September 5th, 1993, Gryffindor Boys' Dormitory, 10:34 PM
The common room had emptied an hour ago, students retreating to dormitories with the weary contentment of those who'd survived the first week of term. Harry sat cross-legged on his four-poster bed, curtains drawn for privacy, the only light coming from a small orb of 'Lumos' above a parchment.
Ethan's letter lay beside him, the familiar precise script somehow managing to be both reassuring and utterly infuriating in its confidence.
Harry—
The hippogriff situation is under control. Trust in Headmaster Dumbledore, he will handle the matter with appropriate authority. Hagrid will not lose his position, and the creature will not be destroyed. Theodore Nott's father may attempt political manoeuvring, but certain facts about the incident—specifically, witness testimony regarding deliberate provocation—will ensure any formal complaints are... unsuccessful.
Trust that this is managed. Focus on your studies.
I've enclosed the book you requested. 'Elementary Principles of Divination' by E.L.E covers foundational theory that Hogwarts courses may not have it. Compare it to Professor Trelawney's lessons. You'll find the differences... educational.
—Dad
The book in question sat heavy on Harry's lap. Leather-bound, its pages thick with the particular texture of expensive parchment, it smelled of old libraries and something faintly herbal. Harry had opened it earlier, read the first chapter on the fundamental nature of probability and precognition, and immediately understood why Ethan wanted him to compare it to Trelawney's teaching.
This was logical. Theory. Mathematical frameworks for understanding how divination actually worked—the mechanics of Seeing, the psychology of interpretation, the difference between genuine precognition and confirmation bias.
Trelawney, from what Harry had heard from older students, taught tea leaves and crystal balls and dramatic pronouncements of doom.
'Dad's going to be insufferable when I tell him how different they are, but then again, how was Divination taught when Dad was still in Hogwarts?'Harry thought, but he was smiling despite himself.
He set the book aside carefully and pulled out fresh parchment. His reply needed to cover several things, and he wanted to phrase them correctly.
Dad—
Thank you for handling the hippogriff situation. I knew you'd find a way.
I have a favour to ask. Could you send Jasper to Hogwarts? I spoke with Hagrid after his lesson ,before the incident, and he was incredibly excited about the idea. Said a Golden Snidget would be an amazing teaching aid for Care of Magical Creatures—students could learn proper handling of XXXX classified creatures in a controlled environment. He's already asked Dumbledore for permission, and the Headmaster agreed.
Hagrid also asked me to thank you for the letter you sent him. He said your advice was "dead practical" and that he's already implementing your suggestions for lesson safety protocols. I think knowing someone with your experience believes in him has helped more than he's saying.
The book is brilliant. I've only read the first chapter, but I can already tell it's nothing like what we'll be learning in Trelawney's class. I'll write more once I've actually attended her lessons.
—Harry
He sealed the letter, attached it to Hedwig's leg with gentle efficiency. The snowy owl hooted softly, nipping his finger with affection before launching from the dormitory window into the September night.
Harry watched her disappear into darkness, then returned to the book, reading by wandlight until exhaustion finally pulled him under.
September 7th, 1993, Atid Stella Headquarters, London, 8:47 AM
Ethan read Harry's letter over morning tea, his dark-amber eyes tracking across the parchment with the focused attention he brought to anything concerning his son.
Jasper. Harry wanted Jasper at Hogwarts.
It made sense, strategically. Having the Golden Snidget at the castle gave Harry both a companion and—if Ethan arranged things correctly—an additional layer of surveillance and protection. The bird was intelligent, loyal, and small enough to go unnoticed when necessary.
But sending Jasper to Hogwarts required preparation.
Ethan descended to Atid Stella's lower levels, past the public showrooms and offices, into the private research laboratories where prototype development occurred. Jasper waited in a comfortable habitat—enchanted to simulate natural environment, temperature-controlled, stocked with appropriate insects and vegetation.
The Golden Snidget looked up as Ethan entered, chirping recognition.
"Hello, little one," Ethan said softly. "We need to prepare you for a journey."
What followed was two hours of careful, deliberate magical enhancement. Not transformation—Jasper would remain fundamentally himself—but refinement. Strengthening.
Ethan started with agility training, using modified Seeking Snitch patterns to push Jasper's already impressive aerial capabilities to new heights. The bird darted through obstacle courses with increasing speed, his tiny golden body blurring into motion that would challenge even professional Quidditch equipment.
Then came defensive magic.
