Sybill Trelawney
Over the next couple of days I buried myself in my newest project with renewed fervour, with a subconscious motive to prove my detractors wrong. I conscientiously studied my subject, drew up plans, and sketched out the possibilities. Without another at home to cook for and dine with, I largely neglected the matters of food and drink, preparing only the simplest of meals for the sake of offering my undistracted attention to the schooling situation in our town.
Wholly given over to the pursuit of my vision, I had initially welcomed the refreshingly quiet atmosphere: conducive to reading, writing and planning. It was the fourth day since papa's departure when I began to grow increasingly worried. Father ought to have returned by the previous nightfall, and yet, in vain I had strained my ears throughout the dark hours - there was no sign of him, no roll of wheels to announce the rickety cart drawing up in our yard. Whereas there could be a tenable explanation for his prolonged absence, it was not in his nature to tarry in such fashion.
Father always strove to keep his appointments, whether in business or his personal life, and this was one of the qualities that had earned my utmost respect. He was a man of honour, bound to keep his word and he had raised me to follow suit, even to my own detriment and injury. No, I reasoned, something entirely outside of his grasp or influence must have kept him up.
Not knowing whom to turn to with my gnawing doubts and dread that began to sow its pernicious seeds in the expanse of my mind, the person of Mr Ollivander glimmered faintly as the one trustworthy to confide in and consult; the one to alleviate me of my germinating distress.
I hadn't spoken to the man since our last encounter, or should I be fair enough to call it by its name, my incursion into his privacy, uncontrived as it was. While it was not in my habit to circumvent brewing dialogues, and with my interest kindled by the discovery I had made, the prospect of conversing openly about the incident also filled me somewhat with unease.
As the day drew out, I elected to inquire for help. Having finished lunch at three (my meals lacked their normal regularity) consisting of a piece of cold pie I had hastily prepared the previous day, I gathered up my courage and decided to pay Mr Ollivander a visit.
Passing through the town I beheld the sun, golden and glorious in the stretch of endless blue, beaming from high above; it warmed my face and cast lengthening shadows onto the street. These projections of light and dark, one retreating, the other advancing as the afternoon drew on, brought to mind a well balanced and playful duel, rehearsed and honed for centuries.
As I observed my own deepening shadow displayed before me, a little to the left (for I was proceeding in the eastward direction) and how swiftly it moved along with me, never hurrying ahead, nor lagging behind but always in perfect timing with my own tread, I became aware of another. A few more steps and the two silhouettes met - I turned to see the caster of the second shadow, taller and bulkier than mine, and identified the person of Sybill Trelawney in the disorderly mass of tawny-hued tresses tumbling about her elongated face, and the rugged, shapeless dress she always wore.
She was a beggar woman, whose townsfolk christened Strange Sybill, owing to the singularity of her manners, conduct and dress, though it was not my custom to judge so grossly by the outward appearance, especially when I felt myself unfairly regarded by many.
Orphaned in her early youth, she remained unmarried. Unable to support herself, she spent most of her time begging for a morsel of bread, or some better fare, which she was granted more often than not, for people pitied the ageing, destitute spinster but… also pointed their own maiden daughters to her as an example and warning of deferring marriage.
As a token of her gratitude, she rendered her fortune-telling skills for service, her divinations invariably delivered in a breathy and saturnine manner, often announcing a doleful future and inescapable danger to the one who found themselves within the vicinity of her voice.
She fancied herself a prophetess, a possessor of an inner-eye, able to glimpse into the matters removed from the common men. Truth to be told, very few believed her (I was personally not listed among her devotees) for the vast majority of her doom-and-gloom predictions thankfully never came to pass. When they did, such as when the neighbour's old cow got poisoned and died, it could as well have been a product of a chance and coinciding circumstances. Her "prophecies" and star-readings were beyond vague and I reckoned they could well be applied to half the folks of our town.
For a time being, at least, when she first revealed herself to be "a seer", people revered her words and were happy to reward her with substantial gifts. Never before or after did Sybill Trelawney enjoy such abundance and admiration of the crowd.
Now, at the sight of her hand, outstretched in the common begging gesture, I sighed, and proceeded to take out half a crown I had kept in my pocket from my egg earnings. Before I had a chance to produce the coin, the woman clasped my hand in a desperate gesture, surprising me with the unexpected strength of her grasp, at odds with her lean, slightly bent frame. I saw a glassy look glaze across her half-hooded eyes as she began reciting in a low, hoarse voice, laced with otherworldly undertones, so different from her usual high, airy register; a voice which made my hair stand on end.
