The trek to the North Tower was a brutal introduction to the reality of the third year. It wasn't just the steepness of the spiral staircase; it was the sheer, dizzying absurdity of climbing for fifteen minutes straight only to find yourself at the very top of the school. By the time they reached the small, cramped landing outside the Divination classroom, Lee Jordan looked like he was about to collapse.
"Tell me there's a shortcut," Lee wheezed, clutching his chest. "If I have to do this once a week, I'm going to start living in the tower."
Fred leaned against the cold stone wall, catching his breath. "There is a shortcut, technically. Through the nun's portrait on the third floor. It cuts out the first two floors of stairs, but you still have to tackle the final climb. It's like climbing a mountain just to learn how to read tea leaves."
"I hate stairs," Albert muttered, massaging his temples. The constant spiraling had left him feeling like the world was slightly tilted.
"Is this your first time up here?" Katrina asked, drifting over. She looked just as annoyed as the rest of them, though her hair was miraculously still in place.
"First class of the year," Albert replied, shooting her a look that carried a weight of shared secrets. "How's Arithmancy treating you?"
"It's dense," she snapped, though her eyes softened. "I feel like I'm trying to calculate the probability of my own sanity failing."
"Oh, look, the gorillas have arrived," a voice drawled. Graham Montague, a Slytherin who seemed to have been born with a sneer permanently etched onto his face, stood by the entrance.
Fred and George didn't even break stride. They didn't shout; they didn't get aggressive. They simply looked at Montague, their expressions shifting into a terrifyingly synchronized state of calm. Before Montague could finish his taunt, his jaw snapped shut. His tongue flew upward, sticking fast to the roof of his mouth with a wet thwack. He scrambled to grab his mouth, his face turning a furious, blotchy shade of plum.
"Gorillas, are we?" George asked softly. "I think you've got a bit of an impediment, Graham. Maybe try gargling some mandrake juice."
As Montague's friends surged forward, the hatch in the ceiling above them swung open, and a silver rope ladder cascaded down. The class scramble began, the tension of the near-hex-fight forgotten in the rush to find a cushion.
The classroom was... something. It felt less like a place of academic rigor and more like the attic of an eccentric grandmother who'd been hoarding trinkets since the medieval period. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of cheap perfume and incense, and the lighting was a sickly, pulsating red. Shelves bowed under the weight of moth-eaten playing cards, cracked crystal balls, and enough tea sets to host a gala for a thousand ghosts.
Professor Trelawney emerged from the shadows, drifting through the room like a ghost in a lace shawl. Her voice was thin, reedy, and vibrated with an intensity that made the room feel even smaller.
"Welcome," she whispered, her eyes magnifying behind her glasses until they looked like giant, startled insects. "I am Professor Trelawney. You likely have not encountered me before; I find the lower levels of the castle... distracting. Divination is the most delicate of arts. Books can only map the path; only those with the Insight can truly walk it."
Katrina leaned toward Albert. "She's basically saying the textbook is useless, isn't she?"
"She's saying that if you weren't born with the gift, you're just playing with toys," Albert murmured back.
To everyone's surprise, Trelawney drifted over to Albert, her smile widening. "Mr. Anderson. How wonderful to have you in my presence. You carry the fog of the future around you like a heavy cloak."
The room went quiet. Albert felt a dozen pairs of eyes boring into him. He didn't blink. "I'm happy to be here, Professor."
"We shall start with tea leaves," she announced, sweeping to the front of the room. "Then palmistry. But the crystal ball... ah, the crystal ball is the ultimate window. For those with the Insight, it is not a ball; it is a doorway."
Lee Jordan nudged Albert hard. "You've done this, haven't you? Go on, show them."
Trelawney caught the murmur. "Oh? Does Mr. Anderson have the Gift? Then please, come forward."
Albert sighed internally. He didn't want the spotlight, but he needed to keep the target off his own back by feeding the Professor exactly what she wanted. He walked up to the small, round table and took the seat opposite her. She pushed the crystal ball toward him, her fingers spindly and cold.
He placed his hands over the glass. He didn't really believe in the ball—not as a magic tool, anyway—but he knew how to project. He focused on the memory of the Forbidden Forest, the silver, viscous trail of blood he'd seen near the trees, and the knot of dread that had been growing in his stomach ever since Dumbledore's announcement about the fourth floor.
The mist inside the sphere began to swirl, shifting from a dull gray to a luminous, unnatural silver.
"What do you see?" Trelawney's voice was a whisper, bordering on a trance.
"A pool," Albert said, his voice steady. "Silver. Thick. It's not water."
"And what is it?"
"Unicorn blood," Albert said. He didn't say it like he was guessing; he said it like he was reading a ledger. "It's been spilled. But there is no carcass. Just the blood, and the silence of the forest around it."
The room was deathly quiet. A few Slytherins in the back stopped their mocking whispers.
"What does it mean?" Trelawney asked, her eyes wide.
"It means the forest is no longer ours," Albert replied. "Something is hunting there that shouldn't be. It's a warning, Professor. The fourth floor is a lure, but the forest is a slaughterhouse."
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. It wasn't the kind of prophecy they were expecting. They wanted something grand and heroic; they got a glimpse of cold, brutal reality.
Trelawney stared at the ball, then at Albert. Her face shifted—just for a second—from the ethereal, slightly ridiculous persona to something sharp, piercing, and terrifyingly aware. She knew he was telling a truth, even if it was one he'd manufactured for his own reasons.
"A dark omen indeed," she finally said, her voice recovering its usual flutter. "Twenty points to Gryffindor for such a stark vision."
As Albert walked back to his seat, Fred leaned in. "That was... impressive. You were actually shaking."
"I was acting," Albert lied, his heart still hammering against his ribs.
"Did you really see it?" Lee whispered, his bravado gone. "Or were you just playing her?"
Albert didn't answer. He looked toward the front of the room, where Trelawney was now frantically organizing her tea cups. He'd gotten his points, he'd established his position, and he'd successfully steered the conversation toward the forest and away from the castle's secret.