Sybill Trelawney, descendant of the famous seer Cassandra Trelawney, claimed to be a master diviner with the 'Inner Eye', always spouting mystical nonsense.
Although her reputation was impressive, among Hogwarts students, she was considered just another professor coasting along.
No one had ever learned anything useful in Divination class.
Only a handful at the head table knew that Trelawney possessed genuine talent.
Over a decade ago, the previous Divination professor at Hogwarts retired.
As Dumbledore fretted over finding a suitable replacement, Trelawney volunteered herself, leading to an impromptu interview at the Hog's Head.
The results were disappointing. Though Dumbledore only had a 'passing understanding' of divination, even he could tell this woman was spouting utter nonsense without a shred of real ability.
But just as he prepared to reject Trelawney, she seemed to transform into a different person, uttering a prophecy that would shape the future of the entire wizarding world.
[The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.]
[The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.]
Because of this prophecy, the Potters died, the Longbottoms went mad, and the Dark Lord became a wandering spirit.
The prophecy's influence continued until the final outcome was decided.
This state, which Trelawney called the 'Inner Eye', was the mark of true prophecy.
Those with such abilities were exceedingly rare in history.
Thus, even though Trelawney was essentially collecting a salary most days, Dumbledore never once considered dismissing her over these ten-odd years.
All for moments like this, when she might produce another prophecy.
Her shriek drew the attention of other professors, but seeing Trelawney merely staring blankly at her teacup, they quickly lost interest.
Lockhart beamed cheerfully, about to lighten the mood, when he caught sight of Dumbledore's calm gaze behind his half-moon spectacles.
Instantly, his words died in his throat.
The powerful aura astonished all the professors, but with Dumbledore staring so intently at Trelawney, no one dared speak.
Snape seemed to realise something, his face twisting violently as he too turned to look.
His expression even held traces of ferocity.
The tense atmosphere seemed contagious as more and more students noticed the change at the head table, whispering to one another.
Finally, Trelawney, who'd seemed asleep, spoke.
[The darkness splits in two, distant mists tinged with exquisite grey... when the Dark Lord returns, the world's change begins unseen.]
[We shall witness the true inher... ah!]
Halfway through her words, Trelawney let out a shriek as if waking from a nightmare, her eyes widening as cold sweat drenched her body.
Only then did she realise nearly everyone in the Great Hall was staring at her.
"Oh, my apologies." Trelawney patted her chest lightly. "My Inner Eye places such a burden upon me... was I asleep just now?"
"You've worked hard, Sybill," Dumbledore said calmly. "One can see you've been worrying yourself sick over the students. If you're unwell, you may retire early."
"No, no, this is my duty." As if entirely unaware of what she'd just said, Sybill began eating her steak again and took a swig from the flask of rum she always carried.
Snape opened his mouth to speak, but a look from Dumbledore made him swallow his words.
The head table gradually returned to normal, and as the young wizards below realised the spectacle was over, the buzz of conversation resumed.
...
The topic of discussion among everyone was the prophecy Trelawney had just uttered.
"Did you hear what Trelawney just said?" Cedric looked around at the young badgers.
"She mentioned... the Dark Lord?"
"Calm down, Cedric." Henderson shrugged. "She's always like this – overdramatic."
"Probably just making another bizarre prediction to scare Dumbledore into keeping her job."
"Exactly." Worley chimed in. "You haven't taken Divination, so you wouldn't know. Every year in the first lesson, Professor Trelawney predicts someone's death. Not a single one's come true yet."
"Is that so?" Cedric looked doubtful, given how convincing Trelawney's performance had been. "Wayne, what do you think?"
"Watching from the sidelines." Wayne appeared indifferent, though inwardly he wasn't so calm.
He couldn't shake the feeling this prophecy was aimed at him.
The usual Trelawney was a fraud, but just now... she'd likely been in a genuine trance. Her words demanded attention.
Unable to make sense of it immediately, Wayne committed Trelawney's prophecy to memory, planning to ponder it later.
The Halloween feast concluded without further incident.
Compared to last year's troll-induced pandemonium, Trelawney's prophecy was merely a minor footnote.
As the last remnants of food vanished from the tables, Harry and Ron returned from Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party.
They stared in despair at the gleaming empty plates.
Every morsel at the deathday feast had been mouldy – they hadn't eaten a thing!
Students returned to their dormitories for house celebrations.
...
