Sibyll Trelawney slowly ascended the silver ladder and entered the empty Divination classroom--well, for the past several months it had been more of a flat than a classroom, ever since that wretched Umbridge woman had ousted her of a job. In the center of the room was her bed, in reality nothing more than a fat pink pouf under an Engorgement Charm, a small round table and her large winged armchair that once sat before the fire. In its place was another round table bearing a tea kettle, several bowls and a few pink and blue tea cups. A stew was simmering sweetly in a cauldron in the fireplace. The aroma spread to every inch of the room, drowning out the usual scent of too much perfume. Pity, she thought to herself as she glided toward the cauldron, I always liked that smell.

She sighed softly and stroked the stew, stirring it this way and that, tasting it critically and sprinkling seasonings atop it. Bits of chicken and pork swirled around in a grayish-brown broth with pieces of potato, carrots, broccoli and string beans. After making it just right, she set it atop the fire once more and covered it.

Of course, Sibyll was nowhere near ready for September. She still had to meet with (Oh, what had his name been?) the centaur, Firenze, to discuss the teaching arrangements. He, of course, could not climb the ladder into this room, and there was no way she was going to diminish herself to teaching in that forest of a classroom. Yes, something would have to be done--

A loud clatter from the fire grabbed her attention: the stew was boiling over. She hastily sped toward it, ladled a portion into one of the bowls and cleared the rest away with a flick of her wand.

She carried the bowl over to her armchair, careful to spill none of its contents, sat down gently and began to eat. As she took her first bite, Sibyll grimaced with distaste--it was not all that good. The stew was overcooked and salty and it left a bitter taste in her mouth. Then again, she had never really been a house elf in the kitchen. The only times Sibyll even attempted to cook were times like this, during the summer when she ate alone. It took her a couple of awkward bites before she could eat any of it with a straight face.

A gasp escaped her lips. With a loud crack, the bowl of stew tumbled from her limp, bangled hands and shattered upon hitting the floor. Sibyll, however, didn't seem to notice. Her eyes, magnified to many times their normal size by her large, thick glasses, began to roll slightly as she stared off into space. Her back and neck stiffened with the clinking of many beaded necklaces and chains. Out of the corner of her mouth, there even ran a bit of drool. Had anyone been near to see this, they probably would have thought her to be a thin, glittering yet epileptic insect.

"SO SHALL IT COME TO PASS," a loud, harsh voice seemed to speak through her, "THAT IN THE FIRST YEAR OF THE SECOND WAR...UNSEEN TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS SHALL AWAIT THE DARK LORD'S GREAT FOE...FRIENDS SHALL BECOME VILE TRAITORS...KNOWN ENEMIES SHALL SURPRISE ALL...AND ONE SHALL EMERGE FROM HIS SHADOW WITH THE POWER TO TURN HIS HEART...FOR THIS ONE...HE SHALL SACRIFICE ALL...SO SHALL IT COME TO PASS..."

Her head flopped forward onto her chest like a rag doll's before she suddenly snapped upright again. Her eyes immediately fell to the shattered bowl.

What in the world?, she wondered before flicking her wand and muttering, "Reparo!" under her breath. The pieces instantly zoomed together and sealed themselves along the cracks until it was no longer evident that the bowl had broken, unless one noticed the spilled stew on the floor, of course.

Sibyll stretched her neck and back; she had this uncomfortable crick all of a sudden that wouldn't go away. What happened?, she wondered silently. What could have caused her to space out like that?

Miles away, deep within the Department of Mysteries, a small glowing glass orb appeared on a shelf, unseen by anyone, with a label:

S.P.T. to Nobody

Harry Potter

and