By the third year, with elective courses added, their workload had increased significantly.

  At breakfast, Ron received his timetable from Percy. He and Harry had chosen the same electives. Seeing the tightly packed schedule, Ron immediately frowned and groaned, "Oh no! Why are there so many csses today? It's only the first day of school."

  There were three csses in the morning.

  After a brief break at noon, there were another three in the afternoon.

  "Hermione has it even worse than us," Harry said, finishing his milk and cutting a piece of pancake to eat.

  Ron leaned over to look at Hermione's schedule, then compared it to his own, puzzled. "Hermione, yours doesn't seem that different from ours."

  Their first css was Divination.

  The difference was subtle—on Hermione's schedule, there was a diagonal line following Divination, marking another css scheduled at the same time: Arithmancy.

  "No special arrangements?" Harry asked, equally puzzled.

  Hermione stood, packing her bag. "Of course there are. Professor McGonagall worked it out for me. But it's under a verbal agreement not to tell anyone else."

  "Not even us?" Ron grumbled.

  Hermione shook her head. "It's better that way. Let's just say it has some risks."

  Harry didn't press further.

  His curiosity wasn't as intense as a cat's.

  The Sorting Hat, however, spoke up suddenly in understanding, its voice enticing. "Harry, I think I know what it is. Would you like to know? If you ask me nicely…"

  Harry interrupted, "No, I don't want to know."

  The Sorting Hat let out a wail. "But you could want to!"

  "And yet, I don't," Harry said firmly.

  The hat wiggled its pointed tip, scratching at Harry's hand. "You really should consider it—it's something very interesting. I think you'd find it useful."

  Harry remained unmoved.

  Ron leaned in like an eager puppy, full of curiosity. "I want to know! If you can't tell Harry, tell me secretly."

  "I won't!" the Sorting Hat said, turning its tip away in a huff.

  "Please?" Ron begged.

  "Well, let me think about what you'll have to do for me in return," the hat said, shaking dramatically as it considered how to leverage the information against Ron.

  Hermione spped it lightly. "No telling. Otherwise, I'll give you to Crookshanks to use as a scratching post."

  "That scratching post my mom bought? He didn't like it much and nearly shredded Parvati's pillow st night. You'd make an excellent repcement…"

  The Sorting Hat let out a terrified shriek. "No, Miss Granger, please don't!"

  "I swear I'll keep my mouth shut."

  "I've already been used as a scratching post for decades—I don't want to do it again."

  Hermione huffed, satisfied.

  Disappointed, Ron hurriedly stuffed a few bites of mb into his mouth, and the three of them set off for the North Tower—a part of Hogwarts they had never visited in their two years there.

  It was quite a journey.

  They had to leave the castle, climb a long series of stairs, and even encounter a rather annoying painting.

  The portrait introduced itself as Sir Cadogan—a short, stout knight on a dappled pony. He loudly challenged Harry to a duel and only ceased his incessant shouting when they reached the final steps of the tower, where no paintings hung.

  At the top of the stairs was a ptform.

  Several students had already gathered there. The surrounding walls had no doors, only a circur trapdoor in the ceiling with a brass pque embedded in it.

  "Sybill Trewney, Divination Professor," Ron read aloud, following Harry's gaze to the pque.

  "So how are we supposed to get up there?" Ron frowned in confusion. "Do we need brooms for Divination css?"

  The Hufflepuff students groaned in distress.

  Brooms weren't exactly common—mostly Quidditch pyers brought them to school.

  They murmured anxiously amongst themselves.

  Suddenly, the trapdoor opened, and a silvery dder extended soundlessly, gently nding in their midst.

  The Hufflepuffs heaved sighs of relief.

  No brooms required!

  They queued up to climb the dder, the boys going first. Harry, being the st of them, finally ascended.

  Hogwarts had many peculiar rooms, but this was perhaps the strangest Harry had ever seen. It reminded him oddly of a kitchen.

  There was a strong, smoky aroma in the air.

  The curtains were drawn tightly shut, blocking out all external light. The room's only illumination came from a massive firepce that bzed fiercely despite the retively mild weather.

  The desks weren't the usual long tables but rather twenty or so small round ones. Beside each table were ornate armchairs with floral patterns and overstuffed cushions.

  The walls of the round room were lined with shelves filled with atmospheric decorations—candles, quills, pying cards, crystal balls, and teacups.

  Harry, Hermione, and Ron found a table and sat together.

