Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.
Forty
Sybill: A View from the Ivory Tower
It was a deplorable fact that Muggles often thought more highly of Divination than wizards did. Not that Sybill Trelawney had ever prognosticated anything that involved Muggles. At least she didn’t think so; these days it was often difficult to tell them apart as so many witches and wizards had adopted Muggle styles of dress.
Divination was a subject that was mostly taught for historical purposes; an intellectual exercise much like philosophy -- or so many wizards believed. Sybill was certain that Dumbledore had been among those who maintained that Prophecy had no real place in his life. But he was also savvy enough to want that arcane knowledge preserved rather than have it disappear from disuse. Thus, had Sybill always justified her teaching post at Hogwarts.
Now after the defeat of the Dark-Usurper-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-Even-In-Death, she was surprised to find that Divination was a popular subject of conversation once again. Sybill overheard much rumor and innuendo, bolstered by the few relevant facts she gleaned from the Daily Prophet. Luckily, she had been blessed with the ability to See through that publication’s blatant lies, despite the fact that she rarely kept up with outside news. After all, for years each day had seemed drearier than the one before. The portents of disaster had been so obvious for anyone to Read that Sybill had made it her mission to turn her back on the outside world. She doubted she could have faced the morning otherwise.
It seemed the Dark Usurper had gotten his hands on a Foretelling that involved his own fall from power. He had then devoted his twisted life to making certain that prophecy didn’t come to pass. An object lesson she often introduced in her classes, the few that she had anyway.
Nevertheless, she was pleased that interest had been sparked in Divination. She liked her life at Hogwarts; she just needed more activities to consume her hours.
What had ever possessed Dumbledore to share her kingdom with a horse? An overwrought horse at that! Granted, it was worth taking the piss out of that dreadful toad, Umbridge, but he hadn’t taken account of those who’d be left to deal with the aftermath.
–By the Baron’s bloody boots! What good does it do to rant at a dead man?†Sybill cried to the rafters of her tower home.
The flapping wings of roosting birds was her only reply.
Not all that different from confronting Albus to his face, she noted wryly. The old man had been capricious in the extreme, never feeling the need to explain his actions to anyone.
She considered pleading her case to Minerva over tea and biscuits one more time, but what was the point? The Headmistress was too in awe of Dumbledore to overturn Firenze’s appointment. Certainly not with that vexatious old man’s portrait acting as her advisor. As she’d told Sybill before, –It’s not as if your salary was adjusted with your reduced class load. Albus wanted to free you to devote your energies to the NEWT students who are truly motivated. It was a waste of your innate talents otherwise.â€
Pure flattery, Sybill recognized even as her ego soared at the compliment. Granted, very few possessed the Inner Eye -- and the Nag was adept enough at culling the hopeless from the herd.
–You have to admit, Firenze is very popular with the students,†Minerva added.
Sybill imagined the centaur decked with flower garlands around his muscular torso as he allowed the youngest students to ride on his back. Wisely, she kept that to herself.
After all, Dumbledore had just been trying to instill tolerance in the students. Teachers from diverse sectors of the wizarding world were nothing new at Hogwarts. Just take Hagrid, Flitwick -- and especially Binns. Even Seers were a dwindling breed onto themselves.
One only had to look at the miserable state of the Hall of Prophecies. In her renowned great-great-grandmother’s day, replenishing the tiny baubles would have been achieved in short order. Yet years later, many aisles contained long empty shelves dusted by dedicated Department of Mysteries’ employees who had little else to do.
She had not expected to become a prisoner of her Ivory Tower, as Remus Lupin had teasingly referred to it. She remembered him like it was yesterday: the werewolf with the soul of a poet.
Remus hadn’t given a second thought to climbing through Sybill’s trapdoor to partake of an occasional afternoon tea. Despite his outward congeniality, the man had often felt like an outsider among his fellow teachers. It was a sentiment that Sybill knew only too well. Others might sympathize with your lot in life, but they could never really understand.
Sybill had welcomed his company as a compatriot. How she envied his innate ability to joke at his own expense! Perhaps if he’d not left so unexpectedly, she might have bolstered the courage to ask him to teach her. Laughing in the face of constant adversity required the fortitude of a lion.
She had missed him with an unexpected hollowness in her ribcage after his abrupt resignation. Something which surprised her as she had not been attracted to him in a romantic way.
No, that honor had belonged to the Gilded One himself. Not that he’d ever noticed shy, pathetic Sybill watching his every move from a distance. Like a ruddy schoolgirl she was, a fool among many that year -- but Lockhart only had eyes for himself. Despite what others muttered about her all too modest abilities, Gilderoy had been the true charlatan in their midst.
Flying dragon’s spawn! Judging from the fraud’s literary career, the only spell he’d ever mastered was the memory wipe!
She’d come to loathe the color lilac after that, stripping every cushion with the slightest hint of it from her classroom.
Perhaps if she’d been able to catch Severus’ eye, it would’ve been different. How well she recalled her introduction to the Potions Master in the Great Hall so many years before. He of the chiseled cheekbones in a face that could’ve been carved of the finest Carrara marble.
His demeanor had been so different from the frantic tosser who’d interrupted her interview with Dumbledore that she hadn’t made the connection at first. When she did, she dismissed his earlier desperation as just an overwhelming desire for a prestigious post at the school. She, too, had felt the sting of repeated rejections amid a dwindling bank account.
Severus had been dashing in those days, his off-putting manner attributed to the haughtiness often found in those from Slytherin House. Why his exacting classroom demeanor was that of a man used to excellence in all things. An obvious conclusion which eluded many.
She’d pined over the Prince of Potions like a modern day Rapunzel in her ivory tower. In turn, he was the woeful Prince-in-Exile, cursed so that others saw only a distorted image of his true worth. Surely, his half-blood background meant he was familiar with those very same Muggle fairy tales. But if he was, he never let on. Sybill was nothing but an insignificant insect on the wall.
