Sybill Trelawney opened her eyes to a white ceiling with two thin cracks running toward the corners. Yes, she could see perfectly without her glasses... Which was why she hid behind those thick lenses when she didn't want to see anything or anyone. So, often. Even now she reached for them, but someone gently stopped her hand.
"Madam Pomfrey..."
"Just Poppy, dear..." the woman smiled, dimples appearing in her round cheeks. "Sybill, tell me how you became so popular with students from all houses at once... and why you're so terribly thin?"
"I... what?"
"Sweetheart, I thought you only had vision problems... Turns out it's the opposite. By the way, you look much better without those glasses. Why on earth do you wear that monstrosity, dear? Anyway, eat a proper breakfast first, then we'll talk. I'll tell you what's wrong with you and how you got here. Then you tell me how things got this bad... Don't worry, I won't pry. But as a healer I need to know two things: why you fainted and why you're starving yourself. I suspect they're connected."
Poppy Pomfrey slipped silently from the small hospital partition. She always moved gracefully despite her roundness. Curiosity was practically bursting out of her. Why all this attention for the poor charlatan?
That she was indeed poor and pathetic—Poppy had known for ages. Ever since Dumbledore hired her out of nowhere as Divination professor. Honestly, what kind of professor was this scattered mess? Absolutely none. Didn't take a genius to see that.
The students certainly saw it. So the new teacher was periodically "rescued" only by the headmaster. Result—people tolerated her like something inevitable. But not always. No wonder she tried so hard to isolate herself from everyone. But never complained. Never asked for help.
Poppy felt sorry for the girl. But she stubbornly kept flinching away from everyone. Can't force friendship. So Poppy gave up trying to get closer. In ten years of work, Sybill Trelawney had ended up in her care for the first time. If you could call what she did "work"... Well, now the healer wouldn't let this patient escape until she figured out what was what. She wouldn't be Poppy Pomfrey otherwise!
***
Quidditch practice started right when the rain did... Flying was miserable. Hell, just being outside sucked. Harry kept glancing at Oliver Wood, trying to figure out what was wrong with the captain's head. Then started bloodthirstily wondering if he could "accidentally" knock a quaffle straight into that stubborn skull. Wouldn't guarantee the resulting bump would knock sense into him. But a guy could dream, right?
Plus it'd be a pretty solid chance to end practice. Because no amount of warming charms helped anymore. His glasses kept flooding despite the water-repelling spell. His hands were starting to slip on the broom handle. Forget the snitch—just staying on the broom was the goal...
Harry quietly activated sticking charms. Wandless magic was THE THING. He turned his head hoping to at least spot the golden gleam of the snitch. Nothing but gray sheets of rain and vague shadows darting through it. Harry dodged another bludger, refreshing his memory of several perfectly appropriate Mungo curses, and went back to thinking.
What was even the point of always training the seeker with the whole team? The only thing that made sense—in this case he had to dodge balls and other players. Be ready for someone to protect him. Protect him, yeah right... But why not just play dodgeball under a roof? The school had plenty of suitable spaces.
When practice finally ended, he could barely unclench his fingers from the broom handle. Teeth chattering. Everyone's. Fortunately nobody thought to cast spells with shaking hands. And Harry didn't want to show off wandless magic yet. Snape wouldn't warn him for nothing. Plus what interesting spell might result from syllables mixed with teeth chattering! So they just trudged glumly toward their tower, still shivering and leaving wet muddy tracks.
On the way to the common room they ran into Filch. Who didn't hesitate to read them the riot act. Fortunately, it was pretty short. The caretaker flinched when he caught an unexpectedly grateful look from Harry Potter in response...
What nonsense am I seeing, he thought and decided if it happened again, he'd have to grovel to the potions master.
***
"So, how was practice?" Hermione asked in an indecently cheerful and smug voice the second they entered the common room.
Dry Hermione.
That was a low blow! Harry, still dripping, narrowed his eyes. But his friend had already waved her wand... and after that he was ready to forgive her pretty much anything. Actually no. Already forgiven. He broke into a blissful smile.
The pleasure of warmth spreading through his body and dry clothes could honestly be called heavenly. But he grumpily muttered in response to her question:
"Awful! What can you possibly practice in freezing rain with basically zero visibility?"
