Chapter 4: Fraud's Prediction
Of every class, Divination was the worst. Albus, Hugo, and Phil, all attended that particular class together, which made it slightly bearable. It was not as though the subject itself was overly complicated like the kind of material Rose preferred. It would be factual to state, however, that Divination was difficult, so was Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Albus still enjoyed it, at least as much as he could with someone like Draco Malfoy as their teacher. Divination was difficult because their professor was a complete, and utter failure, a fraud.
It was no secret to anyone that Professor Sybill Trelawney, the old hag of a woman residing in the northern tower, was not a teacher. Even the Headmaster knew it. So why was Trelawney allowed to educate the impressionable minds of young third years onward? The answer stemmed from a prophecy Ablus had little knowledge about, though he knew it involved the Dark Lord and his father, and it was supposedly completed long ago. Now, however, he was not sure, but that was beside the point.
The prophecy, anyway, was part of the reason Trelawney was allowed to teach students about the fine art of divination. The other part, Albus suspected, was because his father really didn't give a pixie's rear about the subject. Neither did Albus, of course, but he was almost positive he would not dread climbing the ladder to the classroom if he was faced with a competent professor on the other side of the trapdoor it led to. Best not to dwell on what could be.
Albus, Hugo, and Phil made a point to sit as far away from Trelawney as possible. Upon entering the classroom, and breathing in a lungful of the aroma of cooking sherry, they made there way to the very back of the class, to a round table holding a single crystal ball. They sat down upon the chairs lining it, and pulled out their books and supplies, then waited patiently, and contently for Professor (assuming that she could even be referred to as such) Trelawney to enter.
After a merciful two minute period of a Trelawney-less peace, the professor entered, renewing the scent of sherry. Albus watched her tread to the polar end of the class, opposite the entrance, and sit down in her large chair, next to the roaring fire. She was old, gray-haired, wore massively large glasses, and was wrapped in so many shawls that it was a real possibility she might die of heatstroke.
"Today," the elderly fraud squeaked in her usual mystical voice. "We shall discuss the theory of visions about the future."
The professor stood up slowly, glancing around, ensuring she had garnered the class's attention, despite the fact that it was a passively, bored alertness.
Satisfied, she continued.
"Many of such visions have I experienced. They come, usually, when I look upon the face of those they are about. Allow me to demonstrate!"
Toward a table of students, Trelawney glided smoothly, but with a slight flaw, like a well oiled cog that stuck for a fraction of a second, but continued onward as though nothing had happened. She stopped before Sibyl Patil, daughter of Padma Patil, named after Trelawney herself, as to why was anyone's guess.
"You," she spoke in a wavering, supernatural voice, pointing to Sibyl. "You have the gift of the seer! I see great prospect in your future."
Trelawney washed over to several other tables to predict several things about other randomly selected students. Most of her predictions consisted of the foresight she had of their imminent doom. Some were slightly more creative, such as when she predicted that a Slytherin would one day grow old and author a bestselling book in America, but be sued for copyright infringement of a television show called Xena: Warrior Princess. Some had the possibility of actually happening, like she predicted a fellow Gryffindor would fall when he attempted to sit down during lunch, and spill pumpkin juice all over himself.
After the professor's stint of "predictions", Trelawney stood before the class and finally got on to telling them what exactly they were going to do.
"I want you all to open your books to page forty-seven, and commence reading about the theory of prophetic visions," instructed the old woman in a voice that commanded nonchalantly, but kept up the façade of feigned mystical quality.
Albus, Hugo, and Phil did so unenthusiastically, and preceded to read a chapter which they could not even begin to comprehend, given that they had not been taught anything from which to build upon. Every now and then Albus' attention span would end, and he would glance up at Hugo who appeared to be staring blankly at page forty-seven. His attention would shift to Hugo, whose face was resting tiredly in his hand, to the rest of the class who looked as though they were about to die out of boredom (save for Patil), and then to Trelawney who sat upon her chair staring at him blankly.
Simply staring.
Twice Albus had to stare back at her, to ensure he could see her breathing. She looked pale, and dead.
He pressed onward in the chapter, trying to ignore Trelawney's eyes. They were cutting through his flesh, into his bones, his soul. Massive and relentless behind the colossal glasses, luminous in the firelight, they stared.
Once he reached the end of the chapter, it began to take its toll, and increase his discomfort exponentially with each ticking second that seemed to drag on for a lifetime and a day. Why was she staring at him?
Every so often he would glance at her, hoping her eyes would be averted. They weren't.
Upon her face was still that same, dead look. To contribute to his discomfort, the only one who seemed to notice that Trelawney appeared to be deceased was him. He desperately hoped someone would ask her what was wrong. No one did, and she continued to stare right upon until the bell mercifully rang.
Albus quickly gathered his materials and stood up. Out of the corner of his eye, barely noticeable, he glimpsed Trelawney shooting up from her chair at a speed faster than he ever would have thought possible. By the time his eyes met hers, she had a finger pointed at him, and was about to speak.
"Stop!" the fraud boomed. Everyone halted on their trek out and turned to look incredulously at Trelawney, who now looked as though she lost her sanity twenty years ago.