Meanwhile, Snape followed Dumbledore to his office.
"Did you understand that prophecy?" Snape demanded.
"No." Dumbledore shook his head slowly, deep in thought.
"Was it performance art, or—" Snape pressed.
"I can assure you, Severus, Sybill was in precisely the same state as that night." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled gravely. "You, of all people, should remember."
Snape's fists clenched until his knuckles whitened, his eyes reddening.
How could he forget?
He'd been the one to tell Voldemort the prophecy... the one who got Lily killed.
"We must decipher its meaning. She said the Dark Lord would return."
"On that point, we agree." Dumbledore nodded. "But more questions arise."
"Divided in two... distant mist becoming refined grey... and that unfinished final line. What do these fragments signify?"
Snape's brow furrowed.
For the first time, he cursed his own intellectual limitations – why couldn't he unravel a simple prophecy?
"I'll question Trelawney." Snape made to rise, but Dumbledore stopped him.
"She won't remember what she said in that state. We're on our own."
"Then will you persist with your plan?" Snape snapped. "What use is Potter? The boy's utterly powerless."
Dumbledore sighed. "The choice isn't ours to make. Tom believes utterly in prophecies."
"Such is the nature of Delphic utterances. The path may twist, but all roads lead to the same destination."
Defeated, Snape slumped into his chair.
...
Interest in the prophecy soon faded. By the next day, almost no one was discussing the topic anymore.
The older students had grown accustomed to Trelawney's shocking prophecies and had enlightened the younger ones. Apart from those obsessed with divination, nearly everyone had put it out of their minds.
Because something far more exciting was coming.
November's arrival meant this year's Quidditch Match was about to begin.
Except for Ravenclaw, the other three teams were fiercely ambitious, all eyeing the Quidditch Cup.
For Hufflepuff, this was the final year for Wotley's trio before graduation—their last chance.
With their entire team on Nimbus 2000s and Cedric even sporting the premium Nimbus 2001, they were undoubtedly at their peak.
Slytherin shared the same ambition, equipped with seven Nimbus 2001s—identical to a professional team's setup.
Their captain, Marcus Flint, was particularly bloodshot with determination.
The Flint family had been faring poorly lately.
Their once-unhindered smuggling routes had come under fierce attack. Goods would arrive, but before payment could be collected, they'd be seized by the local Ministry of Magic.
The losses were devastating, but it didn't end there.
Domestically, Arthur Weasley made frequent inspections of the Flint estate for contraband.
One Arthur alone wouldn't have intimidated the Flints.
But he'd somehow dragged Alastor Moody out of retirement!
Who was Moody?
The most formidable Auror in history, the man who'd single-handedly filled Azkaban—a living legend.
Under Moody's magical eye, numerous illegal items were discovered on the Flint property, resulting in multiple charges. Douglas Flint was utterly overwhelmed.
After pulling countless strings, he finally identified who was targeting him.
One was the Scamander family. The other? The French Ministry of Magic itself.
The French situation remained murky, but the Scamanders...
No doubt about it—Lawrence's doing.
What crushed Flint further was the silence from the pure-blood families he'd contacted.
Voldemort might be gone, but Dumbledore remained.
Scheming in the shadows was their limit. Open defiance? Only fools would attempt it.
Marcus Flint loathed Wayne, but fear had taken root.
His only hope now was to defeat Hufflepuff in the Quidditch Match and see despair on their faces.
As for Gryffindor, with Wood's obsessive dedication to Quidditch, every year was their "most promising year."
Like last year, the first match would pit Gryffindor against Slytherin.
Tension in the castle thickened as the match drew nearer.
It wasn't just the players—even other students glared at each other, sparking multiple clashes across the school.
Yet everyone wisely avoided getting caught by professors.
Even when wronged, no one snitched.
With both houses' points already depleted by Wayne's antics, any fight meant mutual point deductions—and brutal punishment from their Heads of House.
On the Saturday before the match, Harry and Malfoy abandoned spell practice altogether, resorting to fists for their "exchange." Wayne was also happy to enjoy some leisure time, watching a juvenile version of WWE.
These past few days, he had been pondering Trelawney's prophecy.
He roughly understood the first few lines, but the unfinished final sentence felt extremely important yet frustratingly lacking in clues.
"That woman is downright eerie..." Having witnessed Trelawney's terror firsthand, Wayne changed his mind.