"Great peril hangs over the head of your father… Held captive by the Masked One in his lonesome abode, in the cursed land of eternal frost…Three days with no water or sustenance, locked away in darkness…A feeble spark of life yet lingers in his body but it shall soon expire…"
Moments passed before she roused from her trance-like state, her eyes returned to their normal shade, she let go of my arm.
Wide-eyed, I stared at the old woman, trying to comprehend what I heard. Her words contained a ring of truth and although I was not the one inclined to believe such preternatural warnings or ominous dreams, I could not quite escape the fear and trepidation they produced in me; dread creeped into my heart and latched on with a tenacious grip.
What made me even more unsettled was the fact she appeared unconscious of the fact of the doom she had just pronounced.
"Is everything alright, Miss?" she asked with unfeigned concern, her watery blue eyes searching my face.
"I-Yes, I think I've just felt a little dizzy but I shall be well directly."
I had to move away from her gloomy figure and the disquietude her words produced in me. If anything, they only spurred me on in my aim to reach Mr Ollivander as fast as I could.
When I stood in front of the door of his stone- walled blacksmith's workshop, I found it closed. I spied a piece of paper tucked behind the window, its edges fluttering in the wind.
With a foreboding sense I read the note "Gone for a couple of days on personal business."
There was a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
What shall I do? I could not turn to the authorities, for our town lacked a constable. There was old Mr Filch who played the role of a watch and guard, but most of the time he tramped the streets looking for his scrawny cat, Mrs Norris. He was sometimes involved in settling the matters of minor thievery, resolving petty disputes, or pacifying an odd fight that erupted between the inebriated pub guests, nevertheless I doubted that he would be of much assistance in my present quandary.
The next reasonable thing, my mind whispered, was to seek out Gildreoy Lockhart and entreat him to arrange a search party. I had the advantage of the approximate knowledge of papa's possible whereabouts, he had gone to the north-west so it would be most prudent to commence the search there.
To my great surprise and chilling disappointment, when I outlined the plan for Lockhart, he looked at me and said vaguely,
"I don't suppose we should look for him yet. He might as well be on his way back. I daresay the forests up north have all sorts of wild beasts hiding in them, ready to pounce on the intruder entering the forest, not to mention the possibility of a close encounter with thieves or cut-throats."
"But..but..he could be in mortal danger! You must help me find him!"
"Hermione, be reasonable. It would not be prudent to risk the lives of several men for the sake of one."
Reason? Prudence? How dare he speak in such terms when my father's life was in danger? For all the tales he had spun of his heroic acts, his present indifferent attitude and reasoning did not make sense to me in the slightest.
"In all fairness, Mr Lockhart, if it wasn't for your heroic claims I'd say these were the words of a coward."
"Take care, Miss Granger, who you're speaking to," answered Lockhart with a tiny undercurrent of threat in his voice.
"Gilderoy, please," I addressed him by the first name, desperation overcoming my pride.
Moisture gathered on my lashes and I felt a hot bead trickle down my cheek. As I continued to fix him with my imploring gaze, I felt he finally succumbed under its blazing intensity.
He grew thoughtful and his lips curled fractionally when he spoke at length.
"Let it not be said of me that I left a damsel in distress, Hermione. I will gather up a few folks and we'll search for your father before the night falls."
I smiled at him faintly, grateful that I was not utterly alone in my distress after all. Perhaps I had judged the man too severely and underneath the vain exterior Gideroy Lockhart was a man not wholly dispossessed of feeling and chivalry.
And thus I waited in the garden beside my house, pacing between the flower beds, stopping now and then to pluck a flower and tear its petals to keep my trembling hands occupied, leaving behind a fragrant trail of loveliness on the path.
Somehow the cheerful chirping of birds nestled in the treetops, and the warm, soft breeze swaying the tall grass and caressing my face helped to keep the darkest thoughts at bay. I almost expected Lockhart to appear any moment with papa, safe and sound, perhaps with an apologetic smile and sensible explanation behind his delay. I felt almost silly for heeding Trelawney's warning and letting my fears run rampant.
Not a full hour had passed when Lockhart did return - alone, with face perfectly ashen, brow furrowed, countenance ghastly. At once, my fears resurfaced, draining me of my strength and rendering me nearly unable to move. Neither was I ready to hear the news he had come to bring, nor could I bear to remain in the dark.
My hands shook and a single peony I was twiddling with tumbled down to my feet. I clutched at the man's arm, my eyes fixed on his face, my mouth going dry, the question on my tongue stopping short of being voiced.
"Have-have you found him?" I said finally, praying for strength to face the inevitable.
"We haven't, Hermione. We went as far as the edge of the northern forests and only found this." He looked at me gravely and opened his hand to reveal a torn piece of fabric.
