A/N: I don't own Harry Pottter
Word Count: 361
All she had ever wanted was to be special. Isn't that what every little girl wanted to be, special? She knew seer blood was in their family tree, knew no one had been a seer in generations. Sybil knew that was what they claimed at least. Sybil knew the truth.
She heard her mum screaming in the night when the nightmares tore her from sleep. She heard whispers in the darkness, knew they were calling her name. She knew her mother looked at her strangely. She knew her mother knew things about her, things not even a mother should know.
She knew when Sybil was lying, when Sybil had almost fallen out of bed. She'd landed in her mother's arms. Sybil had never questioned her mother being there at just the right time. The weeks before her father died, Sybil had seen her mother crying when she thought no one was looking. She'd known before he took his last breath. Sybil hated how knowing things didn't mean being able to prevent them.
At ten, she made her first real prediction. When it had come true, she'd broken down and cried. Now she knew why everyone denied being a seer, why everyone wanted to pretend the Gift hadn't manifested in generations.
Sybil had tried explaining her vision, the bits she could remember. It was all pieces and vagueries, the same as most visions. Sybil had known something bad would happen and it would happen soon. No one had believed her, that was the curse of her family, to be gifted with Sight but never believed. Her mother died when she was fifteen, a death Sybil hadn't seen coming. A death she would have done anything to prevent.
For years, she pretended she wasn't gifted, pretended she didn't have the Sight. It didn't work, it only amplified her abilities until soon the only way to numb the inner eye was with outside substances. Sybil had wanted to be special. She was special, and she knew one day her name would be in the history books for being special, for Seeing, and she wished on every star, on every candle, that it wouldn't be.