Not that she’d been alone in her fandom. She’d watched enough from the sidelines to see that the edgy indifference Severus showed to the world often acted as a magnet to members of the opposite sex. But even those women who craved a challenge eventually turned away in defeat. So unassailable was the man’s armor that Sybill had often wondered if Severus and Albus were an item despite the vast difference in their ages.
Admittedly, that had just been one more way to lessen the blow to her own ego. A woman more adept at socializing would’ve tried to chat Severus up the way Rolanda Hooch often did. Not that Rho was very successful, despite her attempts to appeal to the man’s intellect.
Who would’ve known that the Prince of Potions harbored such a grand passion for Lily Potter all these years? All the more romantic because he’d kept his suffering to himself. Any man so devoted to his first love, even in death, was a rare gem indeed -- at least to Sybill’s way of thinking. Too bad she’d never learned the truth until it was too late to do anything about it.
Everything had been in such a chaotic state that first year after Hogwarts had been rebuilt. Students of all ages and levels scurrying about trying to cram enough knowledge into their brains to pass their NEWT’s. The examiners themselves pressed to offer the examinations numerous times a year to accommodate the demand.
Sybill had only been too happy to do her part when she’d been called to tutor Lavender Brown. The girl’s parents had insisted on strictest confidentiality -- and it had to be done away from school grounds. Sybill welcomed the change, restructuring her class schedule to tend to her –aging aunt†in Brighton. In return, the Browns supplied a Portkey that activated precisely at noon on alternate Fridays.
Sybill had been unsure what to expect, certainly not such a dismal rock perched just off the Aran Islands. In her mind, seaside resorts were bustling, sunny places that smelled of popped corn and spun sugar on a stick. Locales where the balmy breezes would entice a person to wear less clothing than was strictly advisable.
Once she saw Lavender, however, it made perfect sense. The poor girl’s upper torso had been raked by a giant claw; there was no other way to describe it. While her rosy cheeks still shone with beauty, the puckered trail of skin would peek just past the small, round necklines she now preferred.
Mrs. Brown confided that they had been to a host of Healers, always with the same prognosis: a cursed wound caused by a werewolf could neither be healed by magic nor completely covered with beautification charms. Just be thankful that her face and extremities had been spared. The first full moons had been a trying time for the whole family; but despite Greyback’s best efforts, the pathogen had not been transmitted.
–Although, I can’t seem to stick to my usual vegetarian menu anymore,†Lavender herself confessed.
–Tis but a trifle,†Sybill reassured when pressed. –A ruffled collar or chunky necklace conceals it completely.†She didn’t mention that a scarf would do as well. She doubted that any young woman would want to emulate her spinsterish professor.
Sybill couldn’t help recalling how much Lavender had doted on her wardrobe at Hogwarts, mostly in her favorite pastel shades. But popular beach attire that often left the back, shoulders and even strategic parts of the midriff exposed was no longer an option. At least on this damp, blustery rock the poor child wouldn’t be taunted with her limitations on a daily basis.
From the start, Sybill found herself enthralled by the sea itself. What was the Earth itself but a gigantic Orb? Then its oceans must be the misty depths into which a Seer could plunge her consciousness.
With that in mind, she climbed the three hundred, ninety-seven steps of the weathered lighthouse to get a better view. The shifting shades of blue were alive as they crashed over the boulders of the tiny inlet. Even though the sun did little to warm the air, it shed a pattern of diamonds on the salty spray that transformed them into objects of crystalline beauty. She could see why the lighthouse keeper never tired of his job. He was the steward of a watery domain as far as the eye could see, what real need had he of social interaction?
It fascinated her that these same rippling currents had touched the shores of the African desert, the jungles of Malaysia, and the jagged, icy cliffs of Antarctica. Had she been able to coerce the droplets to speak, no doubt they would have whispered tales of the lost continent of Atlantis. The interconnectedness of life was the mystical root of a Seer’s power -- or so she had been taught.
It was the same miasma from which her Sight should invoke, interpret, intercede in the shifting tides as the future and the past cascaded endlessly over one another. But as well versed as she was in the theory, manipulating the fractured images that swam before her was illusive at best. Too much like plucking individual droplets from the mighty currents, she concluded of her failures.
Despite her dedication to hiking the rugged coastline, her Inner Eye remained shrouded. Not that she had ever heard of a Seer who possessed this skill. But Sybill knew how guarded the truly great ones could be about their Gifts. Her own great-great-grandmother had been no different.
–Your Gift will reveal itself to you in good time,†she’d repeated as she peered over Sybill’s tiny palm. –It’s all there to be Read.â€
–But what if it passes me by, like it did in Mum’s case?â€
–Your mother never accepted her true potential. You must study everything you can so your mind is open to accept its Talents when they appear.â€
Sybill-the-child had scowled at the familiar platitude intended to motivate her to attain higher marks in her studies. What she had wanted, true be told, was for the Inimitable Cassandra to show her where to Look so that she could finally See.
Now an adult, she spent the dwindling days of spring and summer working with her able student on all aspects of Divination studies. Her duties left her with long hours to explore the neighboring islands, enjoying the salty air which sharpened her appetite so even a simple cracker tasted heavenly. Sybill’s trademark scarves were a thing of beauty as they snapped in the shifting winds. They were the wings of a seagull, allowing her spirit to float above the tiny specks of humanity.
It was nigh on August when Lavender had finally felt ready. Her father, a high-ranking Ministry official, had arranged for a NEWT examiner to meet them privately on the mainland. Thus had his daughter sidestepped the added burden of curious questions from her former schoolmates. That obstacle would have to wait for another day.
Sybill had been so proud when Lavender sent her a massive bouquet of peonies. How sweet of the girl to recall they were her favorites. The accompanying note announced that she’d achieved an Outstanding score in Divination -- the first in a decade or more, according to the examiner.
But Sybill’s contentment had slowly eroded as she felt the pang of loneliness without the sea air promenades she had come to love. The next school term found her at loose ends once more. Her tower rooms seemed a sad substitute for the rustic lighthouse despite how much the throngs of students dotting the lawn could be likened to schools of silvery fish.
