summer 1944
"Thank you so much for meeting with me."
Ismene was not grateful at all. in fact, she was here rather reluctantly.
She took the seat at the table in the back of the filthy tea shoppe across from Professor Octavia Pytovina. The divination professor had agreed to see her, but under the conditions that it be this location specifically. The shoppe was in the farthest back corner of Knockturn Alley, named The Wiccar Basket.
The dark and dreary atmosphere of London, both muggle and magical, was nothing compared to the unsettling darkness in Knockturn Alley. Not only was it devoid of most light, but also carried a sensation of dark magic that suffocated the people who walked through it. It was raining, as it often was in London, so the air was damp and heavy, settling in her lungs as she walked purposefully down the alley. She remembered not to make eye contact with anyone, and to always look like she knew exactly where she was going. the last thing she needed was to be caught up in a duel in the middle of Knockturn Alley; then her mother would never let her out of the house again. Cold puddles of rain splashed with her quick steps, drenching the bottom hem of her cloak and seeping into the soles of her shoes.
The moment Ismene opened the shoppe door, the shopkeeper barked gruffly at her in Russian, making shooing motions toward the door. She looked around frantically for a moment, not knowing what to do nor say, before Professor Pytovina, stood from her table, and yelled back at the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper grunted before returning to the bar, and Professor Pytovina waved Ismene over to the seat. the owner of the store was clearly very pagan, more so than most of the wizarding world. A lot of magical knowledge was drawn from ancient pagan practices (though plenty were also atheist and monotheistic), but it was clear that this teashop had attempted to cover every inch of the store with paraphernalia. There was a large pentacle carved into the wall as well as several protective runes. at least three black cats sat in the tinted windows, looking out into the street. Black candles provided all of the light in the room, which made it only bright enough to see that you wouldn't accidentally bump into a table. There were no male patrons in the store.
When Ismene wrote to the divination professor a week ago, she didn't know why she'd assumed that they'd just meet somewhere in Hogsmeade. That was until she remembered that Professor Pytovina did not live at Hogwarts like the rest of the professors; she lived in Saint Petersburg, Russia. It was obviously a closer trip for the professor to get to London rather than all the way up to Scotland, and likely more convenient than having to portkey to the middle of nowhere. The plausible explanation did not soothe Ismene's irritation, though she was the one asking for the favor.
"Of course, of course." The professor smiled and gestured toward two cups that she had already ordered for the two of them. Dark blue tea leaves sat in the bottom of the porcelain cups. Of course she wants to make me do a tasseography reading. Ismene took the teapot of boiling water and poured it into the two cups until each was half full. Light blue steam rose from the china. "Your trip was safe, I hope?"
"As safe as one can be in Knockturn Alley." Ismene drew her fingers over the star signets that were carved into the wooden table, naming the ones she could recognize. Pleiades, Vega, Aldebaran...
The professor gave a harsh cackle, and the jewels, beads, and crystals that littered her neck, hair, and wrists chimed as they clinked against each other. "I apologize, but locations like this are the only ones where people wouldn't pay much attention to us. now, before we begin talking, let us perform this with no objections, yes?"
Ismene grimaced. "Professor-"
She held up a silencing hand. "You asked for my assistance. We shall do at least this my way."
The younger witch exhaled in irritation, but nodded mutely nonetheless.
Professor Pytovina held her hands out over the table, which Ismene took. The moment their skin clasped together, Ismene felt her professor channeling magic through the both of them. Ismene watched, bored and unimpressed, as the woman closed her eyes and began to whisper a lengthy enchantment in a language that Ismene did not understand. It was a mixture of hums, drawn-out vowel sounds, and vocal trills. every few words, she'd say something that Ismene recognized as words from Slavic and Hellenic languages. Gradually, she felt magic being coaxed out of her chest, and the tea in the cups started to stir themselves. The rings on Pytovina's hands that dug into Ismene's fingers suddenly felt very cold, as if her body temperature had suddenly risen several degrees.
Ismene shivered as something in her soul spasmed. She paid close attention to her own fingers, looking for any traces of the black, shadowy magic that occasionally slipped between the barriers she kept it in. She was not yet proficient in reigning the magic in once too much had escaped, so she made sure to keep it concealed in front of others.
