Lesson Two
With Professor Trelawney still barred from teaching, the Divination lesson was to be taken by the centaur, Tarahin. As a result it was being held in the ground floor classroom which Professor Dumbledore had transformed into a part of the forest. Singly or in groups, the students made their way to the room. They were not the only ones to do so.
"What's Umbridge doing here?" muttered Ron, scowling at the squat figure that was waddling majestically a couple of dozen yards ahead of them.
Harry shrugged. "Evaluating Tarahin on behalf of the Ministry, I suppose. She's doing it to all the other teachers."
"Let's hope he has better luck than Hagrid."
"He's got no chance. She'll want him out just because Dumbledore brought him in."
"True. Mind you, if she kicks up enough of a fuss he may forget to test us on our homework." Ron looked on the bright side. His attempts at seeing the future in the 'crystal ball' that the centaur had given him had been fruitless. "If he does forget, at least Hermione won't have to worry about the disgrace of getting no marks, for once."
"It was a ridiculous task!" Hermione bridled. "I'm sorry I wasted my time on it. As I'm not actually one of his students, I didn't really have to do it at all, but I thought I might as well oblige him. I don't believe people can see the future in real crystal balls, so what chance had we got of seeing it in cheap tourist tat from Blackpool? It's probably just another of his silly 'You must be kidding' things."
"'Centaur magic is different from human magic,'" Ron reminded her, quoting the words that she had used when she had first heard Tarahin's 'Dini hiumus tabiki' incantation. He had put that quotation before her on several occasions since the last Divination lesson, and her glare indicated that the joke was wearing thin.
"Oh, shut up!" she snapped.
"Better leave it, Ron," advised Harry with a grin, "unless you want the future to involve you trying to get your crystal ball out of a tight, dark place."
"I wonder if there's a spell for that," speculated Ron, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Bottomius insertio or something."
"There are times, Ronald Weasley, when you are extremely puerile." Hermione surveyed him icily.
"Maybe, but I'm not barmy enough to turn up for lessons when I don't have to, like you're doing. – When are your extra Arithmancy lessons going to start, anyway?"
"Next week. Professor Vector said the class is still doing things that I've already covered, so there's not much point in my turning up just yet, but they're supposed to be catching up with me at some point over the next few days. Until then, it's free periods."
"Free periods." Ron shook his head ruefully, and turned towards Harry. "She could be doing nothing, and she's going to a class instead! What wouldn't I give for free periods?"
"Your whole life is a free period. – An intelligence-free period!" was Hermione's opinion, tartly expressed. She might well have said more, but they had arrived at the classroom door.
As it had done for the first of the centaur's Divination lessons, the classroom had become a ruin in a forest glade. Harry wondered if it was like that all the time or only when it was in use for Divination lessons. Sunlight filtered through the trees, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves every now and again. Tarahin himself was standing there, grave-faced and immobile except for an occasional twitch of his long white silken tail. Most of the class were already present: they were sitting in a semi-circle in front of him. With a graceful gesture of his right hand he indicated to Harry, Ron and Hermione that they should sit with the others. They did so. Moments later Michael Corner and Terry Boot arrived, with a flustered-looking Neville Longbottom at the rear.
"Sorry I'm late sir," Neville panted. "I dropped my books and things, and they went all over the place."
"Your lateness, Neville Longbottom, is marginal at most. It shall have no ill effects upon the lesson," the centaur told him gravely. "Be-you sat; and be-you welcome."
"Thank you, sir." Red about the cheeks, Neville subsided on to the grass at the end of the semi-circle.
"Displays a lamentably negligent attitude to timekeeping and to discipline." The voice was that of Professor Umbridge, who was standing to one side. She appeared to be speaking to herself, as she made a note in her book, but her words were plainly audible. If Tarahin was disturbed by them he gave no sign of it.
"Young Daughters of Eve. Young Sons of Adam. Be-ye welcome," he began calmly. "And you, Dolores Umbridge. We shall begin by examining the homework that I set at the end of the last lesson. Do-ye take out your crystal balls, therefore, and also the notebooks in which ye listed the results of your scrying. – You wish to say something, Dolores Umbridge?" For she had coughed politely but meaningfully.
"I do, indeed, Professor Tarahin." Umbridge walked up to him and stood in front of him. Her lack of height emphasised his tallness, and she had to peer up to talk to him, as though she was talking to somebody who was sitting on a horse. "Before I begin to assess the methods which you use in attempting to teach this lesson I must establish your fitness to teach it at all. What, exactly, are your qualifications for taking Divination classes?"
