3 April 1966

Sybill Trelawney was drunk.

Pushing her enormous, round spectacles further up the bridge of her nose, Sybill sat back in her barstool and gazed blearily around at the Muggle pub that she was sitting in. Save a pot-bellied old man nursing a mug of ale in a dark corner booth and a pair of dark-haired teenagers sipping vodka tonics at a table nearby, the pub was quite empty. Sybill was the only other person in the room—well, aside from the barman, a tall, thin, fair-haired man who was busy wiping down scotch glasses with a wet rag.

Sniffing and adjusting her gauzy, spangled shawl, Sybill raised her fingers to catch the barman's attention. "Another—hic—glass of rum, please," she slurred, hiccupping.

The Muggle barman glanced up at her, raising an eyebrow. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea, ma'am."

Sybill threw him a filthy look. "I didn't ask for your—hic—opinion, did I?" she snapped.

The barman narrowed his eyes. "My bar, my rules," he said in a steely voice.

Sybill glared at him for another moment. Then, closing her eyes and sighing heavily, she shook her head and hiccupped. "Fine," she mumbled.

The barman paused in the act of cleaning glasses and looked at her. Then, with a roll of his eyes, he turned around and retrieved a bottle from the tall shelf behind him. Sybill squinted unfocusedly at him, watching as he filled a wineglass halfway with an orangey liquid.

"Sherry," he explained shortly, pushing the glass towards her. "That's the strongest drink you'll be getting from me for the rest of the night."

Sybill reached out and picked up the glass, staring blandly down at it. Then, shrugging, she lifted it to her lips and drained it in one. When she lowered it again, she saw that the barman was still looking at her.

"Yes?" she asked haughtily.

The barman shook his head slowly. "How are you planning on getting home in this state, ma'am?"

Sybill glowered at him, anger bubbling. "Believe it or not, I'm a perfectly—hic—talented woman," she spat. "And I can travel—hic—perfectly safely."

The barman stared at her for another moment. Then, abandoning his rag and scotch glasses, he leaned over the bar counter towards her. "I'm getting the sense that I'm not the one you're really angry at," he said in a low voice, cocking his head to the side.

Sybill felt her a heat creep up her cheeks. She averted her gaze from the nosy barman's, running her long, thin fingers over the rim of her wineglass. "You are—hic—correct," she muttered.

There was a small pause.

"May I ask whom?" the barman asked softly.

Sybill looked up at him, clenching her jaw, quite ready to retort that it was none of his business—but something about his expression stopped her. She gazed at him.

Then— "My father," she told him under her breath, staring down at the bar counter again. "He's threatening—hic—disinheritance unless I find a—hic—real job," she finished scornfully.

"Ah," the barman nodded understandingly. "What do you do?"

Sybill lifted her chin and considered him imperiously. "I'm a Seer."

To Sybill's infuriation, this magnificent proclamation did not have anything close to the desired effect. Instead of looking amazed, or even marginally impressed, the barman simply raised his eyebrows. "A what?"

Sybill narrowed her eyes. "A—hic—Seer," she repeated.

The barman looked wary now, and Sybill reminded herself that he was a Muggle. But Muggles believed in Seers, too, didn't they? After all, Mother had always been so fascinated by Father's lineage—more so than even Father himself.

"You mean…you're a shrink?" the barman asked finally, in a skeptical tone that was laced with amusement.

Sybill swelled angrily, sitting up straighter. "The Inner Eye is—hic—displeased by your—hic—condescension," she said waspishly.

The barman grinned at her. "Right," he said slowly. "And can this—erm—Inner Eye do anything else?"

Sybill was seized by an urge to whip out her wand and hex this patronizing, young man into oblivion. Resisting this temptation, however, she kept her composure intact. "Of course it can," she said arrogantly.

"All right, then," the barman's grin widened. He reached up his left hand and covered the tiny, silver nametag pinned to the breast pocket of his shirt. "What does the Inner Eye think my name is?"

Sybill felt her cheeks flush with color. "I—hic—you—" she spluttered angrily. "The Inner Eye does not See upon command!"

The barman smirked at her. "Of course it doesn't," he told her lightly.

Blood rushed to Sybill's head. Squaring her shoulders, she glared at the barman, opening her mouth ferociously—but then, she caught sight of a tiny band of discoloration on the fourth finger of his left hand, and despite the alcohol-induced haziness of her brain, something finally clunked into place.

"Aha…" she said slowly, putting on her finest, most practiced ethereal tone and leaning towards him, widening her eyes. "Aha…I do sense something…something dark…dark and—hic—desolate," she said in a hushed voice, blinking slowly up at the barman over her enormous spectacles. "Your future is…lonely. The person you love has—hic—moved…on…"

The barman's expression became wooden. Slowly, he lowered his hand from his chest—and Sybill glanced furtively at the name on his tag: John Higglebottom.

"I'm very—hic—sorry…for your suffering, Mr. Higglebottom," she continued mistily, reaching across the counter and patting his hand with her own bony, ring-studded one. "The Inner Eye—hic—recognizes your…sorrow."

John stared down at her hand for a moment. Then, swallowing, he looked up and met her gaze, his eyes suddenly piercing—and Sybill felt an inexplicable twinge of discomfort. She withdrew her hand.

"Well," he said baldly. "I suppose we both have pretty bleak futures, then."

Sybill stiffened, blinking rapidly at him. And then, quite suddenly, she heard her father's voice, sharp and furious, in her head: "I don't care if my great-grandmother was the world's greatest Seer, Sybill. Either you get a real job and learn to stand on your own feet, or you kiss my money goodbye."

Feeling suddenly drained and exhausted, Sybill snatched up her wineglass and pushed it towards John. "More," she said abruptly.

John gazed at her. Then, he turned around and retrieved the sherry bottle from its shelf again, snapping the cork off and pouring a respectable amount into Sybill's glass. And then, to Sybill's surprise, he reached under the bar counter and procured another wineglass, pouring some of the sherry into this new glass, as well. Recorking the sherry bottle, he raised the glass to her.

"To the Inner Eye," he said, with a faint, almost imperceptible grin.

Sybill stared at him. Then, slowly, she raised her own glass, unable to resist a small smile.

Author's Note:

Oh, Trelawney.

This is for WrenWinterSong's "Wand Writing" Competition. My task was to write a romance story about Sybill Trelawney that takes place in any Muggle setting. I decided to draw on a lot of the info that Jo released about her on Pottermore. According to Pottermore, Trelawney was briefly married to a man whose surname was Higglebottom. So, I asked myself where on Earth Trelawney could possibly have met a future husband...and the only place I could think of was a pub. She's about twenty in this one-shot.

Anyway, hope you enjoy this! Let me know what you think. :)

Ari