Pytovina abruptly dropped her hands, and pulled out a small blade from the bag sitting at their feet. She unsheathed it, oblivious to Ismene's incredulous stare, and cut a small line across her middle finger. she reached out for Ismene's hand.
She hesitated. With a quick glance around, she realized that no one in the shoppe was paying attention to them in the slightest.
Pytovina raised her eyes from her task for the first time, and gave Ismene an impatient glare. "Come now. No objections, remember?"
Tentatively, Ismene placed her hand in her professors'. She looked away as she brought the dagger toward her hand. The blade sliced through her flesh as if it was light as air, so lightly that she barely felt it.
"Do as I do."
Ismene copied the woman as she let three drops of her blood fall into her cup. She then moved her bleeding finger around the cup, letting the blood run along the rim. The air around them shimmered, and the tea turned black and bubbled like molten tar before Pytovina used a spoon to stir each cup. Ismene followed as she stirred it three times counterclockwise before removing the spoon. It then stilled and changed to a calm silver shade, resembling liquid mercury. She could see her reflection in it.
"Now," Pytovina said, taking her cup and bringing it to her lips, which were painted scarlet. Ismene fought a scowl, knowing she'd also have to drink a cup of tea containing several drops of her own blood. "Tell me about the prophecy."
Finally, Ismene thought, before pulling a piece of paper out of the inner pocket of her cloak. She unfolded it and slid it across the table next to the bloody knife. Pytovina set down her cup to look at the parchment. "I wrote down the specifics of what I could remember. On the back are the symbols I saw and the parts I remember from the dreams after."
Pytovina's finger glided over the words written on the page, occasionally tensing and wrinkling her brow. Every few seconds, her eyes would travel up to Ismene's, like she was looking for something, before nodding and going back down to the page. She clinked her ring against Ismene's cup twice. "Drink, or the reading will have been useless."
Reluctantly, she did as she was told.
The tea made Ismene's lips and throat tingle. It tasted like peppers; so potent that she had to fight to suppress a cough. It was already hard enough to breathe; the small shoppe was drenched in perfumed candles, and three women on the other side of the shop were smoking on a large hookah. The entire room was covered in a dense fog, and Ismene longed for some fresh air. There were no open windows, nor any air vents, so every smell continually circulated throughout the small, humid room.
Ismene watched her professors' eyes dart over the paper as if it was a divination essay she was reading in class. She made several tutting noises, and occasionally sipped more of the tea. Ismene waited impatiently.
"And all of it was in masculine tones?" Pytovina asked suddenly.
"No," she said, taking another sip of the tea. She tried to channel the feeling she had when she had given the prophecy to see if it would help her to explain it. "It all felt masculine except for the parts that referred to me."
Pytovina nodded. "Yes, that is the most peculiar part. Seers usually cannot prophesize about their own lives. Even your family line has no record of such phenomenon."
"Mother and I went through all the archives and none of them have anything like this in them." Ismene remembered when she woke from her coma, her mother was sitting on the floor beside her bed, going through piles and piles of yellowed, ancient-looking parchments and leather-bound notebooks that were falling apart at the seams. They spent the following week reading through every record kept by their ancestors, finding nothing that even sounded remotely similar to what had happened to Ismene.
When they found nothing, Ismene's mother brought her to see a mind-healer to ensure that there had been no damage to any part of her brain during the time in the coma. After the healer realized that there was nothing he could do, Ismene offered to write to her divination professor.
"I suspected as much," Pytovina said. She pointed to a specific line near the bottom of the page. "The 'acolytes', you wrote. does that refer to...?"
"No, I don't think it relates to Grindelwald," she said, sighing and leaning back in the filthy chair. a cloud of dust expelled itself from the cushioned part of the chair the moment her back had made contact with it. "I can't really explain how I know, I just feel it."
Pytovina's lip quirked up. "Yes, that is how it works, Ismene."
"Very funny." She downed the last of the foul-tasting tea in one gulp, but was surprised to see the tea leaves at the bottom, still somewhat dry, mixed with the three drops of blood. She set the cup down, so as not to disturb the leaves further.