The centaur gazed down at her, expressionless. "My qualifications for taking Divination classes," he said evenly, "are the same as your qualifications for taking part in the running of Hogwarts school, Dolores Umbridge. We are both attempting to carry out a task to which we have never before set our hands, a task for which we are unsuited; and we are doing so not from choice but at the behest of other people. We are stop-gaps, you and I, tools put to use not because we are fitted for the purpose but because we are available."
"Whatever your own shortcomings are, I am perfectly capable of supervising the running of this school, Professor Tarahin, I assure you." Umbridge glowered. "My years of experience at the Ministry of Magic have given me ample experience of dealing with people – and indeed with half-breeds such as yourself. I am more than capable of reorganizing Hogwarts so that its teaching standards meet the requirements which parents rightly demand of it, whereas you appear to have neither the experience nor the qualifications which would suggest that you are fit to be a teacher. What do you actually know about the subject that you are purporting to teach?"
"My kind have made a practise of wisdom, down throughout the centuries," the centaur told her mildly. "I have dipped my cup into the well of that wisdom, and would offer it to these human foals that they may sip of it. If they give ear to me, they shall learn how rightly to look at the futures. Given the apparent inability of most Two-legs to see past the ends of their own noses, such is none ill for a foal to learn."
"So, you look into the future, do you?" She regarded him with frank derision. "Look into it now, then, and make a prophecy."
"You wish me to foretell the future?" Tarahin's left eyebrow raised slightly. As the class knew, this was a warning sign; but Professor Umbridge failed to recognize it.
"Yes. If you can. Which I very much doubt."
"Be it so, then." The centaur closed his eyes. He raised his arms, and chanted "Dini... Hiumus... Tabiki," twice, to Hermione's barely-concealed disgust. That done, he lowered his arms, opened his eyes, and fixed Umbridge with an unnerving hazel stare. "I predict," he said impressively, raising a fore-hoof, "that the next sound made by Dolores Umbridge shall be one of pain." And with that he trod upon her foot, heavily.
"Aaaaaagh!" Anguished, she pulled her foot from under his hoof; having withdrawn it she clutched at it and hopped up and down, trying to comfort it.
Tarahin put his forefinger to his lips and moistened it with his tongue. Then he drew a large figure '1' with it, in the air.
"Mark-ye, tremble, and learn, ye that would scoff at my prophetic powers," he said to nobody in particular.
The reaction among the students was mixed. Jaws dropped, eyes widened, and there were one or two stifled chuckles.
"You've broken my bloody toes, you wretched creature!" roared Umbridge, still hopping.
"I prophesied at your demanding, Dolores Umbridge. And my prophecy was fulfilled," he pointed out calmly.
"Of course it was fulfilled! You bloody well fulfilled it yourself!"
"Somebody has to fulfil prophecies, and no gainsay. They do not fulfil themselves, do they? – For more, there are healing spells that you can apply to your foot, are there not?"
A muttered oath from Umbridge. "I don't know any bloody healing spells!" she hissed.
"You occupy a senior position at the Ministry of Magic, but you do not know any healing spells?" Tarahin gazed down at her, his eyebrow once again set at 'danger', and asked softly, "What kinds of spell do you know, then, Dolores Umbridge?"
"You'll find out, one of these days; you and all the other vermin!" Cautiously she lowered her foot to the ground, and tried to put her weight on it. She winced. "Ouch!" she yelped.
"Would you have me prophecy again?" he asked innocently.
"No, I wouldn't, you – you half-donkey!" With as much dignity as she could manage, she limped back to the side of the class, muttering "Disgraceful! Assault on a Ministry official!" as she went.
"Young Daughters of Eve. Young sons of Adam. Your homework." Freed from the interference of officialdom, Tarahin took up the reins of the lesson again. "I trust ye every found the opportunity to concentrate upon your crystal balls for ten minutes. Were any among ye unable to do so?" A glance around the class showed that everybody had done their homework – or at least that nobody was admitting that they hadn't done it. He nodded satisfaction in his usual rather horsey way: head raised, angled slightly, and lowered again. "It is well. Yet ere we turn to such, there was a special task that I laid upon you, Dean Thomas. I trust that you have executed it."
