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The herbicide potion did carry uncanny similarities to something as dangerous as cursed nightshade extract.
"Mr. Ollivander, this is hardly the moment for entrepreneurial proposals," Snape snapped, clearly caught off guard but quick to reassert his trademark froideur with a dismissive sniff.
"I sincerely doubt there are enough daft wizards out there who wouldn't notice such a thing." His eyes narrowed as he spoke, though his tone stayed firmly steeped in ridicule.
"..."
Lirim's expression grew complicated, somewhere between awkward and resigned.
"Not necessarily," he said eventually, almost as though defending Ian's unspoken thoughts. "Even powerful wizards can be caught unawares at times."
"In that case, I'd recommend that wizard have their brain examined, and maybe invest in a fresh pair of eyes," Snape said without missing a beat, sarcasm as cutting as ever.
"......"
Lirim shot Snape a long, inscrutable look, then returned to his seat in silence. The book he had been holding slipped from his hands, and for the first time, he seemed a touch withdrawn.
"Brew it again!"
Snape didn't spare Lirim another glance as he turned sharply to Ian, his voice leaving no room for argument. And what choice did Ian have? He obediently bottled up his improved herbicide potion, fetched a fresh set of ingredients, and prepared to start over, only to return and find Lirim staring rather intently at the potion flask he'd left on the desk.
There was something familiar in that gaze.
Ian, alert as ever, quickly snatched the potion and tucked it into his enchanted pouch, securing it close to his side. At this, Lirim sighed and turned his eyes away.
"Brilliant. I've stirred the hornet nest." He muttered to himself, clearly regretting something.
The rest of Potions passed without further incident.
Ian worked quickly.
He managed to brew a second batch of herbicide potion well within the remaining time, thereby sparing himself the unpleasant alternative of scrubbing the castle toilets with a wand and a cloth. After class, he also took a moment to brew a mild stomach-soothing draught.
"Merlin, I hope Lirim was only trying to scare me."
He handed one bottle to Aurora, drank the other himself, and, after checking the corridor clock, set off for his final class of the day in the North Tower.
That would be Divination.
Ordinarily, first- and second-years only took Astronomy. But thanks to Professor Lockhart's rather spirited proposal, Divination had been added as a monthly experiential class for second-years starting this term.
Which wasn't all that surprising.
Given Lockhart's penchant for flamboyant predictions and "visions," it made sense that he'd advocate for early exposure to the mystical arts. As far as the students were concerned, no one complained. After all, this meant one less Defense Against the Dark Arts class, and as no additional lessons were scheduled, everyone was rather pleased with the novelty.
Oddly enough, Ian didn't see Lirim anywhere in this class, as if the boy's interest extended only to Potions and nothing more.
"Looks like your grandfather's scheme is to shave off one class a month and still keep the same pay packet," Ian remarked dryly, convinced he'd seen through Grindelwald's hidden agenda.
Aurora remained neutral, her face unreadable.
The two of them ascended toward the North Tower, arriving at the waiting platform outside the Divination classroom. Professor Trelawney had made this peculiar tower her home ever since she first arrived at Hogwarts.
There were no stairs nearby.
That was because the Divination classroom was directly overhead, accessed only through a hidden entrance in the ceiling. As curious second-years gathered beneath it, glancing about with uncertainty,
"Whoosh~"
A ladder unrolled from above with a sudden rush of motion. Ian climbed up first, followed closely by Aurora, and soon the rest of the class scrambled after them, snapping out of their initial confusion.
Each wooden step creaked underfoot, aged and weary, groaning faintly as if warning Ians just how precarious, and unpredictable, this strange little corner of Hogwarts could be.
All signs.
Signs in the sense of Divination.
But it seemed no one noticed them, not even Aurora, a natural-born Seer.
Ian stepped into the classroom.
Instantly, he was enveloped by a rich haze of incense, an aromatic mix of sandalwood, mugwort, and other pungent herbs. It smelled like an old wizard's sanctum or the shrine of a long-lost oracle. The room itself was peculiar. Unlike a standard classroom, it felt more like a cross between a teahouse and a dusty attic, filled with mystery and age.
The lighting was dim and dreamlike. Deep crimson drapes blanketed the windows, letting through only slender beams of light that shimmered in the incense smoke. These drifting halos danced along the floor and ceiling, casting everything in a surreal, almost otherworldly glow.
Of course...
That was how others might see it.
In Ian's opinion,
This place looked suspiciously like a shady parlour tucked behind Knockturn Alley, the sort that lit up with rosy lanterns come nightfall and lured in foolish, wayward souls who never quite found the exit.
"Is this really the Divination classroom?"
"I swear, I can smell fate in the air! It's positively thrumming with mystery!"
"I'm going to study this one properly, imagine if I could predict Muggle lottery numbers? My parents would be set for life as the next pure-blood millionaires!"
...
The young wizards chatted in excitement and awe.
In the centre of the room, several round, low-standing tables had been set out. Each table held a single crystal ball. Students began gathering around them, many reaching out hesitantly, fingers twitching but not quite daring to touch.
At that moment,
"Ohh, yet another batch of children floundering against the tides of fate," came a hoarse, reedy voice from behind a curtain.
A tall, willowy figure emerged, a woman with thick spectacles and lank, dark brown hair streaked heavily with grey, draped over her shoulders like brittle, wind-blown straw. Her patched shawl hung unevenly around her thin frame, and her eyes, magnified monstrously behind her lenses, seemed to peer into the beyond.
"To see you all in this physical realm... what a rare and wondrous treat."
This was Sybill Trelawney, Professor of Divination.
Years spent dwelling in this shadowed tower had leached the colour from her skin, leaving it pallid and waxy. Her cheeks were hollow, her cheekbones sharp, as if she dined more on mist and foresight than food.
"Let me see... let me see your futures," she murmured, walking among the students.
"Let me see... your ends."
Her spectacles, round as galleons and twice as thick, were etched with astrological symbols in delicate golden filigree. Her gaze swept the class like a soft storm cloud full of thunder waiting to break.
"Oh no. Oh dear, no, this is not good."
"You there! Beware those who walk beside you. They may not be who they seem."
"Children, mark my words... dark shadows are spreading again through the corridors of Hogwarts... they slither unseen."
Professor Trelawney's voice dropped into a whisper, which only amplified its eeriness. A few younger students exchanged nervous glances.
And then,
Her gaze fell upon Ian.
"Eh?"
The professor froze in place. Then, with a sudden jerk, her whole body convulsed. Her arms thrashed, her head lolled back, and her mouth began to mutter garbled incantations.
The classroom was struck dumb.
"What in Merlin's name, ?"
"Is she alright?"
"She's shaking like my gran's charmed knitting needles during a thunderstorm!"
...
Trelawney's hands waved about as though she were warding off invisible spirits, her legs locked in place. Ians stared, wide-eyed, not sure if they should fetch Madam Pomfrey or applaud.
"Is this... a proper Divination moment?"
Ian raised an eyebrow, surprised. He glanced at Aurora, who now seemed thoughtful, biting her lip. Ian recalled, distantly, that this professor was rumoured to have genuine prophetic fits, albeit rare and always terrifying.
Sure enough,
As the seizure faded, a hush fell.
Professor Trelawney's body straightened unnaturally. The dreamy glaze behind her glasses vanished, replaced by a piercing clarity. She was no longer herself.
"Please," she croaked.
"Please... save us... save us all..."
Her voice cracked with a dreadful, ancient sorrow.
"My master..."
And then, trembling, she reached out toward Ian, as if pleading with some unseen force to guide her hand.
(End of chapter)