Firenze pointed straight up at the red star glowing above Sean's head.
"For the past ten years, the signs have been clear: the wizarding world is only catching its breath between two wars. Mars, the bringer of battle, burns bright overhead. It tells us war will come again soon. How soon? Centaurs might burn certain herbs and leaves, read the smoke and flame, and try to guess…"
This was the weirdest class Sean had ever taken. Under Firenze's guidance, he lit bundles of sage and mallow.
Firenze told him to stare into the choking smoke and spot shapes or symbols. The centaur described signs that were nearly impossible to see, but he didn't seem to care if Sean missed them.
He just said humans had never been good at this. Even centaurs needed centuries to master it.
[You practiced divination magic at apprentice level. Proficiency +1]
Divination magic?
This was Sean's first time touching it.
"You see that outline?!"
Firenze suddenly trotted over, hooves clopping excitedly.
[You gained closeness with the centaur Firenze at journeyman level. Proficiency +10]
"Yeah, Mr. Firenze. It looked like a volcano. What does that mean?"
Sean answered honestly.
"You're gifted, even for a wizard. Volcano means a deeper, more violent eruption is coming."
Firenze had him study the other planets next, but for a long time after that, Sean couldn't make sense of a single weird shape.
Before they parted, Firenze had no books to give him; centaur knowledge was passed down by word of mouth.
So that's why they live in herds, Sean realized.
Finally, Firenze warned him: even centaurs get it wrong sometimes. Trusting this stuff too much was foolish.
No knowledge was perfect. Not even theirs.
…
Sean came back from the forest with Fang trotting beside him, notebook stuffed with sketches of smoke shapes, burn angles, flame patterns; tiny details crammed onto every page.
Centaurs really did use celestial magic. And they were willing to teach it.
He also figured out that celestial magic only predicted big, world-shaking events. Little everyday bad luck? The planets didn't care.
Exams were creeping closer. Firenze had started letting Sean call him "teacher."
He said wizards and centaurs were equals, but Sean believed the student should show respect to the one giving knowledge.
That night, Sean slipped out of the forest with an hour to spare before curfew and headed straight to the hospital wing.
Quirrell had been chugging super-strength restorative potions lately. Side effects: steam pouring out of his ears and passing out for a full day.
Bad news: to heal faster, he was downing one bottle a day.
That put some of Sean's plans on hold.
Like the agent thing.
His Fairy-Tale Cookie series still wasn't for sale. He'd only been back from the alchemy conference a week, but the Hope Cottage was already buried in owls from alchemists begging for stock.
Those masters knew exactly how long high-level creations took: two days for a Protego cookie, three for a Hippogriff, one for a Kneazle, and a whole week for a dragon.
Yet they still expected him to pull them out of thin air.
Moonlight spilled across the grounds as Sean pushed open the hospital wing doors. Madam Pomfrey was used to the quiet little visitor by now.
This kid never made noise; came and went like a ghost, even cast Muffliato when he talked.
If every student was this polite, she wouldn't be so cranky.
"I can't do it, Mr. Green. You know I'm just a pathetic wreck…"
Quirrell had improved a lot, but the second Sean brought up his idea, the professor shut down.
He was still stuck in servant-mode, treating Sean like he was some terrifying master.
"I want you to do it," Sean said firmly. "I believe in you."
Wind slipped through the window, stirring Sean's black hair. Those green eyes held nothing but steady trust.
Quirrell froze, staring into bright green pupils that reflected the man he was now; reborn.
Young Quirrell had been desperate to prove himself. After Voldemort, even that last shred of pride was gone.
Now he craved approval more than ever. That's why he was terrified of trying. Terrified of failing the boy in front of him.
The curtains fluttered. Sean's voice was soft but sure.
"The past is a ghost, Professor. It's weightless. It can't touch you.
So when the sun comes up tomorrow; forget yesterday."
Silence filled the ward again.
Then Professor Quirrell started sobbing like a broken dam.
…
April gave them one sunny day before sliding back into endless drizzle; exactly like Sean's progress in celestial magic.
He'd thought he might have a knack for it. Reality check: in a whole week, he'd only seen two shapes.
Even that earned him praise from Firenze.
His centaur teacher spent an hour with him in the forest every night. Tonight was no different.
The sky was clear. Sean jogged down the sloping lawn toward the dark tree line, grass rippling under his feet like green waves. Not far in, the clearing waited; distant trees swaying in the wind.
"Teacher Firenze."
Sean pressed his open left hand to his chest and bowed slightly. Firenze lowered his head in return.
Centaur greeting; used when elders passed knowledge to the young.
Compared to actual foals, though, Sean's lessons were patchy. Centaur knowledge varied from herd to herd, and foals learned from multiple wise ones at once.
A little ways off, deeper in the forest, Sean spotted curious foals sneaking closer to watch.
They circled the clearing, staring at the human, until young adult centaurs came and herded them away.