A Squib's Story

Chapter Six

When Lavender goes into the trance, everyone but Parvati and Professor Trelawney assumes she is faking. Trelawney recognises it almost right away, and Parvati believes in her friend as much as she believes in the Sight. Others, including Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, roll their eyes and try not to snigger (a failed attempt, in Ron's case).

"My dear!" Trelawney swoops down upon her, grabbing a small hourglass from a shelf. Lavender stares straight ahead, words tumbling from her mouth almost faster than she can speak them. Trelawney plunks the hourglass down in front of her and recites, "Recordum!" They are surrounded by complete silence. Even Ron seems to have grasped the gravity of the situation.

Lavender speaks the same phrases in a continuous loop for about five minutes. It is her dream, and more. Much more. The expected words, such as "War," "Voldemort," and "Harry Potter" still elicit shudders, and the unexpected, such as "Neville," "Violet," and "Parvati" elicit raised eyebrows and puzzled glances. (And, in the case of Neville, more shudders.) When she's finished she slumps forward. "Finite incantatem," Trelawney says quietly, sealing the hourglass and slipping it into her pocket.

Lavender sits up, blinking rapidly. "Professor...?" She stares, wide-eyed, touching her face as if making sure she's still there.

Trelawney leans close to her, speaking in the soothing tone a mother might use with a new baby. "Do you remember what just happened, my dear?"

Lavender shakes her head. "No..."

"It's all right, child." She clutches her chest. "My stars, it's more than all right! You've had a vision." She straightens herself and gazes out, somehow holding the entire classroom in her stare. "A vision of a great battle - a final battle." Never let it be said that Sibyll Trelawney doesn't have a flair for the dramatic.

"Do you mean... am I...?" Lavender can't bring herself to speak the words for fear they aren't true.

"Yes, my dear. It is my belief that you are a Seer." She smiles.

The class comes alive with the requisite whispers and murmurs, which Trelawney effectively shushes. "Tell me, Miss Brown, did your grandmother have the Gift? Your great-grandmother, perhaps?"

"I... I don't know. My mother's an orphan, and my father doesn't speak with his kin."

Trelawney sighs. "Well, nevertheless. Class, it is my belief that we have just witnessed a Prophecy, and that the Wizarding world has been blessed with a novice Seer." Her eyes brim with pride. Parvati squeals and hugs her friend. Lavender smiles but seems a bit shell-shocked.

"I don't remember any of it," she says softly.

Trelawney is suddenly serious, and not her usual lofty, gazing-into-the-orb brand of seriousness but a down to earth certainty that commands attention. "I believe we have a bit of a sticker," she says.

The class looks on expectantly. "You see, children, a Prophecy is meant to be heard only by the Witness, and the people who the Prophecy involves. When one has honed their Gift, through years of experience, things like this can usually be avoided... not that you have done anything wrong in the LEAST, my dear!" she assures Lavender, seeing her stricken expression. "But you see, you are not supposed to remember what you have Seen. And neither are those of you who the Prophecy doesn't concern. However..." She sighs. "This is a rather, ah, unusual Prophecy, as it concerns a large number of people. Of you. And, well, I just don't know what to do!" She slumps heavily into a flowered chair, fanning the incense-laden air. "My goodness, does it seem hot in here?"

"YES!" a chorus of voices, mostly male, exclaim in unison.

Parvati shoots dirty looks all around. "What do you mean, Professor?" she asks gently.

"I mean... oh dear, an educator should not have to shoulder such burdens... an abomination, really..." She wrings her hands. After a tense, quiet moment a look of determination comes into her eyes. "I am truly sorry, my dears. But I believe this is for your own good."

She points her wand, closes her eyes, and whispers, "Obliviate!"

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Violet sits in her self-proclaimed Fortress of Solitude (ah, the joys of Muggle literature), wondering what to do next. She has already finished her "schoolwork," straightened her room (picked up two socks), and painted nails no one will ever see. Toe and finger. Clearly, she is running short on options.

She pads downstairs to the empty kitchen, fixes herself a cup of tea, and absently scans the "Daily Prophet" that has been left on the table. Since last year's tragedy at the Ministry there has been more speculation than news, but at least they've stopped reporting on the progress of Harry Potter's nervous breakdown. Voldemort is back at work; there have been Muggle killings that bore his mark, as well as the sudden, suspicious deaths of an old witch and wizard who had helped put several Death Eaters in Azkaban. Everyone is trying to go about their daily routine, despite the looming fear of what may come. What else can be done during the quiet stirrings of War?

A headline, accompanied by a large, unflattering photo, catches Violet's eye:

'Umbridge Resigns in Midst of Scandal'

"Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and former High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, has resigned her post rather than stand trial before the Wizengamot. Ms. Umbridge has been accused of myriad offences during her tenure as High Inquisitor, including an attempt to use an Unforgivable on a student, which would mean life in Azkaban if convicted. She has also been accused of Conspiracy to Withhold Evidence in the matter of Lord You-know-who's return. Minister Fudge has denied any wrongdoing or knowledge of Ms. Umbridge's actions. He is not currently charged with a crime, though he has been detained by the Fashion Police on numerous occasions..."

