AN: Just a quick little experimental one-shot that I wrote in a few hours when I was bored. I've never written angst before, but I wanted to give it a try, so here goes!
AN(2): Warning: This story contains mentions of death, some minor swearing and reference to prostitution. If any of these things offend you then I suggest that you stop reading from this point.
My name is Sybil Trelawney, and I teach Divination at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Oh, why the hell am I bothering to say all of this? You might know who I am, and you might not. If you have then you'll have heard all the gossip about me- weird, morbid, freak- you get the idea. That's why I spend so many hours up in my rooms, why I seek solace in the sherry that doesn't whisper behind my back or insult me when it doesn't think I'm paying attention.
I was the middle child of a witch mother and a muggle father. They say that middle children are the unnoticed children, the ones that have to fight for attention. The same could be said for my family- I was constantly trying to compete with my academically brilliant brother and my beautiful sister, or at least until I realised that I couldn't. Who would notice the small, intellectually average, plain, frizzy-haired girl next to the boy who could translate runes in an instant or the blonde-haired, blue eyed girl who would become a celebrated clothing designer? My family didn't have time for me, despite my desperate efforts to attract their attention.
Divination was the one subject in which I did well at school. Most people attributed it to my great-great grandmother, but I knew better; it was the only subject which my brother hadn't taken, and so the only time where I wasn't continually being told how well he had done in that particular class. I was the only student to take it to NEWT level, but I preferred it that way. The almost empty classroom became my solace on the days when my bullies became particularly enthusiastic, and the only place where I could cry unnoticed. Professor Glistra was happy to let me enter the classroom whenever I wanted, and I was incredibly grateful.
I graduated from Hogwarts with a handful of OWLs and NEWTs- just like almost every other student. I set out to look for work, but I my crippling lack of social skills left me continually rejected. In the end, I took a job in a small fortune-telling shop, offering to read tea leaves for customers when it was quiet, despite the fact that I remained rather sceptical about them. But people don't want complicated journeys into the mind, they want tea leaves and palmistry and scandal. So that was who I became- the tea leaf reading, crystal gazing, palm reading girl at the shop. I stayed there for the next few years, dressing in eccentric clothes to keep the customers coming back for more. I still have the old plain robes and even some muggle clothing that I used to wear, but I don't wear them anymore. To release them from their chest would be to admit that I'm living a lie, a lie constructed to draw in customers. I let out a humourless snort- that last thought makes me sound like a prostitute. But then I realise that's exactly what I am, in a way. I may dress in shawls and jewellery and keep my clothes on, but I'm still selling myself, still debasing myself for the pleasure of paying customers. Some would say that doesn't count, but I feel the indignity of it every day, like I've been branded by a red-hot poker.
I'd overheard Aberforth talking about the vacancy at Hogwarts when I came downstairs from my room at the Hogs Head. The room smelt of goats, but it was fairly clean and, most importantly, it was cheap. More out of habit than anything else, I contacted Professor Dumbledore. I was so sick of selling myself at the shop that I'd take any job that came my way, or at least that's what I convinced myself of. I didn't realise that I would suffer more as a teacher than as a pupil- the staff would mock me rather than punish my tormentors.
It was the money that kept me working at Hogwarts, despite the fact that I wasn't much better off than I had been at the shop. Yes, I had a roof over my head, regular food and a good salary, but I was still spending my life showing children the brown sludge at the bottom of the tea cups and trying to convince them that palmistry could tell them how many children they would have.
Yet despite all of this, Hogwarts became my home. I mostly kept to my rooms to avoid the ridicule, whiling away the hours with bottles of cooking sherry- the only alcohol the house-elves had- and masked the smell with heavy clouds of incense and perfume that made me cough. That was why I was so upset when the Ministry hag sacked me- Hogwarts had been my only real home since the age of eleven. I may not have enjoyed it, but it was a bed to call my own. Dumbledore allowed me to stay on, which I was grateful for, but it opened me up to more teasing, and I retreated further into my rooms and the sherry.
Unlike most of my colleagues, I played little part in the war. I helped students when I could, and stayed in my rooms when I couldn't. My name wasn't mentioned in any of the reports or histories that followed the war, but I'd grown to like it that way. To me, attention almost always meant mockery.
Isn't it strange now people seem to become perfect when they die? Take Dumbledore- he was a great wizard and everything, but at his funeral, everyone was acting as though Merlin himself had returned. I'm lying in St. Mungo's right now- they won't tell me that I'm dying, but I know I am, dying because of the lie that I was forced to live. Do you know what I'm dying of? A lung infection, brought about by excessive use of incense and perfume. As I lie on the bed, with my siblings and their families nearby, I take a long hard look at their faces, and realise that not one of them looks willing to be in the room- they'd much rather be somewhere else. Whether it's a fear of death or dislike of me I'm not sure, probably a mixture of the two. My sister especially always found my appearance to be a bit of an embarrassment, and my nieces and nephews always saw me as "mad Aunt Sybil", and consequently we weren't close.
I can feel myself slipping now, and the room is blurring around me. My brother calls a Healer into the room as I cough one, twice, three times. The air seems to be escaping from my chest, and I let out once last gasp, before my eyes shut as I try to cope with the agony of coughing…
I'm looking down on myself now, watching the Healers shooting spells into my arms, but somehow I know that it won't work. It is only when they stop with the spells and respectfully back out of the room that I begin to realise where I am. I'm in the park near my childhood home, in the small hollow within the bush in the far corner. It was my favourite place before Hogwarts, a place where I could escape with a book or some liquorice wands for hours at a time. I glance back down at my body- my sister is crying a little, and my brother's wearing the mask he puts on when he's feeling vulnerable. I can't see my nieces and nephews from here, but I imagine that they're just standing around awkwardly- they wouldn't cry for me. And with that last dose of humility, I step into my old childhood den, into a world where I can at last step free of the lie that surrounded me for so long.
AN(3): And finished! I'm not 100% satisfied with the ending here, but I needed somewhere to end it, and this seemed like a good enough place. Did you enjoy this? Hate it? Wanted me to give up writing entirely, then destroy my laptop so that I can't post anything and then go and live under a rock? Let me know!
AN(4): Sorry for another AN, but I just wanted to reassure and TTWTT readers that I haven't forgotten the story, but I'm suffering from a combination of exam stress and writers block. Next chapter should be up in a few weeks
