AN: I've been reading a lot of 'someone finds out Harry is abused' stories recently, and noticed that most of them seem to use Snape, perhaps with the Weasleys and/or Marauders. I wanted to try someone else, and thought that the dream diaries would be a good way to reveal the truth. My version of Trelawney is less batty and more snarky than she appears in canon, I'm assuming that at least some of her original character is just an act.
Dream interpretations were written according to plot and plausibility rather than reference souces.
Disclaimer: As the name of this site suggests, this is a work of fanfiction and I own nothing.
Professor Trelawney sighs as she settles herself at her overflowing desk. There are four types of students who choose Divination. Best, are those rare children who actually possess the Sight; these are the students she teaches for, although they are few and far between. Eyeing the piles of parchment, she pours herself a healthy glass of sherry. Then there are those – like Miss Granger – who actively disbelieve the Sight; these are the most annoying students, but the few who actually end up taking the class can generally be persuaded to leave early. Opening a draw, she pulls out a new quill and red ink. The next group are those who think they can learn the Sight; these are the students the curriculum is written for, not that it will do them any good without the innate talent. She drags the pile of fifth year dream diaries towards her, a small smile lifting her lips. The last are those who don't care about the Sight at all, and take it as a bludge class; these, she 'encourages' to be creative. It keeps her amused.
Looking at the name on the top diary her smile widens as she turns to the first entry. Harry Potter, one of the last category. What ideas has he come up with this time?
I am walking along a stone tunnel. There is no light, but I can still see a bit. The tunnel gets smaller and smaller until I am crawling. Then I get to a dead end. I turn around to go back, but the roof collapses and blocks that end too. The not-light is gone and I can't see anything. It feels like the walls are closing in on me. I panic and start beating my hands against them (wooden walls, now, not stone). I'm trapped, I can't get out. They won't let me out.
Trapped = frustration, restricted, blocked
Darkness = secrets, uncertainty
I've been having this dream for years. I don't like small spaces. Well, I do, other people can't get to you then, but that only helps if they are trying to get you out. If they are trying to keep you in it just stops you from escaping. Besides, you always have to come out eventually…
She pauses and considers the entry she has just read. That doesn't sound like Potter's style at all, usually he is much more creative. The dream itself is fairly standard, although that last sentence is a slightly unsettling change of direction. It is curious that he mentions it is a regular; and that rambling rationale is hardly the sort of thing she expected either. Perhaps he actually decided to attempt the assignment properly for a change? It certainly sounds as though it was written before fully conscious. Frowning, she looks further, skimming the entries.
I am walking through the empty Hogwarts halls late at night. A door ahead of me opens part way. Then I am in the room, looking at the Mirror of Erised (Mirror of Desire). I move in front of it, hoping to see my parents again, but it is blank. (I somehow know that it should be working and isn't just broken or anything.) I look down, but I seem as solid as ever. When I look up again the single mirror has changed to a ring of them, the reflections bouncing backwards and forwards, spiralling into infinity. But I still can't see my reflection anywhere. I look down at my body again but it starts fading until it is gone. I don't exist.
Mirrors = truth, perception, introspection
Invisibility = hiding (from self and/or others), insignificance
Disappearing = helplessness, loss, death
This isn't really a prediction, it's already true. People don't see me, Harry; they see the Boy-Who-Lived, the saviour, the Gryffindor Golden Boy. Or how about the Heir of Slytherin for a change? Or an attention-seeking liar? My relatives are different of course, they just see a freak. They wish I didn't exist full stop, and do their best to pretend that I don't. Some days, I wish I didn't exist too.
Her blood runs cold as she reads the last line. This… might be a problem. If he is expressing a recurring sentiment not a once off it is something that definitely needs to be addressed with the boy. Reading the entry again, she stops to consider his situation. As a Divination teacher she is highly aware of the significance of symbols, but she had never thought of what it would be like to be seen as only a symbol of something bigger, and not as yourself; the pressure of being forced to maintain an image. It seems there is more to the boy than she had thought.
I am walking with Snuffles, heading back to his home and I know that I live there too now. I am so happy; it is sunny and Snuffles is bouncing and running in circles around me. We get to the house and he changes back into Sirius to open the door. I go through and he follows me, but when I get inside it is the front hall of Privet Drive instead. I turn around to ask Sirius why we are here, but it is Uncle Vernon who is behind me. He grabs me and shouts at me how I am an ungrateful freak for not appreciating the fact that they let me stay there, gave me food, clothes, and shelter, and how no one else wants me. When he finally finishes he drags me over to the stairs and shoves me in my cupboard, locking the door. I hear him laughing outside, then it changes and it is Voldemort laughing. My scar hurts and I wake up.
