A/N: This is 100% me having fun with a bit of a drabble. Take none of it seriously. Also known as, in which Sybill Trelawney has read the books, and has decided to mess with a lot of people who think her drunk, especially the Hogwarts staff.
...
Awakening
Albus, Rose, Hugo and Lily laughed. The train began to move, and Harry walked alongside it, watching his son's thin face, already ablaze with excitement. Harry kept smiling, and waving, even though it was like a little bereavement, watching his son glide away from him…
The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. The train rounded a corner. Harry's hand was still raised in farewell.
"He'll be all right," murmured Ginny.
As Harry looked at her, he lowered his hand absent-mindedly and touched the lightning scar on his forehead.
"I know he will."
The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well…
The woman sat bolt upright, inhaling deeply as she snapped to attention. Immediately, she broke into a fit of coughing. Her head was pounding. What…?
A strange scent lingered in the air—herbs, antiseptic, something faintly metallic. She blinked against the dull throb in her skull and shifted, her limbs sluggish, her breath coming sharp and fast. Where was she?
Everything was blurry, nothing quite in focus. Rows of high, narrow windows stretched along stone walls, moonlight spilling in faint and silver. The room was lined with beds—too many, too orderly. This wasn't anywhere she knew.
A rustling of fabric, then footsteps—quick, purposeful. A woman in a starched white apron and crisp red robes bustled toward her, her lined face alight with relief.
"Oh, thank goodness," she exclaimed, pressing a firm but gentle hand to her shoulder. "Awake at last."
The voice was warm, familiar in a way that unsettled her. A name lingered on the edge of her thoughts—Madam… something.
She stiffened.
"Where… am I?" The woman's voice came out hoarse, raw, as if it hadn't been used in days.
The woman—Matron? Nurse?—frowned, concern shadowing her sharp features. "You're safe, dearie. Just breathe."
"But… where?"
The dream of magic and madness, of a dark-haired boy with a lightning-bolt scar, a wizened old headmaster and serpentine Dark Lord… it had all felt so real.
"You're in the Hospital Wing." A second clipped voice came from beyond the curtain. She whipped her head around to see a tall, thin woman, hair tied up in a strict bun, spectacles perched upon her nose. Tartan robes fit her elegantly, seamlessly matching her crisp, Scottish brogue.
"You've taken quite a fall," The Matron said, taking her hand and poking a wooden stick against it. "We've all been worried about you."
The Scottwoman snorted derisively, seeming to disagree. She was so achingly familiar.
"Minerva…? McGonagall?" The woman turned her head towards the Matron. "Madam Pomfrey?" The names from the dream came back to her, unbidden.
(She didn't remember anything before the dream.)
"Yes, Sybill." McGonagall seemed almost impatient. "How are you feeling?"
"My head. Everything feels… scattered."
"Do you know what year it is?" Madame Pomfrey, this time.
"I… no."
"Today is August twenty-ninth, almost thirtieth, 1991. Does that ring a bell?"
None of it made any sense.
If the year was 1991, and this truly was the dream, that meant everything she had seen and experienced was yet to happen. Had she seen… the future?
And the name, Sybill. There had been a character in the dream named Sybill. Sybill something… Travers? Trellis? Trelawney. That was it, Sybill Trelawney.
A doddering old recluse, a Divination Professor.
Wasn't she supposed to be drunk?
She didn't feel drunk.
"My name is… Sybill? Sybill Trelawney?" It was a stupid question. The woman really couldn't remember much.
"Yes, Sybill." Minerva McGonagall sounded even more frustrated.
"And this is… Hogwarts?" The name of the school came back to her.
"Of course."
"Minerva, she's clearly disoriented," Madame Pomfrey interjected. "You don't need to be rude to another one of my patients."
"Do you remember what happened?" McGonagall pressed on, ignoring her.
"No… I just remember… and being asleep, and waking up here." Sybill had enough self-preservation skills not to let Pomfrey and McGonagall know how little she remembered.
