Cassian walked into the classroom and gave the front row a once-over. "Mr Creevey," he said, already pointing, "fancy pedalling for your sins?"
Colin nearly leapt out of his seat. "Yes, sir! Been practising all week!"
"Gods help us," Cassian muttered, mostly to himself.
He strode to the board and chalked out one word...
Prophecies.
He didn't usually bother with vague subjects such as this. Too much drivel, not enough footnotes. But every year, he taught the fourth-years a single class on it. One lesson, just enough to spot the difference between a fever dream and the kind that got people killed.
He walked to the projector, grabbed the first rune sheet, and slapped it into place. Colin was already pedalling as if the fate of the castle depended on it. The projector gave a mechanical wheeze, then light spilled across the front wall, shifting to show a grainy image of a cluster of early humans crouched around a fire.
"Fear of the unknown's nothing new," Cassian said, gesturing lazily at the image. "It's one of the oldest things we've got. Right next to pointy sticks and blaming someone else."
The group leaned in.
"We've already covered what fear is and why it stuck around. So I'll not repeat that bit. This," he tapped the image, "is where one of the most annoying branches of magic started."
He flicked the sheet. The picture changed to a stone carving. A figure holding a twisted staff, arms raised to the sky, everyone else huddled on the ground like the weather was trying to kill them. It probably was.
"Before we had calendars, we had panic. Sun vanishes, someone dies, the river floods... must be punishment. Or a sign. Or both, if you were really lucky."
He turned to the class.
"And then someone, usually the one with the loudest voice or the creepiest hut, stood up and said they'd seen it coming. That's your first prophecy."
Ginny raised a brow. "They guessed?"
"They guessed, they got lucky, or they lied through their teeth. Doesn't matter. If the storm hits right after someone tells you to sacrifice your goat, you start handing out goats."
"Every ancient magical society had one. Sometimes a dozen. Seers. Oracles. Visionaries. People who either had a gift... or just figured out which herbs made the hallucinations more convincing."
The wall flickered to a rough cave etching, a figure with eyes scratched out.
"This one's from what's now central Africa. Supposedly predicted an eclipse three years early. More likely, she looked at the moon and guessed. Or someone added the details later to make her look good."
Colin kept pedalling, the projector groaned. The next slide showed a scroll with runes so old the ink had bled into the paper.
"This is the earliest confirmed magical prophecy we've got," Cassian said, pointing. "Real magic. Stuck to the parchment like a curse."
The class held their breath, quiet now.
"Still no idea what it says," he added. "Best translation so far includes the words 'darkness that eats the light,' which might be about eclipses, 'magic that obeys evil,' can be interpreted as earliest Dark Lords, and 'sick roots,' that's just bad weather. So, yeah, that's comforting."
A Ravenclaw girl raised her hand. "Where did the prophecy come from, then? If it wasn't just people making things up?"
Cassian nodded. "Good question. Prophecy magic's weird. Doesn't come from the caster. Comes through them. Best guess? It's time magic. Very old, very stubborn, and very uninterested in your opinion."
He flicked to the next image. Another carving, bit more refined than the last. Still central Africa, but this time the figures were etched with finer tools, the community layout more structured, magic woven into the lines.
"Alright. We're past the panic stage now. Early communities are getting smarter, building shrines, naming storms, not walking straight into lion dens. And somewhere along the way, they started asking questions."
He stepped aside, hands in his coat pockets.
"And questions mostly revolved around the unknown. Death's been part of the cycle since the start. Things die, other things eat them, life shuffles on. But we're the only species stupid enough to figure out why. Why did my brother die but I lived? Why did her crops fail and mine didn't? Why does the moon disappear, and why does it come back?"
He turned, started writing on the board.
"In every ecosystem, survival wins. If you don't survive, you don't pass anything on. So evolution gives you instincts. Stay away from fire. Don't poke the dragon. If your mate dies from drinking green water, maybe drink the blue stuff instead."
He underlined the word FEAR twice.
"Fear of death sticks. Because the ones who weren't afraid of death... well, they're very dead."
Colin blinked hard. Someone at the back snorted.
