The Other Divination Teacher

by The Centaur Ground

In an alternative universe the centaurs agreed to send one of their number to take Divination classes. His approach to the job was different to that which Firenze adopted.

1. Lesson One

Lesson One

"I thought you'd given up Divination, Hermione," said Parvati, smirking.

It was two days after the sacking of Professor Trelawney. The first lesson of the morning was Divination, with the centaur Tarahin, and Harry and Ron were making their way to classroom eleven amongst a straggle of other people who were heading in that direction. Hermione was with them. As she had recently made a dramatic departure from Professor Trelawney's class her presence was remarkable, and Parvati duly remarked upon it.

"I've got a free period," responded Hermione coolly. "And I'm curious."

"You've not got the hots for our gorgeous new teacher?" teased Lavender.

"I most certainly have not. I know some girls are fond of horses, but I've never been one of them."

"He's not a horse, he's a centaur!" Parvati sounded shocked.

"He's a horse where it matters," Hermione pointed out. "I meant, he's got four legs," she added, exasperated, as the other girls giggled.

"I've heard that that doesn't stop them romancing people," Lavender volunteered, with a meaningful grin.

"Huh!" A disdainful sniff from Hermione. "If this one tries romancing anybody, Professor Dumbledore will soon put a stop to it."

That was unarguable. Lavender pulled a face, and she and Parvati continued their conversation amongst themselves.

"They don't, do they?" Ron was incredulous; the centaurs' reputation was news to him. "I mean, how could they? They're the wrong shape." He stared unseeing into the distance, his imagination busy, but an elbow in the ribs from Hermione swiftly brought him back down to earth. "Ow!"

"Apparently they're sufficiently the right shape, according to the legends," she said darkly.

"Blimey." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I thought you just went to the library to look up magical stuff, not that sort of thing. Now I know why you're in there every spare hour of the day."

"Remind me to show you where the library is, someday, Ronald Weasley. You might find it enlightening. All those books, with information in them."

"Any pictures?"

"There's a tip for the education authorities. How to get boys interested in libraries: put rude pictures in the books." Hermione exercised her talent for sarcasm again.

"I wonder how Dumbledore persuaded him to teach," Harry mused aloud. "I got the impression that centaurs don't like humans much."

"Professor Dumbledore seems to get on well with all kinds of people. It wouldn't be surprising if some of the centaurs were willing to oblige him occasionally. – Not in that kind of way!" she added disdainfully, hearing Ron snigger. "Put your libido away, for goodness' sake, before your imagination goes critical and explodes."

"They don't seem to me to be very domesticated, if you see what I mean," persisted Harry. "They're fine in forests, but I just can't imagine them being at home in a place like Hogwarts. It'll be odd seeing someone like Tarahin in a classroom, I know that much."

Given his standard of achievement in Divination classes so far, it is not surprising that Harry's prediction was proved wrong. This owed nothing to any powers of adapting to human surroundings that Tarahin might have possessed, however, and everything to the fact that Professor Dumbledore had anticipated the difficulty and had acted to forestall it.

When they entered the classroom, at the heels of Lavender and Parvati, Harry and his friends discovered than an enchantment had been placed upon it. It had the appearance of a ruin, one which nature is busily reclaiming for itself. The walls to left and right were little more than ragged lines of lichened moss-grown stone; while that at the far end of the room, upon which a blackboard usually hung, had become a mere hump in the ground, allowing an uninterrupted view into what appeared to be the depths of a forest. The wall behind them still stood – it had to, as it contained the doorway through which they had just passed – but it, too, gave the impression of dereliction, and it was in the grasp of several species of invasive climbing plant. There was no ceiling, merely an intermeshing formed by the branches of several aggressively stout and ancient trees. As a result the room was full of slanting shafts of soft, dappled, green light.

"What the – ?" Harry had expected to see the old, dull classroom. Finding himself in this new, transformed, classroom he gazed around, stunned.

"Wow!" Ron was equally impressed.

The students who had already arrived were sitting on the grassy floor with their backs resting against tree stumps or mossy lumps of fallen stone. Most had their arms wrapped around their knees or folded tightly across their chests, and they all seemed to be rather nervous.