"You were carrying your crystal balls outside, something about wanting to charge their power in the noon sun, and tripped and fell down the Great Staircase. They shattered and you fell into the glass. I found you collapsed in a mess. This was yesterday."
"...oh." She shook her head. "Everything's so blurry…"
The matron handed her a pair of glasses, big, bug-eyed circular frames. She took them, sliding them into place. Immediately, the world came into focus.
Sybill swallowed, trying to clear the dryness from her throat. She forced herself to take a steadying breath, attempting to keep her face neutral. She needed to tread carefully.
"And—ah, what is it that I do here? At Hogwarts?" she asked, keeping her voice light, as though testing herself rather than truly searching for an answer.
Minerva McGonagall pursed her lips, clearly unimpressed. "You are the Divination professor, Sybill. Have been for some time."
Divination. The word sent a ripple of unease down her spine. It fit, and yet—it didn't. Had she truly spent years teaching Divination? The Sybill from the dream had been an eccentric, barely respected seer, clutching her sherry bottle and muttering of prophecies. But that had been a dream. Hadn't it?
Images—tea leaves swirling, hands tracing the lifelines of a palm, the heavy scent of incense—flitted through her mind, too fast to grasp. But when she reached for anything more, for concrete knowledge, it slipped through her fingers like mist.
Madam Pomfrey, far more patient than McGonagall, patted her hand. "Don't strain yourself, dear. It's not uncommon to be foggy after a nasty blow to the head. Memory takes time."
Sybill nodded, lips pressed together. She needed more information. "I—ah—I have an office, don't I? In a tower?"
"The North Tower," McGonagall supplied, still eyeing her with suspicion. "Where you teach. Do you not remember?"
"I… yes, I do. It's simply… fuzzy," she admitted. She pressed her fingers to her temple as though massaging the memories back into place. The dream was so much sharper than reality. She could recall Harry Potter's every battle, the way the Dark Lord fell, the future so vividly. And yet, when it came to herself, her own past, there was nothing but mist.
Madam Pomfrey made a small noise of sympathy and reached for something at the bedside table. A long, slender wooden object. Sybill's breath caught as the Matron placed it in her hand. Her wand.
The second it touched her palm, a wave of something old and aching rushed through her. This was right—this was hers—but something was missing, something essential. She gripped it tightly, willing the sensation to settle, to ground her. Magic. It should feel effortless, like breath, like heartbeat. And yet… it was distant, unfamiliar.
She swallowed her rising panic and lifted her wand slightly. She had to try something, something basic. A spell. A charm. She searched her mind—and found only a handful of spells, stark and clear against the void of everything else she should know.
Wingardium Leviosa.
Protego.
The incantations rose to her lips unbidden. Harry Potter's spells. Not hers.
How much had she forgotten?
Her fingers tightened around the wood as fear slithered up her spine. She could not let them know. Not yet.
McGonagall cleared her throat. "Well? Surely you haven't forgotten how to use it?"
Sybill forced a shaky smile. "Of course not, Minerva," she lied smoothly. "I just… need a moment. Everything is still settling into place."
Pomfrey gave McGonagall a sharp look. "She needs rest. Not an interrogation. She's been through enough.
What Sybill needed was to figure this out. And fast.
Sybill swung her legs over the side of the bed, but the moment she tried to stand, her knees buckled. Strong hands caught her before she could fall—Madame Pomfrey, quick and practiced, holding her upright with a firm grip.
"Careful, dearie," the matron chided. "You took quite the tumble. I want you to rest a little longer before I let you go wandering about the castle."
Sybill nodded absently, but her mind was elsewhere, spinning, racing. The wand in her hand felt too light, too delicate for the storm brewing inside her.
She had seen the future.
Or—she had lived it? Dreamed it? Something.
The boy with the scar. The Dark Lord. The Horcruxes. The Goblet of Fire. A basilisk slithering beneath the castle floors, unseen and deadly. And death. So much death.
If this was real—if she was truly Sybill Trelawney—then she had been given a gift. A great gift. A gift that any Seer would kill for.
