Author's Note:
This story is exactly 750 words long. It took me some time and a fair bit of editing to get it to that figure. It's my first attempt at both horror and the second person point of view, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. I know that some of you may feel that it is a bit of an oddball, as far as stories go. But I am quite happy with it for a first attempt. However, there is always room for improvement and I'd love suggestions. I hope you enjoy it. Don't forget to review!
(Oh, and as always, I'm having some formatting issues, which I will fix soon)

That which you recognise does not belong to me.

You are Sybill Trelawney, great-great-granddaughter of Cassandra The Seer, and you know that you can see the future, but alas. Nobody believes you. Fraud.

You are sitting at a small table by the window of a small cafe in muggle London. Today, you aren't happy. You are feeling disgruntled, enraged, betrayed. 

Traitor, you think. You glance through the menu offhandedly, finally settling on one of their many 'Speciality Teas'- Egyptian Spearmint.

You give your order to the rather uninterested waitress with the short blonde bob, open your hippy bag, and pull out a hard-bound book with Parvati Patil's face decorating its cover- Telling Your Future with Tea Leaves. You sigh in frustration, and carefully, hopefully open your complimentary copy again, as if the writing would have changed somehow. It's Parvati's dedication that reeks of betrayal. You remember how she was once your favourite.

 It says- 

  To my dearest friend, Lavender.
  Without you, I would be nothing.
  And tea leaves would be sitting in the bottom of my rubbish bin.

You had expected your name there, not Lavender Brown's. But there is no mention, not one, of your name. (treachery)

The tea is here in its dainty, delicate porcelain china cups, pink flowers swirling around each other, mocking your distress. The tail of a teabag hanging from its lip. Today, you lose your temper.

Tea is never to be made with teabags, my child.

The waitress cannot possibly be more bored, and she is only half way through her shift. Grumbling about her pay and timings, she fetches a pot of freshly brewed tea just to pacify you.

You drink till there are dregs. Drink, swirl, upturn, pick up, read.
You can never forget. Could it be The Grim? Beware of the night. Death awaits.
Your heart thumps louder. It's vibrating in your ears.
Tonight, Sybill Trelawney, you shall die.

You make coffee. It is bitter and weird tasting, but you have heard that it helps keep one awake. Three cups of the dark, brown liquid rolls down your throat, and yet, your eyes are drooping, your head is pounding. You find yourself sluggishly moving towards the bed. You're drawn to its warmth and comfort.

Not today, Sybill. It's your great-great-grandmother's voice. Today, the tea leaves haven't lied to you.

Tonight, Sybill Trelawney, you will die.

You wake up in the middle of the night, shaking. You are awake. You are alive. You are relieved. You, the great-great-granddaughter of Cassandra The Seer have been wrong, countless times. You are wrong again, you convince yourself. You are too tired to ward off the sluggish tug of Hypnos. You are consumed by your desire to detach yourself from thoughts of death . Your mind is drifting...


The last thing your eyes glance upon  before you feel the sharp claws rip through the flesh of your chest is the clock on your bedside table.

3:22 A.M.

All too suddenly, a form has descended over your body, poised in attack, crouching low, baring its teeth. You do not see what it is. You doubt you can identify it. It takes refuge in the shadows. The last thing you see now is the time.

3:22 A.M.


You wake again with a start, sweat dripping from your pores and sticking to your entire body like some sort of stink bathed film that won't leave you. Relieved, you clasp the bedpost, breathing heavily. The nightmare is still fresh in your mind.

You reach for your glasses, groping about in the darkness, but instead of the firm grainy wooden table, you feel something cold, slimy, wet. Alarmed, you withdraw your hand and turn your head towards the table sharply. But there is absolutely nothing there. You are about to tumble back into the world of sleep when you see it. You almost forget to breathe.

The clock. It reads 3:21 A.M.

The door creaks open. The smell of rotting meat soaks into the air. The room is deathly quiet. It smiles at your fear stricken eyes, and the knives between its ruby lips flash in the ivory moonlight. Its eyes are bloodshot, hungry. Perhaps thirsty. It drools- cold, slimy, wet.

Pain is numbing after some time. Death is inevitable, inescapable. Your head is spinning, with fear and realisation. The agony is unbearable.

You are falling, spinning into oblivion. The last thing you know is that you, Sybill Trelawney, were able to foresee your own death. You, Sybill Trelawney truly are a gifted seer.

Tonight, Sybill Trelawney, you are dead.  


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