A.N. Yo, guys. Sorry this chapter took so long. It was really hard to write, and even now, I don't care for how it turned out. Here is hoping the next one is better. Also, I have decided that this story will have five books. Whether they are separate or together is TBD, but there will be five distinct arcs: year four (Dragonborn), year four summer (Fae-Struck), year five (Demon Touched), year six (Angel-Blessed), and year seven (IDK). Hope ya'll are ready for the ride, 'cause it's gonna be a fun one.
I also have several other stories, so please read and review
REVIEW PLEASE! I NEED REVIEW TO EAT!!!
Rec at bottom.
Seers, oracles, and Prophets/Prophetesses
How to tell the Fake from the Real by Wally B. Treensey
Excerpts from Chapter Three: The Names in the Game
… Many believe that the titles: Oracle, Seer, and prophet/prophetess; are synonymous. This couldn't be FURTHER from the truth. They, in fact classify three totally different classes…
An oracle is easy, they have the unique ability to catch glimpses of the Loom of Fate, the great device that tells us the most likely outcomes of many things. These include impending disasters, diseases, a rock in your path, our how your old shoelaces will soon snap. Sadly, due to the fact that humans are stubborn and refuse to recognize that Fate, or luck, CAN affect them, the Loom cannot predict the actions of people, just natural things. Also, the closer a person gets to the Loom, the more likely people are to disbelieve them. This is generally NOT intentional; rather, it is a reaction of the animal part of the brain. It is also believed that a curse or some sort of aversion field boosts this, but, as we naturally find ourselves desiring to distance ourselves from it, it is next to impossible to tell. That being said, I personally believe that people need no help to ignore obvious signs and warnings.
It is also important to note that almost every woman alive has some connection to the Loom, leading to what is commonly called 'woman's intuition'. This is not, in fact, appropriate viewing of the future, as the intuition is based off of what could happen, not off of what will, but still, I find that is it wise to mind when a woman warns me all the same…
…A prophet, however, is a far touchier subject, as a prophet CANNOT exist without a god, or, more to the point, a One True God. You see, a prophet specifically is an intermediary between a higher power and its domain, with the sole purpose of bearing a message, usually of warning, in the form of an if/then statement. The most majority of the clearest examples of this type exist in the Christian Bible. One such example is the story of Jonah.
In the Bible, Jonah, a prophet of the Jewish God Yahweh, is sent to Israel's ancient enemies, the Ninevites. Up until this point, the two people's most civil interactions involved swift decapitation, so it seemed that this God was, in fact, exceeding his domain and encroaching on the god of the Ninevites, but, in Jewish belief, Yahweh created everything and everyone, and thus, even though the Ninevites worshiped someone else, Yahweh technically had precedence.
Upon his arrival (after the famous encounter with the great fish), Jonah delivers his message from God: Repent of your sins, or die; a simple, if not rather harsh message. As it turns out, however, this message ended in the revitalization of Nineveh. The Ninevites, in sorrow and fear, repented of their sins, those of violence, greed, sexual deviancy, and warmongering.
Now, I am entirely going to ignore ninety percent of the theology of this encounter, and focus on the prophecies. First, and if/then statement (If you do not repent, you will die); next, the delivery of doctrine; namely, murder, sexual deviancy and other such things are wrong. One question that always comes up at this point is: 'is it really so bad to sleep around?' or 'so what if they kill their enemies to expand their empire?'. This BORDERS on theology, but it is essential for understanding the role, and existence, of prophets.
To put it simply, it really is that bad. Extra-marital sexual activity breeds diseases, weakens the nucleus family that is the foundation of so many grand and successful cultures (see Rome and England, both of who's empires broke down shortly after the rejection of the family model that they had been built own. After all, remove the foundation, the building crumbles; remove the keystone, and the arch falls.) and encourages poverty, violent crime, and vice (a fatherless child is 65% more likely to commit a violent crime, typically has a decrease of approximate 35% or more of average earning, and are 75% more likely, at least measure, to fall into drugs or alcoholism). That is to say, the doctrine is true. This is a MUST for a true prophet. After all, what good is a prophet that lies or encourages weakening behaviors?
