Work Text:
He comes tonight.
While Sybill refocuses on the physical world around her, Minerva steels her features. It would do no good for her to see how shaken she is.
Minerva has never put much stock in prophecies. Poppycock she’d called them when Albus had tried to scare the life out of the entire staff with that neither can live rubbish. Of course, that particular prophecy turned out to be accurate, though no one could convince Minnie that it wasn’t self-fulfilling precisely because of the old Headmaster’s meddling.
That won’t be Minerva’s choice as Headmistress. She won’t succumb to terror and panic, lest whatever horror Sybill has predicted come to fruition.
Instead, she straightens her posture and pinches her lips and refuses to allow her senses to be bamboozled by such nonsense.
“M-Minerva,” Sybill slurs as her big eyes open and blink. “What are you doing here?”
Minerva sighs, drawing herself to full height. “We were having tea, my dear. And then you had one of your visions . Quite curious, as you were just settling in to tell me about my Christmas gift.”
Skittishly, Sybill grips her porcelain tea cup and peers into its murky depths. No doubt, she’ll see another grim—then Minerva can well and truly put this prophecy business down to fanciful malarkey.
“I see him here,” she says, her voice deep and bodeful. “A man will arrive—portly, bearded, and wearing the strangest velvet robes of blue.”
Unless she’s describing the secret love child of Albus and Hagrid, Minerva has no interest in whomever this gentleman is.
She snatches the mug away from Sybill and inspects its contents with a skeptical eye. There are no blue robes here; it’s just a blob of shapeless, sodden herbs.
“Sybill, love,” Minerva sighs as she lifts her gaze from the tea sludge to Sybill’s chaotically frantic eyes. “Why don’t we go to bed and—”
Bursting up from the table, Sybill nearly knocks all its contents onto Minerva’s lap. “He comes tonight! The tea doesn’t lie, Minnie—he’s coming, in robes of blue and—”
“Blue robes?” Minerva raises a single, pointed brow.
With a deep inhale and far more patience than she’d afforded any other faculty member (a perk of being madly in love with the silly woman), Minerva stands and takes Sybill’s hands in hers.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” she whispers gently. “Father Christmas is due in town tonight. That’s what the tea and visions are trying to show you.”
Sybill blinks as though clearing her mind. “I suppose that does make sense…”
“Wonderful.” The best course of action with Sybill has always been misdirection. Minerva doesn’t allow her to linger too long on prophecies and foreboding men in teacups. “Let’s retire to my chambers, and you can tell us all about my Christmas gift.”
“But, the tea—”
Minerva gently guides Sybill from her tower, keeping their hands locked together. “I think a nice, strong brandy will do for tonight, my love.”