In the middle of the ruined room, where there was no scattering of tumbled stonework, stood the centaur, Tarahin.

He was tall, around nine feet in height was Harry's guess, and he was lean but not especially muscular. Despite Lavender's description he was not exactly handsome, but he was attractive-looking in a rugged, son-of-toil way, and there was no denying the masculinity of him. He was also naked, though it was the unselfconscious nakedness of someone for whom nudity is a natural state. His head-hair was black, and fell in curls to his shoulders. By contrast his horse-parts were white, apart from a faint dappling on his haunches. Hazel eyes gazed out of a slightly thin face, studying each newcomer briefly before moving on to the next. His expression was serious, but not forbidding, and he gave the impression of being effortlessly self-possessed. Seeing him, Lavender breathed an aside to Parvati. If he heard what she said – and centaurs have excellent hearing – he gave no sign of having done so. Parvati certainly heard it, and had to cover her mouth with a hasty hand in order to conceal a grin.

With a graceful sweep of his arm Tarahin indicated to the latest arrivals that they should sit on the forest floor in front of him, amongst the other students. They did so.

The centaur waited, impassive, until the last member of the class had entered the room, which they did moments later. Then, solemn-faced, he looked around the half-circle of pupils and addressed them.

"Young Daughters of Eve. Young Sons of Adam," he said, in a voice that was quiet but clear. "Be-ye welcome. I take it that this is your full complement, and that every among ye that is set to arrive has arrived. – Let any among ye that is yet absent raise a hand." He looked around enquiringly, but, perhaps unsurprisingly, no hands were raised. The students regarded him, nonplussed. Apparently satisfied that there were no absentees he continued, in the same tones as before.

"I am Tarahin, Pettar's son, sprung from the belly of Phadeshah. Albus Dumbledore has asked of me that I supply ye with wisdoms regarding the art of Divination, that ye may read the signs that times provide and gaze into the futures with a more perceptive eye. As a first step, I would to know your names. – Young Daughter?" He turned his head slightly and regarded the girl at the extreme left of the semi-circle enquiringly.

"Um. I'm Lisa, sir. – Lisa Turpin," she responded politely.

"Lisa Turpin. Well met." He accompanied the salutation with a grave slant of his head, and turned his attention to the next member of the class in the line. "And you, young Son?"

"I'm Dean Thomas, sir." Dean stared, wide-eyed, and asked, "Are you really a centaur?"

"No, Dean Thomas. I am a minotaur, but today is my day off." The words were evenly spoken and the centaur remained straight of face. The class stared at him, again unsure whether he was joking or not.

"I mean – I didn't think centaurs existed. I thought they were just imaginary. You're not things that Hagrid's bred, like the thestrals, are you?" Dean ploughed on, with more enthusiasm than diplomacy. Tarahin's left eyebrow rose by a fraction of an inch. As gestures go it was minimal, but somehow it was more alarming than an explosion of ill-temper would have been. Dean saw it, interpreted it, and hurriedly apologized. "I didn't mean to – I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have said that. It was – rude."

Another slight tilt of the head signified that the apology had been accepted. "Experience has taught we Childer of the Forest that the greater the distance there is between we and ye Two-legs, the less the even tenor of our lives is disturbed. Thus we seek to maintain that distance. The fact that in the seeing of the non-magical among ye we have passed from the realms of reality into those of myth suits our mind high well. – Butyet, Dean Thomas, given your interest in my kind, for an additional homework you shall research among your myths for the names of three of us, and the names of their principal mates," he said, in the same level voice, apparently seeing fit to issue a practical rebuke for Dean's question. "You shall set those names before me at the start of our next lesson."

"Yes, sir." Somehow Dean had the feeling that he had got off lightly.

"If you would note the species of those mates, in addition, that would be helpful."

"The – the species of them, sir?"

"The species, Dean Thomas. I would also advise you not to take up all the space in the library, as it may well be required by others among your class who feel an urge to question me about the origins and nature of we Sons and Daughters of the Forest. – Well met, in any kind. – Young son?"