The if/then statement, according to Jewish lore, is also possible. The destruction was promised in the form of fire and brimstone from heaven, an act that, according to their traditions, had once been rained on Sodom and Gamora. Thus, the threat had teeth. It is also important to note that it is at this point that the One True God bit steps in. For example, if London should move against Paris, and the gods of both cities, through their prophets were to testify to the victory of their city, who would win would boil down to which god made their prophecy come true best. As such, you cannot consider it a TRUE prophecy, unless the God making it has ABSOLUTE power, else it is a guess, not a prophecy…
…Most interestingly, however, was the fact that the man didn't matter. Upon delivering the message, Jonah still expected the destruction, regardless of the fact that the city repented. He fled God, tried to avoid his duty, and failed multiple times to realize that God actually intended to save Nineveh. As such, the prophet himself is of little importance, as long as the doctrine is true, the message accurate and in the form of an If/Then, and the god, or God, is actually capable of carrying it out, and is operating in his sphere of influence. After all, at one point in the Bible, Yahweh uses Balaam's (a famous prophet of the time) DONKEY to prophecy to the prophet…
…Now we get to the touchy subject; namely, the Seer. The largest problem with the seer is that this category automatically contains the most mystical, the most mundane, the most useless, the most useful, and the craziest of all the categories. How, you ask? Because there are many different types of seer.
The first, and most outlandish, of the seers, is the mystic. These people, be they young or old, male or female, automatically, or sometimes through great distress, are gifted the ability to see that which others cannot. In short, they are either accessing a higher plain of being, or hallucinating. Thus, the issue, how can you know which is which?
You can't.
Unfortunately, as these people see things others literally CAN'T see, we can't tell if they are enlightened, or insane. In either case, it is folly to ignore them, as they may be telling the truth, and it is folly to believe them, as they may not be telling the truth.
Alas, on this subject, there is no solid answer.
Next, however, we have the interesting ones, or the 'next-minutes'. These people can see what is going to happen in the future as if they are there. The only thing blocking them, is whatever their personal issue is. Some can see things like a chain of dominoes, others can see certain distances into the future, and still other can see things that will happen on specific dates, or to certain people. One of the easiest to test, this group also contains the highest number of frauds, as a reasonably smart person can both fake the power and come up with an irrational 'flaw' that makes them capable of predicting and/or failing to predict at any time. As such, I often get asked how a person is supposed to tell the fakes from the reals.
To be honest, I don't bother. Any time some tells me the future, I file it away, plan accordingly, and then ignore it. there is no use freaking out over that which cannot be stopped, and no value in ignoring free advice. Of course, you must always judge the cure to see if it is worth dodging the disease, but other than that, it pays to take precautions.
The final type of diviner is the trickiest, as it is the ONLY one that you cannot block completely. It is also the strongest, and, ironically, the only one that is not mystical in the least. It is, in fact, the Brain.
This type of seer, for lack of a better term, SEES things, then plans accordingly. There are many different types of such, but they all boil down to the same thing. Smart people, doing smart things. There is no defense against a wise man's precautions, nor is there a way to fight off a genius's intellect. Though there is no magic needed for their art, these are by far the trickiest, the most powerful and the most unavoidable of the seers. Beware of them, and curry their favor! No matter how odd they can be, it is better to have a sword in your hand, than in your back!
Thunder crashed as the storm gained ferocity, the quiet affecting everyone an making them nervous. At the heart of the volcano, he nestled deeper in his bed of snow, enjoying the clinking sound the coins and gems made. He didn't fear the people who were coming, even though he ran from them every time with his heart racing. They weren't virgins, so his glare would be their death. His fiery breath made them all see their greatest nightmares, and he fed of the happiness and joy he caused. He would kill THEM ALL, and heal them so they knew there was hope. He breathed in the smell of the deep waters, inhaling earth like the two-legs inhaled air. And why shouldn't he? Any creature with more legs than two was weird, anyway, and his wings stirred the water quite nicely, making it easier for him to walk across the uneven ground, hundreds of claws clicking in unison. He was all alone atop a tree in the middle of a plane, and the horde of beasts below him on the mountainside knew he was their evil dictator, who would kill them as he pleased, not caring about them at all. And yet, deep in the tunnels where they dwelled, where sunlight never reached, he loved them as a father, caring for them always. The knight had come to slay him, and he gave him orders and magic to do the deed, and just as the blade flashed up…
…Harry jerked awake, heart pounding as his head snapped back and forth, searching his room for threats. After a minute, his heartbeat calmed as the dream came back to him. That was the most illogical dream he had ever had in his life! Most dreams you have trouble remembering because they aren't vivid enough, more like vague impressions than actual vision and sound, but in this case, everything he had seen (remarkably vividly) made no sense! Shaking his head, he passed it off as adrenaline left over from the meeting last night. No, from the PRANK last night, he thought with a grin and a chuckle as he got out of bed. He looked out of the window of his room just in time to see the sun… nowhere. It was before dawn, and if the stars and moon were any indication, it wouldn't be dawn for several hours.
