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In the afternoon, Cassandra made her way to the library.
Her mind lingered on Harry's words, prompting her to specifically seek out some information. When she read that, starting in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, Muggle peasant women would carry washboards to the river to scrub clothes, Cassandra was utterly incensed.
The accompanying illustration seared into her mind, and she couldn't shake the feeling that the ridges of the washboard bore an uncanny resemblance to her own ribs...
"Potter!!!" she growled under her breath, like a lioness ready to pounce.
"Quiet!" Madam Pince snapped back, her voice brimming with indignation.
What Harry hadn't anticipated, however, was that later that evening, Draco would sneakily show up at the entrance to the Gryffindor common room.
Since he wasn't a Gryffindor, the Sphinx guarding the entrance wouldn't let him pass—not that Draco would have dared to step closer even if it had.
He loitered there for what felt like ages until Percy, arriving late, finally appeared.
"Weasley!"
Draco called out, waving a hand and striding quickly toward him.
Percy seemed distracted, his mind elsewhere, almost as if his soul had wandered off.
Draco's shout nearly made him jump out of his skin.
"Malfoy?"
Percy frowned, eyeing Draco suspiciously. "What are you doing at the Gryffindor common room entrance? You know students aren't allowed to wander the halls at night—don't make me take points from Slytherin!"
"Don't be such a spoilsport, Weasley," Draco said, raising an eyebrow with a smirk. "I'm here for Harry—Harry Potter. Got some urgent business."
At the mention of Harry, Percy's furrowed brows relaxed slightly.
"Wait here. I'll go get him."
He turned to enter the common room but was halted by Draco's voice calling after him.
"Hey, Weasley!"
Percy turned back, mildly irritated. "What now?"
"I don't usually stick my nose in other people's business, but…" Draco said with a sly grin, pointing at his own face. "You've got a lipstick mark on your cheek, Weasley. Unless you fancy being mocked by those twin clones of yours?"
Percy froze, then frantically rubbed at his face as if struck by lightning. One might think that with a bit more force, he'd scrape his skin entirely.
After a moment, he looked up. "Is it gone?"
"All clear," Draco nodded. "Now hurry up and fetch Harry, Weasley. I'm in a rush."
Percy nodded, and as he reached the entrance, he turned back to mutter, "Thanks."
"Just an even trade, Weasley," Draco replied, quirking a brow.
As a prefect, Percy had certain privileges, like entering the Gryffindor common room without answering the Sphinx's riddle.
Inside, he found Harry poring over some books, tasked by Sebastian to search for any methods to break dark magic curses.
"Harry," Percy said, "someone's outside looking for you."
"Who?" Harry set down his book. "It's nearly ten o'clock, isn't it, Percy?"
"It's Malfoy," Percy replied. "Right, I've passed on the message. I'm heading back—"
At the mention of Malfoy, Harry shot to his feet.
Cassandra's coming to see me of her own accord?
That's… well, that's rare.
Could she have changed her mind?
With these thoughts racing, Harry hurried out through the Sphinx-guarded entrance.
But the slicked-back hair awaiting him revealed it wasn't Cassandra, but Draco.
Harry couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment, though he wasn't entirely sure why.
He even felt a bit pathetic, always chasing after Cassandra just to be humiliated.
"Draco," Harry said, breaking the silence. "What are you doing here? What's up?"
"Of course there's something," Draco replied, clearing his throat.
But after clearing his throat, he glanced around nervously, like a thief checking for witnesses. Once certain they were alone, he met Harry's puzzled gaze and said, "Harry, when are we starting the Duelling Club?"
"That's it?" Harry took a shallow breath.
You came all the way here in the middle of the night just for this?
I thought…
"Of course," Draco said, frowning at Harry. "Well, not for myself, mind you. It's for my great-great-grand-aunt."
At the mention of Cassandra, Harry's drowsiness vanished.
Why didn't you say it was about Cassandra from the start?
"Oh, she wants to join the Duelling Club?" Harry asked.
Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.
"Harry, how can you expect a girl to bring it up first?" Draco said, sounding almost disappointed. "Merlin's beard, Cassandra may be older in family terms, but she's still a girl—and let's be honest, she hasn't been in this world all that long. As a gentleman, how can you let her make the first move?"
Draco paused, then added, "I recall Professor Black taught you lot about gentlemanly etiquette, didn't he? Harry, don't make me lecture you on how to be a proper gentleman!"
Now that Draco put it that way…
Harry had to admit it made sense.
Yeah, I really shouldn't expect a girl to speak up first.
"You're right," Harry nodded earnestly. "How about this—I'll personally invite her to join the Duelling Club in a few days. What do you think?"
"It's not about what I think—it's about what you think!" Draco said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "Alright, mull it over. Oh, and don't you dare tell her I came to talk to you, got it?"
"Don't worry, my lips are sealed," Harry assured him.
Back in his dormitory, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that Draco had a point.
He felt a bit relieved, too—good thing Draco had reminded him, or if he'd forgotten about Cassandra, she'd likely give him the cold shoulder for ages.
And then…
Right, he couldn't forget about Veratia either. Better write her a letter to ask her thoughts.
It wouldn't do to invite Cassandra but leave Veratia out—that'd make Veratia cross, too…
Merlin's beard.