She needed confirmation. Proof that this was not just another dream.
She turned to McGonagall, trying to keep her voice light. "What… what am I like?"
McGonagall blinked, clearly taken aback. "What are you like?"
"Yes," Sybill pressed. "I seem to be having trouble recalling certain details about myself. But I suppose if I took a tumble… well. I assume I must be rather eccentric?" She gestured vaguely at the bug-eyed glasses perched on her nose. "A bit peculiar?"
McGonagall let out a short, weary sigh. "That would be putting it mildly."
Madame Pomfrey shot the Transfiguration professor a disapproving look. "Minerva."
McGonagall folded her arms. "What? She asked."
Sybill smiled faintly. "So, you do hate me, then. I'd rather hoped that part was some figment of my imagination. You know how confusing everything is…"
McGonagall stiffened, the muscle in her jaw twitching. "I don't—hate—you, Sybill. But I do think you are—" She hesitated, clearly choosing her words. "—a woman of strong convictions. You believe in… nebulous things. Even if I do not always find them grounded in reason."
Sybill nodded, considering this. That lined up with the dream. The Sybill Trelawney she had known had been… well, a bit of a fraud.
She inhaled deeply, shifting the conversation. "The students should be arriving on September first, yes?"
McGonagall gave her a wary look. "Yes. As always."
"And the first years will be sorted, and classes will begin as usual?"
"Indeed."
Sybill hesitated, then forced herself to say it. "Right. So that means that on Halloween, there will be a troll in the dungeon."
McGonagall's expression barely changed, but Pomfrey frowned. "Sybill, I know you pride yourself on your predictions, but—"
"A troll, you say?" McGonagall barked a short, dismissive laugh.
Sybill nodded airily. "Yes. A mountain troll. It will get into the castle." She did not mention Quirrell. They might cart her off to Saint Mungo's if she mentioned that. Quirinius Quirrelmort would be a problem for a later day.
McGonagall exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. "Trolls have not breached Hogwarts in centuries. I find it highly unlikely one will pass our wards within the next century."
Sybill just hummed, but her mind was racing.
She needed time. Time to think, time to plan.
Because if she was truly Sybill Trelawney, then she had knowledge that no Seer had ever possessed. She didn't just know fragments of the future—she knew it all.
For the first time, she realized what an extraordinary, terrifying thing that was.
McGonagall gave her one last scrutinizing look before turning to Pomfrey. "I trust you have the rest handled, Poppy. I'll inform the Headmaster that Sybill is awake."
Pomfrey nodded, her hand still hovering near Sybill's elbow as if expecting her to collapse at any moment. "Tell him to wait until morning before he comes barging in. She needs rest."
McGonagall merely hummed in response before sweeping from the room, her tartan robes vanishing beyond the curtain.
The hospital wing felt larger without her in it. Or maybe it was just the weight of everything pressing down on Sybill's chest.
She let out a slow breath, raising a hand to her head, fingers brushing against frizzy curls and—what was that? Fabric, knotted and threaded with beads, keeping the tangled mess in place.
Her fingers stilled. A scarf.
Of course. Sybill Trelawney—the one she had seen—was all scarves and bangles, shawls and drifting, ethereal nonsense.
She scowled. How utterly impractical.
She yanked it off, shaking her head to free her curls. The beads clattered softly against the sheets, and she gritted her teeth. If she was going to be taken seriously, she couldn't be that Sybill. She had a purpose now, a real one. She couldn't prance around in layers of jingling nonsense and expect anyone to listen to her.
And then there was teaching.
Her stomach twisted unpleasantly.
She needed to learn seven years' worth of Divination curriculum before September. Well—five. First and second years weren't taught Divination. Small mercies.
But still—five years of content. She had no notes, no memories to rely on. Just what she could scrape together from the fragmented dream of a life that hadn't happened yet.
This was all so—so—overwhelming.
She didn't have time to be lying in a hospital bed, waiting for her body to decide it was done being useless.
She had work to do.
