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Chapter Text

My mother, Ismaili, was the youngest of three siblings. She was the wildest, the most beautiful and energetic of the three, and fell in love instantly in her third year at Hogwarts with my other mother, Donetta Winters, a muggleborn. They spent the rest of their Hogwarts years dating and married the year they graduated. They obtained a Nightblood flower from the family’s greenhouses and blooded it quickly. They wanted a family: children to love and raise and indulge. 

My mother was twenty and still childless when it all went wrong. The Dark Lord Voldemort grew quickly in prominence and threat, targeting ‘mudbloods’ like Donetta and purebloods who didn’t pledge to his cause like Ismaili and her siblings. Ismaili and Donetta’s Nightblood flower finally bloomed: a little boy. Me. 

And lastly: Ismaili’s family gift, descended from Cassandra herself, awoke. The Trelawney family gift, also considered a curse by family members, raised its head the moment she first held me. My mother was plagued with visions of foggy, staticky nothingness and indistinct screaming whenever she touched my skin. At first she simply avoided my skin, wearing gloves and leaving some aspects of care to Donetta, but the visions grew more intense and debilitating, and soon she heard voices and saw flashes of light while simply in the same room as me. It began happening with all individuals other than Donetta: physical proximity caused my mother horrifying visions of death or shrieking insanity, worse than anything she’d previously imagined. Donetta, unable to care for both myself and Ismaili at the same time, eventually handed my care over to my uncle Dorian, Ismaili’s oldest sibling and only brother. They spread rumors that Ismaili was intensely ill, bedridden in the extreme, but a Seer’s gift, even broken like Ismaili’s was, was too valuable for anyone to chance discovery. My aunt Sybill volunteered to play decoy, and when I was two years old she accepted an invitation to apply as the Divination Professor at Hogwarts from Albus Dumbledore. 

The ‘prophecy’ she gave to convince him and any secret onlookers that the Trelawney gift had gone to her and not her younger sister was made up, but none of the listeners realized. She was hired on the spot. 

A year later, just past my third birthday, the Potters were killed in their homes. Harry Potter, accidental horcrux and recipient of an ancient Blood Sacrifice Ward, rebounded Voldemort’s killing curse back unto the man and survived. Soon after that, my uncle (and his secretive husband, who never left our manor and who I wasn’t to mention to anyone) welcomed my baby sister into the world. She was my uncle’s daughter but due to no one knowing of his husband’s continued survival and everyone being aware he cared for his disabled sister’s offspring, Lyrica was named my sister in all ways but blood. I was considered too young to know any better, and thus was told in no uncertain terms that she was my sister. I agreeably pretended I had no clue who Uncle Dorian’s husband was or that they’d snuck a Nightblood flower of their own.

My growing years passed quietly. I was apparently quite clever in my own right; the Trelawney family was not known for attending social events or even leaving our manor, so I was not expected to perform at social gatherings. My mother’s terrifying visions continued, so she did not visit often and instead lived in a cottage by the sea with Donetta, sending letters and seeing no one. I was never sure how much she knew because Dorian told her or because she’d Seen it. Sybill played up her oddities well, successfully convincing everyone on Hogwarts’ staff that she was slightly dotty and her prophecy ability was uncontrollable at best. She couldn’t completely fake being a Seer, so better to convince others of her inability to control a vision’s timing and, indeed, cast slight doubt on her integrity than draw attention to what a true Seer looked like. 

When I was six and Lyrica was three, Ismaili and Donetta’s Nightblood flower (still kept at the Trelawney Manor for its own safety) bloomed once more on the same night at Dorian’s. The children, sliding out at the same time neatly side-by-side, were considered twins. A boy and girl, as Dorian wrote to Ismaili in the letter asking for her child’s name. They were, unfortunately, named Clytemnestra and Agamemnon on Ismaili’s advice. Uncle Dorian grimaced at the naming choice but complied. 