  The other students craned their necks, looking for the professor.

  By the start of css, the professor was still nowhere to be seen—a rarity, except for Lockhart.

  Suddenly, a soft, hazy voice filled the room. "Welcome, my dear children. At st, we meet in the material world."

  Harry followed the voice and narrowed his eyes slightly.

  A figure emerged slowly from the shadows near the firepce.

  Professor Sybill Trewney was as "dazzling" as ever. She was small and thin but adorned with five or six pounds of jewelry, at least.

  She looked much as she had when Harry had met her the previous year, though some of her accessories had changed.

  She gestured for the remaining students to take their seats before reclining into a cozy armchair and rocking gently. In a dreamy voice, she introduced herself.

  "I am Professor Trewney. You probably haven't seen me before."

  "I rarely appear before ordinary mortals. The material world is too cluttered, too noisy—it disrupts my Inner Eye."

  She paused dramatically, her voice becoming more mysterious.

  "Divination is the most exalted art of magic. Peering into the future and unraveling fate—that is the domain of the divine."

  "Let me be clear from the outset: this course requires no tools, only talent."

  "Without insight, intuition, or sensitivity to fate, you'll learn nothing—except how to memorize the textbook to pass your exams…"

  Most of the students rexed immediately.

  As long as they could pass the exams, they were content.

  "Neville, how is your grandmother?" Trewney asked suddenly.

  Neville froze, stammering, "Uh—uh—she's—she's fine, I think."

  "If I were you, I wouldn't be so sure," Trewney said cryptically.

  Both Hermione and Harry frowned deeply.

  Harry had high expectations for Divination.

  He had encountered two prophecies himself.

  One, given at Hogwarts, concerned him and Voldemort, shaping their intertwined fates.

  The other, from the Witcher world, reted to Ciri—a prophecy he had nearly seen to its conclusion alongside Geralt and Ciri.

  What was the essence of Divination?

  What did prophecies truly represent?

  Was destiny predetermined, or was it shaped by the sum of one's choices and experiences?

  These were the questions Harry hoped to explore.

  But Trewney wasn't teaching such things. Instead, she instructed them to brew tea, drink it, and interpret the leftover leaves.

  Hermione grew visibly impatient.

  Harry followed her instructions methodically, but when they were told to exchange cups and use the textbook to interpret each other's leaves, he still felt no hint of ritual or magical energy.

  All he got was a cup of rather unremarkable tea.

  "This is ridiculous," Hermione muttered, swirling her teacup. "The idea that a random cup of tea could reveal someone's fate—it's like those…"

  Trewney appeared beside her, interrupting with a sharper tone. "Divination requires inspiration. Let me demonstrate."

  She snatched Hermione's teacup and swirled it counterclockwise. "An eagle, dear—you have a mortal enemy."

  Hermione scoffed. "Everyone knows about Harry and Voldemort."

  Trewney gred at her. "A club…"

  "Oh, dear, you're going to be attacked."

  Hermione said ftly, "That happens to Harry every term."

  The other students, who had been preparing to gasp in awe, now exchanged bemused looks.

  Ignoring them, Trewney continued to examine the cup. Suddenly, her hands froze, and she inhaled sharply. "Oh no, my dear child, what an ominous sign…"

  "What is it?" Ron asked, curious.

  Trewney theatrically let out a sob. "It's a Grim!"

  "The shadowy bck dog of graveyards!"

  "A harbinger of death."

  Hermione clenched her teeth and gred at Trewney. "Harry isn't going to—how could you, as a professor, say something so cruel…"

  She didn't get to finish.

  A sudden wave of magical energy radiated from Trewney. Her entire demeanor shifted, becoming ethereal and otherworldly. Her voice dropped, becoming raspy and low.

  "The red-haired raven alters its course."

  "The one born in December slowly awakens."

  "His servant faces death."

  "And the forsaken one

  will find liberation as the snow falls."

  The students stared at her in astonishment.

  Trewney swayed, releasing the teacup, which fell—

  Harry caught it swiftly.

  "What's wrong?" Trewney asked in her usual airy tone.

  "You—you just made a prophecy," Hermione stammered.

  Trewney paused, then nodded confidently. "Of course. A skilled Seer recognizes every sign and makes every prophecy with precision."

  She turned to Harry, her voice tinged with concern. "Be careful, Harry."

  Hermione didn't argue this time. Instead, she pulled out her quill and quickly jotted down the prophecy.

  ----------

  Powerstones?

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