–You need to get out more,†Filius pronounced cheerfully when he caught up with Sybill en route to dinner one night.
Sybill didn’t mention that she had no stomach for the inane chatter that passed for conversation in the teachers’ staffroom.
–What ever happened to that intrepid black cat of yours? What was his name?â€
–Quatorze,†she supplied woodenly. –Named after Louis XIV.†No one could eclipse the Sun King himself. –Died of old age. I’m surprised you remember.â€
–Funny that,†Filius confided. –Some things seem like they were just last week while the events of last week often seem like they happened to a stranger.â€
Sybill nodded wordlessly. She, too, had experienced that singular form of nostalgia.
He caught her off guard with, –Have you been to see Figgy’s cats? She’s just beyond Hogsmeade village.â€
–Is that a new pet emporium?†Sybill inquired politely. New businesses in the wake of the Dark Usurper’s defeat were common enough. Like mushrooms, they sprang up in the night only to be trodden flat by the next sunset.
Filius laughed as if she’d made a witty remark. –Arabella Figg, new Muggle Studies teacher. Used to live near Harry Potter’s dreadful aunt and uncle.â€
–The Squib who spied for the Order?†Sybill offered.
–Precisely. Hagrid says she has an unexpected litter of kittens.â€
–Kittens are always unexpected. Even to the feline parents who seem oblivious of their origin.â€
–See, you do understand cats,†Minerva supplied as they settled into their chairs at the high table. –I’ll have Arabella stop by after classes tomorrow. You can accompany her home and select one for yourself.â€
–Not quite old enough ta be leavin’ their mother, yet,†Hagrid issued lowly. –Ye’ll have the pick o’ the lot. Fang’ll be crushed when they’s all found homes, ye know.â€
–I hardly relish tromping through the snow,†Sybill stammered. Bugger, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d hiked to Hogsmeade village. Hadn’t Millicent Bagnold been Minister for Magic then?
–Don’t you fret,†Minerva soothed. –Figgy’s rheumatism isn’t conducive to long walks, either. I’ll open a Floo connection from my office hearth directly to hers.â€
Unable to dredge up a handy excuse, Sybill concentrated on her soup.
She hadn’t realized it would be so tricky Flooing with a Squib in tow. Sybill coughed up a storm from the extra powder, barely letting go of the other woman’s arm before stumbling into the nearest footstool. Rubbing her shin, she collapsed onto the small tufted ottoman before her.
Merlin! With the chintz upholstery, the tiny cottage couldn’t be more twee if it had jumped out of a Muggle advert. And that smell…
Figgy apologized for the staleness as she hobbled from one mullioned window to another. With the sash thrown wide, the fresh air helped to dissipate the aroma of too many cats.
Quickly remembering her manners, Sybill magically cut a circular swath that unlatched the remaining windows at once.
–Thanks,†Figgy acknowledged. –Don’t know how I managed without a wand all these years.†Her attention was immediately distracted by the trio of cats who rubbed up against her shins. –Don’t tell me what a taxing day you’ve had from the safety of your cushions,†she cooed. Expertly extricating herself, Figgy silently motioned for Sybill to follow her into the back bedroom.
From a mass of predominant tiger stripes, Sybill selected a kitten that was black with white markings. Rather as if Quatorze had dipped his front paws and the tip of his tail into a solution of bleach.
–I’ll have Hagrid fetch him once they’re weaned,†Figgy promised. –Shouldn’t be more than a week or so.â€
Sybill thanked her profusely as she reluctantly allowed the small buddle to resume nursing at its mother’s side.
–Oh, dear me, where are my manners?†Figgy simpered as they returned to the parlor. –Can I offer you a cup of tea to clear the Floo dust?â€
Sybill nodded absently, her attention arrested by the elegant slate grey tomcat grooming himself on the windowsill. If she’d been paying closer attention, she would’ve noticed the devilish twinkle in her hostess’ eye.
–Have you been reading tea leaves all afternoon?†Figgy posed.
–Customary practice as that’s a subject Firenze dismisses entirely.â€
–Then likely you’ve a belly-full of tea already. How about some sherry instead?â€
Sybill’s head jerked up at that. She managed to quell her anticipation enough to return evenly, –That would be very nice.â€
Much to Sybill’s delight, the nut brown liquid was rich and mellow, quite a change from her previous experience with sherry. She complimented her hostess’ choice with genuine enthusiasm.
–Aberforth recommended this brand. Says it’s much superior to what Hogwarts offers on a regular basis. Seems Minerva saves the best for visiting dignitaries.â€
Sybill nodded, then supplied, –How do you manage to keep such a bottle around unopened?â€
Figgy gave a small shrug. –I was brought up that one shouldn’t drink alone, but I rarely get a chance to entertain.â€
Such Puritanical strictures, Sybill concluded inwardly. Aloud, she tendered, –Doesn’t Neville escort you through the Floo? I doubt anyone would look askance if you shared a glass with him -- especially now that he’s officially on staff.â€
–Neville has better things to do than keeping an old lady company.â€
–What about the elder Professor Longbottom? I’ve heard she’s a right spitfire.â€
–Oh, I get along with Augusta just fine.†Figgy hesitated a few moments before capitulating, –Well, it’s Neville, see. The last thing he needs is his gran looking over his shoulder.â€
Sybill was momentarily flummoxed. Clearly, there was something she was missing. –Wouldn’t he remain back at the castle?â€
–Oh, no. He has a sweetheart at the Three Broomsticks. But don’t say anything to anyone. He’s ever so shy when it comes to the lasses.â€
The Three Broomsticks, eh? Sybill couldn’t help thinking that it was preferable to a tea shop. Perhaps spirits would calm Longbottom’s jittery fingers and keep breakage to a minimum. Besides, pubs were used to dealing with spills on a regular basis.
–Minerva said you owned a cat before,†Figgy offered.