"Finding out about the – the centaurs and their... mates, sir?" Dean began. "Um. Yes, I've done it."
"Then do-you put the results of your research afore your classmates."
"You want me to tell everybody, sir?"
"I do, Dean Thomas."
"Right." Dean appeared uneasy. "It – it doesn't exactly show centaurs in the best of lights, sir, if you take my meaning."
"We shall risk such."
"Oh. Well, the first one I came across was called Cheiron. He was married to somebody called Chariclo. She was a nymph. – It's a kind of goddess or spirit of some sort, not what you think," he added, hearing somebody snigger. He looked down at his notes and pressed gamely on. "And then there was Nessus. He tried to – to romance Deianeira, who was Hercules's wife. She was a human, of course. And there was, um – " he took another glance at his notes – "Eurytion. He and some other centaurs stole away Hippo- Hippo-day-mee-eye-a, is it? – The daughter of king, um – I can't read what I've written... King Enormous? He was king of Pisa, anyway. – But she was a woman, too, of course. There were a few other women, too, by the look of it, and one of the stories mentioned a mermaid, which seemed a bit – weird. But you said 'three', and those were the first three I read about."
"Even so." Tarahin nodded gravely, in that horsey way. "The king's name was Oenomaus, and his daughter was Hippodamia. It was rape, of course, but I doubt that she was ever taken to court and charged. – Be it or no, have your researches enabled you to reach any conclusions about my kind and our origins?
"They – sort of have, yes, sir." His main conclusion had been that centaurs were as randy as rabbits and far less moral, but it seemed impolite to say so. Happily Tarahin didn't press the point.
"And you are no longer under the illusion that we are a result of a breeding programme instigated by Rubeus Hagrid?"
"Definitely not, sir." Dean was utterly certain about that.
"It is well. – Let this be the final word upon the Childer of the Forest, ye Childer of Eve and Adam." Looking from face to face, Tarahin spoke solemnly. "Be the following known to ye: we centaurs are more than capable of organizing our own breeding programmes. We choose our own mates. And we are not especially selective with regard to their species." He paused, as if struck by a sudden thought. Then he turned to face Professor Umbridge, who had been outraged by the excursus into the matter of centaur breeding habits and was looking at him with great distaste.
"We are not especially selective with regard to their species," he repeated softly, as if to himself. And again, even more softly, "We are not especially selective with regard to their species..." Slowly, millimetre by millimetre, a smile spread across his face, becoming a leering grin as it did so.
Umbridge stared at him, mouth agape. To her astonishment he raised a finger and pointed at her. Reversing it, he pointed at himself. A jerk of his thumb indicated the leafy fastness of the forest. A bunched fist and several pumpings of his forearm left nothing to the imagination; he followed them with a wink and a jerk of his head in the direction that his thumb had indicated.
"P – Professor Tarahin!" Scarlet-faced, wide eyed, she gazed at him as if transfixed. He repeated the gestures, from the pointings to the wink and the jerk. Then the spell broke. With a cry of "The Minister shall hear about this!" she turned and waddled off towards the doorway, with as much speed as dignity and her aching toes would allow.
"You have a most alluring arse, Dolores Umbridge!" Tarahin called after her in honeyed tones. An eyebrow poised questioningly, he watched as, disregarding the protests of her toes, she accelerated, fled from the classroom and slammed the door shut behind her. He wrinkled his nose and sighed. "'Some ye win, some ye lose,' as your human sages have it," he said, stamping a hind hoof philosophically. Then he focused his attention on the class once more.
"So. Now that we may turn to your homework without fear of interruption we shall do so... I bade ye find somewhere quiet, empty your minds of all thought, concentrate for ten minutes upon what ye saw in the balls, and scribe the results in your notebooks. Ye every did such, credit to ye. Did any among ye see aught?"
The question met with blank faces and shaken heads. There was, however, one hand raised. It was that of Draco Malfoy. "I saw something, sir," he said, with a respect that was obviously feigned.
"Even so, Dracoy Malfoy?" Tarahin studied him. "And what was it?"
"It was a silly little tower of some sort."
"How big was the 'silly little tower'?" enquired the centaur, over Pansy Parkinson's sycophantic giggle.
"I don't know. A couple of inches."
"How were its girders arranged?"
Malfoy blew impatience. "I don't know. Sort of crossways, I think."
"Was there anything else besides the tower?"