Our family house elves, Glinty and Ritter, were invaluable to Dorian and I, fetching books from the stores and our groceries from local farmers. They delivered Ismaili’s letters as well, to keep anyone nosy from following her owl to get a scoop on a lazy news-day. Their own elf children were paired with the twins to ensure no accidental magic caused any injuries, as in our family visions could come on at any time or age. 

I received my Hogwarts at the typical time for wizarding children, on my eleventh birthday. It wasn’t yet past time for me to attend that year, as my birthday was only early August and the Hogwarts Express didn’t leave until September first. There would be plenty of time to complete my shopping at Diagon Alley, find my wand, and pack for the school year. Lyrica, Nym, and Aggie were upset to be left behind but, as I explained dutifully to them, this year would be boring and there’d be plenty of time to write. 

And indeed my first year was boring. Without Harry Potter around, Slytherin House (my own) and the rest of the school got along fine without any incidents or otherwise unfortunate mishaps. The Weasleys provided some entertainment of their own: the twins were in my year, not yet in their full swing; Percy was in his third year; Charlie was in his sixth. I had gone to see one of Charlie’s Quidditch matches while I still could, remembering his reputation of being brilliant on a broom. I could see why he liked dragons so much from the way he flew, seeming to try his best to mimic their sheer aerial power and grace. 

To everyone’s surprise, I returned home after the conclusion of my first year to the news I’d been granted a new younger sibling: a sister, by all accounts (even Lyrica’s, now that she was old enough to realize the differences between us) from Ismaili and Donetta’s Nightblood. Dorian had named her Eglantine, claiming offhand that Ismaili hadn’t wanted anything to do with naming her, having descended into wild superstition and gibbering in her letters. He’d Floo-called Donetta, concerned, and received word that Ismaili’s mental condition was worsening drastically, and that she may not last even the summer. 

In late July my mothers’ Nightblood flower shriveled and died. Uncle Dorian, stiff-faced and monosyllabic, went out himself to Ismaili and Donetta’s cabin to discover how the end occurred and dispose of any remains; a True Seer’s blood or hair could create powerful talismans or be used in potions for truly exciting experiments. He returned a week later, pulling me aside to explain that Ismaili’s visions had become too much for her, causing her to attempt ending the pain herself. Donetta had died instantly due to the bond between them, a room away making dinner for the two of them. The Nightblood flower withered without their life force combined to sustain it, he told me quietly. We spread the word that Ismaili had finally succumbed to her long illness and that Donetta had followed as all bonded pairs do. My uncle began watching us children much closer than before: with the last generation’s True Seer gone, the blood often awoke in the next generation. The gift didn’t usually get as bad as it had for my mother, but there was usually at least one child of each generation of the named Trelawney family descendants who inherited the gift. 

Just before my return to Hogwarts for my second year, Dorian pulled me aside yet again to caution me against revealing anything to outsiders. If I developed the gift, he told me, I must keep it to myself. Ismaili’s own example had made it clear how difficult that might be, of course, but if needed Dorian would not hesitate to pull me from Hogwarts to keep me safe. A Seer in Dumbledore’s wizened hands would not have the best of times. He reassured me he’d be keeping an eye on the girls and Aggie, and requested I write as many letters as possible to keep up correspondence between us just in case. 

Charlie was graduating this year and had retired from the Gryffindor Quidditch team to focus on his studies (he was aiming for the Romanian dragon preserve, of course) so I contented myself with exploring the library. My last name and the slowly spreading news of my mothers’ deaths made me a minor celebrity among the pureblood children of the year, but by ignoring any and all attempts at making conversation about it I successfully avoided making a spectacle of myself. Uncle Dorian’s letters (which he sent in a parcel stuffed with Aggie and the girls’ letters to ensure they arrived safely) continued to caution me, but as the year progressed without incidents he calmed slightly. After all, the gift sometimes skipped generations, and Ismaili had shown herself that the gift didn’t automatically wake after the previous Seer’s death. Great-grandmother Luelline had died when Ismaili was only twelve, and she hadn’t awoken until turning twenty. 

