Divination IC Open Professor's Office

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Sereia's Calming Presence is in effect

Sereia nodded. "Yes, yes, it's still too early to say. We've just gone through the first week, after all. Oh! I'll take that." She stood up and took the mug, looking around next for her wand. Nothing a little cleaning spell couldn't fix, of course. Sereia would prepare herself a drink before she started working, too.

Speaking of which, she looked at her desk and tried to remember what she had originally wanted to do. Sereia went for a morning run, then took a shower, did her morning routine and her hair before coming into the office to find a guest. Where was her journal? That was probably where her agenda for the day would be if she hadn't forgotten to write it all last night.

She skimmed over the piles of papers on the side. There was homework to grade, yes, that was that. First week had tea leaf reading homework and symbolism recall. What else? Probably writing new lesson plans and updating things to more modern content. Yes, yes, that would be it. Her stomach grumbled. Of course, breakfast would be on the agenda, too.

She nodded to Raizel on her way out. "Have a good weekend to you, too, Raizel. I'll see you in class on Monday." Sereia smiled.

THE OFFICE IS NOW OPEN

With cautious footing and wide-eyes, Karlie made her way to the Divination office and rapped on the door gently. After she overheard a conversation in the Gryffindor common room, she knew this was the place to go for answers about her problem. The prospect of revealing something so intimate made Karlie feel nauseous. Any unfamiliar feelings were usually quashed and dealt with internally, even if it was disturbing and bothersome. Nonetheless, the frequency of this cathartic nightmare was far too often; it had occurred every night since her first night at Hogwarts. It played on her mind constantly like a dancing sprite, and if she maybe knew a little more about what was going on, hopefully she would be able to focus better. The Professor's voice from the other side of the room invited her in, and she stepped in slowly.

Taking a moment to glance around the room, noting the huge window and interesting pictures on the wall, her eyes fell on the professor.

"Good morning Professor Clairmont," she said. "My name is Karlie Keys, I'm a first year. Thank you for letting me come in."

She approached the desk and sat on the chair opposite, slinking down into the leather. Karlie never enjoyed speaking about her feelings. True, yes, she was becoming much more sociable and comfortable around her peers, but revealing intimate information about herself made her vulnerable, like anybody could use it against her.

"I've been... well... it seems like I'm being haunted by this reoccurring dream," she admitted, not meeting the Professor's eye.

"It's happened ever since my first night at Hogwarts. It is the same each time, and I wake up in shock every time too. It's quite disturbing. So... I wanted to ask if you could interpret any meaning from it, such as something I need to do or be wary of?"

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Sereia's Calming Presence is in effect

Stressed did not even begin to describe Sereia's mental state as she stared at the letter in hand. A part of her figured this was bound to happen and that she wasn't entirely surprised it finally did; four years was a pretty long time to be away, after all. But another part of her wanted more time, more time to figure it all out and prepare herself for the inevitable doom coming her way. This was all happening too fast.

It would have to wait, however. Stressing would have to come later. A knock came and she filed it away as she called for the person to come in. There would be time over the weekend to sort herself.

Sereia smiled at Karlie. The girl didn't look familiar, so she was either a senior that wasn't taking her class or a junior that was still too young to attend Divination. Judging by her baby face, Sereia concluded that this girl was probably still too young. "Good morning, Karlie. How are you?"

When the girl answered 'well', Sereia hummed and nodded. She was quick to get to her point, maybe because it was early morning and they had classes in a few moments. Now, reoccuring dreams were not outside of Sereia's expertise, but they were certainly something she focused less on. The older you get, the less you dream. "Of course, what was the dream about?"