Someone in the common room gasped. Sounded like Wood.
Harry turned to his team, about to say everything he thought. But he looked at them... and pulled out his wand. Before anyone could react, he and Hermione had dried everyone off and even warmed them up a bit. The team captain coughed and... started making excuses. At least that's how he saw it.
Harry classified his captain's speech as completely unjustified guilt-tripping and seriously pulling one over on him. His ears! Eventually he'd had enough.
"I listened to you, Wood. Now you listen to me! Or I'm hitting you with Silencio, clear?"
The guys went quiet from shock. Even the twins.
"Yeah, flying's great. In good weather. Tell me what you're training when you can't see each other? Or can you see? Because I personally can't. Share the secret? Nothing? Then what the hell were we doing just now and what exactly were we training, pray tell?! Because two hours purely for toughening up in that weather is overkill. I'm not doing it anymore. Period."
"Harry, are you—"
"Quitting as seeker?!" Fred and George finally reacted.
"I'm for figuring out how to make weather not interfere. Wood, are there rules against weather charms?"
"Haven't seen any. But all matches fly like that... I think. Though no, wait, oh right, I read... They put up a dome if everything's really bad."
"Then why the hell are we messing around? Until we find a way to fly normally in bad weather, I'm out."
"You... you... have you lost your mind, Potter?"
"Imagine how much advantage the team would have during matches if we found that method?"
"Oh... So not for the whole stadium, individual protection? Whoa!"
"Need to find all possible methods. Upper years probably know better." Harry hoped nobody caught the irony flickering in his voice.
Only Hermione smiled with just her eyes. But he understood—she appreciated it.
"Everyone in the library after lunch!" Wood trumpeted. His nose was clearly already stuffy. "No excuses!"
"But we've got the pitch reserved... What if the snakes show up?"
"Then good luck to them!"
"Ha-ha-ha, let them toughen up too!"
***
When the Slytherin team—soaked to the bone and shivering hard from cold—ran into their rivals leaving the library that evening, Marcus Flint couldn't hold back:
"What, gave up? Little Gryff cubs can't handle the weather?"
Wood opened his mouth to respond. Potter cut him off.
"You prefer toughening up? Two hours every single time it rains? We're just stunned by your willpower... by Merlin, absolutely stunned! Your manly hand, sir!" Harry bugged out his eyes, grabbed Flint's hand and shook it vigorously.
"And yours... Oh, Malfoy! For your unbending and unwashable courage!" He shook hands with everyone he could reach.
Gryffindor's team—laughing their asses off though also slightly stunned by their seeker's behavior—walked on, rustling some papers. Left the shell-shocked Slytherins behind. Malfoy stared thoughtfully at his own palm...
"What were they trying to say?"
"Was that praise, mockery or condemnation?"
"That's Potter."
"Ah... yeah. He's weird lately."
"That's putting it mildly. They say our Head of House trained him over summer."
"So Potter's like this after getting mentored by our Head? Yikes... We'll have to be more careful around him."
"Whoa... How hasn't he buried Potter yet? What were they all doing in the library anyway?"
"Oh, right. Gryff team in the library... That's something."
"This is bad news!"
"Who's got contacts with Madam Pince?"
"She won't let us through the door looking like this!"
"Fine, let's go dry off. Then Pucey and Bole to the library. Clear? Malfoy!"
"What?"
"Wake up! Figure out how to make Potter spill!"
"What does 'unwashable' mean anyway?"
Filch, who'd accidentally witnessed that bizarre "handshaking scene," knew for certain: he couldn't avoid Snape tonight. But first he'd have to mop the floor. And he never did give those thrice-cursed mud-makers detention...
***
The Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Order of Merlin First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards—at that moment emerged from his pensieve where he'd been reviewing his own memories of Harry Potter. Harry, who'd changed because he, Albus, had so carelessly handed the boy over to his potions master.
Just two months! And after that Snape would feed him lines about having absolutely zero teaching talent? Sure. But stopping his growing closeness with the professor would be difficult. Unless he gradually led the boy to revealing the Prophecy. And casually mention Snape's role in that story. Yes. Probably have to do it that way. He'd make sure Harry understood everything correctly.