–A number of years ago.â€
–And you waited this long to get another? Cats so love to climb, I’d think they’d take readily to your tower.â€
–They do, but I don’t get away from the castle very often.†Certainly, not while Dumbledore was headmaster; no reason to leave her gilded perch. For her hostess’ benefit, she added, –Always had too much to prepare for my third years.â€
Figgy nodded sagely. –Seems everyone wants to try out Divination instead of the more challenging subjects such as Arithmancy or Ancient Runes.â€
–They soon discover that Divination requires a unique adaptability. Not everyone is suited.â€
–Do you have to be born with the talent or it is something that can be taught? Forgive all the questions,†Figgy was quick to add. –My magical education is somewhat lacking. By-product of being a Squib, I suppose.â€
–Nothing wrong with taking an interest in something new,†Sybill affirmed. –While it helps to be born with the Sight, practice can often awaken latent abilities. An appreciation for the Art of Divination is often the best some can attain. That is if they don’t just drop the subject after their first year with Firenze. Many do.â€
–So that allows you to concentrate on those who have a true passion.â€
Sybill sighed. –Unfortunately, there are very few who wish to pursue it at NEWT level. I’m often left with empty blocks of time…â€
–Well, having a new kitten will help. At first anyway. But cats can be staunchly independent. I would think an academic such as yourself would immerse herself in research. Further your knowledge in the field.â€
Aided by the convivial atmosphere, Sybill volunteered, –I seem to hit a brick wall more often than not. The Department of Mysteries is not known for its cooperative spirit.â€
–With a name like that, it wouldn’t now, would it? Isn’t there any place else you could begin your inquiries?â€
Sybill shook her head morosely. –The Hall of Prophecies contained a record of every Foretelling uttered since the Ministry of Magic was first built. No other repository exists.â€
–Rather like a library of prophecy, you’re saying?â€
For someone who had obviously never been there, the woman’s description was right on the mark. –Only more restrictive,†Sybill concurred.
–What about hobbies? Interests?â€
–My passion has always been Divination. Runs in my family. My great-great-grandmother was the Renowned Cassandra. Surely you’ve heard of her?â€
–Sorry, but I’m certain erstwhile witches and wizards have. If you don’t mind me asking, what did you do before you came to Hogwarts?â€
–A bit of this or that.†Aware that it was likely the sherry talking, Sybill confessed, –Most wizards didn’t take me seriously. Said I wasn’t at all like Great-Great-Grandmomma.â€
–People can be so cruel,†Figgy commiserated. –I’ve faced my share of it.â€
–It was easier to find work among Muggles. At least they wanted to believe when wizards simply refused to do so.â€
–How did you manage to keep to the Statute of Secrecy?â€
–I let them see what they wanted. They expected an overly dramatic recitation and that’s what they got. Most questions they posed were so blatantly obvious a six year old could’ve handled them.â€
With a second glass of sherry, it didn’t take long to coax from her the tale of her stint as Madame Voula, Renowned Psychic to Kings and Potentates…
She had expected to sit in a snug storefront along the promenade, preferably in one of those seaside resorts frequented by weekenders who wished to cleanse themselves of the petrol and strife so rampant in Muggle cities. Instead, Sybill had been assigned to the Grande Caravan Mystique, a traveling carnival-type enterprise which trudged from town to town, each shabbier than the last. The Carnivale Mustique would’ve been a better name for it to judge from the suffocating aroma of animals that enveloped them like a relentless cloud.
Elephants, lions, monkeys, trained ponies, and simple draft horses. All seemed to be paddocked in close proximity to Sybill’s quarters. Even enhanced with magic, no incense was potent enough to perfume the air inside the marquee where she greeted her customers. One would think that with the gift of the Inner Eye, she wouldn’t also be blessed with an oversensitive nose, but not so. Once more, Fate had played a cruel joke at Sybill’s expense.
And then there was the relentless rain, which often plagued them for days on end. The clammy marquee canvases were leached of their vibrant colors, the wet ground squelching like a chorus of frogs underfoot. Then it was the Caravan Mildew (or Mildieu, if one wanted to use the theatrical term for such abject misery). Even though the moisture cut down on the smell, the animals too hated laying about in damp coats and would complain vociferously long into the night.
Albeit, catering to the needs of rural folk wasn’t so difficult. Despite her Sight being totally blind where non-magical persons were concerned, Sybill soon discovered that most only sought the sort of unblemished guidance a loyal friend might dispense. It didn’t take any special skills to advise the lass who fretted about her beau’s infidelity to simply kick the tosser out the door. One glance at the photo she produced for Sybill’s benefit had been enough to recognize this was the same Lothario who’d been hanging about the dexterous snake tamer’s tent for a number of nights in a row.
As for the pregnant woman who wanted to name her unborn daughter Clotilde, common folk wisdom said she was carrying a boy. Why she didn’t even look pregnant from behind! In the end, Sybill had convinced the tentative mother to latch onto her grandmother’s name of Clarice. That way, she could simply switch to Clarence after the birth. Sybill couldn’t help shuddering at how close that innocent babe had come to being nicknamed –Bloodclot†at school.
Finally deciding that she was going to take matters into her own hands, Sybill made a clandestine visit to the local chemist which her Sight revealed was a Squib. A rudimentary Leviosa charm once the shop was empty had established Sybill’s credentials. Then mousy woman had only been too happy to introduce her burly cousin who owned a –pet shoppe,†as she called it.
Sybill immediately recognized Fenleigh as a wizard. –Don’t you despair of toiling in the Muggle world?†she asked him.
Fenleigh shrugged. –Pounds or galleons, both put food in my mouth. Seems to me you’re incognito yourself.â€
Sybill drew herself to her full height. –I beg to differ. I am exactly as I portray myself. A true Seer and adept at numerous forms of Divination.â€
Fenleigh chuckled low in his chest. –Did those Muggles check your references? Or did the Statute of Secrecy prevent you from providing your true c.v.?â€
Muggles would never have recognized her true credentials; they didn’t believe in magic, witches or wizards. But they had recognized what they expected a Soothsayer to be.