Violet frowns. She's never quite understood what the Prophet is on about. But faced with the horribly lifelike image of Dolores Umbridge, pink bow and all, she feels a pang of sympathy for what the Hogwarts students must have gone through. The woman, indeed, resembles nothing more than a petulant, absurdly beribboned toad.

Toad... the word brings up a not unpleasant memory, but one she's not certain she wants to explore. A cosy room... a group of friends... a warm smile... a shy glance... and a toad. She feels the familiar lurch in her heart. She wonders if she'll ever see any of them again. In particular,the boy and his toad. She allows herself a moment to dwell on his name. Not his sweet face, or his soft voice, or the jolt she'd received when their eyes met; these things aren't safe, even in her own mind. But a name... nothing more than letters arranged in a certain pattern. What harm can that possibly do? So she gives herself over to one moment of bliss.

Neville...

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Professor Trelawney brings the sealed hourglass to Dumbledore, who takes it with a small nod. He seems neither surprised nor expectant, merely accepting. "I'll pass this on to the proper authorities, Sibyll. I commend you for your quick thinking. I take it you will sign as Witness?" She nods. "And... the others?" he prods delicately. Trelawney gives a small nod.

Dumbledore's smile gives the intended consolation without the slightest trace of happiness. "Sibyll, you know the rules of Prophecies as well as anyone."

"Oh, but Albus... it was terrible..." She seems to deflate a bit in her chair. "And strange, too."

Dumbledore frowns. "Strange? How so?"

"It did not involve only one of my students, it involved all of them! And Miss Brown spoke... as if she was there."

Dumbledore's frown deepens. "The Seer was present in her own Prophecy?"

"I believe so, yes." Trelawney briefly closes, then reopens her eyes. Gone is the ethereal fortuneteller who floats around her parlour classroom, and in her place an aging, frightened woman who by the looks of it would prefer the future to stay put, thank you very much. "You see, Albus, it involved almost my whole class! So by rights they are all privy to it. Or none are." She gives him a meaningful look. "I... considering the sensitive nature of it, I thought it best to..." She closes her eyes and tries to swallow the lump in her throat.

"You made a choice, Sibyll. That is all any of us can do. I am not convinced, from what you've told me, that we are dealing with a Prophecy at all. You did what you felt was best for your students, and they'll suffer no worse effect than a slight gap in memory." He sighs. "I know it is your Gift, Sibyll, and I've nothing but respect for it, you know that, but... sometimes I would simply rather not know what the future holds. I find it's enough keeping up with the here and now. Wouldn't you say?"

He expects her to defend her Sight, her livelihood, the long line of Seers she's descended from, the value of Divination when properly interpreted... Instead she hangs her head and murmurs, "Indeed it is, Albus."

This must be a humdinger of a Prophecy, Dumbledore thinks.

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Violet has been reduced to reading her horoscope when a face appears in the fireplace. It frowns, reflexively, upon seeing her, then clears its throat.

She looks up sharply. "Oh! Hello, Mr. Weasley. My father's at the office."

"I know. I'd hoped to speak with your mother." He seems flustered but controlled, like flyaway hair under a hat.

"She's in her workshop, Sir."

He sighs. "Can you pass along a message, please?"

Violet feels a stirring of irritation. Does he think her incapable of repeating a simple sentence? "Of course, Sir."

"Tell her..." he swallows. "Tell her the Ministry has been attacked. We don't know how, or what..."

"My father...?"

Arthur Weasley's face softens. "I'm sorry, Violet. That was very insensitive, and I hope you'll forgive me. Your father is unharmed, as are all of his colleagues. I believe someone sustained a bruise to their upper arm, but..." The head gives the impression of shrugging. "Let us be thankful the Ministry was built to withstand... well, just this."

"So you think it was Voldemort?"

He takes a split second before answering. How much does this girl know? How much should he tell her? He is used to dealing with Muggles, not Squibs. "Yes. We are almost certain of it."

"Do you want me to get my mother?"

"No, Violet. Thank you. I must go... much to do..." the head disappears.

Violet goes off to tell her mother, then pauses. For this one moment, news of the Wizarding world rests squarely on her shoulders. As long as she holds it, she is important.

After a moment she knocks on the door of her mother's workshop. "Come in!" she calls.

Violet walks in, and nearly staggers under the scent of every type of wood that exists in the world brought together in one small room. "That smell!" she gasps. It's not so much unpleasant as extremely potent.

Her mother looks up from her latest carving, a rocking-unicorn for a child's playroom. The unicorn nibbles playfully at Mrs. Brown's hands as she works to perfect the lines of its horn. "What smell?"

Violet blinks. "Never mind, Mum. I've... I've something to tell you."

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Next chapter: Some heavy-type stuff happens.