He mentally pictured the boy's face again. Already losing childish features. Look, he'd even grown his hair out—following Snape's example? And now a fairly neat black fringe covered his forehead. Forehead... What a modest boy, trying to keep others from noticing his famous scar!
But what if it wasn't the scar—it was the absence of a scar?! Albus swayed. His heart beat fast and anxiously. The new thought seemed completely wild and absurd. But it was there. He dove back into the pensieve. Reviewed everything. Couldn't find Potter with an exposed forehead. But if there was no scar, then... Merlin help him... Watch Harry. Watch him as closely as possible!
"And don't panic prematurely," his inner voice told him. Albus listened. The voice had never given bad advice. He walked quickly to the next room, threw open the cupboard and swore quietly. His calming draught supply had run out.
My job's too stressful, the Grand Sorcerer thought and headed for the fireplace to summon his faithful potions master.
***
Madam Pomfrey was slowly recovering. After everything Miss Trelawney had poured out to her... Oh, how terrible to be a real seer! Now she understood. Glasses to avoid seeing faces that could trigger prophecies any second. Hiding to minimize contact with people. Desperately insisting the gift was weak when it tore outward, destroying all barriers so she no longer belonged to herself. Playing the charlatan... Horrible.
She'd definitely develop a medical support program for her. Because this couldn't continue! The girl would burn out for nothing. Soon. She reminded Poppy of Potter when he first ended up in her care. But the headmaster had calmed her about the boy... pretty quickly. How quickly... Too quickly? Hmm. I need to calm down first and think this through properly. She threw open the cabinet, grabbed a familiar vial and drained it in one gulp.
***
Having barely recovered from the healer's interrogation, Sybill Trelawney felt very strange. For once she was full. And... calm. But still wanted to hide. Especially from students. She'd hoped to sneak back to her tower quietly. But Pomfrey only released her now—when everyone was leaving dinner and crowds swarmed the corridors. Was she being spiteful on purpose?
She walked, catching sympathetic looks... Sympathetic and... respectful? Merlin, still terrifying. She knew well: the moment she focused, prophecy would pour out like water from an open tap. Don't open it. Don't... When would this end? Fortunately nobody who greeted her tried to speak. But before, people almost never greeted her. Like they didn't notice her. Finally she reached her tower. Looked around to see if anyone was watching. Started climbing her ladder as fast as possible.
Pulling it up after her, the woman finally relaxed.
Merlin... What do I do? Her hand reached for the sherry bottle. Then stopped. Dropped limply. Eyes floated before her mind's eye...
Just a bit. For courage, she tried to excuse herself. But... how could she look into those eyes afterward? Would glasses help? Sybill didn't know. She knew nothing anymore except that her life would never be the same.
She needed someone's advice... But whose? She was completely alone here... Who could she even approach? Talk to?
Unexpectedly, memory presented her with a young face: thin, hook-nosed, framed by uneven strands of black hair. He... They studied almost together. He was older by... a couple years? Or one? They'd crossed paths several times in Potions. A couple times he'd... helped her. And she? Thanked him verbally and moved on. But what if that new ingredient he'd given her to replace her ruined one... what if it had been his own? Bought with his own money? Maybe she could try repaying the debt?.. But if it wasn't... wasn't a debt? What then? Sybill paced her room. Then settled on the floor like a confused moth and pressed the baseboard.
A tall narrow arch appeared in the wall—passage to one of Hogwarts' secret corridors. Sybill loved the castle. And seemed to be loved back. At least despite all her scattiness, she never got lost. Grabbing a bottle of gin stashed for the most absolutely unforeseen circumstance, she slowly headed down toward the dungeons...
***
Opening the door to knocking, the potions master—who'd been expecting Potter finally—felt his eyebrows climb independently upward. What could she possibly want from him?! Snape swept the seer with an unreadable look. Sybill felt cold and hostility radiating from him. So intense she involuntarily shivered. Wanted to leave. But at least needed to apologize for bothering him.
"Forgive me... Professor Snape. I... shouldn't have come. S-sorry."
