. How would it die? She didn't know. As a lowly muggle, she did not comprehend the workings of magic, not even the magic of her Master. The magic of the Lord was even stronger and far more mystifying. All she knew was that all babies born in the seventh month were born stillborn.

She still remembered her brother's birth when she had been seven. It was during the seventh month. She had asked her mother why the baby didn't cry as her neighbour's child had done at birth. A sad look had crossed her mother's face.  "It is the seventh month," she had answered, as if the simple statement explained everything, "The children of the seventh month do not cry, they die. Remember that.  Don't ever forget." She had remembered. It was the last lesson her mother had taught her before passing away of grief, leaving her, an orphan, to take her place in her Master's service.

She had grown but still she remembered.  The ten years that had passed since her mother's death had stripped away her innocence.  She knew her place; below the Masters her faithfully served the Lord.  She knew of death and torture and horror.  She had been touched by it.  She had witnessed it. 

Now she awaited her own child. Her own child, that would not cry, but die.  And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

In the hall, the clock stroke midnight. Moments later a baby was born but no wail was heard. The infant did not draw a breath. It was dead.

And all this because of a prophecy. A prophesy that had been spoken the night Harry Potter vanquished Lord Voldemort.  A prophecy that only one remembered:

A new cycle has begun…The Dark Lord has fallen

But his vanquisher shall rise in his place

And the prophesy of the seventh month repeats.

The New Lord will die at the hands of the

Seventh month's child. The new cycle has begun…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Author's Note: This is just some crazy idea that popped into my head. It's a stand-alone piece and have no plans for a sequel, or prequel, or anything of the sort. Oh, and for those of you that haven't figured it out: Dark Lord = Harry Potter, Master = wizard, and muggles are at the bottom of the hierarchy.