Giving Notice

THE GRIM.

I knew it, you know. The moment that poor, poor child entered my Tower for his first lesson in seeing into the mists of the future, I knew he was destined for nothing but tragedy and agony. I couldn't help but feel my heart break when those eyes looked at me with simple childish emotions - bewilderment, amazement at seeing someone with the Sight, friendly cameradie - all masking a cloudy choking sadness and a destiny as black as a Grim itself.

Nobody can escape the Grim forever, not even the Boy Who Lived. He escaped the destiny I saw many, many times, no doubt due to my forewarnings on the matter. But finally he submitted, unable to deny the promptings of Fate any further. Such a brave child - pretending his dark future bothered him not at all must have cost him a great, great deal. He often made light of my warnings to him, perhaps to bolster his own courage as much as to reassure those who were among his friends. And yet when the times came, he always pulled through, always managed a miraculous survival.

Forewarned is, after all, forearmed. And I made sure to warn him of everything that I Saw, to keep him safe. Every warning I gave him simply made the poor child more determined to live, to make it through.

I had not the heart to tell him that no matter how hard he tried, he could not outrun his fate.

But it seems that he learned this for himself. After all, how else could a burning desire to live a full life despite it all wither and fade so quickly into the cold ashes of deadly despair?

~*~*~*~*~*~

While the funeral was handled by Dumbledore and was strictly a private affair, Hogwarts did hold a memorial feast for him. Not much was eaten, however - indeed; there was not a great deal of food served. The house-elves of the kitchen were in an uproar of grief, apparently one or two in particular, and as such not as much work was done. What was served, however, I can only imagine were the poor child's favourite foods, for I can assure you that such plain, simple fare is not usually served to the teaching staff, who are of a more... refined palate.

Excepting Hagrid, naturally.

As I said, few people were in the mood to eat, with a few notable exceptions - those who seemed intent on drowning their sorrows in their meals, for one. Then there was a young man with strikingly blond hair sitting at the Slytherin table, who seemed more intent on systematically hacking his meat to shreds rather than eating it, an angry, forbidding scowl on his face. I decided to Look into this matter further when I retired to my Tower and my Inner Eye was fully clear.

And of course, there was the child's best friend, the young Mister Weasley. He ate with a good appetite, eyes sparkling and urging others to join him. His fellow fifth-years, particularly the other young men, and his siblings, looked at him sadly with worried eyes. Others looked upon him in anger. The words "cold" and "unfeeling" were written across many a countenance.

I sighed. "Ah, me. Mister Weasley at least seems to realise his great good fortune. I warned him two years ago, as thirteen of us sat down to break bread, that whoever rose from the table first would face death. He and the deceased child rose at almost the same time - it seems he has recognised his close escape."

Professor Snape turned from his sulky contemplation of his untouched plate to stare at me, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. I smiled at him serenely. After all, one does not try to flounce the fact of one's wisdom; it is up to others to finally realise that fact for themselves. But to have impressed Severus Snape, of all people, was indeed a true balm for the ego - no man has been a greater Doubting Thomas than he. I recall back to his student days, when he left my class in a sceptical rage, much like Miss Granger - and much earlier. In the very first lesson, at that. It had been such a pity - granted; he had shown no signs of having any Sight, but even at that age, what a heart-stopping young man. If he had stayed in my class, perhaps I could have arranged evening tutoring, taught him yet more... And still he remains darkly mysterious and handsome today.

The whole school was quiet as Headmaster Dumbledore stood and addressed them with a short speech regarding Harry. Indeed, some of the school were almost unnaturally quiet - Hagrid, who had been openly sniffling into his soup and sobbing into his vegetables, was ramrod stiff and unmoving, as if locking away his terrible grief. He had been, of course, the first one to find the boy and take him from the Muggles - and it was no secret that as fond as he was of almost every student, he harboured a special, almost fatherly affection for the doomed child.

~*~*~*~*~*~

As the feast ended and the student body slowly dispersed, I walked up to the Tower, noting absently where people went. Hagrid went off still sniffling into his handkerchief abominably, talking quietly with - Severus, of all people? - I strained my ears to catch glimpses of their conversation.

"- My apologies for the Petrificus Totalus, Hagrid, however -"

"- how coul' she think tha' o' Ron -"

"- Indeed. For once I am in agreement with you, however..."

"- But Professor -"

"- May I ask how you think making a scene would have helped Mister Weasley? Or anyone else?"

Shaking my head, I dismissed the odd conversation with the poor, mundane Hagrid from my mind, and turned instead back to the long path to my Tower. In truth, this is why I often have my meals in my rooms - I despise the long walking distance each way.