–I haven’t all night for chit-chat,†Sybill insisted. –Have you any training in magical beasts?â€
–If it’s owls you’re needing, I have a few in the back. Most folks are looking for pastel parakeets or maybe a talkative parrot…â€
–I need help with larger animals.â€
–Surely you don’t mean that carnival hawker is keeping a brace of thestrals in a ‘supposedly’ empty cage?â€
–Nothing as potentially dangerous as that.†In a bare whisper, she described her problem, adding that the groundskeeper at school had once spoken of a special potion that could dissolve animal droppings into its constituent parts, thereby neutralizing the stench.
He nodded sagely. –Once used a variant of that formula when I had to man the pony rides at the amusement park. Couldn’t have one of those dolled up birds thinking their little sprogs were perched on anything as unsanitary as a horse.â€
Sybill laughed politely at his tale, relieved that she would find a solution to her dilemma. When she returned the next evening, Fenleigh presented her with a magically concentrated formula that only required a few drops to be effective.
–Since you’re dealing with beasts which are considerably larger, I suggest you begin with seven to ten drops in their water troughs. You’re bound to be noticed if you trudge through the pens, dousing every manure pile as I used to do.â€
–What if I run out?†Sybill inquired as she held up the tiny vial.
–Send me an owl. Or would you rather I sell you the formula so you can brew your own. Twelve galleons since I made a few innovations of my own.â€
Sybill took a quick look at the ingredient manifest, deciding that she would hardly have access to bleached thestral dung. Not to mention that if hanging braziers were banned from the marquees, a bubbling cauldron was bound to be seen as even more of a fire hazard.
What use had Sybill for potion-making, anyway? Even the honey and aloe facial cream her mother had once brewed was available commercially these days. What’s more, she had never been one to see Truth in the bubbling depths of a cauldron like Cassandra had purported to do. All Sybill got for her efforts was a halo of dirty blonde frizz and foggy spectacles.
In the end, she bought two extra vials from Fenleigh to see her through the end of the season at least.
The potion had no noticeable effect at first. Sybill redoubled her efforts to calculate just the perfect dosage. After the second week, she added three extra drops as an added incentive.
Then one morning, it was as if the world had been newly fashioned from sun-bleached cotton. She caught a whiff of the flowering vines that crisscrossed the neighboring woods. Her sandalwood incense could be discerned by the customers, beckoning them to partake of what the future held in store for them.
Within the first few days, the carnival had made as much money as in the previous three months. They had to stay extra days in each locale just to accommodate the crowds. Sybill was forced to magically expand the lockbox where she stored her gratuities until she was able to exchange them at Gringotts.
But the euphoria was short-lived as the animal handlers began to question why there was so little manure to shovel at day’s end. Could it be that the animals were suffering some sort of intestinal blockage? How could Sybill explain that if they just observed the acrobatic poodles studiously, the dogs could be seen going about their regular business? She had not anticipated that the thestral dung would render the droppings virtually invisible to Muggles.
What a bunch of ingrates! Sybill railed inwardly. Then conceded that it was an unwinnable situation. The poor animals would bear the brunt of any crude laxatives that caused more suffering than relief. With true regret, she ceased doctoring the water supply. Within days, the stench returned accompanied by swarms of biting flies which just relished the summer doldrums.
Revenues were reduced to a trickle, but the caravan manager attributed it to the change in government. Not one to follow Muggle politics, Sybill nevertheless recognized an overworked excuse when she heard it.
With the end of summer, the caravan was set to take a month’s leave thus allowing many performers to rehearse new routines. Then with the advent of autumn, they would travel the southern coast of Spain. Sybill had always dreamed of living in a warmer climate, but the thought of all those animals…. No, there was no doubt about it, she would have to redouble her efforts to find another posting.
–On a cold, wet night that almost made baking in the Spanish sun seem like a viable alternative, I chanced to overhear a conversation at the Hog’s Head Tavern,†Sybill summarized as she brought her retelling to a close. –The proprietor’s older brother was seeking to fill some vacancies at Hogwarts. Dumbledore was so impressed with my credentials that he hired me on the spot.â€
–And Hogwarts has been richer for it,†Figgy generously returned.
–Not all students take to Divination,†Sybill issued with a small frown. –Harry Potter never did.â€
–Can you blame him, dear? The poor lad’s life was uprooted at an early age by a misread prophecy!â€
–That is not the fault of Prophecy,†Sybill emphasized in an airy tone. –Not everyone is trained to interpret what they See.â€
–That’s why the school is so lucky to have you, Sybill. So others won’t make the same mistakes.â€
–What do you know of this prophecy?â€
–Only what I’ve heard in the news. Surely not as much as you.â€
–I’ve been able to find very few concrete facts. Too many secrets still remain.â€
Figgy took a moment to consider her response. –It’s more a matter of guarding the privacy of those who can no longer defend themselves. Dumbledore’s memory was maligned enough by that vile Skeeter….witch.â€
–Severus Snape, too. Wasn’t he the one who gave the Prophecy to the Dark Usurper in the first place?â€
Figgy nodded dismally. –Stole it and wrapped it up in a neat package for his master. Never realizing that he’d only overheard a portion of it.â€
–But how? Where?â€
–I can’t say. You’d have to ask one of the parties who were present for more details.â€
–Dumbledore and Snape are both in the Beyond,†Sybill sniffed. –Neither of them has answered my entreaties.â€
–Perhaps you should ask Minerva. I understand Harry gave her a detailed accounting of his part in Voldemort’s downfall.â€
Sybill wisely waited until she was alone in the Headmistress’ office before broaching the subject. Then could barely control her fidgeting as Minerva waltzed around the important points while being a veritable fountain of useless trivia.