Originally, he hadn't planned to take Divination in his third year, but now he intended to attend.
If Trelawney had another episode—no, another vision—he could observe it up close.
...
On Friday afternoon, after accompanying Hermione to finish homework in the library, Wayne returned to the common room to find everyone looking miserable.
Wotley was particularly agitated, furiously cursing someone's family tree in the corner.
"What's going on?"
Susan sighed. "We just got notified—there's been a change to the Quidditch match schedule."
"Several Slytherin players have caught colds, so their match was postponed. Tomorrow's game is between us and Ravenclaw."
"Absolute rubbish!" Cedric, usually so mild-mannered, swore uncharacteristically. "The Slytherin players in my classes were perfectly healthy, not a trace of illness!"
"Same here," Henderson grumbled. "In Potions class, Snape even awarded them ten points."
"They're just afraid the rain tomorrow will neutralise their new brooms' advantage," Wotley fumed.
Outside, the dark clouds hung so low they seemed to scrape the ground, with continuous rain forecast for at least two or three more days.
Hiss!
Wayne couldn't help but draw a sharp breath.
This move was pure Snape—more shameless than even the worst of his own tricks.
"How did Madam Hooch agree to this? His influence can't stretch that far," Wayne asked, puzzled.
"That's what we can't figure out either," Wotley slapped his thigh. "But the notice is official. We'll have to tough it out tomorrow."
If Slytherin feared their brooms would underperform, so did Hufflepuff.
Rain would also obscure the Seekers' vision, making victory heavily dependent on luck.
What should have been a guaranteed win now hinged on chance—no wonder everyone was so furious.
"Don't worry," Wayne suddenly smiled, drawing all eyes to him. "I guarantee tomorrow's weather will be clear and sunny."
...
On Saturday morning, Wayne followed the Quidditch team to the Great Hall.
The atmosphere was bizarre. The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables were sullen, while the Gryffindors stifled laughter, eating quietly.
Only the Slytherins—those supposedly ill students—looked radiant, occasionally fake-coughing loudly to provoke raucous laughter.
Their mirth doubled at the sight of Wayne and Cedric's arrival.
At the staff table, Snape was in excellent spirits, leisurely slicing his eggs with a knife and fork.
Noticing Wayne's gaze, he even offered him a smile.
Instead of sitting, Wayne approached Cho.
The girl was muttering curses under her breath—targeting Snape and even Madam Hooch.
Spotting Wayne, she hastily regained her ladylike composure.
"Don't hold back. Curse away if you want to," Wayne chuckled, ruffling her hair.
For the match, Cho had pinned up her long hair with a hairpin into a neat bun. "Wayne..." the girl pouted in a spoiled, aggrieved tone.
"Do you believe me?" Wayne asked.
"Of course!"
Cho answered without hesitation, then added nervously, "But don't do anything foolish."
"We're not even certain it was Snape who did it."
"Don't worry," Wayne assured her confidently. "I'd never let you play in the rain. Leave it to me."
Nearby, Roger Davies gazed at Wayne with admiration.
'Note that down. I must remember that line!'
By eleven o'clock, students clad in raincoats began streaming into the Quidditch Pitch. The sky was overcast, thick with fog, visibility reduced to less than twenty metres.
Yet nothing could dampen their enthusiasm.
Wayne deliberately lagged behind, positioning himself beside Snape.
"How did you convince Madam Hooch to reschedule the match?"
"Lawrence, you should choose your words carefully." Snape couldn't suppress a smirk. "What evidence do you have to slander two professors simultaneously?"
Wayne silently produced a vial of Veritaserum.
"Don't make me pour this down your throat."
Snape's eyelid twitched.
'Are you naturally Azkaban material?'
Given Wayne's history of erratic behaviour, Snape had to admit the threat was effective. Others might bluff – this one would actually do it.
"I gave Madam Hooch a year's supply of beauty potions."
Wayne sighed. "How utterly shameless..."
"Too late for regrets now." Snape sneered, attempting to regain the upper hand. "The match starts in fifteen minutes. What can you possibly do?"
"What do you think?" Wayne responded cryptically with a mysterious smile, avoiding a direct answer.
Snape dismissed it, assuming Wayne was merely saving face.
Upon reaching the Hufflepuff stands, as the match was about to commence, Wayne gazed skyward and raised his fingers to his lips.
Tweeeet!!!
The piercing whistle, amplified by magic, carried impossibly far.