"Well, there was a notice with 'A Present From Blackpole' or something on it. It was somewhere I'd never heard of; some stupid muggle place, I suppose. And there were some other buildings, too."
"And was there aught other?"
"There was – I don't know. Water, and some silly stuff that was supposed to be snow."
"How many flakes of snow were there?"
"I don't know! How should I know? I've got better things to do than sit around counting bits of muggle imitation snow!"
"Happen so. You wrote this in your book?"
"No. Only the bit about the tower. It didn't seem worth putting the rest of it in. It's not as though it had anything to do with the future."
"It had naught to do with the future. Yet it had all to do with your homework." Tarahin looked from one face to another, and went on placidly, "I bade ye study your crystal balls and describe what ye saw in there. The telling of nigh every among ye was that ye saw naught. Draco Malfoy alone has said that he saw in there what were obvious to anyone even at a glance: a tower, an inscription, some houses, water, and imitation snow. For that, I award ten points to his house. – At the other flank," he continued, freezing Malfoy's incredulous but triumphant grin, "Draco Malfoy offered the result of his observations with the intention not of furthering the class's learning, but of extracting the urine from his teacher. For that I subtract ten points from his house."
Malfoy's grin was replaced by a scowl, but grins appeared on several other faces.
"It is important," the centaur pressed on, "to have a firm grasp of a task ere ye attempt to carry it out. Ye heard my instructions, which were precise, but ye misinterpreted them. Thus when ye studied the balls ye strove to see what ye believed I wished ye to see, not what I told ye that I required of ye to see."
"That's not fair, sir!" protested Seamus.
"How is it not fair, Seamus Finnegan?" Tarahin eyed him seriously.
"You knew we thought you wanted us to look into the future, and you never made it clear that you didn't."
"My instructions were clear, or no?"
"I suppose they were. But they were misleading all the same."
"Happen such is truth. Yet what would ye have gained if I had made my instructions more explicit? Naught. By getting aught wrong, ye learn to take care to get it right in the future. It is important in any discussion between folk that each side understands full well what the others are saying; a difference between what is intended and what is understood can be catastrophic. It is also important that as ye go through life ye try to see what is actually there, not just that for which ye are looking. Again, there is a lesson inside the ball, not just a 'silly little tower'." He paused, then continued pointedly, "It is easy to step though life as though asleep, to pay as little heed to your senses as gets ye through the day. And yet the world around ye is redolent with wonders, from the insects that ye crush unheeding under your hoofs to the clouds that dance unnoticed above ye. Ye live, ye Childer of Eve and Adam! There is a magic in all that is, a magic that dwarfs any farting around with wands. It can be savoured by anybody, but most always it goes unheeded, drowned in the seas of your busyness. When is the last time ye looked at aught with any measure of concentration? Or touched it, or smelled it, or listened to it, or tasted it? Attempting to prophesy the future is of limited worth, and may be done only by a few if any; but appreciating the present is of all worth, and can be done by anyone. If ye learn such as a result of this lesson, your attending shall not have been in vain. And it is to that end that your next homework is directed: ye shall select a commonplace object, and ye shall study it with your several senses for ten minutes. At the end of that time ye shall write a description of it in your notebooks. Yes?"
"Right, sir." Seamus nodded, as did several other people.
"It is well." Tarahin was satisfied. "We step onwards, then. – This nexting fastens upon the theme of 'perception'. In it ye shall attempt to distinguish betwixt what is real and what is apparent: ye shall strive to see what is truly there, as Draco Malfoy did with the crystal ball." At a wave of his hand a large rectangle of chipboard appeared, and hung behind him apparently unsupported. Another wave, and a large sheet of paper appeared, pinned to the board. As the class watched, a line drawing shimmered into view. They gazed at it.
"Behold-ye an inking. At first, it shall look to your eyes like unto a shapeless collection of blots," Tarahin told them, without bothering to look at the paper. "Ye should concentrate upon it, and attempt to purge your minds of thought. Ere long it may speak to ye. If it does, ye should write down what ye see, and indicate by raising a hand briefly that ye are done. Yes?"
Still the class gazed. Michael Corner raised a tentative hand.
"Sir?" he said cautiously.
"Yes, Michael Corner?" The centaur regarded him inquisitively.
"It – um. It looks like a naked centauress to me."
Tarahin's eyebrow lifted slightly, but he nodded. "Different people shall see different patterns there," he said calmly.
