A fortune teller's greatest tools? Bluffing, more bluffing, and bluffing till death.
When your skills fall short, let your appearance make up for it. Even in the wizarding world, Professor Trelawney's eccentric outfit is considered over-the-top. Yet undeniably, her over-the-top gear takes her "mystical aura" to another level.
After all, what's the point of a fortune teller if she looks too normal? Might as well be a Muggle.
What surprised Allen was just how many girls had signed up for Divination, an overwhelming majority. He couldn't quite understand their logic. Weren't witches already part of the mystical side of the world? Did they really need to double down like this?
Just look at Professor Trelawney over there, that's what taking "mystical" to the extreme gets you. No husband, no prospects.
Not that it mattered. The professor sat gracefully in a winged armchair before a roaring fireplace, yes, the fire was actually burning, even though it was still September, bathed in the sparkling gazes of every wide-eyed girl in the room. Her voice floated around like smoke.
"I am Professor Trelawney. You may not have seen me before. Appearing too often in the hustle and bustle of the school clouds my Inner Eye."
...Alright, Allen thought, giving her a score of 2 points for believability, and another 666 for sheer drama.
The state of the room told him all he needed to know about the professor's situation. Circular shelves lined the walls, cluttered with dusty feathers, stubby candles, tattered playing cards, countless silver crystal balls, and a mountain of mismatched teacups.
Yes, stubby candles, and playing cards. Everyone knew that Trelawney's real specialty was tarot readings, so the playing cards were just cheap props to build the illusion of power on a budget.
Unfortunately, even though Dumbledore was the headmaster, the school's funding ultimately came from the board of governors, and that meant teachers didn't earn much.
Still, none of this seemed to affect Professor Trelawney's enthusiasm. Her eyes, enlarged grotesquely by her glasses, scanned the room like an owl in the dim, flickering light, looking for her next target.
"Divination is a wondrous subject," she began, "one that reveals what lies ahead... though the truth is often shrouded in mist. I'm not sure whether any of you are ready to face it."
Her fingers curled theatrically as her eyes darted across the class, finally settling on George.
"Watch over your brother, child," she intoned gravely.
George, naturally, responded with a fake shiver of fear. Allen noticed him flashing a secret hand signal to Fred, the same one they used whenever Snape was in a bad mood.
What followed was a descent into darkness, almost literally. Professor Trelawney moved from student to student, her ghostly voice telling tales of doom that even Peeves would find creepy.
With the lighting and smoke effects working overtime, the mood of the room sank into gloom. And things only got worse when a few of her "prophecies" started coming true, mostly because the students she picked were so terrified, they caused the accidents themselves.
Classic scammer tactics, Allen thought with a smirk. Sure, she could make real prophecies, but this wasn't it. Real visions of the future didn't come this easily. The students who "fulfilled" her predictions were just the most nervous ones, tripping up from sheer fear.
Their first task of the day was to read tea leaves. Allen, for one, found the tea disgusting. He suspected the professor only brewed it to claim expenses from the school.
As expected, all he saw in the swirls of tea leaves was... half a long-dead bug. He debated whether to break the bad news to his partner, Marshall, when Marshall brought his cup over with a solemn look.
"I have bad news," Marshall said seriously. "According to the tea leaves... financial disaster is upon you. Your fortune looks bleak."
Thanks, Marshall. As if I didn't already know that. Can we not talk about it?
"Allen! You won't believe what I'm seeing!" Marshall suddenly exclaimed, raising his voice and drawing everyone's attention.
Naturally, the commotion attracted the professor. She rushed over, her tone leaving no room for refusal.
"Let me see, dear."
Before Marshall could say anything, she had already grabbed Allen's cup, spinning it counterclockwise as if performing a sacred rite.
"Death," she said ominously, staring into the cup.
Her voice was light, almost casual, like she was making small talk over afternoon tea. But the word itself cut clear and sharp: death.
"A crow, dear. The crow is the most direct omen of death. It is upon you."
Her voice rose to a shriek, like nails scraping across a blackboard, perhaps the only way to truly convey the horror of what she claimed to have seen.
Allen, however, didn't feel a shred of fear. In fact, he was fighting back laughter.
He didn't know what a real prophecy looked like, but if this sort of theatrical performance counted, then he might as well be a professor himself.
So, by all means, Professor Trelawney, please, continue the show.
But as they say, some people don't know when to stop.
"Don't be afraid, dear," she continued, reaching for a deck of tarot cards. "You must learn to face misfortune head-on, not hide like a quail."
Then her voice rose again into a scream. "Oh no! My poor, sweet child! It's better not to say it aloud, no, no, don't make me!"
She swayed as if struck by a dreadful revelation, staggering dramatically before collapsing, entirely unharmed, into an empty lounge chair. The tarot cards scattered at her feet, as if she'd used up every last drop of energy on the act.
And just like that, the performance worked. Students abandoned their desks and crowded around her.
"Professor, what's wrong?"
Trelawney clutched her chest, her voice weak, as if struck by sudden heartache. Then she dropped a line that made Allen absolutely furious:
"Oh, my dear... Death is coming. Within six months, you'll lose someone close to you. It is a dark omen, the worst kind. The mark of death."
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