4

I should rest a bit. Yes, I need to lay myself down for a while. Sleep... sleep...

A gulp of sherry would be nice.

No! Sybill, you must not ruin your own progress.

Perhaps I could simply lie down on my bed, without even removing my robe. For that, I have enough energy. I shouldn't have seen that awfulness yesterday. It was too much; I still feel sick to the core. A gulp of sherry would probably help.

No, no, the whole school thinks I'm pathetic.

Just one glass. Only one. That could do no harm. I swear it's going to be one, and no more. Anyway, seeing those cut-off fingers is probably reason enough for anybody to drink. Why shouldn't I?

I double up from a rush of nausea. I reach for the armchair behind me, blindly searching for it. I finally find the armrests and collapse between them. I have to keep my eyes closed tight as I'm too afraid to open them again. I'm scared that if I do, I'll see the same thing I did yesterday. I compulsively ball up my right fist, just to make sure that it's empty. That flexible, slippery texture... I rush to the sink, needing to scrub my hand clean. Scrub, scrub. I have no idea how many times I've done that since yesterday.

It takes more than ten minutes for me to finish, but finally, I return to my armchair. This is an extraordinary day, not just a simple afternoon, I decide. It requires a glass of sherry. I make an attempt to open a bottle, but I can see that it's not going to be easy. My hands are shaking too hard.

Alright, done it. Here is my glassful of sherry. Filled it up to the brim. Technically, it's still one, so I did not cheat. One, and no more. It should be enough to take me through the evening. I'll take small sips, no rush. It will last. I put the bottle away, so that it's not within arm's reach. Much better.

The sherry gradually helps ease the nausea. I feel more secure now. It has cleared away all the residual panic from yesterday. Good. I'll get through this, however horrible it was.

My eyes drift to the dried potted plant in the corner. I should get rid of it. How is that healthy that I share my living quarters with a corpse? I should clean it away today. Alright, tomorrow. Some other day.

Ugh, why is my glass empty? Is it possible that I drank all the sherry in one gulp? A sudden rush of anxiety passes through me. It can't be. It has not been nearly enough. I need a refill, like right now. This is an extraordinary day, I have already accepted that as a fact.

Just one refill. And no more. And then once again... This will be the last...

Oh, well, the whole bottle is empty now. Where are the unopened ones?

My head is killing me. I drag myself up from my bed, holding the nightstand firmly. How long did I manage to sleep? Who knows? I swore it would be just one glass... I console myself with the thought that some of the teenage students here surely drink far more than I do. Swigging a few cups of sherry is no big deal.

It's time to make the offending bottle disappear. Okay, bottles. I found two. Only two – that's not so bad, is it? I put them in a Saturn-patterned textile bag, and leave the familiar warmth of my tower. Why is that room so far from here? Perhaps, I should move to another tower. Or find a new dump site for my empty bottles.

As I pass corridor after corridor, staircase after staircase (I almost throw up on a moving one), I start to get bored. I remove one bottle from the bag, and read the label. Nothing new there, but it's still more interesting than my over-familiar route. I realize that there is a tiny bit of sherry left at the bottom. It'd be a shame to let it go to waste. I lift the neck of the bottle to my mouth, and impatiently wait for the last few drops to trickle towards me.

Alright, Sybill, that was all. You won't drink any more today. I look at the dark bottle again, and it reflects the distorted, elongated version of my face. I'm not a pretty sight. I blink, and when I open my eyes again, it's not my own face I see in the glass wall of the bottle. It's the blurry picture of a door, leading to a spacey room. A familiar classroom I have already passed by many times before. I believe it's one of the History of Magic Classrooms. I blink again. My wrinkled, pallid face is back.

This was a sign! What else could it have been? It was a distinct instruction for me to go to the classroom the glass surface showed me!

A sense of urgency makes me rush. I'm close to running. Why did I receive a clear sign like this? It must be important, no, imperative that I go there.

But as I'm nearing my goal, a presentiment takes over. I have a bad feeling about this. A sort of revulsion sends shivers down my spine. Do I really need to enter? Do I have to?

I decide that I must. I'm only jumpy because of the gruesomeness I saw yesterday, but I can't go on like this – living in fear.

And yet, I come to a sudden halt. No, there's nothing behind that door. Nothing to be afraid of. I'll prove it right now. There's only one corner left, and then, the empty classroom will be waiting. Go, Sybill, just go. Follow the sign the Universe sent you.

I start walking again, but my pace is faltering. It's an instinctive repulsion I can't control. There's nothing there, Sybill, get a grip!

I'm almost there. I can see the big classroom at the end of the corridor. Filch failed to clean the floor here properly. There are streaks of mud on the stone tiles. It must have been Hagrid; he rarely pays attention to the traces his dirty boots leave.

