Chapter 1 : One Shot.
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Back and forth, she rocks. Her frail fingers grip tighter around the bottle of cooking cherry. Her oversized glasses slide to the tip of her straight nose, threatening to fall to the ground in a pile of broken glass. The glowing fire is long since dead, but the heavy aromas of the past still hang thick in the air.
This is her room.
This is her tomb.
She hasn't left the room in days - weeks, maybe? She no longer remembers. No longer cares to, either. So long as she has her bottle in her hands, her safe harbour, then she is safe from the outside world, but not herself. Sybill Trelawney is never safe from herself.
Age has caught up with her now. She no longer teaches, but she can't bear to leave Hogwarts, even after the destruction caused by the Second War. Sybill doesn't believe it has ended, not for her, at least.
She never leaves her room in the tower. She will remain there, encased in stone walls for the rest of her days. Her rotting corpse may be found days after her death, or months, if at all. She never has visitors; she had no use for them anyway, not when they kept her company.
She sees too much. She always had the Sight, passed down through the ages from mother to daughter, yet none believed her. Sybill was always considered odd, a fraud, a hack, but others never bothered to see her like she had always seen them, until now. She sees them all too clearly. She sees them still, alone in her tomb; she sees them though they are no longer there.
And the dead see her, too.
Sybill hears their cries, she feels their pain. They beg her to save them, to make the hurt go away, but she does nothing. She can't do anything. They're dead, all of them, and she can't make them accept their fate, and so she listens.
Her heart is heavy with their pleas. Her mind is unfocused on their faces, but she knows their voices still. She hears them all so very clearly, as if they were sitting beside her in her tomb. They tell her their wishes; they tell her their dreams that will never come true. They tell her so much that she drinks deeply from her bottle of cherry to block them out, to drown their voices out along with her Sight. She wishes they would all disappear. She wishes the dead were well and truly dead, and not lingering ghosts in her mind.
Their voices are getting louder with every sip she takes. They want to be heard! They want to drain her of all the energy her frail old body possesses to tell her their secrets. They won't be silenced any more.
Back and forth and back again, she rocks. Her vision is blurry, her breathing is laboured, and her strength is waning. She knows that time is getting away from her now. She wants it to all be over. She wants to stop listening – she can't take it any longer! She's been seeing the same things, hearing the same things, for far too long now. Soon, it will be time for others to see her in their minds, to hear her voice ringing in their ears, but not yet.
The dead know she will soon join them. They want her to. Her time has come to move along, to become a rotting carcass for the living world to worry over. They call to her now, 'Come join us, Sister,' they say, but Sybill Trelawney has other plans. She will not go to them, not right now.
Her glasses slide from the tip of her nose, shattering loudly upon the floor. She doesn't care. The voices get louder as she rocks, back and forth, back and forth and back again. They know she is no longer listening. They know she no longer sees them. They get angry, for how can she ignore their cries for help while she still draws breath and they do not?
Sybill Trelawney is tired of seeing, so she finishes the bottle instead. The empty glass falls from her old hands, shattering to the ground, echoing boldly around her stone-walled tomb.
It is the last sound her tomb ever hears.
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by nott theodore