"It looks like a naked centauress to me, too, sir," offered Ron.
"Me too." Half a dozen other people chimed in.
"Hmh?" Tarahin glanced around at the paper. Sure enough, there upon it was a drawing of a centauress; young, naked and unashamedly busty. She raised a hand and waved at him. "Hups!" he murmured. "Wrong picture!" A circle of his forefinger encompassed the centauress and then pointed away from the paper. She stuck her tongue out at him, chuckled, and cantered off to the side, out of sight, her bosom bouncing. At another circle of his finger what looked like a random splodge of ink replaced her.
"As I said previously," he reiterated, not in the least put out by the mishap, "ye should concentrate upon the picture, and attempt to purge your minds of thought – especially of that thought, Dean Thomas. Ere long it may speak to ye. It may not speak to ye loudly; it may but whisper, setting ye in mind of aught rather than offering an unmistakable semblance. If it speaks to ye, softly or loudly, ye should write down what ye see, close your books, and indicate by raising a hand briefly that ye are done. Ye may be required to outline the shape that ye see, so well that ye make no pretence at seeing."
There was silence, as the class studied the splodge. Mandy Brocklehurst was the first to scribble something down in her notebook. She put her hand in the air; the centaur nodded to her, kindly, and indicated that she could lower it. Neville came a close second, then Seamus. A cluster of people followed, Harry and Hermione among them.
"A wild guess shall suffice from ye others," Tarahin told the stragglers. "We have enough seeings for us to continue." He waited while the last three quills scratched their tardy descriptions. When the final quill had been put down he cocked an imperious finger.
"What the – ?" Mandy squeaked alarm as the notebook under her hand wriggled. With a sound like 'thupp' it spat out the word that she had recently written down. The word stretched, and jumped into the air; it flew over to Tarahin and hovered at his head-height, to the right of him. Other notebooks quivered, other words were shot out of them, and before long the centaur had a small cloud of words beside him, shimmering together like a school of fish. He regarded them composedly.
"As ye can see, ye have produced a variety of words," he said. "It is easier for us to study them if they group like with like, enlarge, and take on a brighter colour." As he spoke, the words changed formation, ones that were similar hovering close by each other. They also grew in size and changed colour, turning from ink-black to a spectrum of iridescent hues.
"That's pretty, sir." Hannah Abbott was impressed.
"Words often have beauty, Hannah Abbott," he responded gravely. "But to discern such, ye must pay they due heed and treat they aright. – As ye see, we have several 'butterfly's, some 'cloud's, two 'puddle's, a 'fairy with wings', a 'bear', a 'dog', an 'explosion', and, amongst other things, a 'naked centauress'. Be-stood-you, Dean Thomas, and step-you to the board."
Dean stood up, half amused, half embarrassed, and moved to stand in front of the board.
Tarahin regarded him, straight-faced, and gestured toward the paper. "Now, Dean Thomas. Do-you outline for me the shape of a centauress, naked or otherwise," he bade levelly.
"Er. How do you know it was me who wrote that, sir?" bluffed Dean.
"What subject am I teaching ye, Dean Thomas?"
"Er. Divination, sir."
"Such, I would suggest, answers your question. – Do-you oblige me by outlining the naked centauress that you claimed to see in that shape." Still solemn of face, the centaur looked down at him.
"I – . Um. I'm not sure I can see it now, sir."
"I am sure that you intended to refer to the centauress as 'her' rather than as 'it', Dean Thomas."
"I can't see her now, I mean. Yes, of course." Noticing that Tarahin's left eyebrow had risen fractionally, and that the face of the banished centauress had reappeared and was glaring at him around the edge of the page, Dean hastened to correct his mistake.
"Were you able to see her at all, Dean Thomas?"
"Well. No. Not really, sir. It was just a bit of a joke. – Though, I can see her face now."
"Hmh?" Tarahin glanced at the drawing. "Oh." He bared his teeth at the centauress and pointed imperiously into the background of the drawing. She responded with a rude gesture, and galloped off into the distance, disappearing behind the blotch. "I did say that ye might be required to outline the figures ye claimed to see, Dean Thomas," he continued, in even tones.
"Yes. I – I thought I might get away with it, sir," admitted Dean candidly.
"Such a misjudgement is – unfortunate." The centaur's eyes narrowed slightly. "We are dealing with words; and words, see-you, have power – the word 'thwack' as a forinstance."