Transformation = uncertainty, similarities/connections, hidden
Home = safety, belonging
Rejection = fear, uncertainty
Enemies = vulnerability, opposition, danger
Well, I guess this one's fairly obvious. Sirius promised I could live with him, leave the Dursleys', but that was two years ago and I'm still stuck with them over the summers. I know he's still on the run so he can't be my guardian, but he has a place, why can't I at least stay with him? Why do I keep having to go back 'home' first? The next bit is just Vernon being Vernon; the end is also pretty simple. Two of my least favourite people in probably my least favourite place. Some days I don't know which one I hate more, Voldemort, or Vernon. Must be something to do with the 'V'.
She actually gives a snort of laughter at that last comment, jolted out of her increasingly dark thoughts. Only Harry Potter could refer to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named so casually. Sobering again, she looks at the rest of the explanation. Putting aside the questions raised by his reference to Sirius Black, she is worried by his description of his Uncle's behaviour.
Dreams are complex things. Created by your subconscious they are an amalgam of ideas: meaningless filler, aspects of real life, and symbols of something deeper. It is the role of the diviner to determine to which category each element belongs, and to interpret the meaning of the dream as a whole. Unfortunately – and much as she might wish otherwise – her instincts are telling her that the uncle belongs to the reality category, an impression only strengthened by his rationale and obvious desire for alternate accommodations. She sighs. Poor boy, even in his dreams the happiness doesn't last.
Flicking to the end of the diary, she pauses at a familiar hated name.
I have detention with Umbridge again. I sit down at the usual desk and pick up the quill but she stops me before I can start writing. She says that she has some new lines for me this time, "shorter but more to the point."
'I am a freak.'
I start writing and the quill cuts into my hand, burning, dripping blood onto the parchment. In the background I hear Umbridge speaking again, and Aunt Petunia replying; the two women happily chattering away. I write the next line, but instead of going over the same cuts the words form on the back of my other hand. The next line carves itself onto my arm. Another, and the burning appears on my leg. Each line cuts into a new piece of skin, smearing blood across my body, proclaiming what I am. I am a freak.
Writing = subconscious message, truth
Blood/pain = mental/emotional wounds
Punishment = guilt
I hate Umbridge's detentions, but at least the dream one makes sense. Who would have thought, Umbitch beaten out by a dream. After all, I'm not lying; despite what her and half the rest of wizarding world think. He is back! But these lines… They are the truth. After all, it's what my relatives have been telling me for years, and it's not like the wizarding world has really given me much to disprove them. 'Hero'. 'Freak'. Sometimes I wonder if there's a difference.
Sweet Merlin! How did the child even come up with such a dream? A blood quill, really? And spoken of with what appears to be some level of familiarity. But that phrase; it is one that has shown up repeatedly in various forms throughout the diary, and – it would seem from his comments – throughout his life. She is worried by what it means that he seems to accept the title.
Lowering the parchment, she straightens in determination. He can't continue like this, something must be done. Someone must at least talk to the boy. With what she has been reading… They need to know just how much of his nightmares follows him to the waking world.
A knock sounds on the door and Trelawny looks up, dazedly calling the visitor to enter. She stares at the head of messy black hair as the child approaches, as though summoned by her thoughts.
"Professor? Um, sorry for disturbing you but I realised I forgot to hand in my dream diary."
He holds out a sheaf of papers but she doesn't take them, looking between the ones in his hand and those spread across the desk before her.
"Professor?"
"Mr Potter," for once her voice is firm and direct, stark contrast to her swirling thoughts, "if that is your dream diary, please explain what it is that I have just been reading. Given that it has your name on it and there is certainly no way of mistaking your handwriting…"
Harry looks at the familiar papers on her desk and the blood drains from his face.
"Oh, um. I must have given you my draft diary. I rewrote it so it was all neat and makes sense and stuff. You know how it is, writing while you're still half asleep. It is much better if you mark this one instead." He pauses in his babbling and swallows nervously, "How… how much did you read?"
Taking the papers from his loose grip she flicks through them, noting which entries he has removed from his final copy, and the marked change in tone of his rationales. Combined with his anxiety it is enough to confirm her suspicions.
"Enough. I believe we need to have a talk." Waving her wand, she calls over a chair and he sits slowly, never taking his eyes from her face. "I will let you in on a little secret, Mr Potter. Your friend Miss Granger is, rather astonishingly, mostly right. While I do have some small access to the Sight, there is very little that traditional methods of divination can actually tell us about the future. What they do achieve, is rather a good look into the mind and subconsciousness of the diviner themself. Psychology, I believe the Muggles call it. And I am very interested in what your dreams have to say about you." Her expression softens and she gestures at the second bundle of papers. "You saw it yourself, or you wouldn't have rewritten your assignment. You saw the patterns, your subconscious calling out for help. Tell me the truth, give me something to work with, and I can provide that help."