"You!" the old woman barked in a deep, less mystical tone, but one chilling. She indicated Albus. "It is you who knows. Danger approaches in the dark night sky, emerald lights flashing. The black chest holds the vial key. It must be found before the traitor's final proclamation, or all shall be lost and die."
There was not a sound in the room.
Everyone's eyes lingered upon Trelawney as she blinked twice, rubbed her eyes behind her ridiculously large spectacles, and yawned. Albus realized he was sweating; the hairs on the back of his neck stood, sharp like spears, goose bumps covered his skin like mountain ranges. Trelawney simply shrugged, as though shaking the weight of sleep from her shoulders.
"Read the next chapter tonight for homework, if you please," she announced holding her hand up in the air as if to draw attention. This was unnecessary, of course, as everyone was looking at her as though she was Voldemort himself.
Albus, Hugo, and Phil quickly made an exit. Neither spoke until they were halfway down the staircase leading away from the fraud's classroom.
"That was…" Albus trailed off. "Strange."
"It was probably a fluke, mate," said Hugo, though he did not seem to believe it anymore than Albus or Phil. "Don't worry about it."
"You're probably right," Albus agreed, still unbelieving.
None of it made sense, not one work. He could relate to nothing… except the danger approaching in the dark night sky. The figure in his dreams, clouded in black smoke, it took flight, sometimes, and emerald flashed through the air….
Potions class flew by quickly enough. A calmer step down from Divination where Albus, Hugo, and Phil could forget about the apparent episode suffered by Professor Trelawney, and move their mindset to a complex, tedious form of study. They had been assigned to draft up some sort of potion neither Albus, nor, it seemed, anyone in the class had ever heard of before. Slughorn merely told them to follow the directions and brew away!
Albus was the only successful one, earning him ten points for Gryffindor, and a slew of praise from the plump professor, prompting Albus to believe he was the best in the class. It was true. Last year he'd even won that bottle of Felix Felicis which he was still saving.
After potions ended, schedules took Phil and Hugo elsewhere. Only Albus trudged up to the third floor to face Defense Against the Dark Arts where he met Rose again. It was not as though DADA was a horrible subject like Divination, nor that it had an unbearable professor like Trelawney, or an annoyingly praising one like Slughorn. No, the entity which ruled the class was entirely different. Professor Draco Malfoy.
Perhaps the former collaborator of Lord Voldemort was downright nastily dictating. It was as though the class was a monarchy, he was the emperor and they were not but peasants. Surprisingly, though, for all his strictness, he was a good, fair teacher. Though, last year, Albus really had not been able to figure him out. Did he have prejudices against muggleborns? Did he favor Slytherins over everyone else? Did he needlessly subtract points from Gryffindor's count?
Any doubt Harry's son had had was gone now.
All evidence pointed to fair play. Considering, throughout he whole lesson, which was mostly a lecture and discussion on theory, Rose and Albus answered many difficult questions the professor tossed out, and were, in turn, awarded by generous amounts of points. The same treatment was received by any Slytherin (many of whom made up the other half of the class). Though, the house of the serpent answered much less often, and looked thoroughly depressed they would not be getting favorable treatment from a former Death Eater.
The rest of the day flew by quickly after a surprisingly painless Defense class, and a long, drawn out, lecturing, extremely complex Transfiguration session. McGonagall had spoken in terms that Albus had never heard before, but insisted it was all review of last year. After dinner where many students seemed sullen and exhausted for one reason or another, where the professors all appeared grim, Albus, Hugo, Phil, and Rose headed up to the Gryffindor common room to complete their lengthy essay for Transfiguration, and perhaps, in Albus, Hugo, and Phil's case, weasel their was through reading the next chapter for Divination, and answering some questions afterward.
Albus, however, did not want to think about Trelawney, her class, or her chilling prediction. He threw himself wholeheartedly into the work he did not understand. It took until midnight before her finally gave up. By that time, Rose was done with her Transfiguration essay, and nearly finished with her homework from Arithmancy. Phil had succeeded in finishing his Divination, like Hugo, and Albus, but neither of them had written more than a sentence for their essays. Albus even read the chapter in which the information was supposed to be contained seven times, but still did not understand it.
Rose assured them she would be of assistance later; however, the night was spent, each of them packed up, bid one another goodnight, and were about to head up to their respective common rooms when an owl smashed its face into a window nearby. Albus exchanged glances with his comrades who looked equally as puzzled, then jogged to the window, opened it, and allowed the now semi-conscious bird to fly in.
It dropped a paper at feet, stained the carpet, and took off out the window. Hugo shut it as Rose retrieved the delivered paper. It was copy of the Midnight Prophet (how many did they have, anyway?).
As she unrolled it from its tightly wrapped, and bound position, a black and white, moving bust-like picture of Harry Potter smiled tiredly at Albus. What now?
