The Other Side Of Vision

A prophecy is only half the story. It's the daytime half, the half that's set down solidly in words, where there's a beginning and an end, and where the words have some sort of definite meaning, even if nobody's sure what it is.

The girl rubs the tears from her eyes and walks out to see what the noise is, and something like light shines on her face, and she freezes, and she falls,

and again,

and again.


When Sybill Trelawney dreams, everything fits itself together with the particular clarity of nightmares. Colour and sound floods through her like a river. It all makes sense.

Blood drips from the boy's hand. He sits in the shadow of a stone idol with a toad's face and a vulture's claws, and writes I Must Not Annoy The Ministry,

and again,

and again.


Sybill Trelawney never remembers what she dreams.

A great carriage falls from the sky. A ship rises from the lake. A goblet runs with flame and burns away a hand which touches it to leave solid silver bones.

Seers don't.

And again.

Ever.

And again.

Sybill Trelawney knows, because Dumbledore told her, that she has made a genuine prophecy -- once, one single time, one moment out of her life when the Sight came on her and she spoke the future.

Sand falls through an hourglass. Around it, a stag and a wolf and a dog and a rat chase each other in a never-ending spiral. In the distance, the sound of an axe.

Someone's cutting something.

Someone's killing something.


And everything since then has been a desperate attempt to reach that moment again. The incense, the crystal balls, the tarot cards, the tea leaves, the stars, the dreams. Everything. Because she knows she's a Seer, Dumbledore told her that it was true, but -- never again. Never ever again.

A coin, tossed in the air by a gloved hand. It turns slowly as it rises. Quirrell's face, Voldemort's face, Quirrell, Voldemort, Quirrell, Voldemort, spinning faster now . . .

The drugs from shops in Knockturn Alley. None work.

It spins down and touches the ground.

Nothing works.

It shatters in scarlet. Scales. Scarlet. Snakes. Blood.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Sybill Trelawney smiles mysteriously at her class and tells them about the secrets of Divination.

A veil hangs between life and death. A man falls through it, as slowly as a single grain of dust.

Sybill Trelawney does not remember her dreams.

---

Fanfic Page