Serendipity: All Needs Met. All Desires Fulfilled.
Summary: Four people damaged by war and circumstance find solace in the unlikeliest of places.
Second chapter of the anti-mlc fic. This is the first time I've ever written Sybill, which has been both nerve-wracking and fun.
Fic rating is NC-17, but this chapter is smut free.
Chapter 2: Sybill Shunned.
Love is a cunning weaver of fantasies and fables ~ Sappho
Wearily, Sybill trudged up the spiral staircase that connected Severus' quarters to her tower apartments, forbidding her mind to count the steps as she went.
'Stupid... stupid... It never bloody varies...'
The castle, it seemed, took no pleasure in extending her misery on these dreadful evenings.
Reaching the top at last, the only door on the landing swished open to greet her like a long lost lover. It was a welcome sight. Still panting slightly from the exertion, Sybill closed the door gently behind her and slid the bolt against the world and all its inherent unpleasantness. The hefty oak barrier was comforting in its solidity as she leant her cheek against it and closed her eyes, steadying her breathing after the long climb up. Safe again. Back where she belonged. In her own domain, her refuge from mundane minds and the austere, obnoxious man she had misguidedly chosen for her husband.
The almost tropically warm, highly perfumed air that enveloped her was a blessed relief and a balm for the soul, and she took a moment to appreciate her surroundings. Sybill's living quarters, comfortably, though haphazardly, furnished, had served her well during her years as Hogwarts' Divination professor. In fact, it would be fair to say that they were an extension of her personality. Suffused with the all pervasive, cloying scent of patchouli and incense, they were in direct contrast to the cold, unwelcoming dungeons her husband and children inhabited. The room embraced her in its homely feel as she weaved between the spindly occasional tables, whose every surface was covered with knick-knacks and the life-long clutter of a woman with a magpie nature and eclectic taste. Yes, she inhaled deeply as she moved, letting the familiar scents soothe her wounded spirit. Thank Nimue that was over for another week.
Her favourite paisley shawl was lying where she'd discarded it: in a crumpled heap on the chair closest to the fire. Picking it up and shaking it out, Sybill draped the soft material around her shoulders and shivered, in spite of the fire roaring away in the grate. She tutted absentmindedly. That needs banking up again. Pointing her wand at it, she made the flames dance ever more brightly. A futile gesture since it didn't make her feel the least bit warmer; a good soak in the bath with the addition of some relaxing, essential oils was the only known remedy for that. The aching chill in her bones would ease, then--for a short while, at least. But first things first. Mercifully, the sherry decanter had been replenished and placed on the side table in her absence. Good old Winky. She was an elf after her own heart. With a slightly trembling hand, Sybill poured herself a large glass.
It's cold, so cold. Sybill clawed at her shawl, wrapping it even more tightly around her person, and knelt on the hearth rug. No amount of heat or layers of clothing seemed to make the slightest bit of difference to her body temperature, these days. It was like living in a perpetual winter. Taking a sip of sherry, her eye was drawn to the open parchment lying discarded on the mantelpiece, and she snorted into her glass in disgust. Dolores Umbridge could fuck right off. Another baby was out of the question—no matter what that stupid marriage contract said. Two children were more than enough for anyone. Did those morons at the ministry not have any idea how draining a pregnancy was on one's psychic abilities? She gulped down some more sherry. Not that they would let it trouble their consciences if they did. All they cared about was recouping the losses of the war; they didn't give a toss about her. Well, ditto. As far as Sybill was concerned, she'd done her bit. The weekly humiliation of going to her husband's bed—as he flatly refused to come to hers—may have been something she would dearly like to see ended for good, but Sybill was not prepared to risk any further deterioration to her Gifts. Another baby, and the chances were she'd be no better than a Squib.
As she pondered the injustice of it all, it occurred to Sybill that it was very likely Severus had received a similar missive from the Pink Hag. Would he dare to broach the subject, she wondered? He wanted their weekly... she gulped some more sherry... to cease as much as she did; she didn't need to be an Oracle to know that. But, if he'd suspected she was taking contraceptive measures all this time, he hadn't confronted her about it. Then again, as the letter would have been addressed to Mr Sybill Trelawney, he may very well have incinerated it on sight, and some poor owl would be nursing its singed tail feathers...
Not my problem. Miserable bastard.
It wasn't as though it were her fault the Ministry had decreed the Trelawney name more worthy of continuation—seeing as she was the pure-blood and Severus' father had been a Muggle. It was at their insistence, not hers, that he was obliged to change his surname. Officially, at any rate. It was a brave wizard, or witch, who called him Mr Trelawney to his face.
Sybill hiccoughed and Summoned the letter, but in her fuzzy state, she managed to dislodge her wedding photo from the mantle. It crashed onto the grate, landing face up. Severus scowled accusingly at her through the cracked glass, but she ignored him and gazed at her own image instead. She had looked so... becoming that day—the circlet of lilies with the Charmed humming-birds had been a nice touch. And her beautiful antique wedding robe with its jewel encrusted bodice, passed down from mother to daughter for, oh, who knew how many generations... The house-elves had done a marvellous job repairing the hex scorches, and it had cleaned up a treat. But, my, how she had sparkled, unlike the groom, who had arrived at the Ministry in his teaching robes, smelling like a cauldron.