THE OFFICE IS NOW OPEN

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Saunders walked along the cobbled road of a harbour where tired merchant ships rested like war-weary veterans, where purveyors mingled with harlots, murderers with nobles concealed beneath their hoods, and where the air reeked of fish, mussels, oysters, wine, and sin. His attire marked him as some kind of city guard. A patch of pristine white silk stitched over his black chainmail shirt bore a crest depicting a well, flames rising from its depths. His eyes then caught sight of dozens of Plimpies leaping around the bow of a wooden ship, where half-topless, muscular deckhands busied themselves with all possible sorts of gambling, their only garment a cyclamen-coloured vest. “For a passing potion maker,” he mused, “the eyes of these creatures would be a feast.” At that very moment, a figure in a dark brown hood and a long jade-green robe walking eight or ten paces ahead of him turned abruptly and plunged a dagger into Saunders’ stomach. His eyes widened in shock as he heard a voice: “Your eyes will be my feast, and mine yours.” He couldn’t make sense of the words, but the voice was familiar, belonging to someone he loved, someone he missed. As his eyes reflexively closed, unwilling to witness the blow, they reopened to see… his grandmother, Dirouhi. “Grandma...” he murmured weakly, his lips dry like those of a dying man. “We will exchange our eyes,” she said, her voice now devoid of its former warmth, flat and monotonous.

And then Saunders woke up... The emerald-tinged ambience of the Slytherin Common Room stung his eyes, still fresh from the realm of sleep. A bead of sweat slid from his brow, tracing his hairline before pooling at his temple. The clock neared noon. His short nap had gifted him a nightmare where his granny had stabbed him and almost taken his eyes.

He felt as though he had just stepped out of a cold shower. It was as if a statue of fear had been erected in his navy blue eyes, casting its shadow wherever he looked. He thought of writing to his grandmother about it. After all, she was a seasoned and accomplished seer. If anyone could make sense of this, it would be her. Saunders clung to the habit, common even among adults, of believing that dreams may have a meaning, or rather, that they simply must. Half his life, as a child lost in dreams both asleep and awake, had only reinforced this notion. Yet two reasons held him back from writing to her. He did not want to recount a dream where he had been his grandmother’s victim. Besides, he did not want to talk about the dream at all. Some experiences, by their sheer unpleasantness, demand silence. This was one of those.

It demanded to remain unspeakable because the dream had awakened a primal fear in the young snake. He adored his grandmother, Darouhi, and her tales of faraway lands, her half-eerie interpretation of everyday events. But he had always harboured a subtle dread of her power, her abilities, which seemed to reach beyond the magic he was familiar with. When he read in a book that seer talents could sometimes pass down through generations, that dread deepened. Saunders had always wanted to be a wizard and a conventional one at that. Waving his wand and uttering spells was enough, nay, more than enough for him. He wanted no part of any hereditary gift, or curse, that demanded his mind, visions, or soul.

Now he needed reassurance, a graceful gift of clarity. Who could he possibly turn to? His friends would undoubtedly know even less than he did. Then, the idea struck him. He could pay a visit to the Divination professor. As a first-year student, however, he would not take the class or meet the professor for another two years. Most of his friends too at Hogwarts were his age, so he knew nothing of the professor’s demeanour. What if she would turn him down? And what would he even say? Saunders, regardless of all his suspicions, was quite sure that he had no intention to share his dream with the professor.

What he precisely craved at the moment was someone to tell him, “No, you’re not a seer, and you won’t be.” Someone to shake his shoulders and assure him... What he needed, in truth, was what any child might want after a terrible dream: a parental figure to tell him everything would be fine. After all, Saunders was very much eleven years old.

When he finally found himself at the professor’s office door, after a grand journey from the basement to the towers, he took one last deep breath. Gently, he knocked. Then, with his face pale as a ghost, he peeked through the crack in the door. “Professor,” he said calmly, “may I come in?”

Even after wandering through the most terrifying wilds of the subconscious, Saunders Napier remained a polite boy. That, at least, was a good sign, meaning that he had not yet surrendered his life to dreams.

@Sereia Clairmont

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Sereia's Calming Presence is in effect

Christmas break was on the way and, frankly, it couldn't come any faster no matter how much Sereia hoped. She loved her job, of course, but that didn't mean she couldn't want a break here and there. The last few months had been emotionally tiring and to go home would mean a lot for her soul.

But the fact that break was on the was didn't mean that Sereia could expect quiet office hours until the new year.