Sybill forced herself to stand, her limbs sluggish and aching, but she refused to acknowledge it. Mind over matter. She took a step, then another, forcing steadiness into her movements.
"Professor Trelawney!" Pomfrey scolded, moving to intercept.
Sybill lifted a hand, letting it float in the air as if her movement was dictated by unseen forces. "No need to fuss, dear Poppy," she said, pitching her voice into something light and dreamlike, the way the Sybill she had seen might have spoken. "I merely feel… drawn."
She turned before Pomfrey could stop her, drifting toward the double doors.
Her legs protested, her head throbbed, but she did not stop.
The castle beyond the hospital wing was dim, the sconces flickering low in their brackets. Shadows stretched long over the ancient stone floors, distorting the shapes of archways and staircases. Hogwarts. She was in Hogwarts.
But she did not know this place.
She moved through corridors that should have been familiar, through shifting staircases and winding halls, and nothing stirred recognition. The air smelled of dust and old parchment, the stones beneath her feet humming with age-old enchantments, but she may as well have been walking through a stranger's home.
A sharp breath. A flare of frustration.
She turned a corner, seeking a window. There—stars.
At least they had not changed.
The constellations stretched above, scattered against the deep blue-black of the sky. Cassiopeia curled on her throne, Draco wove its winding path, and Orion stood in his eternal hunt.
North.
Sybill exhaled, allowing herself the brief comfort of familiarity before turning in the direction she needed to go. She drifted forward, her steps gaining confidence as she climbed higher, passing familiar shapes only because they were carved into the sky itself.
Up. Up. Always up.
It felt like the air grew thinner the higher she climbed in the castle, the scent of burning torches giving way to something dustier, the remnants of old incense clinging to the stones. The hall narrowed. The walls pressed closer, the sconces becoming sparser.
And then—
A ladder.
A trapdoor above.
Her breath shuddered in her chest.
She reached out, hand trembling, fingers curling against the wooden rungs as she hauled herself up.
The door groaned as she pushed, and then—
A round room.
The classroom from the dream.
Her classroom.
Thick, heavy drapes of crimson and purple hung from the ceiling, obscuring the curved stone walls. The air was laden with a scent both floral and cloying, laced with something smoky and sweet. Small poufs were scattered around low tables, the surfaces cluttered with teacups, wax-dripped candles, and crystal balls dulled with age.
The air was warm. Thick and suffocating, like the room itself was alive.
Sybill moved through it on unsteady feet, pushing aside drapery after drapery, searching—
There.
A beaded curtain parted beneath her hands, and beyond it—her office.
Small, cluttered, dim. Stacks of books threatened to topple, cards lay strewn across a velvet-draped table, and the scent of dried herbs clung to every surface.
She pressed her hands against the desk, inhaling sharply.
She was a mess.
It would take a week to find anything in this pathetic excuse of an office.
Behind the next curtain lay her rooms.
Sybill took stock, seeing a narrow bed, more scarves, more books, more incense. The air was thicker here, heady with perfume and more cloying incense.
It disgusted her, this sickening sweetness. Sybill couldn't imagine spending more than mere moments in this space.
She stood in the center of it, fingers curling into fists.
The memories were not there.
The magic was not there.
She was frizzy-haired and powerless and lost in a life that was not hers.
She let out a slow breath, lifting a hand before her face.
Anything, she thought desperately.
But nothing happened.
Sybill exhaled sharply, forcing down the rising tide of panic, and turned on her heel.
If she could not remember herself, she would find out who she was supposed to be.
She ripped aside another beaded curtain and stumbled into the office, the space small and messy. Books stacked haphazardly, parchment overflowing from drawers left half-open, candles melted into waxy puddles on every available surface. Trinkets, oddities, and talismans littered the shelves, some half-buried beneath cascading silks and scarves.
It was chaos.
A chaos that was supposed to be hers.
She began ransacking it.
Scrolls overturned. Papers scattered. She knocked a stack of books to the ground, ignoring the thump as she searched.
And then—
Lesson plans.