Ethan's wand moved in complex patterns, speaking incantations in languages that predated modern spell-casting. Runic formulae appeared in the air around Jasper, sinking into golden feathers like water absorbed by sand. The enchantments were subtle—no visible change to the bird's appearance—but they would protect against common hexes, cushion impacts, and alert Ethan if Jasper experienced genuine danger.
Finally, the magical link.
This was delicate work. Ethan needed connection sufficient to allow emergency surveillance—to See through Jasper's eyes if circumstances demanded—without overwhelming the bird's own consciousness or creating vulnerability that could be exploited.
He cast slowly, precisely, weaving threads of magic between himself and the Snidget with the care of a master jeweller setting diamonds. The connection settled into place like a warm pressure at the back of his mind—awareness of Jasper's wellbeing, location, emotional state.
In emergencies, Ethan could push deeper. Could literally see what Jasper saw, guide the bird's movements, use him as remote observation.
"There," Ethan murmured, lowering his wand. "You're ready."
Jasper chirped, ruffled his feathers, and seemed entirely unbothered by the magical enhancements woven through his being.
Ethan packaged him carefully—a travel cage with comfort charms, food supplies, instructions for Harry on proper care at Hogwarts—and sent the entire parcel via specialized courier owl.
'Watch over him,' Ethan thought, directing the sentiment toward the magical link. 'And let me know if anything threatens my son.'
September 8th, 1993, Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom, 2:15 PM
The classroom smelled of old books and something indefinably safe—perhaps the lingering scent of chocolate, perhaps simply the atmosphere Professor Lupin created through presence alone.
Harry sat between Ron and Hermione, all three of them vibrating with barely contained excitement. Draco's empty seat beside them served as painful reminder that he remained in the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey taking no chances with magically bruised ribs.
Remus stood at the front of the classroom in his best brown suit, his expression warm and quietly confident. Behind him, a large wardrobe rattled ominously, something inside throwing itself against the doors with rhythmic determination.
"Good afternoon," Remus said. "Today's lesson is about Boggarts. Can anyone tell me what a Boggart is?"
Hermione's hand shot up instantly. "A shape-shifter that takes the form of whatever the observer fears most. No one knows what a Boggart looks like when it's alone because it immediately transforms upon being observed."
"Excellent. Five points to Gryffindor." Remus's smile was genuine. "Boggarts prefer dark, enclosed spaces—wardrobes, cupboards, the gap beneath beds. And the charm to defeat them is surprisingly simple. Can anyone guess what it might be?"
Silence.
"Laughter," Remus said simply. "A Boggart's power comes from fear. When we laugh at it, when we transform our fear into something ridiculous, the Boggart weakens. The spell is Riddikulus. Say it with me."
"Riddikulus," the class chorused.
"Good! But the spell alone isn't enough. You need to actively imagine your fear transformed into something amusing. Visualise it clearly, then cast. Mr Longbottom—" Remus gestured to Neville, who'd gone pale, "—would you like to go first?"
Neville looked terrified, but he nodded and stood on shaking legs.
"What frightens you most, Neville?"
"P-Professor Snape, sir," Neville whispered.
Several students sniggered. Remus's mouth twitched but he maintained composure. "Ah. And I believe your grandmother dresses in rather... distinctive fashion?"
"She wears a vulture hat and a crimson handbag," Neville confirmed miserably.
"Perfect. Picture Professor Snape wearing those exact items. Can you see it? Vulture perched on his head, crimson handbag in hand?"
Neville's expression shifted from terror to reluctant amusement. "Y-yes, sir."
"Excellent. Wand ready. When the Boggart emerges, cast the spell whilst holding that image firmly in mind."
Remus flicked his wand. The wardrobe doors burst open.
Severus Snape emerged—or rather, a Boggart wearing Snape's form, his black robes billowing dramatically, his expression cold and cruel. Neville squeaked.
"Now, Neville!"
"R-Riddikulus!"
The spell struck the Boggart mid-stride. Snape's robes shifted colour to crimson, a ridiculous vulture hat appeared on his head, and a matching handbag swung from one pale hand. The effect was so absurd that the entire class burst into laughter.
The Boggart staggered, momentarily confused.
"Brilliant, Neville! Next—Miss Brown!"
What followed was controlled chaos as student after student faced their fears transformed to comedy. Lavender's mummy wrapped in bright pink bandages. Dean's severed hand doing a tap-dance. Seamus's banshee losing its voice mid-scream and miming frustration.
Ron faced a massive spider that suddenly gained roller skates and crashed into the desk.