Aunt Sybill, no longer concerned about drawing attention from her little sister, let her Seer disguise slip even more. She persuaded Uncle Dorian to enter marriage talks on her behalf with an Euclidius Higglebottom, a man she’d apparently been the penpal friend of for many years. She’d put off discussing marriage to protect Ismaili but with no further need to maintain the ruse, Dorian was willing to allow her her freedom and reward. Higglebottom would allow Sybill to keep the Trelawney name, as we usually demanded even when marrying out, since only carriers of the name could inherit the gift, and she would continue teaching at Hogwarts since she enjoyed the drama of it all: the smoky room, cracked and stained mirrors, and endless amounts of tea. They settled the wedding for the summertime, when I’d be able to attend easily and Sybill wouldn’t have to schedule around classes. 

Sometimes I visited her up there, in her high tower. We had tea and talked about Ismaili, how she was as a child. I never got to actually meet her, since her visions began at my birth. I never knew the girl who danced like the wind was her partner, with a bright laugh and unending love for her wife. She’d loved me, I knew, but in a distant enough way that it didn’t trigger her visions. She’d been in a lot of pain near the end, Sybill told me sadly, peering down into her own teacup. She’d spent a long time locked away in her own head, denied her children or a life of her own, and it hurt her that it was also robbing Donetta of the same. 

Sybill, when not pretending to be dotty, was excellent company. She did not question me, or peer at me all concerned and gentle, as some people certain they knew me did. She did not offer false sentiments meant only to comfort me. She was surprisingly steady and poignant. 

She married Euclidius over the summer, as they’d planned, and all the Trelawneys attended as was tradition for weddings. Funerals were private things, secretive and quiet, but weddings were a place for every member of the family to attend. Eglantine, just over a year old, was in attendance on Dorian’s hip; I saw Sybill’s eyes follow her wistfully for a moment, wanting. Even Uncle Dorian’s curious and disguised husband was there, floating around the edges of the tent like a released balloon seeking freedom. He smiled for Sybill, shook Euclidius’ hand, and vanished as the sunset bled onto the horizon. 

It was the beginning of my third year when things really got interesting. Harry Potter would be eleven this year, fellow students whispered at the station and on the train. He would be coming on the train- look, was that him now? Over there?

Lyrica, years too young to join me this year still, wrinkled her nose at the attention on one little boy. “He’s only eleven,” she pointed out. “Surely they don’t really think he’s Merlin’s rival yet .” Nym and Aggie, holding her hands on either side, nodded fervently, silent as they usually were. Eglantine, on Dorian’s hip again, blew a snot bubble and giggled to herself. I tweaked Lyrica’s nose and didn’t answer. 

Once aboard the Express, I settle into a vacant cabin and close my eyes, intent on catching a nap before we get close enough to Hogwarts for me to change clothes. 

There is a dizzying sensation of falling, of leaving myself behind, and then a passage from the books flashes through my head: Harry, meeting Ron, Hermione and Neville, and then Draco and Crabbe and Goyle. When the passage ends I open my eyes to find time has indeed passed and it is time for me to change. 

Sitting in the Great Hall watching Harry be Sorted is both exciting and boring. It is a great pivotal moment! It is a moment filled with silence (excepting the occasional awkward cough of someone who knows their sound will fill the room oddly) and fidgeting. My fellow Slytherins are staring at the boy on the stool with expressions that state they cannot decide between hope or immediate derision no matter what House the boy goes to. 

“What say you, Trelawney?” The boy next to me asks. Apparently they’ve started betting, it’s been so long.

