Chapter 82
Draco felt a rare flicker of nervousness.
He was about to attend class.
Even in Professor McGonagall's lessons, he was always composed and unhurried—but today's class was different. Divination was never simple.
Professor Sibyll Trelawney, his Divination instructor, was a genuinely unhinged witch.
Her enormous glasses magnified her eyes to an unsettling degree. Beads and necklaces crowded her thin neck, and bracelets jingled noisily on both arms. She looked less like a professor and more like someone who had wandered out of a forgotten prophecy.
Most people believed her predictions were nonsense—rarely accurate, often ridiculous. And for the most part, that was true. She once foretold that Gryffindor students would be struck by a flu so severe it would cancel classes and rob her of her voice. Nothing of the sort ever happened.
Yet some of her prophecies were disturbingly precise.
"When thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die."
That single sentence had sealed the fates of Dumbledore, Sirius, and Lupin.
Calling her a weapon of causality would not have been an exaggeration.
Trelawney was the great-great-granddaughter of Cassandra Trelawney, the cursed Greek prophetess whose visions were always true—and never believed.
Perhaps those favored by divine insight were doomed to suffer.
Draco thought of the Eastern monk Jigong—gifted, yet condemned to madness for life.
He could only hope that Professor Trelawney remained permanently confused.
If she ever truly saw him…
That would be troublesome.
Draco leaned against the first-floor stair railing, waiting for Pansy. She had slept through the entire morning and only awakened around noon. When he visited her in the hospital wing and saw her healthy color restored, his worries eased. They had agreed to attend Divination together that afternoon.
"It really does seem that boys recover faster," Draco mused quietly. "Our so-called savior can attend class after a short rest."
"Have you been waiting long?"
Pansy's voice snapped him back to reality. She approached briskly, her tone unusually considerate—something Draco hadn't expected from her.
"Not at all," he replied, glancing at the clock. "I just got here. It's our first Divination class—we should arrive early. I've heard the route is… inconvenient."
Pansy nodded. Something about her had changed. She no longer wanted to be a burden; she wanted to stand beside him properly. The first step was taking her studies seriously.
They climbed to the eighth floor—an unfamiliar landing with nothing but a single painting of a vast grassland hanging on the stone wall.
Draco didn't hesitate. He guided Pansy to a narrow spiral staircase tucked discreetly to one side.
"This way."
At the top, they reached a small platform.
There was no door.
"Draco, look," Pansy said, tugging his sleeve and pointing upward.
In the ceiling was a circular trapdoor bearing a bronze plaque:
Professor Sibyll Trelawney — Divination
Before Pansy could wonder how to enter, the trapdoor creaked open. A silver ladder dropped smoothly down.
She stepped back instinctively.
Draco, unfazed, gestured calmly. "After you. Don't worry—I'm right behind you."
Once they climbed up, the ladder retracted on its own, sealing the entrance behind them.
Pansy looked around in astonishment.
This wasn't a classroom—it was more like an attic crossed with an old teahouse. Over twenty small round tables were squeezed into the space, each surrounded by mismatched armchairs draped in Indian calico and stuffed with plump cushions. Heavy curtains blocked out daylight, and crimson-shaded lamps cast a dim red glow over everything.
The room was unbearably warm.
The fireplace roared, supporting a massive copper kettle that emitted a greasy, cloying scent. Already drowsy, Pansy yawned softly—the sound oddly loud in the quiet room.
Draco glanced at her. "Sleep if you need to. Her class isn't exactly thrilling."
Pansy flushed at being noticed.
They chose seats near the back. Only a handful of students had arrived; the rest were clearly still lost somewhere in the castle.
Soon, sweaty and breathless students began emerging through the trapdoor—late arrivals, every one of them.
Draco scanned the room. No familiar faces. Either his followers hadn't chosen Divination, or they were hopelessly lost.
Then a soft, misty voice drifted from the shadows.
"Welcome… it is so good to see you at last… in the visible world."
Professor Trelawney emerged, her bright, eccentric appearance sharply contrasting with the dim room. Several Slytherin students looked faintly dizzy.
She began as always—emphasizing innate talent, then singling out unlucky students for dire predictions.
"You," she crooned to a boy, "will face a bloody calamity tomorrow. This bracelet may save you. Return it next class."
She removed one of her bracelets and handed it over.
The boy accepted it reluctantly—fear overpowering embarrassment.
The rest followed in similar fashion.
"Bad luck next week—wear blue."
"You will offend the one you love."
Vague, unfalsifiable statements layered with psychological suggestion.
They reminded Draco of The Matrix.
"Don't worry about the vase."
Crash.
Professor Trelawney paused beside Pansy.
"The tea leaves… such a perfect shape," she murmured. "You will be fortunate—but you must distance yourself from the one closest to you. Otherwise… danger."
Her eyes sharpened, focus gathering unnaturally.
"Your aura is strong, my dear. You are exceptionally suited to Divination."
Pansy did not smile.
Her brows knit together as unease spread across her face. The nightmare from not long ago resurfaced vividly.
She looked at Draco.
If my visions are accurate… what about him?
Her breathing quickened, cold sweat forming on her palms.
Suddenly, Draco's hand closed around her arm—warm and steady.
"Thinking about the Dementors again?" he asked quietly, clasping her hands.
Professor Trelawney turned toward Draco's cup.
"Oh… you are trouble, dear," she murmured gently. "Your head is shrouded in darkness. I cannot see clearly—but it is no blessing."
She froze.
"That's not right."
Her eyes cleared sharply.
"It is complete darkness."
She clutched her head, distressed. Draco recognized it immediately—lucidity.
"I can't see anything," she whispered. "Nothing at all."
Good, Draco thought.
Moments later, the fog returned.
"Oh dear—was I drifting?" she muttered, adjusting her jewelry and wandering away, having seemingly forgotten everything she'd said.
"A darkness no prophecy can reach…" Draco mused. Exactly what I need.
"Draco?" Pansy asked softly. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," he replied lightly. "Just planning how to cause trouble."
Then, smiling faintly, he added, "Seems you've got talent. Ever thought of becoming a seer?"
Pansy recoiled instantly, shaking her head. "Absolutely not. I finally understand why Muggles hate wizards—we fear what we don't understand. I'm no different."
She didn't say the deeper reason.
Seeing the future without being able to change it would be unbearable.
Draco studied her with renewed interest.
"Then drop Divination," he suggested. "Try something more engaging—Ancient Runes, perhaps. It's excellent for understanding magic at a deeper level."
He expected refusal.
"Sure," Pansy said brightly.
Draco blinked. "I thought you hated those subjects."
"People change," she replied quietly, staring into the tea dregs.
And for the first time, Draco believed her.