The Cleansing of the Sight
Hazel lay, snug, in her bed, the quiet hum of Star Academy's evening settling over the dormitory like a soft cloak. The light of the moon filtered through the narrow windows, casting silvered shadows across the floor. Shylah stirred on her perch, ruffling her feathers gently, and let out a soft, lilting song that seemed to ripple through the quiet room. Hazel's ears pricked at the sound, her thoughts momentarily wandering to the Phoenix calling in the distance. Their voices rose and fell in a pattern she had come to recognize in the Dreamscape—an early warning of things unseen, a subtle rhythm that threaded through the night.
She rose from bed, in expectation, and drew on her robes. She exhaled slowly, her fingers tracing the hem of her night robe. And then the circle appeared.
It was faint at first, just a shimmer along the floor, like liquid sunlight pooled on cold stone. The flames formed a perfect ring, not high or threatening, but luminous enough to catch her attention. Hazel blinked, and felt the tingle along her skin—the sensation she had learned to associate with pathways into other dimensions. The fire's warmth did not burn; it beckoned. The smell of faint smoke, of parchment and old magic, drifted into her room as if carried from another plane.
She stepped forward, drawing her robes even tighter around her shoulders, and walked into the circle. The edges of the flames licked at her hands, dissolving without leaving a mark. In the sudden quiet that followed, Hazel felt herself lifted, not physically but in perception, as though her consciousness was being gently pulled along an invisible stream. Shapes began to form: an office, high ceilings, towers of books, and in the center, a figure she recognized instantly—Dumbledore.
He was seated at a desk, faintly luminous, as though made partially from light itself. His eyes twinkled, catching the glow of floating candles around him, and Hazel felt the warmth of his gaze even through the dimensional veil. "Miss McGonagall," his voice called, ethereal and calm, carrying a resonance that seemed to vibrate in her very bones. "I would like a word with you. You made me a promise. I trust you remember it."
Hazel's lips parted slightly, and she drew in a slow, steadying breath. "Yes, Headmaster. I—" She stopped herself, realizing she was already halfway through the fire circle. Her feet touched the other side, solid now, the floor beneath her shivering faintly, alive with magic.
Dumbledore's smile was faint but knowing. "Sybil awaits you," he said, gesturing toward a tall, rickety ladder that led into a narrow opening at the far side of his office. Hazel's gaze followed the ladder, the shadows dancing along its worn rungs, and she felt a flicker of hesitation.
To herself, she murmured, "Alright… let's do this."
The ladder creaked under her weight as she climbed, the wood warped from centuries of use, yet steady enough for her careful steps. At the top, a narrow corridor opened into the divination classroom, faintly lit by hanging lanterns whose flames bent and swayed without wind. A soft scent of incense and herbs hung in the air, filling her senses. Hazel's eyes flicked to the lone figure at the center of the room—Sybill Trelawney.
The professor was seated at a round table, her posture stiff, her robes slightly disheveled. The air around her shimmered faintly, a patchwork of light and shadow. Hazel approached carefully, noticing first the aura that flickered like mist around Sybill, dark blotches interrupting the flow of her divination. She had never seen a diviner's aura so constricted, so blocked.
"Good evening, Miss McGonagall," Sybill said with a polite nod, though her eyes seemed clouded. "You wished to speak?"
Hazel inclined her head. "Yes, Professor. I… I'm taking VivaNation as part of my studies. And I hoped to learn more about a prophecy you made in class last year."
Sybill's lips pressed together, a faint furrow in her brow. "Ah… yes… I… I remember something. A class, yes. Prophecy… hmm." She trailed off, hands clasped loosely in her lap. Hazel's gaze sharpened, and she allowed her senses to reach deeper, probing Sybill's aura.
It responded immediately.
Black clumps had begun to consolidate, shifting like ink in water, fusing into a dense mass that obstructed the natural flow of divination energy. Hazel could see where the magic was trapped, stunted, unable to move beyond the clusters. It pulsed faintly, but weakly, suffocated by its own chaos. Hazel's mind raced; she recognized the signs of disconnected potential. The professor was capable, the foundation there, but something—habit, fear, exhaustion, or perhaps a deeper block—had rendered her sight incomplete.