“Gryffindor,” I say calmly, just as the Hat opens its brim in a mirrored shout. The other Slytherin third years whip their heads towards either myself or the boy rising from the stool jerkily, likely recovering from his mental argument with the Hat. I shrug at my observers, turning back to the table to wait out the Sorting of the other students. Malfoy and his bookends are already sitting at the first year end of the table, jabbering to each other excitedly about something or other. Malfoy’s face pinches when he looks at Potter so I conclude they’ve likely already met on the train as they were meant to. 

Classes are as usual. The careful tutoring Uncle Dorian gave Aggie, the girls, and myself means I maintain a casual high average in my classes. Excelling as a Trelawney wasn’t important, he’d explained. Survival was the key, and ducking under the expectations of others when we already had a reputation was imperative to keeping our lives intact. Uncle Dorian, for reasons he had not revealed to me, was never convinced Voldemort was truly gone, but even if he was family tradition dictated we not stand out overly much for fear of being noticed detrimentally.

It wasn’t hard to catch glimpses of Potter in the halls, furious as the whispering was. They practically announced his presence hallways in advance, so you were well prepared for every sighting of him. The youngest Weasley boy accompanied him everywhere. Every time I saw him, scenes from the first book flashed through my mind, insistent and overwhelming. I worried I might be taking after Ismaili, but so far the visions seemed only of Potter’s potential future, as though they wanted me to change it.

I cornered them one day in the halls, willing to speak in front of everyone. Weasley bristled at the sight of my green tie but the twins, watching curiously from a bit away, seemed to soothe his temper. The idea that they’d let me hurt him didn’t seem to occur to him as he equated the sight of them with safety from outsiders. 

“Potter,” I greeted, adding, “Weasley,” as an afterthought. The troll in the bathrooms was flashing through my mind, followed closely by snapshots of a self-playing harp, a dragon breathing fire, a flash of green light in a graveyard. They both stared at me. I realized no one had introduced me, and glanced about for an able representative, eventually waving the twins over. “Introduce us,” I ordered, pointing at the two younger boys.

The twins grinned and slung an arm around the other’s shoulder. “Playing at good pureblood manners, eh, Trelawney?” They gestured between the three of us. “This here’s Cassian Trelawney, Professor Trelawney’s nephew. That’s Harry Potter, celebrity, and Ronald Weasley, sixth of his name.” I nodded in thanks. An intermediary well-received by the other party was best in this case. 

“Potter, I must give you something,” I told him quietly, pulling the pages I’d written up from my robe pocket and passing it to him. “Read it while alone, please. And tell no one what I’ve said save those you truly trust to keep it secret.” 

He nodded slightly, still seeming confused, but the visions were already fading from the pulsing blare they had been before, so I turned and wandered off, content to entertain myself for now and observe to see if my advice was taken.

Chapter Text

The year passes, as time tends to do. Quirrell’s lessons are as useless as advertised. I end up tutoring younger students in what they’d typically learn with a competent DD professor in an empty classroom and ensuring they get back to the common room before the strike of curfew. As Halloween approaches I can feel the burn of Potter’s eyes in the Great Hall as he wonders if my note will prove correct. I’d included notes about Quirrell’s general level of trustworthiness, his plans for the troll, and that Potter must not ever be alone with him. If he suspects a professor is up to criminal activity and has no luck going to another professor, I included, then he is welcome to come request my help: the rules will not stop me, and I would rather an older, more prepared student go if any students must go. I have overheard him complaining of a headache during and following Quirrell’s class, but Halloween will be the true test. Am I to be trusted? Is Quirrell? And so on.

I can feel his eyes narrowing when Quirrell runs wildly into the hall, yells out his warning, and feints a collapse to the ground of exhaustion. The prefects, unwilling to lead us into danger, decide instead to take the Slytherins to the library, where strong wards will keep us safe from danger the way they’d protect their precious books until the danger passes. 

