Chapter 9
Harry’s first Divination class took place in a dimly lit, heavily perfumed attic-like room at the top of a winding staircase. The scent of incense filled the air, and thick curtains and cluttered round tables with delicate china teacups filled the space. The atmosphere was meant to be mysterious, but to Harry, it felt stifling. He exchanged an uncertain glance with Ron as they took their seats, Hermione sitting beside them with an air of skepticism.
Professor Trelawney, a thin woman adorned with layers of flowing shawls and oversized glasses that magnified her eyes to an almost unnatural degree, swayed into the room with an air of practiced ethereality. She spoke in a breathy, sing-song voice as she explained that today, they would be reading tea leaves, an ancient and powerful form of Divination.
“Drink up, my dears, and leave only the dregs,” she instructed, moving between the tables. The students sipped at their tea, some grimacing at the bitter taste. Harry followed suit, swirling the liquid in his cup before setting it down as instructed. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to see, but Ron, across from him, squinted into his own cup and muttered, “Looks like a wonky blob to me.”
Professor Trelawney soon drifted toward their table, her bracelets jangling as she reached for Harry’s cup. The moment she peered into its depths, her expression transformed. Her already gigantic eyes widened, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her hand trembling as she held the delicate china.
“My dear boy…” she whispered, voice quivering with apparent horror. “You have, ” she let out a dramatic gasp, “The Grim!”
A hush fell over the room. Harry blinked. “The what?”
“The Grim!” Trelawney repeated, pressing a bony hand to her chest. “The great black dog… the spectral harbinger of death! Oh, my poor, dear child… it is a most dreadful omen.”
Murmurs rippled through the students, and Neville knocked over his teacup in his haste to look away. Seamus and Dean exchanged nervous glances, while Lavender Brown let out a dramatic gasp of her own. Ron, however, rolled his eyes. “Not this again,” he muttered under his breath.
Hermione let out an exasperated huff, crossing her arms. “Oh, honestly. A giant spectral dog? An omen of death? This is complete nonsense.” She cast Harry a pointed look. “You don’t actually believe this, do you?”
Harry hesitated. Rationally, he wanted to agree with Hermione. He didn’t believe in this kind of thing, not really. But the problem was, strange and terrible things had a way of happening to him, whether he believed in them or not.
Ron, who had been watching him closely, nudged him under the table. “Mate, don’t let her get to you. You know how she is, always predicting doom and gloom. You’re fine.”
Harry gave a small nod, but his fingers curled around the edge of the table. Fine. Right. Except something did try to kill him every year. A possessed teacher, a giant snake, a swarm of Dementors. And now, a black dog. He thought back to that night on Privet Drive, the huge, hulking shadow in the alley, the way it had just watched him. His stomach twisted uncomfortably.
Professor Trelawney, meanwhile, was still clutching her shawls as though she had just delivered a tragic prophecy, her wide, magnified eyes shimmering with sorrow. “The Grim is one of the worst omens in the realm of Divination… it foretells a dreadful demise! My dear, I fear that, ”
“That’s enough,” came a crisp, no-nonsense voice from behind them.
Professor McGonagall had appeared at the trapdoor entrance, her sharp gaze sweeping over the room as she folded her arms. The tension broke instantly.
“Sibyll,” she said, with the air of someone who had endured this many, many times before, “I believe you’ve predicted the untimely demise of at least one student every year since you started teaching here.”
Trelawney stiffened. “And am I wrong?” she demanded. “Have I not foreseen tragic events?”
McGonagall exhaled through her nose. “We are still waiting for them to come true.”
A few students chuckled, and the stifling atmosphere in the room lightened. Even Ron cracked a grin. Hermione looked thoroughly vindicated.
But Harry didn’t laugh. His hand hovered over his teacup, eyes flicking back to the swirling remains of the leaves. No one else had seen what he had that night. No one else had felt the prickle of being watched.
Trelawney’s gaze lingered on him with an expression of deep pity, as though she were already mourning him. Then, with a great sigh, she swept away, pausing at Parvati’s table before exclaiming about ‘mystical possibilities’ and ‘romantic encounters.’
Harry swallowed and tried to shake off the icy dread creeping up his spine.
It was just a coincidence… wasn’t it?
Jinx had just finished lunch and was considering whether to head back to the common room or wander the grounds when a familiar voice piped up behind her.
“Miss Jinx! A word, if you please.”
She turned to find Professor Flitwick beaming up at her, his eyes twinkling like he’d just discovered a particularly fascinating new charm. Jinx liked Flitwick well enough, he was small, like her, and didn’t scold when she climbed onto tables to get a better view of a spell demonstration. But she still narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.
“What?” she asked bluntly.
Flitwick, unfazed by her lack of manners, clasped his hands together. “I happened to be observing young Mr. Potter’s Care of Magical Creatures class the other day, purely out of academic curiosity, mind you, and I noticed something rather interesting about you.”
Jinx tilted her head. “Okay?”
“You’re stealthy,” he said with great enthusiasm, as if this were the highest compliment one could receive. “The way you moved, the way you watched, not to mention your reflexes, remarkable, truly! It got me thinking…” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Have you ever considered playing Quidditch?”
Jinx blinked. “The… broom game?”
Flitwick’s smile didn’t falter, though it did grow a touch more strained. “Yes, the broom game.”
Jinx frowned. She had seen students flying around hitting balls and chasing after a tiny golden thing, but she had never paid much attention to the rules. She didn’t do rules.
Flitwick must have sensed her hesitation because he pressed on. “I spoke with the Ravenclaw captain, and they do happen to be in need of a new Beater.” He tilted his head. “It’s a very physical position, you know.”
Jinx perked up slightly. “Physical?”
“Oh, yes.” Flitwick nodded eagerly. “You get to hit Bludgers, nasty, enchanted balls that try to take players off their brooms. It requires quick reflexes, precision, and a bit of ferocity.”
Jinx’s expression remained unreadable, but something in her sharp eyes glittered with interest.
“So,” Flitwick continued, ever the salesperson, “how would you feel about trying out?”
Jinx considered this. She didn’t know the rules, didn’t care about winning or losing, but the idea of being given a bat and legally allowed to hit things, and people, was appealing. Very appealing.
A slow grin spread across her face.
“Yeah,” she said. “Alright. I’ll try it.”
Flitwick clapped his hands together, delighted. “Marvelous! Tryouts are this Saturday. I shall let the captain know to expect you.”
As he toddled away, Jinx leaned against the nearest wall, arms crossed.
Flying was fun. Hitting things was fun. Hitting things while flying?
That sounded perfect.