Harry rubbed his temples. What did I do to deserve this torment?
With a sigh, he pulled out parchment and a quill, nibbling the tip before dipping it in ink.
Dear Veratia,
How are your Muggle studies going? Are you nearly done with your coursework?
I think it's only right to invite you to join our Duelling Club, if you have the time…
Yours sincerely,
Harry Potter
After finishing, Harry handed the letter to Hedwig to deliver to Veratia.
With the letter sent, Harry stretched, collapsed onto his bed, and drifted into sleep.
The next morning, the first day of the new term, Harry entered the Great Hall for breakfast and immediately spotted Cassandra Malfoy.
It was as if she'd been waiting for him. When Harry approached to greet her, Cassandra stomped on his foot with a haughty air and sauntered back to the Slytherin table, moving like a victorious queen. She began slicing her grilled tomato with knife and fork, as if she were carving up Harry himself.
Harry's heart sank with guilt—after all, he'd likened Cassandra to a washboard yesterday.
In truth, he'd exaggerated a bit. Cassandra… well, she was a bit slight, but not that flat.
Compared to Veratia, though, she paled in comparison—and if you put her next to Poppy in human form, it was downright catastrophic.
Poppy, back when she was human, had to rest her books on a table while reading, or the weight would be unbearable.
"She's a bit like Hermione," Ron remarked as he sat down, griping to Harry. "Hermione loves stepping on me, too—though I don't think she means any harm. Same with her. They only stomp us when we've ticked them off."
"Your observational skills are sharp, Ron," Harry said with a wry smile.
He grabbed some sausages and sandwiches—not the emulsified, high-fat British variety, but proper German sausages—along with a couple of grilled tomatoes.
"What's our first class today?" Ron asked eagerly. "I'm hoping it's not Potions. At least then we'd start the day in a decent mood."
"Why's that?" Harry asked, biting into a grilled tomato.
"Think about it—what's in Potions class? That venomous old bat!" Ron said, chewing his sausage, utterly unconcerned about badmouthing a professor. "Right? You don't want to be sprayed with his poison either."
"I must remind you, Weasley, that bats do not produce venom. They rely on echolocation."
A greasy, drawling voice slithered from behind them. Ron, sausage still in mouth, turned in shock to face Snape's sneering visage.
"Speaking ill of a professor behind his back? Five points from Gryffindor."
With that, Snape swept away in a billow of robes.
"You never learn, Ronald," Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "You know he always appears behind you when you talk about him, yet you keep doing it. Merlin, when will you be more careful?"
Ron wrinkled his nose, sulkily prodding his sausage as if it were Snape himself.
After breakfast, Harry and Hermione dragged a still-grumpy Ron toward the Divination classroom.
Harry was mildly curious about Professor Trelawney. Dumbledore had once mentioned she was descended from a true seer.
Anyone who became a Hogwarts professor had to have some skill, after all.
The Divination classroom was in the North Tower, a place they'd never ventured to before.
The trek from the castle was long, and though they'd been at Hogwarts for two years, the castle's layout still eluded them at times.
Luckily, Harry knew the way. With a few familiar landmarks, he led them to the North Tower.
The path to the Divination classroom involved a spiraling staircase that twisted so fiercely Ron started feeling dizzy.
"Merlin, how much longer?" he panted.
"We're here," Hermione said, hearing the telltale buzz of chatter from above—the sound of a classroom before the teacher arrived.
They climbed the final steps to a small platform. Since Divination wasn't mandatory, not every student was there.
There was no door on the platform. Harry nudged Ron, pointing to the ceiling, where a circular trapdoor bore a brass plaque.
"Sybill Trelawney, Divination Teacher," Hermione read. "How do we get up there?"
As if in answer, the trapdoor swung open, and a silver ladder descended before their feet.
Ron climbed up first, followed by Hermione, then Harry.
Harry had been to this classroom before, when Professor Onai taught Divination—a rather… indescribable person.
But truthfully, the room felt less like a classroom and more like a blend of an attic and an old-fashioned teahouse.
At least twenty small, round tables were crammed inside, each surrounded by armchairs draped in Indian chintz and plump cushions.
Everything was bathed in a dim, scarlet glow. The curtains were drawn, and many lamps were shrouded in crimson shades.
The room was stiflingly warm, the fireplace stuffed full, with a large copper kettle simmering over the flames, emitting a heavy, cloying scent.
The circular walls were lined with shelves, cluttered with dusty feather headdresses, candle stubs, tattered playing cards, countless silvery crystal balls, and an assortment of teacups.
"Look at those headdresses," Ron said, pointing to the shelves. "Bet they're Native American. I've heard they're big on divination, too."
"I think so," Hermione nodded, scanning the room curiously. "Where's Professor Trelawney? I don't see her."
No sooner had she spoken than a voice emerged from the shadows, soft and misty.
"Welcome," it said. "How delightful to see you in the physical world at last."
With that, Professor Trelawney stepped into the firelight.
She was gaunt, her large glasses magnifying her eyes several times over. Those eyes seemed both vacant and piercing, as if gazing elsewhere. A shimmering, gauzy shawl draped her shoulders, and her slender neck was adorned with countless necklaces and beads. Her arms and hands glittered with bangles and rings.
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