The next day all is revealed: Potter, Weasley the younger, and Granger have fought and defeated the troll, cementing their friendship and proving the validity of what I’ve written. Unfortunately, it seems Potter is loathe to completely trust me, and has decided following me about like a shy duckling is a better use of his time. All this proximity to him is causing scenes of his future to rise up in my psyche, which is very distracting while trying to study for my classes (read cool books about extracurricular topics). I leave a few books on dragons at their table in the library while they’re up trying to figure out where I’ve gone and lead them down to Hagrid’s hut one day when we’ve all got the afternoon free.

He answers the door with a suspicious frown, peering down at my green tie and fox grin. “Wha’ d’ya want?” He grunts. 

“You’re Harry Potter’s friend, aren’t you?” I flatter, grinning further at how he angles himself carefully to block view into his hut. “You were reading books about dragons in the library, right? I saw you the other day while studying.” Being stalked, more like . His frown only deepens further. “You know you live in a wooden house, correct? And that dragon ownership outside of a reserve has been illegal for years?” 

Potter and Granger come bursting out from behind their wide tree, Weasley quick behind them. “Hagrid!” Potter yelps. “Is that true? You’re trying to raise a dragon?”

“But it’s illegal!” Granger wails. Weasley just frowns, a little out of breath from trying to catch up to his friends. He’s the only one paying any attention to me, and in his eyes I see flashes of a rat becoming a man and my leg aches from a dog’s deep bite. I look away slowly, not wanting to let on that something’s off. 

The Golden Trio sufficiently distracted with Hagrid’s flustered denials, I turn to walk back up the path to the castle, whistling.

My letters include the news of my visions by necessity. Dorian notes they seem to be manifesting similarly to Ismaili’s, but that the intensity doesn’t seem too bad yet. I assure him it isn’t, that only a select few determined by some odd criteria (I have yet to explain my specific circumstances to my family, and it is doubtful I ever will, simply because living with it is aggravating enough) under specific scenarios are triggering the visions. I tell him the visions seem to be satisfied by attempting to change that person’s future, that they calm and quiet when relayed to the correct recipient. He notes in his next letter that this is often the case: prophecies want to be heard, visions want to be seen and either fulfilled or averted, the Eye wants to show itself to the unseeing. Ismaili did seem to find relief when explaining her visions, he told me. Sometimes she could go weeks with not a one, after solving whatever riddle had been plaguing her. Donetta did everything she could to resolve Ismaili’s visions, even if she sometimes got the clues wrong. 

(News comes that Malfoy is to serve detention for sneaking out past curfew and getting caught. This does not surprise me. He is troublesome. Very …blond.) 

I don’t go to Potter’s Quidditch games. It’s valuable time to myself with anyone tripping all over their tiny feet behind me, or accidentally making eye contact with someone and getting a vision at full blast with no warning. I am still tutoring younger students to make up for Quirrell’s everything , practicing my Occlumency shields (I am told they come naturally to Seers, which does seem to be true, but without anyone to test them they are just pretty unseen walls I amuse myself by making iridescent), and reading any interesting books I can get my hands on. This has the added side effect of Granger snatching up any books I’ve finished to flip through them herself, trying to see what dark, nefarious thing I’m doing in the two hours a day I’m not in classes or being closely observed or asleep. I’ve been slowly introducing her to wizarding law, creature rights acts, obscure rituals and texts, and magical theory in an attempt to make her even more impressive. Of course, I don’t neglect sticking a copy of Dumbledore and Flamel’s research papers on the uses of dragon blood in her path either. I know I can’t wait for Potter to find his chocolate frog card and then panic over someone trying to steal Flamel’s magic immortality rock. 

I amuse myself by sending letters to Lyrica and the twins of how absolutely dreamy Potter and his cohorts are and how they’re missing out on so much . Lyrica sends me a well-done drawing of herself blowing a raspberry. The twins send the copy of How to Tell When Someone’s Bullshitting You . I couldn’t be prouder. I of course also send along copies of all coursework assignments so they can be sure they’re prepared ahead of time. Lyrica does thank me for those. The twins send me a sweater and a note they got Eglantine to drool on.