Cassian kept going. "Now, humans being humans, fear wasn't enough. They needed to know. Not just when they'd die, but what came next. Where they'd go. Whether the ancestors were watching. If the angry chicken meant something."
He changed the slide again. This one showed a circular hut with symbols etched into the floor, someone kneeling in the middle, arms out, another holding something over head that looked suspiciously like a goat.
"So, up steps the seer. The one who knows. Or pretends to. Could be a real gift, could be a good guess. Doesn't matter. They say, 'You'll fall to your death in spring,' and suddenly everyone's walking slow in April."
He turned back to the class.
"And just like that, they're important. Respected. Feared, if they're any good at acting. Because now they're the one telling you what comes next. What the spirits want. When the flood's coming. Who to marry. Whether to plant barley or run for the hills."
Cassian leaned on the desk.
"Prophets weren't sideshow acts. They were centre stage. Whole tribes shaped themselves around the ones who could 'see.' They were power. You think politics is new? Half the wars back then started because someone claimed their dreams said the moon god was offended by their cousin's haircut."
The projector clicked softly as the new image settled.
"As I said, most of these so-called prophecies are fake. And the methods people used to 'divine' them..." He made a face. "Desperate doesn't begin to cover it. Tea leaves, bits of hair, sheep guts, smoke, blood, chicken bones. Take your pick."
Someone in the second row gagged.
He crossed to the board, tapped twice. The word PROPHETIA flickered across the front wall in silver lettering.
"Here's the thing. Most of it's nonsense."
Luna's hand floated lazily up. "What if some people really could see the future, but no one believed them because they used bird bones?"
Cassian blinked. "Oddly specific. But yes. Once in a while, someone did predict something right. And when that happens enough times, people start listening. Doesn't matter if the rest of the village thinks you're plain mad. You get one flood right and suddenly you're in charge of deciding the future."
The image changed to a crude mural, humanoid figures with glowing eyes and snakes coiled around their necks.
"This is from the Goblinoid archives," he said. "Pre-wand society. Look familiar?"
Ginny squinted. "That looks like Seerhood?"
"Yeah," Cassian nodded. "That's the early symbol for what would become Seerhood. Also happens to look a lot like the warning carvings found near cursed burial mounds. The line between prophet and disaster was always thin."
A few of them shifted in their seats.
"Some people had genuine Sight. But most didn't. That didn't stop them. Because people wanted answers. You don't question the method if the message hits right."
The next slide snapped in, rows of scrawled letters, written in a shaky hand. The script ran diagonally across the parchment, cut off at the corner like it had been torn mid-vision.
"This one's from the Pre-founding Era. Actual prophecy. Verified by three separate Ministries, plus a ghost that lived in the era."
He pointed to the jagged writing.
"Mentions a burning crown, blood that bleeds itself dry, and a child born where death forgot to look. Charming stuff. Nobody knows what it means."
Colin raised his hand, breathless. "Is it about Merlin?"
Cassian sighed. "Everything's about Merlin if you let it be. This one came two centuries before him. Could be him. Could be a metaphor. Could be someone's end-of-life fever dream after bad soup. The point is, prophecy doesn't explain itself."
He turned, chalk in hand, and scribbled two phrases on the board...
Desire to Know.
Fear of Chaos.
"These are the roots. You want control, so you make maps of stars and listen to old people muttering in caves. You're scared, so you ask the sky for answers."
He dropped the chalk back into its tray. "Real prophecy? Real vision? That's rare. Dangerous, too. Because when people think you've seen the future, they'll do anything to make it real. Or stop it."
A few students had gone quiet now. Even Luna looked thoughtful.
Cassian clapped his hands, loud. "Right. That's your history lesson for the day. Now, your homework..."
Groans erupted.
"...is not to write me a bloody essay."
Silence.
He smirked. "Instead, you'll interview your least favourite Divination text. Borrow from others if you aren't taking the class. Yes, interview. I want a parchment with six questions you'd ask if it could talk. Pretend it's sentient. Give it a name if you want. But I want questions."
Colin perked up. "What kind of questions?"