To the class's surprise 'THWACK!' appeared on the seat of Dean's pants, in gold letters. It glowed briefly, and vanished.
"Ow!" Dean put his hands to his bottom, which felt as though somebody had given it a rap with a hollow plastic cricket bat. When he took them away another word, 'HOT', glowed red for a moment before disappearing in its turn. There were one or two chuckles from the class, which Dean, who hadn't been able to see either of the words, couldn't understand.
"I subtract a point from your house for your lack of judgement, Dean Thomas. – And I award a point to your house for your honesty. Be-sat-you, and learn."
"Fair enough, sir. Thank you."
Tarahin waited while Dean, grinning ruefully, took his place among his classmates. Then he picked up the reins of the lesson again. "There is but one pattern upon the paper. Yes? And yet, ye saw in it several different pictures. In order that ye see that every picture has validity I would ask one among ye who saw a butterfly to step forward and outline it. Lisa Turpin, of your grace?"
Lisa stood up. She made her way over to the board and traced the outline of a butterfly with her finger. "That's the first wing, there, obviously," she said. "And that's the second. Its body's a bit squished, but you did say it didn't have to be a good likeness. – Sir."
"Truth." The centaur gave one of his horsey nods. "While you are here, can you make out any of the other shapes?"
"Er." Lisa examined the picture. "There's kind of a look of a cloud to it, with the swirly bits, there," she said, pointing. "I suppose it could be a puddle, too; the swirls are much the same. But that's the lot, really. – Sir."
"Even so. My thanks, Lisa Turpin. Be-sat-you. – Ye every then would grant a butterfly, a cloud and a puddle? Yes?"
There were murmurs of agreement.
"Other forms, perhaps, are less obvious. Vincent Crabbe, do-you outline your bear, of your grace."
Crabbe got up, clumsily. He slouched forward and peered at the paper. "Well, it's curled up. But that's its back, that curvy bit there. And that bit's kind of its – bum. And that blobby part could be a head." He jabbed a rough finger at the drawing.
"A back... a head... and a bum." Tarahin plainly had no problems with the last expression. As he spoke a golden line briefly highlighted the shapes on the paper. "You every see such?"
"Yes, sir." Everybody saw it.
"My thanks, Vincent Crabbe. Be-sat-you. – Ronald Weasley, the explosion was yours. Of your grace?"
"Um." Red-faced, Ron stumbled to the board. "I suppose it's pretty well the same as the cloud," he began. "But I just thought of there being more power behind those swirls. You can see it coming from there, and there. – Can't you?" He appealed to his classmates. The result was unexpected.
"Praise be to our Divination teacher, the great, the good!" A voice rang out. It was that of Draco Malfoy. Everybody turned, and stared at him. He looked as astonished as they did. Lips slightly parted, eyes wide, he put a hand to his throat as if checking where the exclamation had come from.
"I value your approval, Draco Malfoy." Tarahin surveyed him expressionlessly. "Yet I prefer to have no interruptions in the classroom, be they expressions of appreciation of myself or of derogation of the work of other members of the class. You will take my preference into consideration in the future, I do not doubt. Yes?"
"Y – yes. Yes, sir." At a twitch of the centaur's eyebrow Malfoy added a hasty honorific. He still seemed unable to believe that he had just shouted Tarahin's praises. The other Slytherins were equally mystified.
"It is well. – And, ye every can see the explosion of which Ronald Weasley spoke? Yes?"
"Yes, sir," came a chorus.
"Even so. – Be-sat-you, Ronald Weasley. My thanks."
"What was all that about?" whispered Ron as he took his place again and Morag MacDougal went to the board to point out the shape of her 'frog'.
"Malfoy was going to make some cheap joke, I'm sure of it," Harry breathed. "But it came out all wrong."
"You reckon Tarahin jinxed him?"
"I can't think what else could have happened."
"Blimey." Ron was impressed, despite himself.
Morag returned to her place, having justified her 'frog' in everybody's eyes. Tarahin waited patiently until she had settled down and had stopped shuffling about. Then he spoke again.
