Chapter 16
"...how can I tell if I have a predisposition for Divination?"
No matter how much Simon urged Harry and Ron to look into the cup, they couldn't see anything even remotely resembling a four-leaf clover. Sure, if he pointed it out, they noticed it—but in their unbiased opinion, it could just as easily have been a dog, a cloud, or, more accurately, just a smear of tea dregs.
For Simon, however, it was crystal clear. The moment he looked at the bottom of the cup again, the unmistakable scent of fresh grass filled his nose. It was so vivid that Simon seriously wondered for a second if he was going insane, considering no one else could smell it.
Proving whether his "prophecy" for Fred had worked wasn't simple. In his mind, a "sign of luck" could manifest in an hour, a day...
"Merlin's beard!" Fred exclaimed, looking in surprise at a parcel an owl had just delivered to him. "It's my old Sneakoscope—Mum finally found it!"
...or right this second.
Fred, George, Ron, and Harry looked at Simon with considerable astonishment, while Simon himself felt a bit dazed by this new information.
"That's..." Harry hesitated. "Simon, that's just a coincidence, right? You said yourself that prophets don't exist..."
"I didn't say that," Simon huffed. "I said pretending to be a prophet is much easier than people think. I never denied the existence of actual prophets. Hogwarts wouldn't teach a subject it wasn't sure existed... probably."
"We need..." Fred looked at George.
"An expert!" the twin finished for his brother.
Both twins jumped up in sync and sprinted about ten yards before stopping at a group of older students. One on the right, one on the left—they grabbed Percy Weasley by the elbows and hauled their protesting brother away from the table, leading him back.
"...I am your older brother! Enough, I tell you—I am a prefect!"
"Yes, yes," Fred rolled his eyes. "I managed to forget already."
"It's a good thing our brother reminds us... every single day."
Ron, sitting next to Simon, nodded unconsciously.
"Get off me!" Percy finally managed to shake his brothers off and began briskly straightening his robes.
"O Wise One..."
"O Responsible One..."
"O Prefect-y One..."
"O Gingerest One..."
"O Percy-est One..."
"That's enough, you two!" Percy snapped, shouting furiously. "What do you want, you morons?!"
The twins, again in sync, shoved the protesting Percy down into the seat opposite the three colorful first-years—Simon, Harry, and Ron.
Simon didn't stand on ceremony and went straight to the point.
"How do you know if you're a prophet?"
"How should I know?" Percy raised an eyebrow. "And I literally just dropped Divination, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy today! You've definitely come to the wrong person!"
"What?" Three of the Weasley brothers gaped in unison.
"But you're... you're Percy Weasley!"
"The ultimate swot!"
"A nerd to the core!"
"A bore to the..."
"Shut up!" Percy's face turned red, but he quickly regained his composure—clearly, he had practice. "From this year on, you can't attend every elective, so I dropped the courses that aren't mandatory for my future career."
"I don't even understand how you did it for the last two years," Fred muttered. "A lot of the classes overlap and run at the same time!"
"Before..." Percy hesitated. "Before, there was a way around it—now there isn't."
"Then recommend someone who actually knows about Divination, you useless big brother!"
"I am your older brother! Show some respect!"
"O Wise One..."
"O Responsible One..."
"O Prefect-y One..."
"SHUT UP!"
Following Percy's loud outburst, silence fell over the Great Hall. It seemed not just their table, but all the other Houses had heard it. Most eyes in the room turned toward them.
Percy turned a deep shade of crimson. Slowly, everyone stopped staring.
"One day, I am definitely going to clobber you two!" Percy hissed angrily.
"Not going to happen..."
"There are two of us!" The twins smirked at each other, and then at Percy.
"Anyway, leave me alone with your stupid questions, for Merlin's sake!" the eldest Weasley rolled his eyes. "No one knows how to identify a prophet—only the prophet himself can say he is one!"
"Even Trelawney?" Simon asked.
"I don't think Trelawney is a prophet at all," Percy snorted. "Her grandmother was a famous Seer, so she just got a cozy spot at Hogwarts."
"Hey," George frowned. "But quite a few students attend Divination..."
"A lot of people attend because it's easy," Percy huffed. "Put on a stupid face, nod along, and get good grades. It's basically a free 'Outstanding' on your OWLs and NEWTs. Why try hard when you don't have to?"
A sudden realization dawned on Fred and George. They suddenly remembered exactly why they had chosen Divination in the first place.
"But, if you're really that interested," Percy said with a thoughtful smile, "I can introduce you to someone who knows more about the subject than I do..."
"Strange..."
"Suspiciously strange," Ron agreed with his brothers. "Is he doing this for free?"
The Weasleys had an interesting relationship dynamic. Simon even felt a pang of envy for such a large family—what was it like to live in such a big house?
"Come on," Percy ignored them and led the whole group toward the Ravenclaw table.
"It all makes sense now," Ron nodded in relief.