Groaning slightly to himself in protest the early hour and the coldness of a Scottish castle in November as he stretched, he realized that he really wasn't sleepy, which was odd. Yesterday, he had faced a dragon, gotten barbequed, gotten interrogated, revolutionized the school, and had to sneak through a victory party that was going on in the common room before he could get to bed (an exhausting day, even with the 'nap' the dragon gave him), yet, today, he felt… downright chipper. As he was pretty much the OPPOSITE of a morning person on a normal day, he found this… disconcerting, but he chalked it up to another side-effect of a near-death encounter. Well, nearer death than normal, anyway. And considering his track record, that was saying something.
He made his way out of the dorm to the empty, and rather messy, common room and groaned in annoyance. Sure, he could see the Griffs wanting to party after the first task (even if they really didn't make any mention of him, as they still saw him as a cheater) and sure, he could see exuberance on their part after the 'staff meeting' of last night, but Nevil was sleeping in the goddamned chandelier, for goodness sakes!!!
He sighed and started tidying up a bit. Yeah, the house-elves could do it better, but even he wasn't willing to make them clean up the tower of one-hundred and fifty-one butterbeer bottles on the central coffee table, and the potatoes-and-gravy swamp that was swallowing the chairs in the corner, and the crisp-growing bookshelves along the walls, and… well, at least he could say the Twins were as creative with snack food as they were with pranks.
Three more odd things happened during his clean-up, though he only noticed two of them. The first odd thing, and the one he missed, was the fact that, with a swipe of his hand, spells that were meant to be permanent shattered. The bookcases that were empty and covered in crisps (they had been empty for decades, though the crisps were relatively new) stopped spreading spuds, and sprouted scrolls and scribble-scrawled (dang it, what is an s-word for book. Eh, whatever) books that had been 'missing' for ages. Harry left the swamp for the house-elves, but when he bumped into it, it stopped bubbling and growing, and started to creep across the floor as the enchantment that helped keep it in place failed.
The second thing, and the first thing he (he almost literally jumped for joy) was that he STOPPED being so DAMN POETIC!!! He was favoring alliteration more than a sanctimonious and servile savior schoolboy should, but the repulsive and redundant rhyming and strident and souring similes were removed and reduced to subtle sneaking squeaks in the back of his mildly mildewed, but massive mind. That had PHYSICALLY hurt to come up with, but there wasn't a damned OUNCE OF POETRY IN IT! He was so happy about that, the third thing barely bothered him.
He sneezed a fireball.
It happened as he was working out how to deconstruct the Butterbeer-Bottle Bastion on the table, but when he brushed against it, it had bumped a chandelier that hadn't be dusted in a while, sending a shower of said dust into his face. The result was… surprising. The sneeze hadn't been that unusual, but when his sneeze ignited the GLASS tower and it BURNED to the (thankfully fireproof) tabletop, he was just the teensiest bit shocked.
Then… he shrugged it off.
I mean, really, with his life, sneezing fireballs was rather low on his list of priorities.
At this point, besides clutter, Nevil, and the mashed potatoes, the room was rather clean, so he decided it was time to make his way down to the kitchen, as breakfast wouldn't be served in the Great Hall for another two hours, and he didn't want to go back there anyway. If he had remembered last night the number of *shudder* people that gathered there at ANY mealtime, he wouldn't have gone. It's not that he didn't like people, per say… Yeah, no, any time there were more than two people without a definite purpose around him, bad things happened. He didn't like people. He liked INDIVIDUALS, but groups sucked.
He also wasn't sure how he knew where the kitchens were, but he did. Again, he shrugged. He didn't know, and, really, he didn't care.
House-elves were weird.
He had known this since his first meeting with Dobby two (and a little bit) years ago, but his trips to the kitchen just confirmed it in ways he hardly expected. Did he expect the house-elves to look somewhat odd? Of course! Did he expect them to fall all over each other trying to serve him? Naturally! Did he expect them to BOW DOWN AND WORSHIP HIM?!?!? Good Lord, no! If that kept up, he would brave the Great Hall!