From the start, the infernal woman hedged, –I was sworn to secrecy. If Harry had wanted the world to know, he would’ve given an interview.â€
–I doubt that,†Sybill snorted. –The boy hated the press with a passion.â€
–Can you blame him?â€
–How can I find the truth?â€
–Forgive me for saying so, but prophecy is not truth,†Minerva asserted. –It’s one person’s interpretation of it. Another interprets it differently and, well, that’s how Tom Riddle embarked upon his destructive path.â€
–With half a prophecy?â€
–So I’m told.â€
–Courtesy of Severus Snape. The same man who taught Potions to impressionable students for more than a decade.â€
–The very same,†Minerva solemnly attested. –But that heinous act also marked the turning point in Severus’ life.â€
–No surprise that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-Even-In-Abject-Defeat used Prophecy for his own dastardly ends. But that is not the fault of the Seer, just the thief and then the tyrant.â€
The Headmistress gave her a quizzical look. –Undeniably, Severus was expecting that the actions of that megalomaniac would only impact others. Those same others who had always looked down their noses at him for being poor and skinny and not having the proper pedigree, as it were.â€
–Did Harry Potter connect all the dots for you?â€
–Hardly. He felt protective of the memories Severus entrusted to him in the throes of death. But there was a lot I was able to piece together on my own. Don’t forget I was Head of Gryffindor House while Severus was still a student. The poor boy fairly haunted the corridors before the portrait of the Fat Lady. Always waiting to catch Lily Evans alone; it had been that way for years.â€
–So everyone knew about their friendship?†Sybill prodded.
–How could they not? There’s nothing sordid about childhood friends continuing to be close at Hogwarts. They were study partners. Albus always held them up as a shining example of how members of rival Houses could still be friends.â€
–Until they had a falling out.â€
–That often happens with childhood friends,†Minerva shrugged. –As children grow into adults, they develop different interests. Shattered friendships are often the result.â€
–So all along you -- and Albus -- knew that Severus harbored such an unrequited love?â€
–I can’t speak for Albus, but I dismissed it as just another case of teenage angst. One sees so many. Only with the later events did I recall the desperation in Severus’ eyes when he literally slept in the corridor for weeks. I should’ve realized that his acrimonious words with Lily would torture him into adulthood. A product of hindsight, I’m afraid.â€
–Am I wrong to conclude that Lily Evans turned her back on young Severus due to his association with dark magic?†Sybill persisted. –How could Albus allow a confirmed Death Eater to join the faculty?â€
Minerva issued a melancholy sigh. –It’s unfortunate that some people have to hit rock bottom before they find it in themselves to seek a different path. So it was with Severus.â€
–Sounds like a recipe for disaster,†Sybill scoffed. –This is hardly a reform school!â€
–Many have said as much throughout the years, yet Albus never wavered from his belief in Severus. In the end, it seems he was correct.â€
–What about you, Minerva? Did you share those convictions?â€
–The public humiliation before Lily’s indifference could just as easily made Severus turn his back on humanity. During that horrid year he served as Headmaster, I had little doubt that he was as black as they came. How else could he have tolerated the presence of Alecto and Amycus Carrow? It wasn’t until later that those sadists were revealed as Voldemort’s overseers tasked with making certain Severus stayed in line.â€
–It’s not in the nature of a madman to trust anyone,†Sybill summarized.
–Perhaps he’d been better served to doubt his own interpretation of that dastardly prophecy.â€
–But the Prophecy was fulfilled,†Sybill argued.
–Yes. But by both boys who fit the bill.â€
Sybill recited the bare facts she had been able to learn, –Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom. One born on July 30th and the other on the 31st.â€
–Both born as the month of July dies. You’re wondering why Voldemort only dispatched one of the boys?â€
–None of the explanations ever made sense to me.â€
–I think Albus knew, although he never said so aloud. Couldn’t risk that Harry would lose sight of the goal.â€
–Neville as the understudy? Divination doesn’t work that way.â€
–I’ve come to believe that Voldemort simply set out to kill the Potter child first,†Minerva clarified. –His plans were derailed by Lily’s sacrifice which essentially saved Harry. With his life force wrenched from his mortal body, Voldemort was unable to put the second part of his plan into action.â€
–So you think he would’ve come for Neville next?â€
–How else do you explain that the attack on the Longbottoms came after the Potters’ deaths? Nothing but a botched attempt by his lieutenants to gain their master’s favor. But Voldemort didn’t detail his plans for his followers; less chance of betrayal that way. So instead of killing the child, Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange tortured Neville’s parents for information.â€
–As if they held the key to their master’s whereabouts! What a brainless assumption on their part.â€
–Like Voldemort, they only knew part of what was to be.â€
Nothing but circular talk, Sybill groused inwardly. If Minerva knew the Seer who was responsible for starting this debacle, she wasn’t saying.
In desperation, Sybill glanced up at Severus’ stern portrait for inspiration. The face was as impassive as ever, yet the artist had managed to capture the way in which the man’s eyes had smoldered like ebony coals.
Without willing it, the surrounding walls seemed to dissolve as Sybill found herself alone in a land of grey mist. The only features were twin suns which burned intensely before her. Not for the first time, she felt the feather touch of a foreign presence in her mind. The words taunted her with their familiar silken drawl: In a world that puts free will before destiny, you must trust in the ambiguities. Only then can prophecy be a viable force.
Ignoring Dumbledore’s amused expression from the next frame, Sybill shook her head to clear the cobwebs as she accepted the Firewhiskey that Minerva pressed into her hands. Headmasters and their insufferable riddles, she grumbled to herself.
She christened the kitten, Zinderneuf, rather as if he’d been sentenced to the foreign legion after leaving the quaint lanes of Hogsmeade. Little Neuf showed himself to be a welcome addition to Sybill’s daily routine. She’d often find him peering quizzically into a crystal ball some negligent student had left out. Other times, she’d have to disengage his tiny claws one by one from the tasseled edges of her tablecloths even as he immediately latched onto the fringe of her scarves.