"Professor," Hazel said gently, "I understand. You may not recall the details, I can see your aura. There are… some blocks here." Her hands hovered near the edge of the table, fingertips tingling with latent energy. "If you allow it, I can… help you focus."
Sybill's eyes widened, then softened as if understanding flickered behind them. She leaned slightly forward, trusting, hesitant but open. Hazel exhaled, drawing in her own power carefully. This was not merely observation; this was intervention, a subtle flow of energy, the redirection of divination currents.
Slowly, Hazel began to weave her presence into Sybill's aura, her own essence stabilizing the erratic pulse of blocked magic. The dense black patches resisted, trembling like molten stone, but Hazel pressed on. She visualized a single, burning point of white light, focusing its brilliance on the center of the largest clump. The darkness writhed and twisted under the pressure, recoiling at the purity of the light.
The white spot expanded, not aggressively, but methodically, like a candle flame in the pitch of night. Black clumps fragmented, but were unable to reconnect, splintering harmlessly. The aura began to flow again, slow and steady, revealing the natural channels of divination that had been hidden for so long. Hazel could feel the difference immediately; the energy now pulsed clearly, freely, and a tangible warmth spread through the room.
Sybill's eyes glazed, focusing inward. Hazel watched, fascinated and careful not to disrupt the delicate balance she had created. The professor had entered a trance of her own making, a bridge between her potential and her actual divinatory perception.
And then the prophecy began.
Softly at first, a voice like the rustle of wind over leaves, then louder, clearer. Hazel could hear fragments: "…the one who travels between worlds… shadows and light entwined… a choice… danger hidden in plain sight… protection given, yet taken… the tide turns…" Her breath caught at the realization: the prophecy was more complex than she had imagined, layered with threads of fate she could almost trace through the aether.
Hazel's heart raced. Every syllable was precious, every pause pregnant with significance. She leaned forward slightly, letting the words flow through her awareness without interference. The white spot remained, anchoring the channels, ensuring the vision's purity, blocking any interference that might obscure the meaning.
The room felt impossibly still, the faint glow from floating lanterns accentuating the tension that hung between them. Hazel could sense Sybill's trust, the quiet surrender of her senses to the process, and in turn, Hazel's own awareness sharpened. She was both observer and conduit, balancing the delicate flow, ensuring the prophecy was delivered without distortion.
Minutes passed, though time felt suspended. Each fragment of the prophecy unfolded like a map, revealing patterns and connections that had previously been invisible. Hazel realized that the importance of this moment was not just in what was spoken, but in what was preserved—protected, stabilized, and shared through the proper channels of insight.
When the final phrase echoed faintly and the trance subsided, Sybill blinked, returning to the present, her aura shimmering faintly with renewed clarity, though still bearing the subtle traces of previous disconnection. She looked at Hazel with a mixture of awe and curiosity, as though sensing that something extraordinary had just occurred.
Hazel exhaled, a hand rising to her forehead to steady herself. The fire circle, though invisible to the naked eye, still thrummed beneath her feet, anchoring the magic and allowing her mind to slowly return from the extended focus of the trance. She felt the threads of energy recede slightly, leaving the room quiet but charged, as if anticipating the next movement in a game she had only just begun to understand.
Dumbledore's voice, faint now, resonated through the space like an echo from another dimension. "Well done, Miss McGonagall. Keep your senses open. There is much yet to be revealed." Hazel nodded, a slight smile tugging at her lips. She turned toward the ladder, her mind already tracing the connections, weaving together what she had witnessed with what she must act upon next.
The prophecy had begun, the channels were clear, and Hazel felt the weight and thrill of responsibility settle firmly on her shoulders. She would carry this knowledge, protect it, and perhaps, in the coming days, decipher its true meaning.
The night was far from over, and Star Academy waited—silent, observant, and alive with possibilities.