But before I could take another step, I gasped. For I saw it.

I saw the Grim. The Grim! Here! It stood there, looking around, as if for directions, pretending to be an innocent black dog. But it was there.

Then it ran directly towards a group of students that were slowly walking off, dodging others, headed purposefully for them, tracking them mercilessly. To this day I blame myself for not being able to speak until it had reached the students themselves.

I screamed when it jumped right on top of Mister Weasley, alerting Severus and Hagrid - but too late, oh too late. "The Grim! The Grim!" I shrieked. "Get away, Mister Weasley! Escape at once!" The two men had come hurrying up, as had that self-righteous old prude Minerva McGonagall.

"What is the problem here, Sybil?" Her disdain for me was notable in her speech, but did she truly not see the danger? How could she in good conscience call herself a witch?

"The Grim! It's attacking Mister Weasley!" I wailed.

The boy looked up, a cheeky grin on his freckled face. "Don't be silly, Professor Trelawney. This is just Snuffles. I've known him for two years now. He's - well, I guess you could say he's Harry's dog, in a way. He's waiting for Harry to come back, aren't you, mate?" He ruffled the dog's hair cheerfully as the dog emitted a mournful whimper.

Mister Weasley's younger sister - a pretty, shy little thing - tried to stifle a sob. "Oh, Ron... stop it! Harry isn't coming back! Not this time!"

"'Course, he is, Gin, don't be a git," was the boy's amicable response. "Sorry Harry's isn't back yet, Snuffles, but don't pay any attention to these depressing sods. C'mon, let's go. You want to see Dumbledore, I bet, don't you?"

"Yes, Mister Weasley, do take, er, Snuffles," and Severus spoke the name with strange contempt, "to the Headmaster. It might be best," he added, as the Grim reared back and snarled at him.

Of course. If anyone could handle the Grim now it had taken a physical form and could harm anyone, it would be Dumbledore. Clever as ever, Severus. Young Mister Weasley nodded and with a cheery call to the animal, he left in the direction of the Headmaster's office, the beast trotting behind in a manner that seemed almost obedient.

"Of course..." I whispered, to myself more than anyone, "how could I have not Seen this before?"

"Seen what exactly, Sybil?" Minerva interrupted me crossly, glaring at me as she placed a reassuring hand on Miss Weasley's shoulder. One of her elder brothers placed his hand on her other shoulder, as his twin eyed me suspiciously.

"The true reason for Mister Weasley's strange behaviour. He does not grieve for Mister Potter, for he knows that their time of parting will not be long," I breathed, astounded at this new revelation. "After all, destiny will not be denied... there is always a balance that must be maintained, and the Fates will not be satisfied with only one life... it must be balanced with another..."

Everyone reacted to this revelation of my Vision in his or her own way. Miss Weasley broke down and wept in her twin brother's arms, both of whom glared at me in fury, as if I was responsible for the Grim itself. They should have known the moment it touched their brother that he was doomed. Miss Granger was staring at me as if I was a creature she'd dearly love to squash underfoot - but then again; she has always been a younger version of Minerva - a mundane mind jealous of one with the Sight. Lavender and Parvati looked at each other, aghast and distressed at themselves, no doubt, for not making the connection sooner and protecting Mister Weasley. I would have to assure the poor dears that they were not at fault.

I turned to Severus, hoping to have impressed him again, but he was talking in a low, fast whisper laced with urgency to Hagrid, whose body was oddly stiff again. I was broken from my mild disappointment when Minerva grasped my arm and spun me around.

"Do you think it grand, Sybil?" she asked in a tone that could have frozen the very blood in one's veins. "Do you think it impressive to make fun of another student's profound grief, to predict a second suicide, in order to make a drama out of yourself?"

"You are a jealous fool, Minerva," I hissed, angered at being talked to so in front of Severus and in front of some of my most promising students. "You blame the messenger for the contents of the message? You saw the Grim - there is nothing that can be done. I tell you that I do not wish Mister Weasley to die - I did not wish Mister Potter to die! But as I said before, the Fates will not be denied, despite what you may think. A life requires another life for balance, and no one - not even a withered old bat such as yourself - can fight against the Fates. The Boy Who Lived himself fought for fifteen years before he lost - I greatly doubt that you could last so long."

With that, I swept back up to my room, the journey passing much more quickly than normal in a red haze of anger.

If you truly want to blame the messenger, blame the Grim.

Settling down with a nice glass of wine, I calmed myself and reflected with bitterness on a sentence that I had missed the significance of in all the excitement.

"I guess you could say he's Harry's dog, in a way."

How true, Mister Weasley. That poor boy had a Grim on his heels from his very birth. And it finally ran him to ground.

END.