Hermione faced Professor McGonagall telling her she'd failed everything—transformed into McGonagall performing a cheerful musical number about academic mediocrity.
Then it was Harry's turn.
He stepped forward, wand ready, trying to anticipate what form his fear would take. The Dementor from the train? Voldemort? The basilisk?
The Boggart shifted.
It became Ethan—but wrong. Ethan's body sprawled lifelessly on cold stone, his dark-amber eyes empty and staring. Behind him, Luna lay equally still, her blonde hair pooled in blood. Ron, Hermione, Draco, Neville—all of them fallen, all of them dead.
And standing over them, crimson eyes glowing with triumph, was a figure Harry recognized from nightmares and fragments of memory.
Voldemort.
Harry's breath caught. His wand hand shook. This wasn't just fear—this was the worst thing he could imagine, the failure that would break him completely.
'No,' Harry thought fiercely. 'This isn't real. It's a Boggart. Just a Boggart showing me fears, not facts.'
He forced himself to visualize the transformation. Voldemort with a clown nose. His friends sitting up, laughing, very much alive. Ethan opening his eyes and saying something sarcastic about Harry's dramatic imagination.
"Riddikulus!"
The spell burst from his wand with more force than he'd intended. The Boggart staggered, its form flickering between horror and absurdity before Remus stepped forward and cast a more powerful version of the spell, forcing the Boggart back into the wardrobe.
The class stood in silence, the earlier laughter died completely.
"Well done, everyone," Remus said quietly, his eyes on Harry with understanding and concern. "That's enough for today. Homework—one roll of parchment on recognizing and defeating Boggarts. Class dismissed."
Students filed out, casting Harry sympathetic glances. Hermione squeezed his shoulder as she passed. Ron muttered something about getting butterbeer from the kitchens later.
Remus waited until the classroom emptied before approaching Harry.
"That was a particularly difficult Boggart," he said gently. "Most students face simpler fears."
"I'm fine," Harry said automatically.
"You handled it well. Casting Riddikulus in the face of that kind of fear shows remarkable courage." Remus paused. "If you ever want to talk...about fears, about anything... my door is open."
"Thank you, Uncle Remus."
As Harry turned to leave, Remus called out, "Oh, one more thing! Since I have your attention—and for anyone still lingering—I should mention that Hogwarts is implementing several new Atid Stella innovations this term."
A few students who'd been packing their bags slowly looked up with interest.
"The improved Runic Lamps you've likely noticed throughout the castle are just the beginning," Remus continued with obvious amusement. "We're also testing enhanced preservation charms in the library, improved heating systems in the dungeons, and—" he paused meaningfully, "—the new version of Wolfsbane Potion that I take monthly."
A Ravenclaw girl raised her hand tentatively. "Is it true that the new version is more affordable, Professor? My uncle's a werewolf, and he can barely afford the standard brew."
"Very true," Remus confirmed. "Atid Stella worked with Damocles Belby to develop a formulation that's both more effective and significantly less expensive. The key innovation involves substituting certain rare ingredients with more common alternatives that achieve the same alchemical result. Instead of powdered moonstone, for instance, we use silver-infused quartz, which is functionally identical but costs a fraction of the price."
"And it's really easier to brew?" another student asked.
"Considerably. The original Wolfsbane requires expert Potions mastery—one mistake and the entire batch is useless. The new version has wider margins for error, making it accessible to competent brewers rather than exclusively masters." Remus's expression warmed. "Which means more werewolves can afford protection, and more brewers can provide it. That's rather the point."
Harry watched several students' expressions shift—calculation, hope, interest.
Remus's reputation, already solid from one excellent lesson, was climbing higher despite Snape's predictable disapproval.
'Dad would be pleased,' Harry thought.
September 8th, 1993, North Tower, Divination Classroom, 4:45 PM
The Divination classroom existed in a different reality from the rest of Hogwarts.
Heavy curtains blocked natural light. Lamps draped in crimson scarves cast everything in bloody ambience. The air hung thick with incense—something cloying and vaguely nauseating—and small circular tables crowded with teacups created obstacle courses between poufs and chairs.
Professor Sybill Trelawney resembled an overly decorated insect. Enormous glasses magnified her eyes to unsettling proportions, shawls and beads and bangles covered her thin frame in layers, and her voice carried the breathy, mystical quality of someone perpetually receiving cosmic transmissions.
"Welcome, my dears," she whispered, drifting between tables like smoke. "In this classroom, we shall explore the noble art of Divination. Here, we will learn to interpret the signs, to read the future in tea leaves and crystal spheres, to understand the cosmic mysteries that surround us all."
