"Argus, you were Professor Slughorn's teaching assistant. You were a hit with the students back then."
"Any ideas on how to introduce this magnificent creature to the third-years?"
Hagrid rubbed Buckbeak's sleek neck, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he turned to Argus.
Argus hesitated, not wanting to crush Hagrid's spirits entirely. But Buckbeak's fate in the original timeline—nearly executed after mauling Draco—still loomed large. Even if Draco had mellowed, one hotheaded student could spell disaster. Fools were inevitable in any crowd; it was an ironclad rule.
"Hagrid, maybe check the Ministry's classification of magical creatures first," Argus suggested gently. "Hippogriffs are rated XXX—dangerous for most young wizards at Hogwarts. An incident wouldn't just hurt you; it'd tarnish the school's reputation."
Hagrid's massive shoulders slumped, his disappointment palpable. But Argus had a point—the kids' safety trumped everything, even Buckbeak.
"Start small and build up," Argus added. "Buckbeak's too risky for beginners, but as they advance in Care of Magical Creatures, you could bring him out later."
Hagrid's face brightened. "You're spot on, Argus! I've got it now. Off to the Forbidden Forest—I need to round up those little blighters before they vanish again!"
With Fang lumbering at his heels, Hagrid lumbered off, leaving Argus behind without a backward glance. Argus chuckled; Hagrid's enthusiasm was as predictable as it was endearing. Glancing at his watch, he headed to the North Tower for his first third-year Divination class.
...
"Welcome, children, to the sacred art of Divination."
"Here, you shall delve into the mysteries of foresight."
"Here, you will uncover if the Inner Eye graces you!"
Sybil Trelawney's voice, misty and theatrical, filled the attic classroom. Unlike the castle's rigid squares, this room curved like an amphitheater, with tiered seating descending from the entrance to her podium—a setup ensuring every wide-eyed student caught her dramatic flourishes.
Behind oversized glasses, Trelawney gestured wildly, her shawl fluttering like some sideshow mystic Argus vaguely recalled from his past life. She was a far cry from the no-nonsense professors downstairs.
"Greetings, I am Professor Trelawney. Today, we embark on a journey into tomorrow! Our first lesson: tasseography, the noble art of reading the future in tea leaves."
Tea leaves? Argus eyed the chipped cup before him, skeptical. Prophecy wasn't his forte—or so he'd thought until his adoptive father's gift surfaced: a Seer's eye, raw and untapped. If his magic had been stronger sooner, he'd have honed it ages ago. But this? Swirling dregs for destiny? It smacked of smoke and mirrors.
"Now, dear ones, swap cups with the student across from you!"
Argus traded with Draco, who peered into the leaves like a detective at a crime scene. After a futile squint, Argus confirmed his suspicions: pure charlatanry. His innate gift should've sparked at a real prophecy's touch. No divine whisper here—just soggy herbs.
Draco, oblivious, furrowed his brow in mock concentration. Argus leaned in, smirking. "Well? What's my doom?"
Draco looked up, deadpan. "I see you acing the year—top of the class."
"Spot on," Argus quipped. Divination, Ancient Runes, and Muggle Studies were electives starting third year, and he'd skipped them initially—why bother when his Seer's eye outshone any textbook? Muggle Studies, especially, seemed a joke; wizards at King's Cross treated no-Majs like aliens, so what could a class teach beyond what Muggle-borns already knew?
But the system's achievement points for first place nagged him. Skipping meant risking the reward, so he'd signed up, mirroring Hermione and Percy. Last night, Snape had handed him a Time-Turner with a stern warning: use it wisely.
"The secrets of tomorrow nestle in these leaves, like pages in a forbidden tome, yearning to be read!" Trelawney intoned, arms flailing as if summoning spirits. Her piled curls bobbed with each emphatic nod. "Broaden your minds! Embrace the long view!"
Her gaze snagged on Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who were poking at each other's cups like kids with mud pies. Trelawney fixed on Seamus. "My dear, how fares your father?"
Seamus blinked, thrown. "Er, fine? Why?"
"I sense otherwise. Your cup, if you please!"
Seamus handed it over, puzzled. Trelawney tilted it, clucking her tongue. "Alas... such sorrow."
She drifted away, leaving Seamus staring at his empty hands. Dean raised a tentative hand. "Professor? That was my cup you just read."
Laughter rippled through the room. Even Draco snorted, whispering to Argus, "She's about as legit as Lockhart last year. Bribed her way in?"
"Unlikely," Argus murmured. "Hogwarts doesn't hire frauds that easily." But Trelawney? She was no lightweight. Her hiring prophecy—that chilling foretelling of Voldemort's return—wove through the entire saga like a dark thread.
Before he could elaborate, Trelawney zeroed in on Harry and Ron. "You're trembling, child. The future weighs on you?"
Ron's ears reddened under the class's stares. He'd been fidgeting, but now he puffed up. "Yeah, I see it clear as day."
Trelawney's eyes lit with zeal. "Gaze into the cup and speak your vision!"
"Right." Ron's bravado faltered. The cup held nothing prophetic—just a bid for attention gone awry. Flipping open his book, he winged it. "There's a wonky cross here—means Harry's in for tough times, trials and all."
"Or... the sun? Yeah, happiness incoming!"
He shot Harry a desperate glance. "So, mate, rough patch ahead, but grin and bear it—you'll come out shining."
"Hand me the cup, dear." Trelawney snatched it, then recoiled as if scalded. A shrill gasp escaped her, and the cup shattered on the floor, tea splattering like blood.
The class froze, the air thick with unease. Whatever Ron had "seen," it had struck a nerve.
---
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