"Er. – I'm Anthony Goldstein, sir. – Is this place real, sir? I mean, it used to be a classroom, and now it's kind of like the forest." Anthony stared as a large shabby dark-coloured bird flew by, in the middle distance, croaking noisily.

"It is real, Anthony Goldstein. And it is the classroom, and it is the forest."

"I – I don't see how it can be both, sir."

"Happen nay. Reality is more complex, and less obliging, than most of ye humans reckon it to be. Such given, a word of warning is perhaps advisable. Here, in the space enclosed by these walls, the writ of Albus Dumbledore runs, and ye are earnest seekers after knowledge, devout worshippers at the altar of wisdom, eager sucklers at the teat of understanding. Beyond this space –" he pointed to where the end wall of the classroom should have been – "ye are but snacks on sticks. Well that ye remember such. – Well met, Anthony Goldstein, be it or nay. Young daughter?"

One by one the members of the class gave their names. Tarahin studied them as they did so, repeated each name solemnly, and bade them 'Well met'. To Harry's surprise, but also to his relief, he treated him in exactly the same way as he had treated everybody else: if he recognized Harry's name he gave no indication of that fact.

"I'm surprised that you're here, sir," said Harry candidly, after having responded to the centaur's greeting with a polite 'Thank you.'

"It is an example of the unfathomable twistings of circumstance, Harry Potter; of the ways in which minor events have major consequences," was Tarahin's solemn reply. "Longwhiles since, my mother has naught better to do of an eve, and my sire could not run swift enough to escape from her. One thing followed another, and lo! I find myself not only existing but also facing the task of instilling wisdom into the heads of a herd of Two-leg foals – a task which, in terms of futility, is widely reckoned to be on a par with beating marshmallow nails into granite using a hammer of air."

"I mean," Harry corrected himself quickly, above one or two nervous chuckles, "you said yourself that centaurs don't have much to do with humans. But here you are."

"Here I am, and no gainsay." A philosophical flick of the tail from Tarahin. "See-ye: Albus Dumbledore has gained the respect of many among my brethren and sistren. He sent an emissary to our leaders, asking if they might see their way clear to greatly oblige him by providing one of our number to teach Divination at Hogwarts, on a short-term temporary basis. After much discussion it was decided that we would accede to his request. Names were put forward of folk who were considered marginally less likely than others to lust after the existing staff, carry off any of the students, or slay and eat those who failed to pay sufficient attention in class. Those names were written down and placed into a cloth bag. Fate had it that my name was the one which was drawn out."

"You were the lucky one, sir?"

The centaur's eyebrow arched slightly, as if in pained surprise. "That is one way of looking at it, Harry Potter; such I shall grant you. – Young daughter?" And he turned his attention to Hermione.

The introductions, inevitably, took some little time.

"We know each other," Tarahin said, when the last name had been given and the final greeting made. "It is well. Now we may set our hoofs to the path of learning. This firsting shall take a short while to prepare. Well that ye watch, and that ye exercise your capacities for patience and silence the while ye do so." He glanced behind him, raised his right arm and crooked a finger.

A wooden table, sturdy and ancient, shimmered into being in the glade. In the middle of the table was a solid-looking box made of a dark wood. There were brass panels let into the side of the box, and they were covered with mysterious marks that were presumably some kind of magical inscription. To the left of the box was an array of large coloured-glass bottles with spray attachments. To the right was a small heap of leatherwear. With another glance Tarahin estimated the distance between the table and the pupils. "It might be safer if ye were to move back a body's length," was his verdict.

The class got up, and retreated with a measure of alacrity.

"Will this do, sir?" asked Susan Bones.

"That should suffice." The centaur nodded. When the pupils were sitting in their new positions he turned to face the box. He lifted his hands, closed his eyes, and intoned, "Dini... Hiumus... Tabiki."

"I've never heard that spell before," whispered Ron.

"Centaur magic is different from human magic," Hermione told him, gazing at the box to see if anything happened. "Professor Binns mentioned it in our History of Magic classes. He wasn't very complimentary about it, mind you. – Shush now!"