Still completely put out by their behavior, but with breakfast in hand, he made his way to a quiet, and really pleasant, breakfast nook he (somehow) knew was hidden on the seventh floor. Weird elves aside, the room was large and sunshiny, and his breakfast was high in medium-rare meats, just as he liked it. Bacon, pork steak, several kinds of sausage, beefsteak, and even a VERY tasty slice of some kind of large snake that, somehow, seemed familiar, all topped off with a pot of fresh coffee eaten while reading an ancient Celtic book on god-myths that had been waiting for him on the table was just what the proverbial doctor ordered.
Smiling to himself as he made his way downstairs, his day, unfortunately, took its first turn for the worse, in the form of a quick trip… down three flights of stairs.
Harry woke up in the infirmary. He was on the floor in the infirmary, which, in his opinion, was a welcome change to the horrifying beds that were his alternative, but he hated being back here AT ALL! Worse still was the fact that his face, chest, and head were COVERED in bruises. He got up with a groan, and there, in front of him, sitting on the side table of what could only be called HIS bed, was the bloody golden egg, problem number two for the day. He sighed as he picked it up, casting a glare in its direction. He REALLY didn't want it. AT ALL. Still, he couldn't leave it lying around for Mme. Pomphrey to take care of. That just wouldn't be polite! He'd find something to do with it.
Alas, the egg brought about distraction, which lead to his third downfall of what would be a horrible morning. He let his feet lead him, and lead him they did… right into the Great Hall around breakfast time. Now, truth be told, no-one could really be thought to be at fault for what happened next, but the circumstances were quite damning. Harry Potter, the FAMOUS Harry Potter, made his way to the site of his last great victory, The Grand Staff Meeting, carrying an item that he got through unknown means while facing a dragon, in a tournament that no-one wanted him to be participating in, all after a bad night's sleep for most of the occupants of the castle, either due to partying or repercussions of the aforementioned meeting. It was just bad luck that made it so, but still, it was a recipe for disaster, and disaster is what Harry got.
It started out as grumblings as he took his seat. No-one seemed willing to do anything, but several people were clearly upset, and the Golden Eyesore sitting on the table next to Harry wasn't helping. The muttering became rumbling, which became gossiping and barely-heard insults. Naturally, Harry ignored them (he was quite used to them by now, since it began second year), but they didn't go away. Finally, Terrance Boot from Ravenclaw decided to 'do a Malfoy' about it.
"Would you look at that, it's the famous Harry Potter. You know, I was just talking to a few girls the other day, and they were complaining about your… performance. You know, how you blew it. They said they felt like you were a bit of a burnout, especially given how you went to sleep in the middle of it. I wouldn't think that the famous Harry Potter would have such performance issues like that."
When the boy had started talking, Harry had been incensed. Couldn't he just let him alone? But the more the 'claw talked, the funnier Harry thought it. This boy thought he could play with fire, he would get burned.
"I would never try and compare my performance to a woman's, Boot, they tend to be able to either outlast any guy they meet, or make it so that the man does whatever they say to bring a repeat performance. And since when were you so interested in my… performances? I hope you weren't angling for private lessons? Those only go to special women. Men tend to be a little too… thick for my liking."
Terry had gone a LOVELY shade of what Harry assumed was puce (I mean, who even knows what puce looks like?), and everyone around Harry seemed very confused. Since when did Harry Potter make witty retorts so glibly. Where was the angst, the drama? Sure, the nature of the exchange was totally different due to the fact that it wasn't Malfoy's usual taunts, but Harry was never this… prepared.
Then things got weirder when a Slytherin sat one seat down form Harry on the other side of the table.
"Hey, Potter."
"Hey, Malfoy."
Pandemonium ensued. Snape looked like someone had beat his favorite puppy with his favorite book; Ron Weasley, who up to this point had only been focused on food, turned a rather odd shade of green; Dumbledore was shocked speechless; and Hermione looked ready to punch someone.
"Harry," Hermione began, "Is that Draco Malfoy?"
"Yes, Hermione."
"The same Draco Malfoy that normally greets me as 'mudblood'?"
"That's the one."
"And you just greeted him in a vaguely chummy manner?!?"