Mud?

It has not been raining today. And the color looks strange. Oh, no, this is bad... I don't control my actions anymore. I'm just walking towards the classroom on autopilot, while my brain registers that the 'mud' traces... are red. Like blood.

I reach the door. I'm so close that I'm only one step away from a stain. Two long, parallel streaks are running along the floor, starting from a pool of dirt by the window, and leading into the classroom. I follow them without thinking. Dark red lines... Wisps of hair stuck into the smudge here and there.

As I step inside, the summer sun shining directly in my eyes through the South-facing windows blinds me. I need to lift my hand to my forehead and make an awning shape in order to see. Maybe I shouldn't have.

It's a student. It must be. Smaller than an adult, and wears a uniform. Lying on his back on the cold, hard floor. I can only see the parts from the waist down, because the view of his upper body is blocked by a school desk fallen on top of him. It cuts deep into his stomach. The backrest of a chair is protruding from behind the desk.

Maybe, it's not too late. Maybe, I could help. What if that's why I received the sign? I quickly go round the pile of furniture.

Now I can see that the answer is no. There's nothing I can do. Nothing that anyone can do. The face is ruined. I can't even see any distinguishing features. It's shattered into a flesh-colored pulp. As if someone just kept beating it, long after all the cartilage broke, and all the muscles were relocated. His abdomen has red, odd-shaped holes in it. Like it was perforated with the leg of the chair... And he is missing his hands.

NO, NO, I don't want to see this... I turn away, letting the bottles I completely forgot about fall from my hands, and close my eyes. Please, let the darkness consume me, and take me away from this horror... But the image of a dark, shadowy figure materializes in my head. A person, that stands above the body, and does this disgusting cruelty to that poor, hapless kid...

I sit down on my heels, and try to breathe. My lungs are heaving so desperately that I have to struggle for every inhalation. I'm unable to close my mouth because I'm too afraid of not taking in enough air, but this way, that foul smell coming from the student fills my throat, my guts... I can even taste it. Please, no, no...

I can't move. The sheer terror paralyzes me. What's going to happen now? The murderer might still be here. Between two bookcases, in the corner, right behind me, anywhere... I'm going to die, the same way as this kid, brutalized, tortured, mangled, and please no, don't, I don't want to end up like this.

My ankles are wobbling and I can't keep myself up. I fall on my side, pushing a chair aside with my frail weight. Something is underneath me. I can feel its unpleasant pressure against my left thigh.

I drag it in front of me: it's a hand. A cut-off hand, skin and flesh hanging where the wrist should be. I can see the inside of the joint...

My robe is wet. Why is it wet? I toss the hand away, looking down. I've fallen into a pool of blood. What's more, I'm sitting in the middle of it, and it's steeping my clothes. My shoes, my long cotton skirt, my shirt... Without any deliberation, I tug the blood-drenched robe off of me. And I start screaming. My throat is already burning from my repeated screams of yesterday, but I must... I must call for help. Please, I must be rescued from here. I manage to drag my arms out of the sleeves of the robe, and throw the garment away. Let's get rid of the blood. Just remove it, now...

Hurried steps are coming from the direction of the corridor, while I'm dragging my palms along the white walls, painting them red.

"Sybill," I hear Minerva McGonagall's voice. Why is it always her? Professor Sprout also arrives, and there are others, but I can't comprehend anything else anymore. I scurry off, out of the hellish classroom, and into the closest lavatory. It should be empty now.

It is, indeed. I push all the inner doors open anyway, just to make sure that no faceless killer is hiding behind them. Then, I buckle over a sink.

I wash my hands, my hair, cover my clothes in cold water, and then tumble down onto the floor, shivering.

Someone is coming towards the door. I recognize the quick, short steps: it must be Filius.

"Sybill, are you alright?" I hear his familiar voice, and his tremulous words signal that he himself is not.

"No." My reply is quiet. He probably can't hear it; I'm just talking to myself.

Steps again. I jump to the door, and lean my back against it, so that no one can enter.

"Is everything alright? Sybill?" Pomona Sprout. Her voice is not so shaky – she surely did not check the details that were hidden behind the desk...

I feel sick, but I don't go back to the tap. You are a nutcase, Sybill. What are you doing here, holding the door? I just don't want anybody to come near me. No. Leave me alone.

Someone tries to open the door, but I prevent it. I don't care what they may think about me, I won't step aside. Let me be. Just for a few minutes, please, let me be.

A sigh from outside. The steps are retreating. Silent words whispered. It must be coming from the direction of the classroom.

Why did I have to be the one to find that kid? Why? I don't want to be a Seer anymore.