For Tarahin was moving. He opened his eyes, lowered his hands and stepped over to the table, treading lightly and slowly. He picked up the largest piece of leatherwear, which turned out to be an apron. Carefully, not looking away from the box for longer than a fraction of a second, he fastened the apron about himself so that it covered as much of the front of his upper body and legs as possible. The middle sized piece was a hood; it came complete with a glass panel at the front, through which the wearer could see. Again paying as much attention to the box as possible, he put the hood on. The final two pieces of leather were sleeved gauntlets. He slipped them on to his hands, checked to see that as much of his flesh was covered as was feasible, and nodded satisfaction.

"At that distance," he said to the class, "Ye should be in no danger. Thus, we step."

Setting his hoofs to the ground with the utmost delicacy he made his way behind the table. He reached out and, fraction of an inch by fraction of an inch, lifted the lid from the box. When it was clear he paused for a few moments, as if checking whether something would emerge. Nothing did. Still moving slowly, he placed the lid on the table. When it was in position he picked up a green glass bottle, pointed the nozzle of its spray attachment at the lid, and squeezed the bulb twice, sending mists of clear liquid over its surface. He then directed the spray into the box, squeezing even more delicately than he had done when dealing with the lid. Again, nothing happened. He put the green bottle down, picked up a blue one, and repeated the process; with the same result.

"It is well," he said, as much to himself as to the class. Satisfied, he moved to the side of the table. He took several measured steps backwards to what he apparently considered a safe distance, and removed the protective leatherwear. He then raised his hands and repeated his incantation, in the same grave tones that he had used previously, "Dini... Hiumus... Tabiki." That done, he made a slow gesture of lifting. In response a rectangular silver container drifted upwards out of the box. It was ornate, and its sides were covered with the same kind of writing that the class had seen on the brass panels. Guided by the slightest of movements of his fingers it eased forwards and then sank down to rest upon the table.

"Wow." There was a general murmur from the class. Some people were impressed, others were uneasy.

"What is it, sir?" ventured Seamus, craning his head to get a better view.

The centaur raised a forefinger in mild rebuke. "What it is, Seamus Finnigan, shall shortly be revealed. For now, I require of ye your silence. This next is a whit delicate, and it demands my full attention."

"Right, sir. Sorry."

Tarahin gazed at the silver container, his brows faintly lined with concentration. A crooking of one of his fingers, and a clasp at the front side of it, near the base, opened with a click. Three more crookings, and clasps on the other three sides were loosed. He took a deep breath, making his dappled flanks heave, and swished his tail nervously. "Now for the lasting," he said quietly. "Dini... Hiumus... Tabiki."

The incantation, and the graceful lifting of his hands which accompanied it, caused the upper portion of the container to rise, leaving its base behind and its contents open to view. Other gestures moved it out of the way and caused it to settle down on to the table. The class ignored it, concentrating instead upon the substance which its removal had left open to view. They saw a roughly-cut slab of brown stuff. It looked innocent enough, but they regarded it with great suspicion.

"Any idea what it is, Hermione?" Harry risked a murmur.

Hermione shook her head, and responded in similar tones. "It could be anything. It must be something dark or he wouldn't go to all that bother. I wonder if Professor Dumbledore knows about this. I've made a note of that spell, anyway, just in case."

A word from Tarahin ended her speculations. "At this point in the lesson," he said, looking from face to face, "we require a volunteer, which shall be Morag MacDougal. Be-stood-you, Morag MacDougal."

"Me, sir?" Morag's voice was apprehensive. She stared at him.

"You, Morag MacDougal," he confirmed.

"But I dinnae volunteer for anything."

"My task is to instruct ye in the ways of Divination, Morag MacDougal, not to fritter away your lesson time by debating technicalities. Be-stood-you."

Reluctantly Morag stood up.

"The purpose of what we are about to do," continued Tarahin, addressing the class generally, "is to ascertain if any among ye have an aptitude for seeing into the future. To that end, ye shall open your Divination notebooks and inscribe within them what ye think shall befall the person who touches that material yonder. The possibilities are many, so it is unlikely that any among ye shall be exactly correct. If any among ye are reasonably close, however, it will provide us with grounds for hoping that ye are gifted with a measure of discernment. I shall risk giving a bias to the results by telling ye that what happens to Morag MacDougal when she carries out the experiment, while it may be intensely painful, shall not be irreversible."