'And I paid for it all, too, like a fool...' She toyed with her wedding ring, which she had also belatedly purchased—Severus' sole contribution to their nuptials having been to turn up at the appointed hour. 'Wouldn't even accept the ring I chose for you, would you? Not even for one day...' She reddened, remembering her mortification and the Ministry official who had found it difficult to hide his amusement at Severus' defiance... The bride peered up at her through her thick spectacles, then smiled and waved, looking giddily happy, like all her Christmases had come at once. Silly cow. How could she have been that stupid? How could she not have realised...? It made her sick to the stomach to even think about it. We've been over this, Sybill, she scolded. Dwelling on it serves no purpose.
She might have felt like sobbing, but there were no tears forthcoming. The nights she'd wept over her predicament were long past. Dry as an oasis in a drought. She sniffed, all too aware that she had only herself to blame for the whole sorry mess. When did I become so hard-hearted and unfeeling, exactly? Perhaps it was just a self-preservation mechanism: this... numbness was infinitely preferable to feeling utterly wretched, any day. And talking of messes... Sybil grimaced at the unwelcome dribble wetting her knickers. Another glass of sherry to fortify her, and she'd draw the bath.
For better, for worse. In sickness and in health and all that rubbish... What's done is done. And there was no undoing it without bearing a third child. Sybill tapped her wand against the grate, tempted to Banish the horrid photograph with its simpering bride for all eternity... 'No... No, not now,' she muttered. Better for it to remain in plain sight, a timely reminder that one's Inner Eye could not be trusted when one's own feelings longed for a particular outcome. Shaking her head, Sybill cast a wobbly 'Reparo' instead and sent the photograph flying back to its appointed place--next to her prized 'Souvenir of Delphi' snowglobe.
Mount Parnassus... Now, that had been some holiday... In an attempt to take her mind off her troubles, Sybill allowed her mind to drift to a time when she'd been... content, if not happy. She'd gone to Greece for a fortnight and stayed almost a year. To Delphi, where every woman in her family made the pilgrimage at least once in their lives since, family legend had it, her maternal line stretched back to the greatest seer of all time. Not that she really believed the story for a moment, but Greece was a beautiful country—as was it's people. And the sun never seemed to stop shining. She sighed. If only...
She should have stayed. It would have been easy enough to make ends meet, and Demis, no Dimitri... Sybill frowned. Or was it Demitrios...? Whatever. He had been keen to offer her accommodation. 'We'll make a fortune out of the tourists, Sybill. You and I. Think about it...' But, no. She had been lured back by the offer of a job interview at Hogwarts: flattered, in fact, to have been considered for such an illustrious position. And, knowing that dark days would soon overshadow the wizarding world, Hogwarts would be one of the safest places she could possibly be. Plus, she could be of use; an advisor to the great Albus Dumbledore himself, no less. (After her spectacular prophecy, he could hardly have failed to be impressed). She would then be ideally placed to teach the up-and-coming generation that would have to face the war she had foreseen, helping them to develop their intuition, divine the future, and pass on other essential skills for avoiding disaster. She had imagined herself holding court in her classroom, respected for her insight, becoming famous for it even—
'Oh, for gods' sake,' Sybill muttered. 'Get over it.' She hadn't been insightful enough, as it turned out. As far as old Dumbledore had been concerned, anyway; otherwise, why would he have employed Dobbin after that bitch Umbridge had tried to sack her? Why was that centaur still here, for that matter? Why hadn't he trotted off to rejoin his herd once the war was over?
Bloody Scotland. She'd been mad to leave Greece for this. And Delphi, where she might even have found true love.
'Yes, it may just have happened.' She nodded sagely and drank some more sherry. It had been a possible outcome in the cards, after all—The Lovers had been prominent in her readings... What would it have been like, she wondered, if she had found her soulmate there, someone who would have accepted her just as she was without judgement? A lover, a comforter, a friend? Someone who would stand by her no matter what? She twirled the sherry glass thoughtfully, watching the crystal glinting in the firelight. It wasn't as if she'd never had any offers when she was young; she hadn't been that bad looking. But, being prone to going off in a trance and spouting prophecy at the most inconvenient of times wasn't really conducive to a steady relationship. It did tend to put men off somewhat. Finding a special someone who understood her Gifts was never going to be easy.
No use crying over spilt milk, now, Sybill. She sighed. Hogwarts had appealed to her vanity, and that was that. She'd joined the staff, and Severus Snape had arrived not long after. And, oh... How she had hoped... But not for this. Not for this...