Sereia put down her pen and stretched her hand out, the bones on the back of her palms cramping from the sheer amount of writing she'd been doing. Grading was easy, but suggesting different interpretations and doing whole new readings altogether for students took up the bulk of her work. There were a few that had readings so comprehensive and complex that Sereia had little to say, and often they were her favourite to read.

A knock and then a little voice came from behind the door. The door opened slightly and Sereia smiled when she caught eye contact with the little boy behind it. "Come in!"

She threw her papers into a pile and pushed them to the side. "Hello, I'm Professor Clairmont. What's your name?"

He was a bit too short and baby-faced to be any of her students, now that she had actually learned their names and memorised their faces. A First or Second year, then. A wider look at his face had her brow creasing. "You're looking a bit pale. Would you like something warm to drink? I have hot water."

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When the gentle voice beyond the door said, "Come in," and Saunders saw the professor's face a few minutes later, a colour rose in his pale cheeks, a momentary shadow of astonishment overshadowing his pallor. The woman who sat there was much younger than he had expected. The Napier boy wondered whether the person who had answered him was really the Professor of Divination. The woman exuded a disarming calmness, a serenity that could be felt even from the other end of the room. Yet she was even younger than his mother, which was strangely at odds with his prejudices. For Saunders, the very term professor was enough to conjure up images of some old men in black robes, faces adorned with Jovian beards, speech full of old-fashioned expressions, and dry touches of humour clinging to the sensibilities of 1907 (at best). But this woman was the complete opposite of the archetype in his mind.

But it was clear that she was indeed Professor Clairmont herself. The moment her gaze fell on the pile of papers she had just pushed aside, the truth gripped the young snake. A sense of guilt tiptoed through the courtyards of his soul; Saunders was, after all, a well-behaved lad. Well-behaved in the sense that he had been meticulously trained to live with a constant awareness of the burden he could impose on others.

“Saunders, Professor,” he said, buttoning the middle button of his robes as if to armour him against awkwardness. “Saunders Napier.” Even without the aid of a mirror, the young snake was aware of his pale appearance. The residual weight of the dream still clung to him, its shadow etched into his features. He felt, though he did not overtly control it, that the intensity of the dream was consuming him. The offer of hot water didn't make him particularly pleased, to tell the truth. Who would choose hot water over tea? It'd be an unpardonable, criminal offence to the very heart of Englishness, and a Londoner would be guilty of the highest treason if he entertained such an idea, even for a moment.

“Well, if you have tea…” He trailed off, catching himself. “But of course, hot water is fine too.” The thought of appearing pushy, of imposing his preferences to someone else, was unbearable. Yet, the word tea had slipped from his lips, and there was no way to get it back. Despite Professor Clairmont's warm smile and the reassuring presence she so ostentatiously radiated, a part of Saunders still itched to flee the room to disappear completely.

“I’m sorry to have taken up your time, Professor,” he said, still standing stiffly near the door. “You seem busy, and I wasn’t entirely certain interrupting you on the eve of the holidays was a good idea. I should have assumed you’d be overwhelmed with work.” His words were precise and polished, a privilege afforded him by his surname and upbringing. “I had something on my mind, but I’m sure it’s nothing more than a passing worry. Dreams shouldn’t be taken too seriously, after all. Though my grandmother would certainly object to that. She’s more of a practitioner, however, while you... well, you understand the theory behind it all.”

The problem with holding onto a single thought for too long was that no matter how hard you tried to hold on to it, it'd inevitably seek escape.

@Sereia Clairmont

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Sereia's Calming Presence is in effect

"I can do tea!" She smiled. She started the steeping process, grabbing a cup from her drawer and putting in water from her thermos. "I keep a few bags with me when I need it. I hope black tea is okay?"

She passed the cup to Saunders and listened as he talked. Dreams, or oneiromancy in general, were not her strongest suit, since being a true master of all techniques of divination was largely impossible. Cartomancy was her most-practiced method for personal use, and she'd only applied arithmancy to her work after she graduated. Of course, that never stopped her from being curious about every other method when it was relevant.