He spent more time balancing on the windowsills than curled up in his little basket, but Minerva had been right that the parapet had a wide protective lip that prevented long falls to the ground. Likely it had been designed as an impediment to invaders scaling the tower heights, but the ledges were ideal for an adventurous kitten.
The more she looked at Neuf, the more she began to think he wasn’t at all like Quatorze. Neuf wasn’t a black cat at all, but rather a white one who’d been splashed with a bucket of indelible ink. His dexterous paws seemed encased in starched shirt cuffs as he cleaned his ebony torso. At such moments, it was inevitable that Sybill’s thoughts would return to Severus Snape.
Perhaps it had been the man’s feline grace that had first caught her eye, his muscles always coiled as if he could never relax in the presence of others. There had been more opportunities to socialize in those days -- or perhaps Sybill had not yet come to embrace her solitude then.
Life at Hogwars had been more relaxed in the halcyon years before Harry Potter had arrived to remind Severus of unfinished business. Student activities had flourished with the addition of the Dueling Club, the Inter-house Wizards Chess League and a whole slew of social events. Three times a year, the Great Hall was transformed into a wonderland, the more fantasical the better. Participation in the student planning committees was just one more way to earn House Points.
She remembered the first dance which she’d been called to chaperone. The theme had been the High Renaissance and the walls were draped with rich brocades. The orchestra occupied the mezzanine gallery which had later fallen into disrepair. She debated going in fancy dress, but had abandoned the idea when the students voted for contemporary formal attire instead.
Not that she had anything in her closet that was suitable; but she wasn’t really a guest, was she? As a teacher, it would be best to avoid blending in with the crowds. Sybill recalled donning a simple gown of midnight blue, then adding layers of chiffon scarves to create an ensemble that would make her stand out in a unique way.
The students had been a well-mannered bunch, so very different from the recent batch of hooligans. After Albus and Minerva led the obligatory opening dance, there was little more to do but stand about and watch. The teachers had chatted along the periphery of the room while the students flitted like exotic butterflies from one partner to the next.
Aided by the excellent brandy punch Albus reserved for the staff, the conversations had gotten more daring and flirtatious as the night wore on. Quite by chance, Sybill found herself near a knot of giggling women who’d taken it upon themselves to draw the humorless Potions Master out of his shell. It was amusing to watch them turned away with a curt word or a simple headshake. Even the man pacing like a caged tiger didn’t keep the unwanted attention at bay.
At the end of his forbearance, Severus finally snarled, –You can natter like a gaggle of demented cockatrices in the staffroom! Have you forgotten this is a dance?â€
With grim determination, Severus turned to where Sybill was hovering a small distance apart. Before she could register what was happening, he snatched her onto a dance floor suddenly devoid of students. His hooded eyes bored into hers, but he didn’t say a word as the orchestra broke into a flowing waltz.
I’m not that good a dancer, Sybill wanted to protest but her lips refused to respond. The room is spinning around much too fast!
Severus ignored her panicked looks, expertly guiding her steps with his. Before long, she realized that her heart was pounding from the exertion but she hadn’t caused them to collapse into a heap, either. As other couples joined in, Severus deftly maneuvered her between them, enticing her scarves to flow behind her like gossamer wings. When the music drew to a close, he gave her a formal nod of thanks and walked her back to where the other teachers were gaping at them.
Without looking at anyone in particular, Severus held out a disdainful hand for the next volunteer. Giggling like a schoolgirl, that little minx, Charity Burbage, sidestepped a huffing Vima Vector to take up the offer.
–I’d forgotten what an accomplished dancer Severus had been in his youth,†Minerva observed at Sybill’s elbow. –Here’s some punch from the student table. Sip it slowly as you catch your breath.â€
–You knew?†Sybill barely managed.
–Always wondered how he came by the skill,†Minerva confided lowly.
–As have I,†Dumbledore issued as he bent his patrician head with theirs. –It’s a skill that’s served him well.â€
–Because it made him fit in with the status-conscious Slytherins in his own House?†Minerva supplied.
Merriment sparkled in the Headmaster’s blue eyes as he clarified, –It’s how he avoids the small talk that he loathes. What woman can carry on a conversation when the man’s dancing has left her breathless?â€
Minerva gave voice to Sybill’s very thoughts, –Did Severus actually tell you this?â€
Albus returned an insouciant shrug. –He’s a man of few words -- and those are generally scathing.â€
Minerva chortled with relish as Sybill joined in meekly. In all honesty, she was too intimidated by Severus’ demeanor to hazard a laugh at his expense. Even if she was dead certain he didn’t possess the Inner Eye, she’d overheard enough students whispering about the man’s uncanny ability to discern what was being said behind his back.
Left alone once again, Sybill couldn’t help thinking that Severus would have more success if he used his singular voice for seduction instead of derision. But that was assuming he sought female companionship -- and Sybill wasn’t certain that Severus was like other men.
It didn’t help that she never could get a good reading on his aura. The few times that she caught a hint of it, that is. Mostly there was simply nothing, quite as if he’d wrapped himself in a metaphysical invisibility cloak. It had continued that way for so long that it no longer struck Sybill as being anything out of the ordinary.
Then the Ministry had fallen to the Dark Usurper’s puppet, Thicknesse. They had been assured that nothing would change at Hogwarts despite Dumbledore’s ‘accidental’ tumble from the Astronomy Tower. Then as an added indignity, the new administration named Severus as the next Headmaster, effectively bypassing Minerva’s claim after all her years as Deputy Headmistress.
It was whispered that Snape himself had been the one to assassinate Dumbledore so he could seize power. Certainly, Harry Potter had confided as much to Minerva, but Sybill was unclear how the lad had come to witness those events.
She should’ve told Dumbledore about the absence of Severus’ aura. In retrospect, it seemed like such an auspicious warning sign. Just like the lightning struck tower that kept appearing from her tarot deck.
Would Dumbledore have believed her then? Or would he still have insisted that he made his own destiny as he ushered her unceremoniously from his office?