"When I carry out the experiment?" Morag's eyes were wide.

"When you carry out the experiment, Morag MacDougal. Somefolk has to, or what point in all this?" With a calm sweep of his arm the centaur encompassed the table and its contents. "It would hardly be practical for me touch it myself. I have to be in a condition to teach, afterwards."

"Ye must be out of yer mind!" exploded Morag. "I'm nae touchin' that – that stuff!" She jabbed a finger at the brown block, emphatically.

Tarahin regarded her frostily. His left eyebrow curved fractionally upwards, censorious. "I would remind you, Morag MacDougal, that while you are at Hogwarts you have a duty of obedience to your teachers. The refusal to obey a direct order from any member of staff is likely to result in expulsion," he said coldly.

"I dunna care!" blazed Morag. "I'd rather be expelled than – than blown to wee bitties, or – or turned intae stone, or somethin'!"

"I am not prepared to countenance disobedience in this class." The centaur's frosty expression became arctic. "If you do not obey my order, now, you shall face the consequences."

"I'll face 'em, then! I'm nae goin' to be magically messed about wi', not for you or anyone else!"

"That is your final word?"

"Aye, it is!"

"Good. You may be seated." Tarahin's expression softened somewhat. It remained serious, but the chill had gone from it.

"Ye what?" Morag stared at him.

"You may be seated, Morag MacDougal. And what you intended to say, I do not doubt, was 'You what, sir?'; which, upon this one occasion, I shall take as having been said. – There are many who doubt the usefulness of Divination," he continued, turning to the rest of the class, as, bemused, Morag sank back into her seat. "Yet Morag MacDougal has shown us a way in which it may be most usefully and practically employed. She looked into the future. She saw that it held two discrete possibilities. And she acted in such a way that the possibility which best suited her was the one that came to pass. Required to choose between being the subject of a most unpleasant magical transformation and being accused of insubordination before the headmaster, she chose the latter, and responded accordingly. That, that is the heart of Divination, ye Childer of Eve and Adam. There are many possible futures. Wisdom lies in evaluating them as closely as you can, choosing that which is best, and doing what you can to bring it about. For Morag MacDougal's help in illustrating this important fact I award ten points to her house." He paused, then added, "And for her refusing to obey a direct order from a teacher, I subtract ten points from her house."

Morag's pleasantly surprised look disappeared.

"What – what is that brown stuff, actually, sir?" Seamus wanted to know. "What would have happened to Morag if she'd touched it?"

"That?" To the class's surprise Tarahin walked over to the table without donning the protective clothing or uttering any incantations. He picked the brown slab up casually, and nibbled at it. "It is cooking chocolate. Naught would have happened to her, unless perchance she suffers from an allergy to it. By touching it, she might have proved that she was a prey to the common and regrettable human need for authority figures, but that would have been all. Happily, she did not."

"Cooking chocolate?!" Relief was the class's main emotion, but there was amusement and indignation mixed in with it.

"What was all that stuff for, then; the spell and everything? – Sir?" A meaningful lift of the centaur's eyebrow prompted Ron to add a hurried honorific to his indignant protest.

"The 'stuff', Ronald Weasley, was necessary if the volunteer was to be given a meaningful choice to make. What would ye have learned from seeing Morag MacDougal chose between touching a slab of cooking chocolate and being reported to the headmaster? – With regard to the spell, for its meaning to be divined it must be spoken several times as swiftly as possible. However, I would recommend that if you try to fathom it you do not point at another person during the process."

"Oh."

Hermione consulted her notes. "Dini... Hiumus... Tabiki," she mumbled, and she went on to repeat the phrase several times under her breath as quickly as she could. "Dini Hiumus Tabiki Dini Hiumus Tabiki..." Around her the lesson continued.

"But, sir, isn't the point of Divination foretelling the future?" asked Sally-Anne Perks tentatively. She had always had a soft spot for horses; somebody who was half horse and half reasonably-good-looking man had a certain amount of appeal for her, and as a result she was disinclined to risk upsetting him. On the other hand, the kind of decision that Morag had just made was some distance away from the processes that she associated with fortune telling.