Harry exchanged glances with Ron and Hermione. Ron looked intrigued. Hermione's expression suggested she was reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment.
"Today," Trelawney continued, "we shall begin with tasseomancy—the art of reading tea leaves. Drink your tea, swirl the dregs three times with your left hand, then drain the cup and pass it to your partner."
What followed was ninety minutes of the most spectacularly vague instruction Harry had ever experienced.
"I see... a dog. No, a grim! A spectral hound, an omen of death!" Trelawney's dramatic pronouncement over Seamus's teacup seemed designed for maximum theatrical impact.
"That's a blob, Professor," Seamus said uncertainly.
"The untrained eye sees blobs. The Inner Eye sees truth!"
Harry consulted Ethan's book surreptitiously whilst Trelawney worked her way around the classroom. E.L.E's text described tea-leaf reading as pattern recognition combined with psychological projection—useful for developing symbolic interpretation skills, but notoriously unreliable as actual divination. The book recommended approaching it as practice in observation and creative thinking rather than genuine prophetic tool.
Trelawney approached it as cosmic revelation, each tea stain a message from fate itself.
'Dad was right,' Harry thought. 'This is going to be... educational.'
When class finally ended, students filed out with mixed reactions. Some—like Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil—looked thoroughly convinced they'd just experienced genuine mysticism. Others—particularly Hermione—looked ready to file formal complaints about wasted time.
"That was complete rubbish," Hermione announced once they'd reached the corridor. "Absolute, unscientific nonsense! 'The Inner Eye'? 'Cosmic vibrations'? It's psychology and confirmation bias dressed up in scarves!"
"I thought it was interesting," Lavender said defensively. "Professor Trelawney has the Sight. Everyone knows she made a real prophecy years ago."
"One prophecy in decades doesn't validate treating tea stains as divine communication," Hermione shot back. "Divination requires rigorous methodology, statistical analysis of accuracy rates, controlled conditions—"
"Not everything has to be books and logic!" Lavender's voice rose. "Some things are about intuition, about feeling, about trusting that the universe has patterns we can perceive if we're open to them!"
"That's exactly the problem—'feeling' isn't reliable—"
"Okay!" Ron interrupted before the argument could escalate further.
Harry chimed in sheepishly "B-both of you have points. Can we d-discuss this c-calmly?"
They turned to him—Hermione with exasperation, Lavender with defensive certainty.
Harry pulled out the book. "D-dad sent me this. 'Elementary Principles of Divination.' It's proper theory—the mathematics of probability, the psychology of interpretation, the difference between genuine Seeing and pattern-seeking bias."
He flipped to a marked passage and read: "'Divination exists on a spectrum from disciplined precognition to elaborate self-deception. The challenge for students is distinguishing one from the other. Traditional methods like tasseomancy serve primarily as intuition training—teaching practitioners to recognize symbolic patterns and trust interpretive instincts whilst understanding that such interpretation remains subjective rather than prophetic.'"
"See!" Lavender said triumphantly. "Intuition training! That's exactly what Professor Trelawney—"
"Keep reading, Harry," Hermione interrupted.
"'However,'" Harry continued, "'genuine precognition—Seeing—operates through entirely different mechanisms involving probability calculation and temporal perception. Conflating the two creates dangerous misconceptions about divination's capabilities and limitations. A competent seer understands this distinction. A charlatan does not.'"
Silence.
"So," Harry said carefully, "L-lavender's right that intuition and pattern recognition are real skills worth developing. A-and Hermione's right that Trelawney's treating subjective interpretation as objective prophecy is questionable."
Lavender bit her lip. "I just... Professor Trelawney seems so certain. And my gran always said I had potential for the Sight."
"Y-you might," Harry said honestly. "B-but actual Seeing—like what my dad does—is systematic and precise. It's calculating probability branches, the smaller the scale the better result, not reading tea leaves. P-professor Trelawney's method might help develop symbolic thinking, but it's not the same thing."
Hermione had picked up the book, her eyes scanning pages with visible hunger. "Harry, this is brilliant. This is actual theory. Formulae for probability calculation, frameworks for distinguishing genuine precognition from confirmation bias..." She looked up, expression transformed. "Could I borrow this?"
"Sure. But you'll have to share with me—I need it for homework."
"We can study together," Hermione said immediately. "Compare what Trelawney teaches to what this book says. Document the discrepancies. Build a proper understanding of how divination actually works—"
"You're going to stay in Divination?" Ron looked surprised. "I thought you hated it."