Sereia hummed. "Dreams can be important. I had a dream back in the summer... It didn't seem that important back then, but it felt like..." She fiddled with her hands as she tried to explain it. By 'it', she meant her new classroom decorations, her rekindling relationship with her father, and the moments in between. "Almost like a vision, but not, if you know what I mean? Everything was abstract, so I had to do my own interpretations and research on symbols after. But with everything I know about that dream and everything that happened since, it's like everything was meant to happen."

"So, let's talk about it." She readjusted herself on her chair. "What did you see? What do you think it's about?"

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"Black tea? Oh, more, much more than okay, it'd be wonderful. Thanks."

Saunders was so relieved to hear that he could drink tea instead of hot water that the colours rushed back into his pale face, which had turned ashen from his recent dream, albeit slowly. Professor Clairmont had a presence that was, shall we say, soothing, calming; and this was something that could only be properly enjoyed with a nice cup of tea. Whenever the Napier boy would immerse his thoughts in the pensieve to which his own mind gave him unrestricted access and journey to the threshold of his earliest memories, even there would he taste the brewed flavour of the leaves of this magical plant on his palate. Perhaps those outside our often rain-soaked island would have argued that an eleven-year-old lad was too young for such indulgences - but fortunately, the Napier household was a sanctuary in which British callousness was devoutly venerated. Tea leaves were no less valuable from a mighty symbol of a heraldic bearing for the Napiers. If the dwellers of the boot-shaped peninsula had the suave charm, and the Spaniard friends the fierce amorousness, well, the British had the marvellous appearance as they raised their pinkies while holding a teacup.

"I was actually pretty determined not to mention my dream, Professor," Saunders said, "but I can't hold myself, strangely." It wasn't so strange given the fact that Saunders belonged to a highly vicious species of mammal, the human being, and could, in a way, be described as a social animal. "I dreamt of my grandmother, Professor. In a lonely, scary harbour. There were all sorts of sea creatures and over-built sailors. I was, I don't know, possibly on a secret mission, or something like that, wearing a cloak and all... Then I heard my granny's voice. She said something like, ‘Your eyes will be my feast,’ and she stuck a knife in my back. And then she said..." A moment of pause. "that we'll exchange our eyes?"

Saunders didn't know what to think. He didn't understand dream symbols, and he had never travelled deep into the subconscious. But when he forced himself, he could only guess, in an attempt at demystification: "My grandmother's a Seer, Professor. A relatively well-known one, too. Well, mostly in the Russian-speaking world but. I guess... I guess that scares me a little. What if I have a similar ability? Isn't it genetic? What if I can't lead a normal life?"

@Sereia Clairmont

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Sereia's Calming Presence is in effect

Sereia hummed as she listened, considering the symbols on her own. A stab in the back had always been a symbol of betrayal. A harbour suggested longing for freedom half the time and goodbyes the other half. The comment about exchanging eyes and such was harder to discern. More context into Saunders' life or thought processes would clear the air on the symbolism.

Just as Sereia was about to ask, Saunders continued and, for a moment, she knew exactly what she wanted to say.

Sereia looked at the photo frame by the windowsill. "It's okay to be scared," she began, "It's okay to not want the ability for yourself. Seeing the future is never easy, even if you've lived with the ability your whole life."

Her mother sent the photo in a letter. It was her mother and father in a lavender field. Sereia smiled when she received it, happy to see her parents out of their house and elsewhere. There were more letters after that, but only one from her father since they'd last seen each other. There is no greater pain than knowing, and knowing you cannot stop it, he had written.

Sereia was glad, then, to not have it, even if it meant she had to work harder. Still, "As young as you are, know that there's more to life than living up to a family name." She hummed. "You're special in your own way, whether you have a Seer's Sight or not, so make the most of it."

There was more to say, but whenever Sereia thought about it, she felt like it was too much like a therapist or counsellor and less like a teacher. Though, teachers tended to be multi-faceted. Saunders would learn with time, or maybe she would see him later when he was grown up and a little more mature to have a lengthy talk. For now, she left it at that.

"If it's any comfort, it can skip generations." Sereia smiled.