"Foretelling the future with any degree of exactitude, Sally-Anne Perks, is practically impossible," Tarahin told her, fixing her with a steady hazel gaze. "I hope to demonstrate such to ye, ere the end of this lesson."

"But centaurs are supposed to be able to read the future in the stars, and things like that, aren't they?"

"My people do spend long whiles studying the night skies, such is truth. How should we not seek to gaze upon aught of such beauty? Yet what we gain from the practise, I sorrow to tell it, is merely a deepened appreciation of the wonders of the universe. That, and cricked necks every so often."

"You must be kidding!" An exclamation from Hermione startled everybody, apart from Tarahin.

"I assure you, Hermione Grainger, I am in earnest," he said solemnly.

"No! It's that 'spell' – that 'Dini hiumus tabiki' business. If you say it over and over again quickly you end up with 'ihumus tabiki din': 'ihu-musta-bi-kidin' – 'You must be kidding'! – Sir."

"You do, indeed, Hermione Grainger," he confirmed, straight faced. "For your correctly delving to the mystery at the heart of the spell I award two points to your house. For your interrupting your teacher when he was expounding upon the wisdom and virtue of his kind, however, I subtract two points from your house. – As I was saying," he continued above Hermione's harrumph of protest, addressing the class, "the future contains a practically infinite number of possibilities. There are, I believe, instances of where seers – human ones, I haste to add – have made prophecies that have proven to be correct. What is perhaps more important is that it has never been recorded that somebody, upon hearing a prophecy, has been able to act in such a way as to render the prophecy null and void. Thus, the doubtful nature of the vast majority of prophecies, combined with the inability of people to negate them, makes that aspect of Divination unimportant, in the view of many people. What is of importance to everyone, however, is that they evaluate the various possible futures and act in a way that improves the likelihood of the best of them being realized; as Morag MacDougal has recently demonstrated. I intend to try to improve your skill at such evaluations, during these lessons."

"So we won't be reading tea-leaves, sir?" asked Terry Boot, partly in jest.

"Reading tea-leaves may be part of the process, eventually, Terry Boot. But it will not be the essence of it. What is seen in the patterns of tea-leaves reveals more about the seer than it does about the future, but it can still be useful. – On the word of patterns, we shall now create some. For this ye shall divide into groups of three. Neville Longbottom, Michael Corner, Hannah Abbott; ye shall work together. Gregory Goyle, Seamus Finnigan, Ronald Weasley; the like for ye." Tarahin reeled off names in groups of three, adding quietly but with an air of finality, "Nor do I seek your opinion on these groupings," when there were one or two mutters of protest. Hermione found herself grouped with Parvati Patil and Theodore Nott; Harry with Lisa Turpin and Anthony Goldstein. The numbers did not work out exactly, and Dean Thomas and Zacharias Smith found themselves in a group of two. The centaur made up for the lack by sending an enchanted quill over to join them. With what was apparently an example of centaur humour he referred to the quill as 'Anne Other'.

When the class had settled down Tarahin instructed them to turn to the middle page of their Divination notebooks. "There ye shall find a squared page," he told them. "At the bottom of that page, in the middle, there is a vertical line running up the side of the first four squares. It is for ye now to continue that line, taking turns to draw it, one square-length at a time. The lines may run horizontally, diagonally or vertically. Each line must be different from the previous one, and no line may go downwards. When ye have reached the top, the one of ye that is in the middle of the group shall indicate such by raising a hand. Ye shall commence."

Drawing a line with a quill wasn't difficult, though the tendency of different people to favour different directions meant that the resultant lines straggled somewhat. Perhaps inevitably, Dean attempted to fool around by making the line go downwards at one point. The attempt failed: instead of leaving a mark on the paper the quill emitted a shrill squealing noise.

"As I instructed ye," Tarahin intoned, "the lines are not to go downwards. For the information of any among ye who may be in doubt, 'downwards' is the opposite of 'upwards'."

"Sorry, sir." Dean grinned self-consciously.

