Chapter 33: The Prophecy from Thirteen Years Ago

Sybill Trelawney considers herself the most mysterious member of the Hogwarts staff.

Her classroom is located at the top of the North Tower, where a narrow, winding staircase, like a coiling serpent, leads to this isolated sanctuary. The air is heavy with the scent of thick incense, and the faint light filtering through red curtains bathes the entire room in a hazy, ethereal glow. The tables are cluttered with crystal balls, tarot cards, and various trinkets etched with astrological symbols, while the rhythmic sound of an hourglass occasionally pierces the silence—

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Just like that.

Trelawney often tells others with confidence that the art of divination requires an innate gift, and she is the very possessor of that talent. Yet, this confidence is frequently mistaken for eccentricity—especially in the eyes of those so-called "rational" professors. Despite this, she remains content, like a hermit sequestered in a high tower, indifferent to the gazes of others.

But today, Trelawney feels a faint sense of unease.

The office door is pushed open, and footsteps slowly approach. She looks up and sees the figure who causes her endless headaches—Byrne Morris.

He... he had come after all.

Trelawney sighs silently to herself, her fingers instinctively tightening around the base of her crystal ball.

"Professor Trelawney," Morris says, standing before her, "I hope I am not disturbing you."

Trelawney frowns and pushes the crystal ball toward the center of the table, assuming a mysterious posture. "Professor... Morris, have I not told you that divination cannot be performed at any time or place? It requires inspiration, a catalyst, and most importantly—the guidance of fate."

"I know," Morris replies in a calm, almost polite tone, "but I am not asking you to prophesy on a whim. I only wish to know about that year—"

"Professor Morris," Trelawney interrupts him impatiently, drawing out her words and striving to make her voice sound profound, "regarding the events of that time, I fear I have no new information to add. Prophecies are not things we can control—they are products of chance, not truths that can be pursued at will."

"Professor Trelawney, I only need you to tell me: did that prophecy from back then reveal certain... truths that I have yet to perceive?"

Trelawney takes a soft breath, forces a faint smile, and waves her hand. "Professor Morris, most prophecies are vague and elusive. As for that one from over a decade ago, I am sorry, but perhaps... it was not a true prophecy at all, but some sort of misunderstanding. After all—" She pauses, her voice dropping lower, "not all divination is accurate."

Perhaps Morris is the only person in the world who could compel Trelawney to admit that her prophecies might be false or inaccurate.

But Morris does not care.

Familiar with the original story, he has long known that most of Trelawney's prophecies are fraudulent. Only those few critical ones regarding Voldemort came true.

Or even—

He had thought so, too.

Until that prophecy about himself thirteen years ago came to pass...

"You can," Morris says, cutting off her excuses. "That is exactly why I am standing here."

Trelawney’s face shifts, her hand involuntarily tightening around the base of the crystal ball. Just as she prepares to use a clever excuse to brush him off again, her peripheral vision catches Morris’s hand moving gently toward the wand at his waist.

The movement is slow, but the implication is self-evident.

Trelawney’s heart leaps, and she instinctively recoils. Although she knows that Hogwarts is a safe place and no one would use force against a professor under Dumbledore’s nose, but... what if? A cold, sweat-inducing thought takes hold.

If the stake is her life, does she dare to gamble?

Facing Morris, does she truly have the ability to hold out until Dumbledore arrives? She fears she might not even be able to send a warning.

"Professor Morris," Trelawney’s voice trembles slightly as she tries to force a smile onto her stiff face, but fails, "we are colleagues. I am merely a seer who delivers prophecies; I do not determine their accuracy, let alone control the future... Why must you be so persistent over some vague predictions?"

"Because it changed my life." Seeing Trelawney’s attitude soften, Morris stops his movement and looks at her earnestly. "You may think it is vague and elusive, but everything I have experienced tells me it is real."

This is the first time Trelawney has felt her prophecies taken so seriously by someone else. Usually, this would be a cause for joy, but she cannot bring herself to smile. Cold sweat begins to bead on her forehead; she tries to retort, but her throat feels constricted, unable to produce a sound.

"You know, Professor Trelawney," Morris steps forward slowly, "that prophecy was more than just a string of words. It hinted at a truth I had not yet perceived. And now, I need you to tell me more—about its true meaning."

Trelawney grits her teeth, her eyes darting about, and finally—she concedes.

"Very well, Professor Morris."

She adopts a cryptic air, touching the crystal ball once more. "Since you insist, let me try to connect the threads of fate and reveal those hidden truths for you."

Morris stands opposite her, watching her movements in silence. Trelawney gently closes her eyes, begins to shake the crystal ball, and mutters inarticulate whispers. The room is filled with that familiar scent of incense, and the light spilling through the red curtains casts her face in a deeply mysterious light.

"I see... I see!" She suddenly raises her voice, her fingers trembling as she points at the crystal ball, as if she has truly caught some extraordinary image. "It is... a dark path, surrounded by countless thorns... but there is light at the end! A powerful force is calling, the gears of fate are turning, and you—"

She snaps her head up to look at Morris. "Professor Morris, your fate is destined to be inextricably linked to a powerful entity. This connection will bring change—either destruction or rebirth!"

Morris remains standing there, expressionless. He offers no response, continuing to watch Trelawney quietly, waiting for further explanation. Trelawney swallows hard, her fingers gripping the crystal ball tightly.

She knows she has reached a point of no return and can only continue to improvise.

"The trajectory of fate is not easily changed, yet it is not fixed," she draws out her tone. "You will face a choice, and the outcome of that choice will determine the final direction of this path... but—" She pauses, her voice growing huskier, "danger is approaching! The shadows of darkness are gathering... you must be vigilant, Professor Morris. Your choices will not only concern yourself but will alter the fate of the entire wizarding world!"

With that, Trelawney closes her eyes, feigning exhaustion, and says in a weak voice, "I... I can only see this much. The fog of fate is too thick to see any further."

Morris watches her quietly for a moment, then expressionlessly takes a small cloth bag from his pocket and places it gently on the table. The mouth of the bag is slightly open, revealing the faint luster of gold Galleons inside.

"Thank you, Professor Trelawney. This is your payment." His tone is flat, devoid of any emotional fluctuation.

Having said this, he turns and leaves her office without once looking back.

As Morris walks down the winding staircase, a barely perceptible smile plays on his lips. Of course, he knows Trelawney was just bluffing—that performance was hardly impressive.

However, this does not hinder his plans. Because his purpose in coming here was not to obtain the true prophecy in one go.

"As long as I come once a week..." Morris thinks, his steps steady on the stone stairs. "Give her enough time and pressure, and gradually desensitize her. With enough attempts, a true prophecy will eventually slip out."

It is like drawing cards; how could one ever pull the character they want on the first try? Patience is the key, and he has plenty of time.

Meanwhile, in the North Tower office, Trelawney slowly opens her eyes. The faint incense still lingers in the air, and her gaze falls on the cloth bag on the table, the gleam of Galleons catching her eye through the opening.

Her fingers instinctively rub the base of the crystal ball, her expression complex and indescribable.

In truth, Trelawney does not mind performing divination for others; in fact, she enjoys making prophecies for people—especially for celebrities. Each time she performs for someone of note, it makes her feel her own presence and the uniqueness of her status. It is a pleasant satisfaction, like standing at the pinnacle of fate, looking down upon the masses.

But Morris is not among those she is willing to read for.

It is not because of the somewhat comical charade just now, nor because of his past in Azkaban that makes her uneasy, but because—of the dream she had the day after she made that prophecy for him thirteen years ago.

That... terrifying and incomparably vivid dream.