Perhaps she could’ve made a better assessment if she’d caught a glimpse of Severus as he fled the castle that night, leaving Albus’ broken body behind. But the front lawn had been nothing but a swath of impenetrable black from her tower window. Only once Hagrid’s hut had been set aflame could she discern a few silhouettes.
She had felt the heat of Severus’ anger from afar, even as his outline had been wreathed in flames. He was a succubus from the deepest recesses of hell, but Sybill recognized that was only an emotional response. Her Seer ability had been silent when it came to Severus; it usually was when she had a personal interest in the subject.
Her Sight had been assaulted when the Carrows arrived as Hogwarts’ newest replacements, though. Glaring black auras, the both of them. It had been enough to send Sybill to bed with a migraine headache. She learned to keep to her tower then. Too many students, especially those in Slytherin House, seemed poised to fall into the same unholy pit; she could See their auras darkening more and more each day.
All around her, the sense of fear was palatable. She recognized it in the way her colleagues’ auras trembled and then faded to a sickly yellow around the edges.
Quite by chance, she passed the new Headmaster in a deserted corridor. He was scowling so deeply as he mumbled under his breath that Sybill doubted her presence had even registered with the Prince of Potions.
She fell back against the wall as the click of his boot heels receded into the distance. Suddenly aware that she had been holding her breath, she gulped in air to regain her composure.
Snape’s aura had been….conflicted, troubled. But most of all, it was no longer absent. Whatever he’d been hiding before was no longer a secret.
What a profound revelation, Sybill berated herself. A moron could’ve come to that conclusion just by reading the Daily Prophet.
Severus was one of them. Always had been. Albus had been taken in by someone cleverer than himself.
Slowly the truth worked its way through the mist, leaving her even more shaken than before. Albus had known all along. He’d been waiting for them to make a move. No wonder he didn’t want to deal with her dire warnings.
Feeling like she’d just run a marathon, Sybill slowly crept up the stairs to her tower. On the threshold, her veins turned to ice with new insight.
Why wasn’t Snape’s aura as black as the Carrows’ then?
She made a point of attending dinners in the Great Hall after that. She ignored Amycus’ grunts to his Neanderthal of a sister that their new bylaws were finally bringing the more recalcitrant elements into line.
Snape was often absent, she soon learned. When he did show, he was more taciturn than ever. Like a greedy ogre keeping watch over his minions, he never looked at anyone directly, grunting his responses more often than not.
Between bites of her tasteless dinner, Sybill watched him unabashedly. No one would question why her attention was riveted on the titular head as he slouched in the tall chair once occupied by Dumbledore. In close proximity to the others, Sybill could see that Severus’ aura was streaked with bilious green and just as shaky as everyone else’s.
Suddenly, she was uncertain what to believe. The facts of Dumbledore’s murder were incontrovertible -- weren’t they?
She needed to discuss her conclusions with someone else, someone she could trust. She flashed an imploring look in Minerva’s direction, but the woman was intent on the food before her. Pomona was whispering quietly with Aurora who looked like a small, frightened bird.
Sybill’s breath caught in her throat when she found Severus was staring straight at her. She hid behind her goblet as she gulped her wine, barely keeping the pewter cup from overturning in her trembling fingers.
When she looked up once more, his obsidian eyes drilled into hers with an unnerving intensity. Across the crowded table, she could feel his fear, his abject loneliness, his unwavering willpower in the face of uncertainty. He held her gaze imploringly, the words etching themselves onto her brain: It is dangerous to know the truth in a climate that thrives on misinformation.
She returned an imperceptible nod that she understood, knowing then that she would keep his secret. To trust anyone else would just put them all in danger, Severus included. They were the only thing that stood between the innocents entrusted into their care and the evil cruelty of Death Eaters like the Carrows.
Had the Prince of Potions already lain dead in the Shrieking Shack when she herself had been drawn into that Final Battle? It was impossible to tell amid the chaos. Sybill had only seen his mangled body hours later as it rested among the fallen heroes in the Great Hall.
Sybill’s memories of that horrific day were fractured as if time had ceased to have any meaning. By midday, the dire portents assaulting her Inner Eye had forced her to seek refuge in her tower. From her vantage point, she had seen the enemy approach, a horde of Visigoths intent of destroying the last remnants of civilization.
What weapons had a bunch of teachers against such butchers? True, they could be an ingenious lot, but clearly Dumbledore had been the giant in their midst. By contrast, the Dark Usurper had recruited flesh-and-blood giants to serve as barbaric siege engines against the castle walls.
Sybill remembered ducking into the cramped cupboard where she kept her classroom supplies. No need to have the reflection of her spectacles betray her hiding place. Curled into a ball, she cowered in the darkest corner as the booming sounds of the assault echoed from every direction. It was the lightning struck tower all over again, she moaned inwardly.
With each barrage, Sybill’s prized pink teacups were set to trembling as much as she. A fair amount finally crashed to the floor in spite of the magical wards.
If this was her day to die, she decided, they would not trap her like a prized canary in its cozy cage!
Determination coursing through her veins, she searched wildly for anything that could be used as a weapon. As a last resort, she selected a dozen of the heaviest crystal orbs to use as projectiles. Even as she stuffed them into a hastily expanded carpetbag, the crystalline depths flashed scenes of carnage for her benefit.
Nothing more than possible outcomes, Sybill repeated to herself. She didn’t need her Inner Eye to tell her that the cost of their victory would be dear -- if they survived at all.
For once, her Sight served her well as she managed to avoid the knots of fighting en route to the central part of the castle. She hardly recognized the broken battlements that soared like blackened teeth all around the once elegant Entrance Hall. Without a second’s hesitation, Sybill loosed her crystal balls on the unsuspecting heads of the invading infidels.
She was no hero like the Brown family seemed to think. She had merely defended students against bullies who were larger and better armed than they, something teachers did on a regular basis. The true heroes would be those who restored peace, who meted out justice without becoming despots themselves. In a society divided by long-held prejudices, establishing a new government would be the true challenge.
That, she could See all too clearly.