Rose huffed in indignation, and flipped the Prophet over to scan the front page and the lengthy article surrounding Harry's picture. As Rose scanned the text, Albus, Hugo, and Phil waited tiredly, all three of them yawning. Potter's son could not place why, he wasn't even interested in what the article had to say. It was merely another flame, drafted up the horrible Rita Skeeter or one of her fellow Potter-opposing cronies. Likely, it had little or no merit, the latter far more probable. It was also highly doubtful that the thing was more than five percent factual, ninety-five percent hot air. However, the look on Rose's face peaked Albus' curiosity and forced him to reconsider his preconceived notions.
"Oh, dear," the girl mumbled.
"What?" Hugo demanded irritably.
"Albus, your dad has been fired as Head Auror."
"What?" asked the former Head Auror's son, his tiredness fading.
"Yes, it says it right here, he's being replaced, but apparently he's keeping his job here."
"How nice of them, slimy gits," Phil remarked.
"That's not all," Rose continued.
"How can their possibly be more?" Hugo asked carpingly.
"Uncle Percy has been impeached as Minister of Magic by the Wizengamot," stated Rose. "He's being replaced by Alonzo Besierwan, former member…. It's because of them keeping Voldemort's return secret, like we all had too…. Horrible, it was a bad idea anyway, but, really, they were just trying to keep the public from panicking."
"Well, they're bloody well panicking now," Hugo retorted.
"Oh, do shut up," snapped his sister.
"It doesn't matter," Albus interjected. All eyes fell on him. "What's done is done, I guess. Honestly, I don't want to think about it right now. I want to go to bed."
And so they did.
Far past midnight, Harry Potter sat in the Headmaster's office, his office, forehead cupped in his hands, the only light cast by a flickering torch. All day, he'd wanted to speak with Dumbledore's portrait, strange as it seemed. He'd barely talked to the deceased man's essence since last year, the former Headmaster seemed to be busy on other errands more important than being available to calm the currant Headmaster's racing mind.
Harry sighed and looked down at his desk, upon which, lay a paper etched in his own scribbling. Originally, it had been a letter, to whom, he did not quite know, perhaps the new minster, perhaps the old, or perhaps to his successor. He'd simply given up, however, half way through it. Really, in retrospect, looking back on it now (though it had only occurred an hour ago) it was probably just to vent anger, and anger it had vented. No longer was he angry. Rage had sifted through the pores on his skin, and evaporated into the air, leaving behind an exhaustion that clung to his muscles.
There was not point in late-night musings such as this anymore. It was late, he must go to bed.
Harry stood, and was about one foot into his trek toward a bed when a cold, smooth, deep, and slightly disturbing voice stopped him dead on his path.
"Secret war," sneered the voice. "A foolish idea."
Harry's eyes averted to lock onto a figure behind him, encased in a portrait. It was that of a man, with long, black, greasy hair, curtained over his rather angry looking face.
"Thanks for the tip," Harry retorted to his former potions professor and enemy. "I won't be waging anymore secret wars in the future."
"A fine start, to be sure," said Severus Snape's portrait. "However, now, I must know your plan of action."
"What do you mean?"
"What do I mean? Listen to yourself, Potter! What could I possibly mean?"
"I don't know, it's about one o'clock in the morning, I'm rather tired, you see."
"Yes, I am aware. However, there are potions for that, surely you remember."
"Vividly."
"Touching to hear," scoffed Snape. Harry was not quite sure why the portrait insisted on picking on him, he didn't care much. Old habits died hard, he supposed. "Now, you must know the Dark Lord will be moving. I believe it would be wise if you were to do what you could, when you could, to stop what you could, but secretly, of course. Otherwise you risk butting heads with the Ministry, and you've been fired. I wondered when this day would come."
"Can we stop with the subtle insults? You're dead now."
"Correct, Potter, and I'm trying to give you a word of advice, as a former double agent in the Dark Lord's ranks."
"Advice I really didn't need," Harry replied.
"I had to make sure. You'd be an idiot not to take matters into your own hands, as you always do. You never much cared for rules."
"I never did, never will. Thanks for the advice, I'm going to bed now."
"Very well. Beware of the Dark Lord, Potter. His power is great, and his followers are many. Last time, he exploited the Ministry through its rotten core. This time, only the bloody Prophet is rotten. You must expect his agents are everywhere."
"I'll keep it in mind."
"Do that, it might save your life, and be the key to his defeat."
Snape disappeared then, to the right, leaving behind a black, inky canvas.
Inky blackness. Danger approaching, flying figure in a dark night sky. Claps of thunder, emerald lightning. Impossible to make anything out. Nothing tangible except the crushing pressure of impending doom. A voice rang out, syllables of every word emphasized like the hiss of a serpent.
"Danger approaches in the dark night sky, thunder claps and emerald flashes. A black figure makes his way to an unprotected, but guarded throne. The black chest holds the vial key. It must be found before the traitor's final proclamation, or all shall be lost and you will die."
Harry sprang up and ran a hand through his sweat drenched hair. Just a dream…. Just a dream.
A/N: Sorry for the lack of posting. Other things to do and stuff, reviews would be nice, and truthfully, probably make posting come faster. I'm sure you enjoyed the ridiculous amount of foreshadowing. Might as well have given the entire thing away.