The Third Eye

Sybill Trelawney knew very well that she was no great seer. She had never once spoken a conscious prophecy in her entire life, and she was kept at Hogwarts more for protection from the Dark Lord than for the possibility of uttering elemental prophecies once every nth year. She had tried everything — burning herbs with centaurs on a moonlit night, searching for fairies in the meadows of Scotland, venturing into the mountains of Tibet to gain wisdom from the monks, and even going to the Forbidden Forest on the pagan holiday of Ivan Kupala to find fern flowers. She barely escaped from Acromantulas, it should be noted. The years passed, and the hope of awakening her ancestor Cassandra’s gift faded as quickly as Firewhisky in a bottle, which Sybill carried in her robe, sipping the spirits during festive feasts. She no longer attended regular dinners or breakfasts at Hogwarts because even the ghosts avoided her and advised her to sober up. Sometimes, after a bout of drinking, she would cry to Dumbledore about her difficult fate, sometimes to Professor Sprout, but more often than not to Professor McGonagall. McGonagall was so fed up with dealing with her colleague that during the summer holidays of the ninety-first year, she sent Trelawney to a Muggle rehabilitation center, with the help of Snape, of course. The cost of accommodation was to be dealt with in a straightforward manner, specifically, by pressing Dumbledore for the funds. “You insist on her teaching at Hogwarts, even though there is no talent in her, not even a trace of Minerva’s,” Snape declared, looming over Dumbledore’s desk while McGonagall blushed on the sidelines. “So, direct your favorite to the right path!” Dumbledore stroked his beard, pondering what other expenses he could request from the Board of Governors to cover the unforeseen costs. For first-year students, it was just the right time to buy new broomsticks, as Lucius Malfoy hinted prior to his son’s enrollment, but what could those broomsticks do for first-year students? Honestly, the broomsticks could wait for a few more years, but a budget for Trelawney’s treatment could be arranged. So, in August, Trelawney was lounging in the warm waters of Bath, recovering from alcoholism. It should be noted that this trip turned out to be the most pleasant incident in the life of the failed seer, as her fortune-telling was well-received by all the local grandmothers — she knew how to create a lot of smoke. A month passed quickly, and she didn’t want to leave, although she couldn’t rid herself of the destructive habit of drinking, and her mood for the upcoming school year was at rock bottom. “One last fortune-telling for memory, dear Sybill,” the unknown healer said, sitting next to the gloomy Trelawney. “My third eye is closed,” she waved him away and continued to look out the window, hoping the healer would leave. “And if we open it?” the stranger said with a smile. Sybill bitterly thought that it was not meant to come true, although she desperately wanted it. “If you desperately want it, why not? All desires can come true for a certain price,” and he abruptly stood up and left, clicking Trelawney’s forehead before leaving. She paid no attention to it, there were enough oddities in the magical world, not to mention the Muggle world, because everyone knows how crazy Muggles are. Her forehead started itching right after her return to Hogwarts and swelled before the start-of-term feast. “Sybill, are you alright?” Minerva asked with concern, realizing immediately that Muggle treatment had not benefited her colleague. “Thank you, Minerva, I’m fine. In turn, I would advise you to keep an eye on Potter, Granger, and Weasley if you don’t want trouble.” “What?” McGonagall choked. Although she knew that the mentioned children were supposed to be sorted this evening, she couldn’t imagine the clever Granger next to the mischievous Weasley. “What? Did I say something?” Sybill said with an innocent voice, scratching her forehead, which now seemed to be oddly retracting into her head. It appeared that this didn’t bother the seer at all. “I think you need to go to Madam Pomfrey right now,” Dumbledore approached them. “And I think you should consider cutting off your hand, Professor.” “Which hand, exactly?” Dumbledore asked with genuine interest. “The cursed one,” Trelawney scratched her forehead again. “Very interesting, but we need to get to the Great Hall now, the students will be arriving soon. Severus, please help Sybill,” he grabbed the passing Potions Master by the sleeve. “With great pleasure,” Snape hissed, taking Trelawney by the elbow and casting a wary glance at her forehead. “What’s wrong with you?” “A Nagini bit me,” at these words, Snape recoiled, but Trelawney took his hand and reassuringly patted it. “Don’t worry so much, you won’t die in vain.” And, scratching her forehead, she sat down in her seat, leaving a bewildered Snape next to the Sorting Hat. McGonagall led the children into the hall, but the teachers didn’t even bother to applaud the newcomers, instead they anxiously watched Trelawney. McGonagall was afraid that something had infected Sybill in the Muggle clinic, and now she had gone mad. Students at the tables whispered, pointing their fingers at the seer. From various tables, there were remarks like, “She finally got drunk,” and “Trelawney has completely lost it.” Trelawney herself seemed not to notice it all; she was focused only on her glass and on scratching her forehead, from which something seemed to be growing. All the attention in the hall was fixed on her, and McGonagall tried to salvage the situation by sorting students as if everything were fine. “Weasley, Ron!” Ron slowly approached the Sorting Hat, and in the silence, Sybill’s voice was clearly heard: “Such a little boy, already sleeping with a grown man,” she sighed, and Professor Sprout next to her clutched her heart. “What are you talking about, may I ask?” Snape was not easy to derail. “Did I say something?” Ron, as red as a lobster, descended from the platform and sat at the nearest table. He even forgot which house he had been sorted into. The students moved away from him. Snape, on the other hand, whispered to Dumbledore that it might be a good idea to call someone from St. Mungo’s, but the old man just chuckled to himself. “Don’t worry, my boy, I’m sure everything’s fine with her!” At that moment, Trelawney screamed and clutched her forehead, on which a clear eye, scanning the space around, had appeared. A completely ordinary human eye, if it weren’t the third eye on her swollen red face. “Fine?” Snape pointed at Sybill, “Her third eye has opened, and she’s prophesying! She needs to be taken to the hospital immediately!” “All right, all right,” Dumbledore cast a Patronus with a quick message, took the trembling Trelawney by the shoulders, and pulled her towards the exit from the Great Hall. She walked slowly, her third eye darting from student to student, who shied away in all directions. The doors swung open, and healers in yellow robes appeared in the hall, looking at Trelawney with interest and clearly anticipating exciting experiments and discoveries. “I-I-I…” Trelawney stopped next to Harry Potter, reached out to his scar, and screamed so loudly that Mandrakes would envy her. The healers levitated her out of the hall with their spells, and it wasn’t without difficulty. The door slammed shut, but you could still hear Trelawney’s wailing. “What’s she shouting about?” Children at Gryffindor’s table whispered. “I don’t know,” Harry Potter shrugged, scratching his scar, “something about the Dark Lord.”