"One shape," he said, gesturing towards the board. "Yet from it ye gained several impressions, all of which can be seen to be valid. Ye each fastened upon the picture that ye named because it came to ye through the filter of your mind. Remember-ye such, for it puts into your hands a valuable tool: it enables ye to be aware of your own mind-set. A serene mind is likely to present ye with gentle pictures, a troubled mind with ones that are darker. Being aware of your frame of mind enables ye to take your mood into consideration when you are evaluating possible courses of action. If ye look at tea-leaves and see the pattern of a skull, for instance, it may or may not have any bearing upon the future; but what it does indicate is that ye may well be very despondent, and that any decisions ye make are likely to be influenced by that despondency, mostlike for the worse. If, at the other flank, ye look into the leaves and see the pattern of a naked centauress, such indicates that ye are suffering from chronic optimism; to the point where ye may be tempted to vex your Divination teacher by trying his patience, again mostlike for the worse. Being aware of your mood, ye shall be in a position to evaluate your judgements more accurately and perhaps prevent disaster falling upon your heads."
As he said this last sentence, words the size of snowflakes began to tumble down upon the class. They were white and light and sparkly, and when Harry flicked one from his sleeve he saw that it said 'DISASTER'.
Parvati Patil, waving her hand to shoo away the descending disasters, chuckled. Hermione, however, gave a sniff of disapproval and brushed a disaster out of her hair impatiently.
"How do ye seek to prevent disaster falling upon your heads, ye Daughters of Eve and Sons of Adam?" asked Tarahin.
"You try to be aware of your mood, sir?" suggested Neville tentatively.
"Ye do indeed, Neville Longbottom. And so?" The centaur cocked an eyebrow inquiringly.
"Er." Neville looked up at the disasters spiralling down. "I – Um. I'm aware of my mood," he said, in a voice that was less than assured. To his relief the disasters above him disappeared. "It worked," he said, with a broad grin.
"It worked, Neville Longbottom, yes. – The rest among ye should follow in the path that Neville Longbottom has shown ye."
Variations on a theme of 'I'm aware of my mood' came from the class. As a result the flurry of disasters eased, until the only person still beset by them was Lavender Brown.
"I quite like my disasters, actually, sir," she proclaimed, raising her face to meet them as they fell.
"Praise be to our Divination teacher, the great, the good!" This time it was Pansy Parkinson who shouted out. She realized what she had done, and looked horrified.
Tarahin surveyed her. "Flattering though your praises are, Pansy Parkinson," he said calmly, "I would urge you to accept that this class would be no worse for the lack of them. The opinions of members of the class with regard to their fellow students are likewise superfluous. – Yet to return to your disasters, Lavender Brown," he went on, turning to Lavender, "are you aware of your mood?"
Lavender sighed. "I suppose I am, sir," she admitted. The shower of disasters ceased, and the words that were lying on the ground evaporated.
"It is well." The centaur gave one of his horsey nods, and returned to his theme. "It is possible to see patterns in many things. Some patterns tend to indicate positive moods, others negative, though the interpretation may vary from person to person – for example a picture of a snake may be positive to an ophidiophile and negative to an ophidiophobe. If ye are ever called upon by someone to offer an interpretation of aught – a dream, perhaps – ye should ascertain what effect the subject matter of that dream has upon them, ere ye offer any meaning. Ye shall have noticed, I dun'na doubt, that for divination by means of patterns to be solidly grounded the patterns must be seen by the person who seeks the divination, not by the diviner. The basic task of the diviner is to interpret. A clear seeing of the future is rare indeed, but the interpretation of signs and patterns may be carried out by anyone who is possessed of a measure of intelligence and has the will to apply it. – Open-ye your notebooks, now, and find-ye a blank page."
There was a fluttering of paper as the notebooks were opened. When it ceased, Tarahin lifted a finger and crooked it slightly. Again words fluttered down, but this time they were small and black. They landed on the pages with a slight pattering sound, and arranged themselves into columns.
"I wish I could do my homework like that," muttered Ron under his breath, was he watched the words line up.
"It'd be useful," agreed Harry, equally quietly.
"Ye see before ye twenty words." Tarahin addressed the class when the shower ended. "Ye shall write opposite each your evaluation of them – whether ye regard them as good or as bad. And ye shall give a reason for your regarding. When ye are finished, ye shall indicate such with a hand. Ye may begin."
The members of the class bent over their notebooks and began to study the list of words. While he waited for them to finish their task, the centaur bent down and plucked a handful of long grass from the floor of the forest classroom. He inspected it casually, and spotted a beetle, which he coaxed on to his finger and deposited in a place of comparative safety. Having ensured that his handful of grass was free from insects he raised it to his mouth, took a bite from it, and chewed ruminatively.