"Things like, 'Why are you so bad at your job?' or 'How did you trick so many people into trusting you?'" He turned, arching a brow. "Use that Gryffindor creativity."
Ginny grinned.
"And no duplicate questions. Anyone hands me a sheet with 'What's my future?' on it, I'm feeding it to the projector then we all laugh together."
The class groaned again.
"Due Monday. Ink it well. That's all."
The lights flickered back on.
Cassian stretched, bones cracking. "Creevey, you may stop pedalling."
Colin collapsed into his desk with a wheeze.
Cassian looked over the class one last time. "Remember, real prophecy doesn't come from tea leaves. It comes from terror, desperation, and, occasionally, people who've looked a god in the eye and lived."
He paused at the door. "Let's hope none of you qualify."
He stepped out with a wink and a soft click of the door.
Behind him, Luna whispered, "I think my Divination book's name is Bernard."
No one argued.
***
Later that day, Cassian and Bathsheda were ankle-deep in forest muck, standing beside Hagrid and staring up at the shortest giant anyone had ever seen. Hagrid was beaming, which would've been nice if not for the fact that his half-wild giant brother, currently crouched between two trees the size of small barns, licking a branch.
Grawp looked vaguely pleased. Also vaguely unaware of his own existence.
Cassian folded his arms. "Well, he's not biting things anymore. That's progress."
"He's calm," Hagrid said, eyes still a bit red around the edges. "I told yeh. He's got a good heart."
"You used the spell," Bathsheda said, arm folded.
Hagrid nodded. He didn't want to, of course. Called it cruel. "He's me brother," He said. "Not a pet."
Cassian hadn't pushed. But now here they were. After Grawp nearly flattened Firenze's tent/barn? he had to.
"Only took you six near-death experiences," Cassian muttered.
Hagrid huffed, but didn't argue.
It wasn't technically a beast-binding spell. The thing Cassian had taught him was somewhere between a pact and a tuning fork. Let the creature lean into your presence like a second heartbeat. Most wouldn't trust it with a giant, but Grawp had blood ties and a stubborn enough soul to keep him anchored.
Grawp looked down at him.
Cassian raised a hand in greeting.
Grawp blinked. Then reached up and gently, with the utmost ceremony, plucked a stick from his tangled hair and held it out like an offering.
Cassian took it.
"Cheers."
Grawp nodded. Then went back to staring at a butterfly.
Firenze stood at the edge of the clearing, half in shadow, arms loose at his sides. Centaurs always looked like they were listening to a conversation no one else could hear.
He stepped further into the light after a while, still looking up. "The stars shifted."
Cassian frowned. "What changed?"
"We do not know yet. But the pattern's familiar. It echoes old records. From before."
"Before what?"
"Before forests had names."
Cassian didn't answer.
The centaur turned, eyes sharp. "Professor Rosier."
Cassian raised a brow. "Yes, your dramatic-ness?"
Firenze didn't smile. "The magic around you is different today."
Cassian gave him a look. "Is it the beard?"
"You might be awakening a gift," he said. "For seeing."
Cassian narrowed his eyes slightly. "With all due respect, and I say this as someone who once lectured on Sibyll Trelawney's absolutely criminal misuse of 'prophetic auras,' I don't believe in prophecy."
Firenze's gaze didn't shift. "Then your body does."
Cassian scoffed. "My body also believes bacon is a food group. My business is with the past, not the future."
Firenze, predictably, looked unbothered. "Past and future are not so separate as you think."
Cassian glanced at the butterfly still dancing above Grawp's head. "That sounds like a threat."
Firenze looked at him, unreadable, then he turned and walked back into the trees.
Grawp scratched his knee.
Bathsheda stepped past them. "Come on. It's nearly dusk."
Cassian gave Grawp a wave. The giant sat back down, still chewing bark.
"Alright," Cassian said. "Back to the madhouse."
Hagrid watched Grawp then turned to the two. "Thank yeh. Both of yeh."
Cassian waved him off. "Don't thank me yet. This spell was very untested."
They vanished into the trees.
(Check Here)
"Shout your victory."
Nobody did. The war ended quietly and everyone went home ashamed.
--
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