"Let it not happen anew, Dean Thomas." The centaur accepted the apology composedly, but in a manner which discouraged any further deviations.

When the last group, that of Seamus Finnigan, finished, Tarahin indicated satisfaction with a slant of his head.

"It is well," he said. "Now for the Divination aspect. For this, ye shall work separately. Turn-you each to a fresh page, and draw upon it the line that ye reckon the group to your right drew."

"Try to copy their line, do you mean, sir?" enquired Neville, a little nervously.

"Not to copy it, Neville Longbottom. To reproduce it," was the patient reply.

"But won't it be a bit difficult to get it right, sir?"

"It is practically impossible for ye to get it right, Neville Longbottom. The point of the exercise is that ye should appreciate such. Do-ye but guess at where ye reckon they sent their line, and mark-ye your paper accordingly."

"Oh. Right, sir."

The second lot of drawings were executed more quickly than the first lot had been, thanks to the fact that only one person was responsible for deciding where to put the line. While the class was at work their teacher made a casual gesture and sent the table and its contents back wherever they had come from. He kept the cooking chocolate, however, and took a small bite of it every so often. In place of the table he conjured up a large easel with square of plain white board on it.

Parvati was the last to signify that she had completed the task. Tarahin acknowledged the sign with another slant of his head.

"Ye every are done? It is well. We shall now examine the results of your labours. Draco Malfoy, do-you raise the notebook in which your team was working, and hold-you it open... That is well." At a sweeping gesture from the centaur's forefinger a copy of the ink line that the team had drawn detached itself from the book, grew in size and fastened upon the white board. He glanced at it, then turned towards Seamus. "Seamus Finnigan, it was the task of each member of your team to try to match the line which Draco Malfoy's team drew. Do-you hold up your book, and we shall see if you yourself managed to do such."

Seamus raised the book and held it open at the appropriate page. Another gesture, and a copy of the line flew across to fasten upon the board, on top of Malfoy's group's line. "They're not all that alike, sir," he admitted, inspecting the results. "The first four squares are pretty good, but it wanders a bit after that." The lines across the first four squares, which had been in all the books, of course corresponded exactly.

"A reasonable summary, Seamus Finnigan," Tarahin concurred equably. "We shall see if the other members of your team were any more successful. Gregory Goyle; your book."

Goyle's attempt at guessing the directions that Malfoy's team's line had taken was no more accurate than Seamus's had been. Ron's proved just as wide of the mark.

"It is but to be expected." The centaur made a circling movement with the palm of his hand, and the lines disappeared. "See-we now if the members of Hermione Grainger's team had any more success as they strove to match that of your team. Seamus Finnigan, show to me your team's line... That shall suffice." A gesture reproduced Seamus's team's own line and fixed it to the board. One by one, others superimposed Hermione's team's three efforts at forecasting it. Unsurprisingly their lines bore little relation to the first one. Team followed team, but the level of success remained low.

"It is hardly surprising that none among ye came close to accomplishing your task," commented Tarahin as he magicked away the final quartet of lines. "Ye n'are to be blamed for failing. Given the number of possibilities, ye did as well as anyone else could have done. Such given, I would have ye gain one wisdom from your attempt, and it is this: ye were working in a very simple system, with three contributors selecting from five variables, and ye produced a result this complex..." All the lines, superimposed one upon another, appeared upon the board again. The resultant picture resembled a tree, to a certain extent, but it would have been a very gnarled tree.

"Life, at the other flank, is a most complex system, with billions of contributors selecting from billions of variables," he continued. "Ye would needs have been fortunate indeed to succeed in matching one of your drawn lines with another, but lately. To expect anybody to succeed in drawing a line into the future and matching it accurately with what is going to happen would be to expect too much. There are, however, a few points on the board where several of your lines overlap. It may be that there are corresponding points in time where the multitude of different possible futures overlap, and that it is these points upon which your seers occasionally successfully fasten. Such given, the number of failed prophecies far exceeds the number of accurate ones. It is best, therefore, not to place overmuch reliance upon tellers of fortune. – And, on the word of 'fortune telling'..."