Analysing the class's responses to the various words proved to be a straightforward process, if a mildly interesting one. Several words had met with differing reactions, prompting a short debate about the reason for the differences – the debate might well have gone on for longer had not time run out and the bell rung.
"Ye have your homework," Tarahin reminded the pupils as they stood up and gathered their equipment together. "Ye shall select a familiar object, examine it closely for ten minutes using whichever of your senses ye judge appropriate, and write a description of it in your notebooks."
"There's no catch this time, is there, sir?" asked Seamus, slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder.
"There is no 'catch' this time, Seamus Finnigan. – Ye Daughters of Eve, ye Sons of Adam; fair parting." The centaur conjured the classroom door open casually. That done, he harvested another handful of grass and strolled off into the forest, taking the occasional appreciative bite at the grass as he went. The class piled out of the doorway.
"Well. That was – novel," commented Ron thoughtfully, as he and his friends made their way to the Griffyndor common room.
"It was," agreed Harry, in a similar manner.
"Did Tarahin really suggest to Umbridge that her and him should – ?" Tactful for once, Ron allowed for Hermione's presence and left the remainder of his sentence unsaid.
"I – got that impression."
"He's a braver man than I am, then... I wonder if he would have, if she'd said 'yes'."
"I really don't know. Though she didn't look like she was going to say 'yes'." Recalling the expression that had come to Umbridge's face, Harry chuckled. "'You have a most alluring arse, Dolores Umbridge.' That'll be something to remember, the next time I get on the wrong side of her!"
"I still don't see how people and centaurs could do that sort of thing. You'd have thought they'd be way too – you know." He held his hands wide to illustrate the point.
"You would. – I wouldn't let Tarahin hear you talking about 'people and centaurs', by the way. I get the feeling he reckons centaurs are people, and that he reckons it quite strongly."
"Fair point," Ron allowed. "Humans and centaurs, then. I wonder if it was right, what Dean said about those centaurs and the women."
"It sounded a bit unlikely," was Harry's opinion. "And the mermaid sounded even less likely."
"It also sounded a bit rude," Hermione broke in, with a disdainful sniff. "More than a bit, in fact."
"Come on, Hermione!" Ron glanced at her. "You've got to admit that the idea of Umbridge and Tarahin getting romantic is enough to make a gargoyle laugh."
"It's a disgusting idea," she said severely. "And where he got that picture of a naked woman from, I don't know. I don't go to Divination classes expecting sex!"
"Where do you go, then?" The question slipped out before Ron could stop it.
Hermione subjected him to a withering glare. "Your hormones have got a lot to answer for," she told him crushingly. "I'll be glad when you get to the other end of adolescence and start behaving like a normal human being instead of a troll! – And we didn't learn anything in that lesson. Nothing magical, anyway."
"He was spot-on with that prediction," Ron reminded her. She snorted.
"That was just another bit of 'Dini Hiumus Tabiki' rubbish. I don't suppose he'd recognize a proper prediction if it walked up to him and introduced itself. It's no wonder Professor Binns was so scathing about centaur magic! – And if you say 'centaur magic is different from human magic' I'll strangle you," she added, seeing Ron opening his mouth.
Ron closed his mouth.
"I'd like to see Umbridge's report, when she's finished it," reflected Harry. "'The member of staff under inspection trod on my foot, and then made a romantic proposal to me.' I don't suppose she's had to write that about many people. I wouldn't give much for his chances of staying in the job, after that."
Another sniff from Hermione. "I don't think he deserves to stay in the job: he's not a proper teacher. And it certainly wasn't my idea of a romantic proposal. I sincerely hope it wasn't yours, either. As for the troll here, goodness knows what his girlfriends can expect. – 'Get your coat, darlin'. You've pulled!'" she declaimed, in what was supposed to be Ron-like tones.
"Thanks, Hermione, but I'm busy at the moment. Some other time, perhaps." The voice was that of Lee Jordan. He, too, was heading for the common room, at a somewhat faster pace than that of Harry and his friends. Hearing her as he was overtaking them, he seized the opportunity to indulge in some mild teasing.
"I wasn't talking to you!" She spun around and glared at him.
"Drat!" he said cheerfully. "Which of you two's the lucky man, then?"
"The one who didn't get pulled," supplied Ron, more or less on reflex.
Hermione jinxed his shoelaces into the blackest of black knots, and didn't speak to him for the rest of the evening.