Her hands shook as she unrolled the parchment, eyes darting across the inked words.
Palmistry.
Tea leaves.
Tarot cards.
Crystal balls.
Each lesson was structured across weeks, months.
Ridiculously complex, every single one of them, yet frustratingly vague. A slanted, shaky hand that was presumably her own, catalogued notes and observations.
Sybill scowled, dropping into the chair behind the desk.
(It was uncomfortably squishy, having no support imaginable.)
No wonder no one took Divination seriously.
She scanned the curriculum, feeling irritation rise with every line. None of these could be mastered in a few months. Palmistry alone required an understanding of thousands of possible line variations. Tea leaves had infinite meanings, shifting with every slight movement of the cup. Tarot could take years to read with any real skill. And crystal balls—
Sybill rubbed her temples.
Of course students left this class believing Divination was a joke. They were given just enough knowledge to be confused, never enough to be competent. They were thrown at different methods, never lingering long enough to truly see.
At the end of one year, no one could look into a crystal ball and see the future.
It was not because the art was useless.
It was because no one had enough time.
Her hands drifted over the tarot deck scattered across the desk, fingers brushing the worn edges of the cards. The Fool. The Tower. The Hanged Man.
How fitting for her current predicament.
She trailed her fingers along a velvet cloth dusted with rune stones, then to the weight of a pendulum lying half-buried beneath a toppled stack of parchment.
Her hands found a cloudy quartz crystal ball, its surface cool beneath her palms.
It was familiar.
Shapes twisted beneath the surface, a crown, a cup, a diary.
At least Sybill Trelawney remembered Divination.
She paced, heart pounding, thoughts in disarray.
This space—her space—was insufferable. Smothering.
The beaded curtains were the first to go. She grabbed fistfuls of them, yanking them down in a violent cascade of clinking beads. They tangled around her wrists as she shoved them into a heap in the corner, out of sight. Gone.
Next, the infernal poofs—soft, sagging cushions scattered across the floor, draped in unnecessary shawls and tasseled throws. She kicked one aside, then another, then gathered them up and dumped them in a pile of irrelevance.
She turned, gaze falling on the windows.
They were shut. Had they always been shut? The room reeked—cloying perfume, stale incense, the sickly-sweet scent of aged candles long burned down to the wick. It was unbearable.
She marched to the windows and threw them open.
Warm summer air rushed in, stirring the heavy fabrics still hanging in tattered defiance. The scent of old roses and overpowering musk fled, replaced by fresh night air. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly.
Then she set upon the books.
She straightened them with force, slamming covers shut, stacking them in proper piles. Notes were gathered, loose parchment secured, quills placed in their holders instead of haphazardly strewn across the desk.
A low hum of satisfaction vibrated in her chest.
The office was still cluttered, but no longer an assault on her senses.
Finally, she turned to the wardrobe.
The sight of it sent a fresh wave of irritation through her.
She knew what was inside. The Sybill Trelawney of before—the one she had seen in the dream—had costumed herself in absurdity. Layers of shawls, dangling beads, voluminous skirts, tattered scarves wrapped around her head like some madwoman playing the role of a Seer.
Sybill flung the doors open, confirming her suspicions.
The urge to set fire to it all flared white-hot in her chest.
She resisted. Barely.
Instead, she tore through the garments with ruthless efficiency. Shawls and skirts were tossed aside with mounting disgust. Finally, she found something relatively inoffensive—a simple set of robes. Plain, dark, and blessedly devoid of unnecessary embellishments.
She laid them out and made for the bath.
The water was hot. Scalding, almost. She scrubbed her skin raw, washed away the scent of incense, the layers of grime that felt as if they belonged to someone else entirely.
Her hair—Merlin, her hair.
The frizz was overwhelming, wild and unkempt. She worked through it with firm, practiced motions, forcing it into something controlled, manageable. Loose curls framed her face, soft but deliberate.
She stared at her reflection when she was finished.
The woman staring back at her was unrecognizable.
(Thank goodness.)