A/N - I've come to the conclusion that no one gives Trelawney enough love. She is, after all, a ridiculously important character in the Harry Potter saga. But she usually gets shunted to the side and labeled a 'whackjob'. This story is all about her, her life, her troubles, and how she became the pseudo-talented, fail of a teacher we know and (usually don't) love.
Disclaimer: I don't own HP, Sybill Trelawney, Hogwarts, or any such thing. ut there are many original ideas in this story, so please don't steal them!
Prologue
The manor was a beautiful one, situated on the top of a hill as though it was preparing to dive into the valley below it. There were fields and grasslands surrounding the place, and in the distance one could see miles and miles of seemingly never-ending rolling hills. The house overlooked a small valley between the hill on which it stood and another, which sported a small, vibrantly green forest. The entire land was a sea of fields and forests, stretching on and on; but from the very top of the house you could see the bright, sparkling expanse of the ocean. If you stood up there on a silent day and listened very carefully, you could almost hear the water crash on the shore, and if you breathed in the air when the wind blew from the West you could taste the salt on your tongue. The country was beautiful. Its land was practically flawless, vista after vista greeting the eye with every step, leaving most tourists breathless with delight. And its people were just as beautiful; kind, polite, and always ready with a smile. It was Wales, the inevitable shire-land of Great Britain.
The Manor itself was almost as beautiful as the land that hosted it. It was five stories high, made of white brick and marble which shone and glittered in the late afternoon sunlight. The East and West corners of the house were accentuated by two towers, which stuck out two stories higher than the rest of the building, reaching toward the bright, clear sky like whie fingers. A dusty dirt road ran through the forest on the hill, down into the valley and back up again, stopping at the house's front gate. It was the only edifice for miles around; the road had no other branches and led nowhere but to the twisted wrought-iron gate that boasted many intricate designs. Tall stained-glass windows adorned each floor, their designs telling stories about heoric battles against dragons. Most who saw them would think they referred to St. George, the patron saint of Wales. Those who knew the truth, however, knew a different story. Those tale-telling windows sparkled like so many jewels in the dying light.
And outlined in a window on the ground floor (one that held a slighty more subdued image of a man standing with a broad sword at his side) was the figure of a girl, sitting in the window seat, reading.
The inside of the house was a stunning junction of marble staircases and hallways, enriched with thick, champagne-coloured rugs and carpeting. The dining room had a single long, stone table that was lit from above by a glimmering chandelier, made entirely of crystal, that was suspended from the ceiling. On two walls were the high, colourful windows; on the other two there hung a multitude of family portraits, their subjects long desceased and a magnificent coat of arms embroidered onto a tapestry. The main focus of the tapsetry was a massive dragon --- a champagne-scaled Welsh Golden Hogsnout, a variety that has long since been hunted into extinction --- surrounded by six copper stars.
The rest of the manor seemed to be decorated with the same theme. Innumerable portraits lined the corridors, accentuated by the occaional suit of armour. The coat of arms made an appearance in every room, taking up an entire wall in each one (the Southern wall, to be precise). The entire building was spotless, save for two rooms that were never opened. One of these rooms was the dungeon, whose key had been lost centuries before. The other was the attic, which filled the entirety of one of the looming towers.
Were anyone to ask about the attic, the inhabitants of the house would fall silent, looking at each other with undisguised fear in their eyes. The house was once a historical landmark, and the owners would often get requests for tours. They gave the tours dilligently and thoroughly, telling a variety of tales about how it was supposed to have belonged to St. George himself. This was a load of hogswash, of course, but none of the ordinary citizens were to know that. They would arrive in awestruck wonder, be given a thorough tour, and leave with a feeling of intense satisfaction. Unless, of course, they asked to see the attic. If they did that, they were quickly ushered out the door with vague excuses and quiet apologies, leaving them wondering what sort of unspeakable evil could possibly live up there.
The house is long gone now, destroyed in a battle that was passed off as a fire. The inhabitants are long dead, for the most part. Except for one.
The little girl, reading in her window seat on that fine autumn late afternoon, should have had no idea what was to become of her home. She should not have imagined that it would one day be only a pile of rubble. She should not have had any knowledge of the fact that countless normal tourists would flock to the ruins, hearing stories of the mysterious ghost of a sword-brandishing who would sometimes appear, rumoured to be the ghost of St. George himself.
She should not have known any of this. But she did.
She had Seen it.
A/N - That's all for now. Please review and let me know what you think!