Sybill had known from the first time she set eyes on the young Potions master that he would become her husband and the father of her children. She had seen it as clearly as the sherry decanter in front of her with her inner eye—which she'd never had reason to question before. For confirmation, she had cast the runes, read the cards and gazed into her crystal ball for many weeks, all with the same result. So, it had been a great mystery to her why, despite her friendly overtures, Severus had either ignored her, or treated her with contempt. In spite of his puzzling behaviour, she had nevertheless managed to convince herself that she was in love with him, building up an entire fantasy life around him in the certain truth that one day he would appreciate what had been under his nose all along and grow to love her in return. After all, fate was fate. The fact that he had become the unlikeliest hero of the war was a bonus. Even Sybill had had doubts about the wisdom of pursuing her dreams during his tenure as Headmaster—loving a Death Eater was wrong on so many counts, and her fantasies had taken a disturbing turn. But his exoneration had filled her with joy. Now, he would no longer have to keep up the pretence. Once he recovered from his injuries, he would be free to show his true feelings. Only... he hadn't.
Months later, nothing had changed, but then the Ministry had passed the Marriage Act, and Sybill had finally understood the true meaning of her little premonition. Of course! Severus, not being the most attractive of men, had been much too shy to make the first move. Seizing the day (before someone else snapped him up), Sybill acted quickly. Submitting a petition for the hand of one Severus Tobias Snape, bachelor of Hogsmeade parish, she was married to the object of her affections within a month. Her dreams, however, had soon turned to ashes when Severus had made it abundantly clear that he was not hiding some secret love for her. Being together in the same room was something he could barely tolerate, never mind the same bed. Sybill's envisioned nights of unbridled passion became brief moments of hell.
Her mother’s voice had echoed in her head much, much too late: ‘Only fools and charlatans read their own fortunes, Sybill. You must always remember that.’ She would make very sure Eileen understood it. In time. She smiled. Darling Eileen, her seer child...
Even now, it was hard to think of herself as someone's mother—even harder to think of the way her children had been conceived. A few months of what could only be described as perfunctory sex, and there she was: pregnant with twin girls. Severus had sneered at the news: 'The fucking will now cease, I take it.' And he'd left her to it, barely speaking to her until after the delivery—and he'd been forced into that. But even his miserable countenance could not spoil the triumph she had felt at the arrival of her baby daughters. She had felt powerful in her post-natal euphoria, like nothing was unattainable. 'Meet Cassandra and Pythia,' she said, when Severus eventually came to see them in the hospital wing.
'I should like one—the dark haired one, to be named Eileen, after my mother.'
'Very well,' Sybill agreed. 'If that is what you wish.' It had seemed a small concession. 'They-they're beautiful, aren't they?' she asked tentatively.
Severus nodded once. 'Yes. Surprisingly.'
'Perhaps we could—'
'I believe you are allowed a year off before trying for another child,' Severus interrupted. 'Unless you wish to discuss my-our children, I want nothing to do with you.'
Sybill closed her eyes, swallowing her anger. 'Why do you hate me so much?'
'You have to ask?' Severus replied without taking his eyes of Eileen. 'If it hadn't been for you and that damned prophecy, someone I loved more than life itself would still be alive. Every time I look at you, I am reminded of that fact.'
'I see...' Sybill did not think it prudent to point out that she hadn't been the one to go running off to Voldemort with the news. There had been few conversations not involving the children after that.
Eileen... she was his favourite, a real Daddy's girl. Merlin only knew how he was going to react once he found out that she had inherited her... talent. Sybill had known before the twins were conceived that one of them would be a seer—it was most peculiar how it had turned out to be the child which physically resembled her the least, though. She sighed and pursed her lips. Strange girl. Always looking at her quizzically—looking through her, sometimes, as if she wasn’t there. Her father, however, could do no wrong, and it caused Sybill some sadness that both children preferred being with Severus, preferred his dungeon chambers to her tower. She didn't mind the latter quite so much, really, or that she was alone a lot of the time; Sybill had never minded her isolation, in fact she welcomed the peace and quiet: too many voices around her was confusing. It was probably for the best, in the long run, much as she loved her girls. In any case, she was only a Floo away if they needed her.
Sybill downed the remainder of the sherry and shakily got to her feet. 'Bath, Sybill. You'll feel better after a nice, long soak.'
What would it be like to have someone do that for you at the end of a tiring day? Someone who wouldn't even need to ask—who would instinctively know when she was cold and weary and aching—
'Syb…ill.'
She started. ‘Who’s there?’
'Syb…ill it is time. Come to us.'
‘What? Who are you?’ The voice seemed to be leaching from the stones of the castle itself.
'You know who we are. Come. You are needed here.'
‘Go away.’
'You must…'
‘NO!’ Sybill put her hands over her ears, trying to block out the awful sound. This was the downside of being a seer: hearing voices came with the job. However, when you talked to the wall and the wall talked back, even Sybill had to admit the possibility that she might be losing her grip on reality. She hummed in an effort to block out the voice that now was inside her head, then quickly cast Alohomora at the window. The cold blast of night air soon put paid to the racket.
That was close. Sybill breathed a huge sigh of relief. She obviously needed to get out more. Throwing uneasy glances over her shoulder on the way to the bathroom, Sybill picked nervously at the fringe of her shawl. It was looking a little threadbare. Yes, a trip to Diagon Alley would do her the world of good. There was a new haberdashery and trinket shop she hadn’t had a chance to visit yet. A new shawl would cheer her up—and some new beads. You could never have enough beads.