I originally wrote this story together with my friend, Kaileena in our first language. So, a big shout-out to her - Kaileena, if you are reading this, without you, writing this story would have never been possible. You are totally my partner in crime, an awesome co-author, and a fun person. Thank you!

This is my English translation of our fanfiction. I edited a couple of scenes, but I kept all of the main original plot lines. And the gore. Yes, Kaileena, I promise I did not cut back on the gore too much.

Thanks a lot to boookfairy for betaing.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Obvs, this fanfiction includes murders, cruelty, blood, violence, and the like. So, if EXPLICIT gore is not your thing, don't read. It also contains the topic of Trelawney's alcohol abuse.

1

I guess I should do something about that small, round potted plant – I can't even remember its species – in the corner. Water it, perhaps. It has not received water since I threw half a glass into its soil before the Hallowe'en feast. All the leaves look greyish brown now. Yes, water it, definitely.

I always reach this conclusion in my head, but I do not have the energy to follow through. I have just put up my feet on the velvet-padded footstool – I sure as hell won't stand up again right now.

It's raining outside. I can hear as it patters against the tower window. I feel like hurling a random object at it, just to silence it. This constant noise annoys me... It'd be nice to have a glass of sherry.

The monotone tapping of rain is interrupted by a different sound. A knock on my door. With a tired sigh, I drag my weight up from the armchair to open it. Why on earth is my gait wobbly? I haven't drunk anything today. It's all perfectly under control. If I drank every day, it would be a clear sign of alcoholism, so sometimes, I have to take a break. This way, I can hold the reins. I figured my system out, and it works just fine.

I think I know who my visitor is, though I can't be certain. If I was certain, I wouldn't open the door. Who am I kidding? Of course I would open it! This is what I've been waiting for two days. Or is it three now?

It's Filius Flitwick indeed, standing on top of the stairs. He is wearing that shabby brown suit jacket the sleeve of which I myself patched up last winter.

"What do you want from me?" I croak like a raven. Why is my voice sounding like that? I swear I have not drunk a single drop of sherry today!

"We need to talk, Sybill." He is nervous, I can see it.

"There is nothing left to say."

"I'm sorry for what happened, but I think it was a misunderstanding. Can't we at least discuss it?"

"It was not the first time. Not even the second. The first few, I could turn a blind eye to, and maybe I could have found the strength to forgive a couple more, but this... With Minerva? Of all people?" Why am I yelling? I wanted to preserve my dignity. Oh, no, I can feel the tickling of a teardrop running down my cheek. I knew it was a bad idea to open the door.

"Aren't you overreacting a bit? We were just having a cup of tea while consulting on our autumn teaching schedule. Nothing happened."

"Only because I walked in. I saw you were about to put your hand on her knee. How is that necessary for consulting?"

"I'm sorry that that's how it looked, Sybill, really, but..."

He is lying; lying, like always. He is not sorry. Not in the least.

"I don't care," I'm screaming now. "I don't want to hear a single word from you again! You humiliate me in front of the whole school with your shameless romances, and then come here, asking for forgiveness? This was the last time. Go away!"

I should close the door with a loud bang, but I'm just standing there instead. It would be nice to hear him beg for another chance, for me to change my mind. And forgive him in the end.

He turns away with a sad sigh, walking down the stairs. I push the door closed, and then lock it twice.

It's time to drink a glass of sherry. Or two.

The shadows form a strange figure on the side of the crystal balls. They seem to invite me to look for signs. Is that a bird? Or a hand with the fingers open? Though it might not be perfect for a hand, because it has six protrusions. Then, it must be a hand with six fingers. That's a bad omen, it means peril. I have to make it disappear as soon as possible.

As I scramble to my feet, heading for the crystal balls, something strange happens. I lift my leg to step over the footstool. I'm lifting it, and lifting, and lifting, but it still gets tangled in the velvet cover, and I tip over. I can't stop it, and the next thing I know is I'm lying on the solid floor – yes, I have always suspected that I should have put a carpet here as well – and in front of me, an overturned set of shelves are piling in a shapeless wooden heap. The crystal balls are everywhere around me, shattered into shiny shards.

The sherry was a bit too much, I admit. I should have only had three glasses of it. Now I'm lying on the floor, covered in dust, after breaking half of the school's teaching tools for Divination class. Well done, Sybill, you can be so proud of yourself...

It's weird. There is a short while where I can't feel any pain. Oh, here it comes. Piercing, sharp. First, in my left shoulder, then my knees. I must have fallen hard.

The crystal shards are holding my attention captive. In the dim light of the few rays of sunshine getting inside through the curtain gaps, they receive a silvery glow. The rain has stopped. The shards blurrily reflect the dishevelled mess of my hair, and the dumb, gloomy expression on my face. I look as if I didn't understand that I fell on the floor. But you did, Sybill, you fell! Don't you see? You need to get up.

I muster my strength and crawl onto my hands and knees. It gives me a series of sudden stings. Sheesh, this pain is bad.

There, that crystal ball looks intact. I take it in my hand, but it falls into three pieces. Okay, so it was broken, the pretence of wholeness was only good for deceit. It's been lying. Lying, like Filius... Its shards have already cut my palm, shooting a hot, burning sensation up my arm. I throw away the pieces. Red pearls of blood start oozing from the openings of the cuts, and rush down on my arm. Drip, drip, drip, dribbling onto the floor. They draw lines of bright red down my waxy, crumpled skin, and then they cover my palm completely. Redness, redness everywhere... It looks like I'm wearing ruby-red gloves. Red gloves. They are a bad omen, they mean death.