"Vaguely, though I would say it was more of a 'tolerant' manner. We… coexist. He is a ponce, I am a martyr. Neither of us understand the other's methods, but we both come from the same place, so we… live and let live, I guess. Don't worry, we aren't friends, just… two rocks in the same river."
Draco, who up to this point had just been preparing a small breakfast for himself and was in the middle of a drink of milk, choked. As the coughing subsided, the laughing and stammering filled in. "We… we're WHAT?" he gasped out.
Harry cringed. "Turns out that side effects of Dragon Fire include being poetic, obsessing over alliteration, and philosophizing. Can't seem to lose the last two, though thank GOD the poetry stopped. Not sure if my reputation, such as it is, could take a hit like that."
Malfoy was still laughing, but he seemed collected enough to talk. "It would boost your teen girl fanclub." He offered, "But you would have to go… GOTH." Unable to contain himself, he went back to laughing.
"Yes, yes. Make fun of the guy without brain damage. Whatever. See if I care, Malfoy."
After several more minutes of laughter from Malfoy, grumbling from Harry, and flabbergasted…ness? from the rest of the hall, Draco finally calmed down.
"Sorry about that, that was too funny. I did want to apologize to you, Hermione. I was rather cruel to you for no good reason. It's not that I like you now, you know; in fact, I rather think you are a bit of a know-it-all, though you did have some talent to back it up. The problem is that you tend to make people feel inferior so that you can feel better about yourself, and I didn't like that. So, in a moment of blistering brilliance, I made you feel inferior so that I could feel better about myself.
I am not saying I am wrong about you as a person, mind, but I am saying that I could have, should have, and will in the future handle all instances the situation better. I also wanted to apologize to you (and I apologized to Hagrid earlier) about the whole Buckbeak thing last year. I started trying to show off, then got embarrassed, and by the time I realized what was happening, my father was using it as a political maneuver. I wanted to call it off, that's what I was doing as I was going to Hagrid's hut that day, but then you showed up and I had to double down or admit I was wrong in front of my childish rival."
"Childhood rival, Draco." Harry interjected.
"My childish rival." The blonde repeated with a smirk.
Harry muttered "Ponce." under his breath, making Draco's smile widen before he got serious again.
"Still, my actions are wrong, and I wanted to apologize. I also have to say, that as much as I hate it, that was an incredible punch. I actually was so upset about it that I forced my mother to let me sneak into muggle London to take self-defense courses so I can avoid getting punched in the face again, which is something NO 'honorable' pureblood has done in like, two hundred years. Then… I discovered McDonalds. It is AMAZING, and it got me thinking. If muggles can make things like that, are they really that bad? Then…" He paused long enough that they though he was done, but he was just thinking of what to say next. He finally continued, though his words were rather subdued. "I discovered guns. I never want to run afoul of a gun. Pistols were bad, rifles were worse, but the shotguns?" He shuddered. "They are scarier than ANY dark lord. I will never start aggression against a muggle. They might not have magic, but they can defend themselves QUITE well!
Anyway, I just wanted to say that I am sorry for being such a blunt dick. Yes, I still feel a few pins to your ego wouldn't have hurt, but I was approaching a piercing-hex situation with a bombarda, which was very un-Slytherin of me, and I'm sorry. Still, you should work on that ego of yours. Like mine for me, yours won't do you any favors."
Hermione, shocked to the core, blinked, stammered, and blinked some more, until Harry reached over and bopped her on the head. That didn't work so well.
The next several minutes were spent desperately attempting to revive the unconscious Hermione as Harry freaked out, and Draco sat there unconcerned and chuckling. Still, she woke up after a few minutes, none the worse for wear.
"HARRY!" she exclaimed when she saw him, "I just had the weirdest dream! You got barbequed by a dragon, and Malfoy apologized. It was SO WEIRD!"
"Em, Hermione?"
"Yes, Harry?"
Harry made a spinning motion with his hand, and, after a minute, Hermione got the idea and turned around. There was Malfoy. He was… kind of blushing? He at least looked uncomfortable. He was also sitting at the Gryffindor table, like in her dream. Wearing the same clothes, too.
"Oh, bloody hell, that actually happened!"
Harry gaped at her. Hermione cursing? Could this week get any weirder?
After several more minutes of stammering, muttering, blushing, and general awkwardness, Harry decided to change the subject. "So, Draco, what martial art are you learning?"