They approached a tall blonde girl with a serious face. Her name was Penelope Clearwater, and she was Percy Weasley's colleague—the Ravenclaw prefect.
The two prefects were likely fond of each other, but teenage flirting is only pleasant for those involved. For everyone else, it's just awkward.
"Percy, don't forget to remind her you're a prefect!" Fred advised in a loud "whisper."
The expression on Percy's face made it clear he was once again regretting having younger siblings.
"They want to ask about prophets," he said, casting a disdainful look at the group. "You know more about this than I do, right?"
"My great-grandmother had the Gift," the girl shrugged.
"So the probability of the Gift being passed through blood is higher?" Simon asked, intrigued.
"So they say," Penelope sighed. "I was denied the Gift, just like my father. Actually, finding a prophet among wizards is a stroke of massive luck. And meeting a truly powerful prophet is probably a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. Among those living now, there are no powerful prophets."
"How does the Gift manifest?"
"Generally, Divination is a deeply personal discipline. The manifestation of the Gift can be unique to everyone, which is why there isn't much point in the elective. Divination cannot be taught; even if you're teaching someone with the Gift, it's all individual. You either have a predisposition for it, or you don't. And often, a real prophet is so hard to come by that most wizards don't even believe in prophecies."
"Then what's the point of studying all this... gibberish?" Percy wondered. "I mean, Fred and George are studying tea leaf reading, and at the end of last year, we were doing reading palms... what was it..."
"Palmistry," Penelope helped. "In reality, all these types of fortune-telling are manifestations of the gifts of great prophets from the past—and often each of them had their own unique method, which found a reflection in our courses."
"Then it's even more meaningless!"
"There is some point to it," Penelope sighed. "Perhaps this way, people with predispositions can be identified. Something has to work sometimes, right?"
"Palmistry is the kind of fortune-telling that studies the lines, shapes, and texture of the palm, right?" Simon asked.
"Correct," Penelope looked at him in surprise. "And you are..?"
"Simon Laplace," he introduced himself. "Can I see your hand?"
"Oh, well, sure," she extended her hand, palm up. "Actually, Palmistry even has its own alphabet and dictionary. For example..."
"It's not just the future, but the past as well," Simon interrupted her, his eyes fixed on the palm in his hands.
Simon's gaze clouded—he was looking both at the palm and through it. He fell back into that state he'd experienced when looking at the tea dregs—meaningless to others, but full of life for him.
His thumb slid barely perceptibly along the life line, then stopped, as if it had hit an invisible barrier.
"You often wake up before your alarm," he said quietly. "You've always had a peculiar relationship with sleep."
Penelope blinked in surprise.
"And you..." he continued, "hate that state between sleeping and waking. There are too many thoughts there. You replay conversations that haven't happened yet. You're apprehensive because you think too much."
This time, even the twins stopped snickering.
"You have a strong head line," Simon said without looking up. "Very straight, almost no breaks—a reflection of your drive for control."
"That's..." Penelope swallowed nervously. "A good trick..."
He shifted the palm to the right angle, as if he had done it hundreds of times before, though his hands moved on their own.
"You moved—not in childhood, but a bit later, around thirteen or fourteen. The move was very painful—you couldn't get used to the new place for a long time, which says a lot, considering you spend most of the year at Hogwarts."
Penelope's pupils began to quiver.
"You..." her breathing quickened. "You... you could have found that out from other places!"
And there it was— the manifestation of irrational human emotions. Perhaps Penelope, given her knowledge and background, might have believed in the existence of a prophet faster than others, but as soon as the "reading" touched her personally, she began searching for rational explanations. Not all wizards are brainless, as it turned out.
"A lot can be explained by cold reading," Simon spoke as the voice of reason, despite his own internal doubts. "For example, you keep your back very straight—a habit of not showing weakness. You adjust your robes when you're nervous—when you don't know what to say, like right now. All of this can be called cold reading, but the rest... I simply can't explain."
Simon closed his eyes for a second.
The scent of lavender and roses washed over him.
"First love is always the sweetest. And you always wanted to fall in love..."
The sensation of tears on his cheeks was beyond words. Especially someone else's tears, tears that didn't belong to him.
"You will get it—and you will be happy. But... it will end in nothing. Or rather, in bitterness and tears."
"Nothing?" Penelope whispered hoarsely.
Large tears began to roll down the girl's cheeks. In a burst of emotion, she delivered a sharp slap to Simon's face and ran away in tears. Percy ran after her.
"What did I do?" Simon sighed, rubbing his cheek.
"You reduced her to tears, Simon!" Harry frowned disapprovingly.
"Those were facts."
"How do you know?"
"I just know, that's all," he replied after a slight delay.
"You... you can't say for sure! You could have just not said it!"
"Even though there was disbelief in her voice, she didn't pull her hand away—that means she believed me. She wanted to know what would happen—she found out. The outcome didn't depend on my opinion or your desire—what's the point of lying in a situation like that?"