He beckoned, and another table swam into view. It was a far more modest affair than the first, and it supported a pyramid of small white cardboard boxes. He glanced at the pyramid, apparently found it satisfactory, and turned to face the class.

"Balls to the lot of ye," he said solemnly. He paused just long enough for jaws to drop, then explained, "Crystal ones. They are not of the kind favoured by tellers of fortune, but as ye are only beginners at the art they shall suffice for ye to practice upon. Your homework is that ye shall find somewhere quiet, empty your minds of all thought – if by dint of great effort ye can manage that – and concentrate for ten minutes upon what, if anything, ye see in the balls. Ye shall scribe the results in your notebooks. We shall discuss your seeings in the next lesson. Daughters of Eve, Sons of Adam; fair parting." A final flick of his wrist sent the boxes drifting across the glade, one to each pupil. The class caught them, scrambled up, and trooped out past the door which had creaked open at the back of the classroom.

"What did you think of that?" enquired Ron, as he, Harry and Hermione made their way along the corridor.

"It was – different, I suppose," Harry allowed. "There wasn't much actual magic in it. I mean, he performed a couple of summoning charms and a few levitations, and that business putting the lines on the board was clever, I suppose, but I don't know what it added up to. If anything."

"It's the first time I've heard a teacher saying that the subject they're teaching is rubbish," was Hermione's verdict, waspishly delivered.

"He didn't say that, did he?" Ron stared at her.

"He practically did. Divination's supposed to be about seeing into the future. If it's all but impossible to do that, like he said, what's the point? 'Dini hiumus tabiki'! I ask you! As for 'The mystery at the heart of the spell'? – Hah!" Words failed her, and she finished with a bark of irritation.

"'Centaur magic is different to ours,'" he reminded her, grinning. She sniffed. "I know one thing," he added, "it's the first time any of our teachers has been in the nude. And it was fairly obvious that he was a male centaur, too."

"It certainly was!" snorted Hermione. "It would have been politer for him to have covered those – those bits up!"

"Let's hope it doesn't catch on among the rest of the staff," said Ron, with a faraway look in his eyes. "Imagine Defence Against the Dark Arts, taught by Umbridge with no clothes on."

"I don't want to imagine it, thank you very much!" Harry told him emphatically.

"It'd be a great way of getting people to conjure up patronuses, mind you. They'd do it out of sheer panic."

"What about Potions, with Snape?" suggested Harry, with a sour grin.

Ron cackled. "Watch my wand carefully, Potter, or your potion will be a disaster – as usual," he said, in a voice that was intended to resemble Snape's but didn't.

"If you two are going to be rude, you can be rude amongst yourselves," Hermione informed them coldly, over Harry's chuckle. She quickened her pace, leaving them in her wake.

"Girls!" Ron shook his head sadly. "They've got no sense of humour at all! – I wonder what this crystal ball's like." He opened the small cardboard box and extracted the ball from its nest of shredded paper. "That's weird," he said, studying it critically.

"What is?" Harry looked across at it. He chuckled. "That's not a crystal ball! It's a – I don't know what they call them; a 'snowstorm' or something. You get them in tourist places sometimes. They've usually got a landmark or something on them. That's Blackpool Tower. You shake them and all that white stuff whirls around, like snow."

"Does it?" Ron shook the glass globe experimentally. "You're right. It does. They're a muggle thing, then?"

"They are. They're as common as anything, and they only cost a few pence each. How we're supposed to see the future in something as tatty as that, I don't know."

"I can foresee myself giving this to my dad for his next birthday. It's just the kind of thing he's into – weird muggle artefacts. As for seeing anything else, though; you're probably right. Oh well, if we haven't been given the right tools we can't be blamed for not doing the job properly."

"We could always tell Tarahin we foresaw bad weather coming," suggested Harry, less than seriously.

"You can tell him that, if you want to. I'm not sure I want to try pulling his leg. I get the feeling he can be a bit fierce if he wants to be. Mind you, ten minutes' worth of homework isn't bad. I hope McGonagall follows his example."

"Me too. But I don't suppose she will!" And the two of them made their way to Professor McGonagall's Transformations class.