"I hate nonsense," Hermione corrected. "But if there's actual methodology underneath, if this book can teach me how divination genuinely functions..." Her expression turned determined. "Then I'll tolerate Trelawney's theatrics to learn the real principles."
Lavender had been reading over Hermione's shoulder. "This is really complicated. All these equations and probability trees..."
"We could study together," Hermione offered. "If you're serious about developing the Sight, you should understand the theory behind it. And I could use someone who's got good intuition to help with the symbolic interpretation parts."
Lavender's face brightened. "Really? You'd study with me?"
"Why not? We're both trying to learn. Just... differently."
Ron had wandered over to where Lavender stood, apparently drawn by the mention of studying together. "Your rabbit's foot keychain is brilliant. I had to leave Scabbers in the dorm—Hermione's cat keeps trying to eat him."
"Oh!" Lavender's expression shifted to sympathy. "That must be so stressful! My rabbit Binky died last year and I was devastated. Pets are family, you know?"
"Exactly!" Ron looked genuinely moved by this understanding. "Scabbers has been with our family for ages. He's old and tired, and I just want him to live out his remaining time peacefully, not being hunted by a mental half-Kneazle."
They drifted into conversation about pets, stress, the pressures of third year, teenage concerns expressed with the earnest intensity of people discovering shared understanding.
Harry watched with faint amusement. Ron and Lavender finding common ground over pet anxiety was perhaps the most normal thing that had happened all week.
Hermione had claimed the book entirely now, sitting on a corridor windowsill and reading with the focused intensity she brought to genuinely interesting material. Lavender and Ron continued their surprisingly pleasant conversation about pets and family and the general difficulty of being thirteen.
The afternoon stretched toward evening. Classes had ended. Students drifted toward common rooms or libraries or wherever teenagers went when lessons released them.
Harry stood, suddenly restless. His friends were occupied—Hermione absorbed in theory, Ron actually having a nice conversation with someone who understood his concerns. They didn't need him right now.
And he wanted to find Luna.
Wanted to see her, to talk to her, to share the weirdness of Trelawney's class and hear her particular perspective on cosmic mysteries and tea-leaf interpretation.
He left them in the corridor and set off through Hogwarts with that peculiar instinct that had developed over two years of unconsciously tracking Luna's location.
September 8th, 1993, Fourth Floor Corridor, 5:34 PM
The corridor was deserted.
That wasn't unusual—the fourth floor's eastern wing saw little traffic between classes, its classrooms serving mainly for specialised upper-year courses. But something about the quality of emptiness made Harry's newly developed danger sense prickle with awareness.
And then he saw her.
Luna stood halfway down the corridor, her school robes slightly askew, her wand gripped in one hand whilst she searched the floor with focused attention.
Barefoot.
Her shoes were gone, her feet pale against cold stone, and she moved with the careful precision of someone looking for something specific whilst trying not to show how much it bothered her that the thing was missing.
Concern flashed through Harry's chest with physical force.
"Luna?"
She looked up, and something in her expression—vulnerability quickly masked by dreamy calm—made Harry's protective instincts surge.
He crossed the corridor in quick strides. "What happened? Where are your shoes?"
"Oh," Luna said, her voice carrying its usual light quality but with an edge underneath. "Someone took them. I've been looking, but..." She gestured vaguely at the empty corridor. "They're quite good at hiding things."
Harry's hands clenched. "Who took them?"
"Some... older Ravenclaws. They think it's funny." Luna tilted her head, studying him with those grey eyes that saw too much. "It's not important, Harry. They're just shoes."
But it was important. Harry could see it in the careful way she held herself, in the vulnerability she was trying to hide, in the fact that she'd been searching alone rather than asking for help.
"We're finding your shoes," Harry said flatly. "And then we're going to have a conversation about who thinks this is acceptable behaviour."
Luna's mouth curved into a small, genuine smile. "The Nargles say you're being rather fierce about footwear."
"The Nargles are correct."
Harry started searching with systematic efficiency, checking behind suits of armour and under window ledges whilst Luna watched with an expression that suggested she was touched by the gesture despite finding it unnecessary.
The corridor stretched before them, evening shadows lengthening across stone, and somewhere in the castle, students laughed and studied and lived their normal lives whilst Luna Lovegood searched barefoot for belongings stolen by people who thought cruelty was comedy.
Harry's jaw set with determination.
Third year was teaching him all sorts of lessons.
And one of them, apparently, was that some people needed to learn that Luna Lovegood wasn't someone you messed with.