Draco got a 'guess' grin on his face, and about twenty seconds later, Harry groaned and facepalmed. "Please tell me I am wrong. Not even you would be that wrong!"
Draco grinned wider. "What other martial art would I choose? I am a Slytherin after all!"
Hermione, and almost everyone else at the table, looked completely lost, but no-one was willing to ask. After several minutes of Draco snickering while Harry gently banged his head against the table, Hermione broke.
"What? What is it?"
"He is learning shéquán, Hermione."
That didn't clear it up for anyone, though it did set Draco to laughing harder.
"Shéquán is a 'soft' Chinese martial art from the Shaolin Boxing family, particularly learned to aid in the use of the Chinese straight sword. It specializes in teaching a person how to twine their way around an opponent's guard to strike from unusual angles, a good choice for a witch or wizard as it relies on skilled finger and wrist motions, as well as quick reflexes and an ability to spot gaps in an enemy's defenses. It also roughly translates to 'snake-fist' or, in English parlance, Snake-Boxing."
With the faint sound of a 'ba-dum--tis' in the background, the whole table, and the readers, all groaned.
Things didn't get any better by lunch.
Trelawney was drunk, and kept taking swigs throughout her whole lesson. Ironically, she always seemed to do so when she caught a glimpse of Harry. This fact, coupled with the fact that she DIDN'T make a death prediction at him, scared him more than any other class he had been in with her; so much so, in fact, that he decided that he was done with divination. A wooly subject, it may be, but something about the teacher was… concerning to him, and he had had ENOUGH. He could have, of course, chosen any other subject to take, but he really felt that he would be better served with an extra free study period to help get his duck in a row. He wasn't sure what he was going to use it for, but he needed… something. Flying had been his solace for the last three years, but to be honest, Quidditch had kind of ruined that for him. Books certainly didn't help him relax, even though he had found several interesting ones over his time here; the thing was, they were not a method to de-stress. They didn't make him stress, either, they just didn't help.
That, and people were still bugging him. Honestly, it's not like surviving Dragon Fire was that odd, compared to the rest of his life.
And, of course, there was lunch itself. Muted mutterings were running around the room. Various people kept staring at him. And, worst of all, there was a six-foot gap on either side of him, with a similar seventeen-foot area on the other side of the table empty. And it was all due to the eight-inch-tall golden pain in Harry's ass that was, once more, sitting next to him. Apparently, the house-elves failed to recognize that his 'forgetting it' and leaving it behind wasn't accidental, so they (helpful little buggers that they were) saw to it that it ended up right back next to him, over and over again.
By the time lunch ended, Harry had had enough. He stood up, snatched the egg, and stormed over to Cedric Diggory at the Hufflepuff table. "Here, take this. Please. I don't want it, I don't need it, and, if I had my way, I wouldn't even be entered into this dumb contest. Good luck." That being said, and the egg being dumped, Harry stormed off to (shocker) more whispers.
He had almost made his way back to the Griff common room when the Weasley twins grabbed him, one to a side, and hauled him into a nearby abandoned classroom. Harry was winding up to dress them down when he noticed that they looked uncharacteristically serious.
"Harry, we need to talk to you." The one on the left said.
"It's about last night's prank, and the future this holds for us." The other continued, and with that they plunged into their tale, swapping who was talking every other sentence.
"As you know, we are rather the backbone of the project you had arranged; and, though it is against our wont, we wanted to really do this one right. Thanks to some clever slight of hand, we managed to earn a signature on a club form to allow us to found and run the club you asked us to. That is where the problem began. This morning, if it hadn't been for the sign-up sheets we had rigged, we would have forgotten all about it. That was bad, but odd things happen, and last night's party certainly put more than that out of a few minds. After we remembered, however, we went to the common room to post the sheets on the bulletin board so others could sign up for it. When we did so, both Ron and Hermione came up to ask us what it was for. When we mentioned the meeting last night, neither remembered it, and that got us concerned, so we went to talk to Luna about it. She… doesn't even remember your, or our, names. She had trouble remembering her own."
Harry stared at the two of them in shock as they gave each other a concerned look.
"Harry, something is very wrong here. No-one remembers the meeting, and everyone is back to thinking you cheated your way into the tournament."
A.N. And cut. Rec this go round is The Poker Game by Enterprise1701-d. Super harem, but that is just for fun, not actual harem. Is very funny, and very sweet. Please enjoy.