There seemed to be a commotion going on upstairs. Flecks of dust and spiders were falling from the ceiling as they heard heavy footfalls, yelling, and eventually a loud thud. There were no sounds after that, but the entire store continued to stare at the ceiling for several moments after. There was a silent agreement among the patrons that whatever just happened was neither their business, nor their problem to handle.
Pytovina set her eyes back on the page. "There is a lot of future pretense here. I believe that nothing you've prophesized has yet happened, but it has given you some context of the past. The exception of the 'more or less a bastard child' line. you have question marks near it, but I think you have interpreted it correctly."
The exact line was that the man she prophesized about was 'the son of two evils, each borne of different motives; more or less the bastard of a desperate woman and a greedy man'. She assumed that the part about the man being more or less the bastard as meaning that the marriage and conception happened under some sort of coercion. Whoever this mystery man was seemed to have gratuitous amounts of death on both sides of his family, leaving Ismene to wonder if he even had any living relatives left. She amused herself by wondering if he would be offended by all that she knew about his past; the magic was invasive, but not something that she could control.
"Do you know any reason as to why it was so forceful?" There were absolutely no records anywhere of seers having such strong prophecies that it put them into temporary comas.
"Well, it could be that you prophesized about a very powerful wizard. or perhaps the outcome would be very world-altering. You did speak of several depictions of violence and the general presence of Death." That was true. One recurring theme in both the prophecy and the dream after was the overarching hand of death, scratching at the back of her brain. "Do you keep a notebook of your previous predictions?"
She shook her head, knowing that Pytovina would chastise her for not keeping up with what she put out. "No, but I keep a calendar of the dates. it's usually about one every four months or so, but I haven't had one since August of 1943."
"I'd advise you to start keeping note of them. No one needs to read them, but you should keep a record of the things you remember." The professor phrased her demand as a request. Ismene bit her lip and the professor hummed and flipped the page over. "This line 'the choice shall be made in the eleventh hour.' Can you tell if it was literal or metaphorical?"
"I'm not sure." Her tone was both monotonous and bored. "Both, maybe?" Eleventh hour as in the final moments? Or eleventh hour as in literally eleven at night?
Without looking up, Pytovina consoled her. "That's alright. There is no reason to be nervous, Ismene. There are Seers who give thousands of prophecies and are able to understand none of them. There are ceremonies that can be done to help understand the parts of the prophecy that are unclear to you."
"Professor, I don't really care what the prophecy says, I just want to make sure something isn't wrong with me." The truth rushed out before Ismene could remember to hold her tongue.
There was a beat of silence.
Pytovina looked up at Ismene, and pulled off her glasses before grasping Ismene's hand in a vice. She stared into her for a moment, and Ismene felt like Pytovina was scraping her soul from her chest.
"Firstly, and most importantly, there is nothing wrong with you. Your aura is intact and you are of sound mind and body. Just because something hasn't been recorded doesn't mean that it has never happened, and even if it has not, there is no reason why your extraordinary ability should mean anything is wrong."
"But-"
"Secondly, I do not pretend to understand why you continuously choose not to take advantage of the gift that has been given to you, and I will no longer try to get you to do so. You must understand that you are exceptional, and that there has never, in all of recorded history, been a Seer like you. I am doing my very best to help you while also keeping within the limitations you've asked me to set. Tell me, if I asked you right now to let me do a tarot reading, or make you keep a dream journal, or even a small scrying session, would you do it?"
Ismene hesitated at her professors' suddenly harsh tone, realizing that she was losing her allegiance. fix it, now. "Well-"
"Exactly, you would not." The professor released her hand before grabbing Ismene's cup. "I will read your tea leaves and I can help you try to understand what you have written, and that is the most I can do for you unless you decide you want more."
There was a beat of silence where both women just stared at each other.
Ismene conceded first. An apology, even an insincere one, would rectify the damage Ismene had done by forgetting to watch what she said.