"You!" Harry wanted to continue the argument but suddenly deflated. "Just... Hey, Simon, what's wrong with you?"
"What do you mean?" he asked, confused.
"You're covered in sweat, mate," Ron said, surprised. "And your fingers are shaking!"
With a trembling hand, he tried to get a handkerchief out of his pocket, but it fell. Simon tried to lean down, but a sudden darkness in his eyes nearly made him lose consciousness.
"What..." Simon began to breathe rapidly. It felt as if someone had cut off the oxygen in the Great Hall. "What... is happening?"
His heart began to pound like mad. He could hear his own pulse echoing in his ears.
And deep from his chest, an irrational sense of terror began to rise. It began to roll in and wash over him in waves, making his limbs tremble and his mouth go dry.
His body began to react to a deep sense of dread that gripped him from head to toe.
Simon didn't know what was supposed to happen. But that "something" was going to be... horrible.
"Hey, Simon, where are you going?!"
"To a safe place!" Simon replied frantically. "Something... something is about to happen!"
Never before had his intuition stung so sharply and so clearly.
Perhaps now was the time to consider the connection between his newly found Gift and his always-saving "intuition." Perhaps he had found a rational explanation for why his "gut feeling" worked supernaturally well.
Except that very same gut feeling was screaming only one thing at him right now:
"RUN!"
The corridors of Hogwarts flashed before his eyes at maximum speed. His friends kept up but didn't stop trying to calm the suddenly panicked boy. Simon didn't stop.
He felt that with every passing second, he was being squeezed from all sides, leaving no room for any maneuver.
Because of this, his panicking mind produced the only correct thought he agreed with—he needed to get outside.
Luckily, nothing terrible happened on the way.
Finding himself under the open sky on a small square with a fountain, Simon scanned the sky sharply, where a rare lack of clouds helped confirm the total absence of owls with heavy parcels.
"Si... ha... mon?" his friends panted. "Why did you run out?"
"Ha-ha-ha..." Simon laughed solemnly and a bit insanely, his pupils dilated. The sense of dread hadn't receded—it had become even stronger—but he tried to take his irrational emotions under control. He raised his middle fingers and began flashing them in every direction. "SO WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO NOW, YOU MOTHERFUCKER?!"
A bright flash, which cost him his sight for a second, was the answer. The characteristic roar that followed the flash left no doubt about the cause of his fading consciousness.
"MERLIN'S BEARD!" Ron screamed in panic. "There isn't a cloud in the sky—where did that lightning come from?!"
"No... way... in... hel..."
Consciousness vanished "lightning-fast."
---
"DAMN IT!"
Nearby parents and escorts turned in unison to look at the boy who had cursed and fallen out of the line. They looked for a moment, then turned back to the Hogwarts Express.
"Aaaaaah!" Simon screamed loudly. "SON OF A BITCH!"
"Hey!" an elderly man frowned disapprovingly. "Young man, could you be a bit quieter?"
"OH, GO TO HELL, YOU OLD GEEZER! I GOT HIT BY LIGHTNING, BLAST THIS DAMN MERLIN IN ALL HIS MAGIC HOLES!"
"Youth these days..."
"Attention!" a female voice rang out on the platform. "The train to Hogsmeade station departs in five minutes. We ask all students and staff to take their seats! We ask relatives and escorts not to interfere with boarding."
It took a criminally short amount of time, in Simon's opinion, to recover from the phantom pains of a body that had recently been struck by lightning.
Just two minutes to realize that the world didn't like him very much and that he had returned once again to his original timeline.
"Divination..." Simon muttered with a hollow gaze. "I have talent, which is good—that's one. I have to pay for it, which is shitty—that's two."
Even his inner intuition seemed to nod in agreement, leaving no doubt that the sudden urge for lightning to strike him directly was due to his sudden urge to predict the future for someone.
"The attack on the Hogwarts Express..." Simon muttered feverishly. "I need Harry—only he can help. I just need to... tell him about the attack without giving away the 'past.' Piece of cake!"
From last time, he remembered where Harry and his Weasley-wife were supposed to be standing, so the people he was looking for quickly came into view.
But every subsequent step was taken with more and more difficulty.
His heart began to pound like mad again, his fingers were shaking, and sweat was pouring down in buckets.
And this time, the cause of the rolling wave of fear wasn't his suddenly awakened intuition, but his own psyche.
Pictures of people literally exploding into fountains of blood rose in his head, the Sun and Moon swapping places dozens of times a second, and that feeling of his body withering away.
It wasn't his intuition telling him to stop, but a small, frightened boy inside him who wouldn't stop screaming:
"Run away from here!"
"Hello," Harry Potter smiled. "You need to hurry, or you'll miss boarding. Do you need an autograph?"
Simon didn't answer immediately; instead, after thinking for a moment and wiping away the beads of sweat, he simply extended his middle finger.
"Up yours for now, four-eyes. For now."
And ignoring Harry Potter's stunned expression, Simon climbed straight into the carriage.