"Do you recognise it?"
It was my father's beige scarf! One that I saw around his neck the morning he left. I reached out and grasped the garment from his hands, smoothing it out between my fingers and bringing it to my face, inhaling a still lingering scent of my father's bergamot cologne and a mixture of herbs.
"Hermione- " Lockhart cleared his throat and placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. "If your father ventured as far north where bears and wolves roam freely - and who knows what other God-forsaken creatures lurk there- I am afraid his fate is sealed."
The solemn, almost indifferent tone with which he said it infuriated me, rather than having the intended effect and causing me to weep and lament over my supposed loss. Though a piece of evidence was in my grasp, I refused to believe it. Papa could not be dead- If the prophecy was true, there was still hope to be had, though it was slipping away with every minute of inaction.
"Captured by the Masked One in his lonesome abode…"
My thoughts travelled back to the time I sat in the main square as a child, listening to the folk tales that the elderly villagers liked to spin for their bright-eyed and bushy-tailed audience to ward off our curiosity and keep us from wandering too far away from the safe boundaries of the town.
They often spoke of a man with a dark past who lived alone in a large castle beyond the northern forests. He was said to be a cruel, merciless man, whose selfishness and callousness lost him his wife. Out of revenge, his wife's sister, a powerful enchantress, had cast a curse on the man, his servants and castle, sentencing him to a lonely and miserable existence that only true love could end.
I trembled, thinking that it might have been him in whose hands my father had fallen into. Goaded by the thought, I cast fear and hesitation to the wind, understanding plainly that there was only one thing left for me to do.
"Thank you, Mr Lockhart," I said coldly, "for your efforts. However I will not give up yet. Whatever happened to him, he might still be alive. I know he is." I could not explain my assurance in any logical terms. "And I will search for him myself."
Seeing how adamant I was, Lockhart shook his head in disbelief.
"This is the talk of a lunatic and a self-destructive mission, Hermione. I had thought you wiser. If several men, myself included, could not locate Mr Granger, what makes you think that you will? The dark woods are no place for a woman."
A fierce new determination welled up within me.
"Contrary to your low view of my capabilities as a woman, I believe I stand a chance no worse than yours for my love for my father will guide me onward. And if I must fail and perish, so be it."
I was not normally given to romantic idealism but somehow in my heart I knew it was the only right course of action I could take in these circumstances. I had to go - that I perceived well. How I would proceed I did not know, but a shadowy image of an old, forlorn castle hovered at the forefront of my mind along with a crooked, hunchbacked figure of its wicked master.
I was now fairly persuaded by the prophecy that it was there that papa would be found, in a place I only knew from cautionary yarns and spine-chilling tales.
"You'll do as you please, Miss Granger, though every sane and reasonable person in this town will support me in saying that you'll be making a great mistake, of which consequences could be grave, fatal even."
I dared not linger any longer, fearful he was a little right in what he was saying, even though I questioned the rectitude of his intentions. If he, a former militia leader (or so he claimed), and his companions aborted the search, saying there was nothing else to be done, what hopes had I of succeeding on my own? Nevertheless, I had made my decision and sealed it by expressing it out loud.
Not daring to consult anyone else for fear of them talking me out of my resolve, I left Lockhart in the garden and went inside the house. My mind raced as I contemplated the momentousness of the mission that I was about to embark on. Trying to sift through the multitude of thoughts and forcing them into some semblance of order, I considered my next steps.
I packed some victuals, for I had no means of knowing where my next meal would come from, flung together a few essentials, and made sure the house was in order. Before stepping outside, I fastened a woollen pelisse over my shoulders for I was dressed in a plaid summer dress not suited for the chill of the woods.
I threw the chickens a generous handful not knowing when (I swallowed the if) I would be coming back, and hastily scribbled a note for Mrs O'Donnell, our obliging neighbour,
requesting her politely to watch over the household for the duration of my absence.
It was late afternoon when I set off briskly by the lane, directing my steps toward the northern gate. Never before have I moved so fast, oblivious and indifferent to the idyllic charm and crisp loveliness of early summer, fully concentrated on the destination set beforehand.
As the journey lengthened, my steps grew heavy and tired, matching the weighteness pressing down on my spirit, gradually eroding my hopes. Yet, I continued to press on, bruised and worn-out as I was, my purpose unwavering, and the thought of being united with my father acting as my guiding light, shimmering from the distance and lighting my path through the darkening forest.
A/N: This was the last chapter showing the events taking place before the Prologue. In the next we'll arrive at the castle and meet its dark resident -crooked, hunchbacked?- a resounding NO! Wicked?- time will show..