"I am sorry," She said, not feeling very sorry at all. "I didn't mean to waste your time, Professor. It was just... more powerful than any other prophecy I'd had before. I didn't know if I should be worried. I know that I frustrate you, and I'm sorry for that, but I was scared and there was no one else who I thought would be able to do anything."
Lie after lie after lie after lie.
"And you shall continue to come to me if you feel anything is wrong," The older witch demanded. "No amount of time where one is alive can be considered a waste, child. Now, as for your fears. Worried? No. Prepared? Yes. From what you described, I do not think that this is something that can be ignored, Ismene. should you choose to do nothing, it could cause implications."
She sighed. "I just don't want to cause any more drama for myself or anyone around me."
"The road to Hades is paved with good intentions. I am not going to coerce you into anything further unless you come to me with something I cannot ignore." Before Ismene could ask what that meant, Pytovina gasped into the cup. "Downward arrow for wrong direction. Wheel for inevitable change. Chains for series of events. Raven for bad news. Spade for good fortune."
Ismene fought the urge to scoff. Of course it was easy for Pytovina to see all that nonsense if that was what she was looking for. It was no different from a Rorschach test.
"How... bleak." Ismene fought quickly to find a way to change the subject. "You aren't still upset that I'm not taking divination, are you?"
Professor Pytovina set Ismene's cup down as if it had burned her. She reached for her own, humming to herself as she read her own tea leaves.
"Of course not. I love reteaching my class to the purest Seer I've ever known, especially when she refuses to learn firsthand."
"No need for sarcasm, professor." She rubbed her fingers along the table and looked out the window again. Ten people went by, running quickly away from something that never seemed to follow them. She scowled out the window; how Ismene hated Knockturn Alley.
Pytovina smiled before snapping her fingers. The shopkeeper came bustling up to their table and waved her wand over their things. The cups were suddenly completely clean, and they floated away from the table back toward the kitchens. The shopkeeper followed.
The professor returned Ismene's paper carefully folded and put the knife back into her bag. "Swear to me that you'll come to me the next time you have a prophecy or premonition that you feel connects to this one."
"I will." She promised.
"Excellent. In the meantime I will consult with another to see if there are any negative implications, yes?" The two women stood. Ismene shrugged on her cloak and raised her hood while Professor Pytovina wrapped herself in several knitted shawls.
"Alright. Thank you." Pytovina left eight sickles on the table before gesturing at Ismene to walk toward the exit.
Despite the professors' words, Ismene felt like this entire meeting had been a waste. Pytovina had no idea what was wrong with her, no matter how vehemently she insisted that it was nothing malignant.
The pair of them walked brusquely down the alleyway, though no one bothered them since it was two women together instead of just one. It was raining even harder than it was when Ismene first entered Knockturn Alley, looking as though it may start to storm. There were a series of flashes and bangs coming from the intersection to their left, so they continued to the right, moving as quickly as one walking could go.
They didn't talk much as they continued their reascent toward the lighter area of the alley, but Professor Pytovina did not have any intention of going all the way up to Diagon Alley.
They came to a crossroads where Professor Pytovina paused. "I have to go buy a planchette for a paranormal reading."
Whatever.
"My aunt still runs Baba Yelena's old necromancy shoppe. I'm sure she has a few planchettes in there somewhere." Ismene's aunt was not a true Seer, but she continued her mother's death-magic shop after she died in 1919. Ismene had never visited, but knew that it was somewhere in the depths of Knockturn Alley.
"I will go there now."
Ismene nodded. "I will see you in September, professor."
They turned away from each other, but before Ismene could turn the corner, Pytovina called her back.
"Oh, Ismene," she called, pushing her bracelets up her arm so that they wouldn't get wetter in the rain. "Congratulations on becoming head girl. this school is most lucky to have you."
Ismene smiled ruefully. She truly was looking forward to being head girl, not that she'd expected it. "You know about that?"
"Yes, I voted for you, though you don't take any of my classes," she said musingly, sending an unrecognizable jinx at a man who had slipped his hand into her bag. She did it with such nonchalance that Ismene hardly noticed.
"Thank you," she said earnestly, looking around constantly to ensure no other shady individuals were approaching them. "Do you know who they chose for head boy?"