For some reason she reminded him of a broken branch carelessly tossed on the ground. Wilting leaves. Resigned to the inevitable. But... still alive.
She doesn't remember. Knows absolutely nothing. Can't blame her for that.
"Come in. Sit, Miss Trelawney. What shall I pour you?"
Couldn't bring himself to call this creature professor.
"Thank you... Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you."
"Since it's already happened, stop apologizing and get to the point. What's wrong?"
"Professor, I..." Sybill squeezed her eyes shut. Pulled out her precious bottle and awkwardly thumped it on the table.
Snape was taken aback.
"You don't have anyone to drink with?"
"Ah... it's a gift. Yes..."
"For what?"
"You have calming draught, right?"
"Ah, payment in kind. Got it. One moment."
The potions master returned with a small vial.
"One dose here, unfortunately. All that's left. There's a new batch almost ready in the lab. But it needs time to steep. Want it now?"
"What? Yes, if possible, thank you..."
"So what happened that made you contact me for the first time in ten years?" Snape wouldn't be a spy if he didn't ask.
"Harry Potter..."
"Who'd have guessed," Snape muttered.
"You... foresaw this?" Trelawney gasped.
"I just spent all summer training him. On the headmaster's orders, naturally."
Her reaction utterly surprised him. The Divination professor squeaked weakly and tried to flee, hiding from him behind armchairs... She pushed the door. Which naturally didn't budge. His office and lab doors were solid. Stained oak. Sometimes, accidentally forgetting, even he didn't open them first try.
"Miss Trelawney, have you forgotten all the spells? I'm flattered. Care to share what scared you so badly?"
The soft, almost enveloping voice was strangely calming. Skeptical hooked face. Crossed arms. Just a hint of irony in his look or posture. Sybill, feeling like a foolish schoolgirl, timidly sat by the door and accepted the levitated cup of tea. Took a sip...
"Sorry... I... Potter frightened me badly. You know, he seems to have encountered the G-g-grim. Not just seen it... That monster..."
"Potter?" Snape smiled slightly. "Agreed."
"Really?" Huge eyes widened further.
"Are you no longer afraid of me, Miss Trelawney?"
"I think not... What did you put in the tea?"
"Calming draught, obviously. What you didn't quite finish. What's wrong with your head?"
She grabbed it with both hands and looked at him in confusion.
Ridiculous... But what to tell her for reassurance? Oh right.
"See, I personally know that dog. It's not a Grim, I swear. Just a stupid massive mutt Potter's relatives bought their son. Yeah, in darkness, by silhouette—probably looks like a Grim. But it's an ordinary dog. Only understands strength. Specifically strength of spirit. Confidence... Understand?"
"Really? Merlin, Professor Snape... Oh... Thank you!"
"Feel better?"
"Incredibly!.. But he looks so much like one, so... you can't imagine!"
"Perhaps... would you allow me your memory?"
"You... Do you have a pensieve?"
"Swear everything you learn now stays between us."
"I swear on my gift!"
"Oh."
Snape bowed slightly, appreciating the oath's power. The gift, as he'd long understood, she truly had...
"I'm a Legilimens."
***
Closing the library after an extraordinarily long and strange day, Madam Pince paused thoughtfully and headed for the Hospital Wing. She really didn't fancy seeing another nightmare where Gryffindor's entire Quidditch team tore through her beloved library like rabid shrews. Keeping track of children seemingly struck by some spell (otherwise why would they show up?) had been absolutely impossible. Trying drove her nearly mad.
That was one thing. But then almost the same thing with Slytherins... Though at least only four came. And she trusted these aristocratic children more. More cultured than...
Oh Merlin... How did she even know what the Gryffindors were looking for? They checked charms. Quidditch history. Something about Transfiguration... No, honestly, how could she track them—there were seven! Each grabbed something different. This section, this one and that.
Definitely needed to get calming draught from Pomfrey.
***
The Gryffindor common room smelled like a storm brewing. The second Ron Weasley turned from his carelessly tossed cloak on the couch, a massive ginger cat pounced and wild shrieking erupted. Ron lunged for his rat. Hermione for Crookshanks. The rat wriggled free from the fabric folds and bolted under the nearest cupboard.
Hermione and Harry barely managed to catch the cat. Ron finally dragged his pet from her hiding spot. That's when everything started. Word after word, Weasley quickly escalated to insults... The rat writhed like she'd been stung, screeching nastily. Crookshanks hissed viciously. Ron yelled. Hermione wasn't far behind but eventually started sobbing...
Harry was fuming. Red-faced indignant Ron who he just wanted to deck. Crying Hermione... But if he sat down to comfort her, things might get worse—look, right there, the house's top gossips... Finally shutting Ron up with Silencio—which made him storm out of the common room in a huff (whatever!)—Harry beckoned Brown and Patil over.
"Fastest way to get rid of cry-face so nobody notices?"
Before they could open their mouths, he added:
"You figured out who needs to hear about this, right?"
"Why won't you leave that poor rat alone? What's so interesting about it?" Harry addressed the troublemaker once the girls had dragged Hermione to the dorm.
The arrogant ginger cat measured him with a cold look and turned away.
Can't live like this anymore, Harry Potter decided and, throwing on his invisibility cloak first so he wouldn't have to explain to anyone else, headed for his mentor.
***
"Oh... sorry, bad timing?" Madam Pomfrey smiled slyly at the potions master, finding him with a guest.
Sybill Trelawney, who'd been contemplating new information about what a curriculum was and how to create one, jumped in surprise and pressed herself into the armchair.
At least she didn't run to hide. Progress, Snape thought and opened the door wider for his colleague.
Since they'd been working together for years, Poppy Pomfrey was a fairly frequent guest. When she dropped by, it was for business. But she came freely. Their relationship wasn't exactly friendly. But professional and quite good. Each was a specialist in their field and could appreciate that in another.
But when the petite embarrassed librarian appeared from behind Pomfrey's solid frame, he didn't know what to think.
"Good girl, dear," Poppy cooed, giving Trelawney a friendly shoulder pat that nearly knocked her over. Only the armrest saved her. "Oh, sorry, sorry! How are you feeling? Oh, you're having fun?" She shot a meaningful look at the bottle on the table. "Severus, are you sure?.."
"Unopened."
"Ah, payment in kind," Poppy giggled. "I wanted to ask for calming draught for her too. And the hospital wing somehow ran out."
She rummaged in her robes. A second bottle appeared on the table. Identical...
Snape silently gestured toward the small sofa.
Temporarily speechless, Irma Pince sat down, mentally thanking the room's owner for finally making this extraordinarily broad gesture for him.
"If you need it urgently, I can only suggest opening this undoubtedly interesting bottle. Calming draught will be ready in approximately..." Snape looked aside. The ladies, following his gaze, spotted a large antique clock in the alcove. "Thirty-five minutes. But you can wait. And tell me what happened."
"Be a dear and help the ladies," Pomfrey smiled, handing him the bottle. Snape opened it and poured small amounts into neat shot glasses his colleague conjured. But before he could finish, someone knocked.
"Severus! I know you have some!"
"What, Minerva?"
"Calm-ing... draught..." The Gryffindor Head of House, seeing the honest company of "three ladies" in Snape's quarters, slowly sank right onto the floor. The host had to scramble and transfigure an empty crate into an armchair under her.
"Thank you... You seem to be having quite the gathering..."
"Shall I pour you some?"
"Please."
"So what happened? Who's first?"
"Wood said they're refusing Quidditch practice. Quidditch!!!" Minerva jumped up. "Severus! You must know! This is your Potter's initiative!"
"Whose Potter?" Madam Pomfrey perked up.
And Minerva told them what she knew—"Dumbledore's version," naturally. Then everyone slowly started sharing their own stories.
They worked through more than one shot glass (Snape made sure of it) and told plenty of interesting things.
At that moment the fireplace flared... The headmaster choked and coughed, seeing the already well-warmed exclusively female company in his potions master's sitting room. Especially since he couldn't remember anyone ever being there except the owner himself. While he made his order in a not-quite-right voice and Snape responded, nobody noticed the heavy door creak open slightly, then close quietly and carefully.
Down the stairs leading to the Slytherin dungeons, Argus Filch shuffled steadily downward.