"Mr. Riddle, was the obvious choice was he not?" She noticed Ismene's slight grimace. "You are not fond of him?"
Her fingers twitched at his name before she made herself calm down.
"He's a bit intimidating, but I don't know him well enough to dislike him. I was only hoping that Longbottom would get the job." She lied straight through her teeth.
Pytovina shrugged, shifting her drenched shawl. "Fate is fate. All is as it should be. Goodbye, Ismene."
Octavia Pytovina was an odd woman at times.
Regardless, Ismene didn't dwell on it, instead rushing out of Knockturn Alley as quickly as possible. She had only just missed getting grabbed by a hag selling black market dragon's blood. The sight of the hag's blood-stained hands was enough to make Ismene's skin crawl.
Once back in the relative safety of Diagon Alley (which was still gloomy due to the impending storm), Ismene allowed herself to relax to a leisurely pace. The Von Hahn family lived on the opposite side of London, in a muggle neighborhood. She decided to savor the last bit of magical ambiance she'd have until they returned at the end of August to buy books and get on the train to Hogwarts.
Eventually, she made her way to the Leaky Cauldron, where Isaiah was sitting in a booth along the west wall. He was looking over some quidditch book and sipping from a goblet when Ismene approached. When Ismene told her mother of her plans to go to London to meet with Professor Pytovina (she neglected to mention that it was in Knockturn), Isaiah had begged to come along until their mother conceded and let him tag along. She had instructed him to sit here until she returned. The warmth of the bar and the fire from the hearth made her head spin at the abrupt change in temperature. She cast a drying charm over her outer layers and clothes.
He looked up at her for only a second before looking back down at his reading. "How was your thing? You aren't dying are you?"
She rolled her eyes and grabbed his goblet from the table, ignoring his protests. "You're fourteen. Why do you need firewhiskey at four in the afternoon?"
He scowled at her as she downed the rest of his glass. "I only just got it. Am I getting the whole inheritance or not?"
"No, you dunce," she said, pulling him up by the arm so they could leave the pub.
"Good, then I won't feel bad asking you for a favor."
"Which is?" The rain outside started to pour harder, forcing them to step to the side of the street under the awning.
"Thirty-three galleons." He tried to say it nonchalantly, as if Ismene wouldn't notice the absurd amount of money he was asking for.
"What the hell do you need thirty-three galleons for?" She exclaimed, then narrowed her eyes at her brother. "You haven't been betting on the Wimbourne Wasps again have you?"
"No, of course not," he said. He held out the small pouch of his leftover money, shaking it to indicate how few coins he had left. "I need to buy a new broom, and the one I want is fifty-eight galleons."
"The school year doesn't start for another month. Why do you need it now?"
Why didn't you pick one you could afford?
He avoided her eyes when he spoke, a telltale sign that he was not telling the whole truth. "I need time to get used to it. If I keep practicing on that old one all summer, I won't have time to adjust to the better one."
Lying little shit.
"What's wrong with your old one?" She said instead of calling him out on the lie.
"It's garbage! Please? I'll never make Slytherin team with that piece of shit, especially not now that Mulciber is captain."
"Ugh, Mulciber is such a cunt," she sneered.
"Hey, don't talk bad about my future captain!"
"That's if you make the team, little brother." She sighed and held out the pouch of galleons before snatching it back just as his fingers grazed it. "You'll pay me back, yes? Thirty if you make the team, forty if you don't."
He grit his teeth. "Fine, deal. I'll be back, it'll only take a moment."
"What? You don't want me to go with you?"
He once again did not look into her eyes. "I-well there's just no reason to... I assumed you'd want-"
He was cut off by her laughing. He shot her a glare.
"Ickle Isaiah afraid of being seen in public with his big, mean sister? You wound me, brother."
"Shut up," he hissed under his breath, staring at the quidditch supplies shop where several members of the Slytherin quidditch team, including Mulciber, were occupying. "If you're going to pick a fight, do it when I'm not around so he forgets we're related."
"You little-"
"I'll meet you at Flourish and Blotts in ten minutes, yes?" He ran off before she could say anything further.