Harry Potter and the Flowers of Mimas

Chapter 4: Don't Blame the Messenger

At the end of seventh year, Hogwarts' students were expected to undertake the ultimate appraisal of their knowledge of witchcraft and wizardry, known as the N.E.W.T. examinations. These were not called the Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests for nothing. Since Harry's return to school, each of his teachers had been at pains to point out that two years' solid preparation was expected of any scholar attempting a N.E.W.T. level subject. As Hagrid had warned, "The N.E.W.T.s'll make yer O.W.L.s look softer'n a Puffskein's belly."

It was not unusual for students to concentrate on only their best subjects when taking the N.E.W.T.s. However, Harry had elected to study each of the seven subjects he had taken the previous year. Then his O.W.L.s results had come, and Harry had resigned himself to the fact that an inadequate Potions mark would reduce the number of his N.E.W.T. level subjects to six. When he received his Hogwarts letter, he was surprised (and almost pleasantly so) to see that Moste Potente Potions had been included on his list of texts.

Harry only began to appreciate how ambitious his decision to take seven subjects was when he noticed the significant amount of homework that had accumulated after only a week and a half. He did not understand how Hermione, who was taking eight subjects, could possibly manage it all. However, Hermione had seemed unfazed by her monstrous N.E.W.T. workload - until now.

"I can't - it's impossible." Hermione's horror had robbed her of her eloquence. "Even if I ran all the way from Arithmancy on Mondays, I'd still be ten minutes late. And, after the last time - well I don't think the school could get me another Time-Turner."

"Well, you'll only be ten minutes late," Ron said reasonably. "I'm sure you can catch up quick enough."

"But, it's not just ten minutes!" Hermione snapped. "I haven't taken Muggle Studies for two years! How am I supposed to catch that up?"

"Muggle Studies?" Harry was completely perplexed. He craned his neck to get a better view of the notices his friends were reading.

"Yeah," Ron answered. He passed a piece of parchment to Harry. Then Ron stood, waved a page above his head and announced loudly, "I've got timetables for compulsory Muggle Studies lessons for all students in fifth, sixth and seventh-years. Read them and weep."

"Compulsory what?" Parvati gave a startled squawk as Ron passed two sheets across the table. The shock was apparently enough to make her forget about the unpleasant smell of her hair.

"WHAT'S ALL THIS ABOUT?" Zacharias Smith shouted from the other side of the Great Hall. "Who says we need to -" He stopped talking very suddenly. Harry suspected that Professor McGonagall might have caught his eye. Zacharias pushed back his chair and moved towards Ron, who was rapidly becoming surrounded by a flock of anxious students. Shortly afterwards, Harry could hear Zacharias complaining loudly while he elbowed his way into the mob.

A wall of noisy school robes was closing in around him, so Harry took his timetable and a chicken drumstick and tunneled his way out. He chose a new place nearer the High Table. He could still make out Ron, who was taller than most of his peers, and who was looking increasingly flustered as he handed out the papers to a sea of grasping hands. A seventh year Ravenclaw girl groaned loudly and tried to give her timetable back. Ron shoved it roughly into her hands again and shouted, "IT'S NOT MY FAULT, IS IT? Don't blame the MESSENGER!"

Harry could also see Hermione's bushy hair bobbing up and down in the crowd, as though she was helping Ron with the distribution. Soon, Seamus and Dean appeared from the crush.

"Well, it's all right for you," Seamus was telling Dean as they found a seat beside Harry. "You already take Muggle Studies."

"But it's blown my chances of getting top marks," Dean complained. "When it was only Justin and me, I thought I had a chance.' He slumped into his chair and sighed. "My dad said he'd buy me tickets to the FA Cup Final if I topped any of my subjects."

"Even if there were only two of you doing the course?" Harry asked.

"Well, he didn't know that, did he?" Dean countered.

"Why don't you do what me Mam did?" Seamus suggested. "Dad wanted to see Ireland play in the last World Cup, so Mam put a Disillusionment Charm on both of them and let Dad ride pillion on her broom. They spent the whole game hovering just above the ref's head -"

"But I can hardly brag to my mates if I do that," Dean responded bitterly.

"I guess not," Seamus consoled Dean. "But, look on the bright side. We live with Muggles - how much can there be to learn? It's probably our best chance of getting an 'O'." He nodded towards the growing ruck, where Neville had just managed to elbow his way out. "And no matter what happens," Seamus said slyly, "we're bound to do better than the pure-bloods." At these words, Dean's face lit up in an unexpectedly exultant smile.

Neville was still panting and red in the face when he joined the other Gryffindor boys. He clutched a very crumpled, slightly ripped timetable and squinted at it in confusion. "You know, this doesn't make any sense," he observed.

"Well," Harry began patiently, "I think they've just decided we should all do Muggle Studies."

"I gathered as much." Neville's voice sounded miffed. Harry made a mental note to stop talking down to him. "But have you noticed that we're in three different classrooms?" Neville continued. "Binns' on Monday, Flitwick's on Wednesday and McGonagall's room on Friday."

"Maybe the Muggle Studies teacher doesn't have a classroom of his own," Harry said.

"Maybe they don't have a Muggle studies teacher," Dean explained. "McGonagall was teaching Justin and me, but we weren't actually having any classes. She was setting us work and collecting it. Said she'd schedule tutorials later in the term - it was all pretty casual. Ginny's doing her Muggle Studies O.W.L. with Binns, and I think Flitwick teaches some of the younger years. Maybe the three of them are just sharing the work out between themselves."

"McGonagall, Flitwick and Binns." Seamus grimaced and shook his head. "I bet each one of them sets a full week's worth of homework. And me already doing five N.E.W.T. levels."

"Well, Harry's got seven," Neville reminded Seamus. Neville was still scanning the page, as though he hoped it would change if he looked closely enough. Then he made a short, surprised noise and asked, "Did you read this, Harry? At the very bottom? Good news!"

Harry had not read the lower half of the page. He had briefly noticed that it included a long list of recommended reading. He saw that the N.E.W.T. level texts had titles like The Philosophy of the Mundane: Why the Muggles Prefer Not to Know by Professor Mordicus Egg and Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles by Wilhelm Wigworthy. He had decided he would wait until Hermione was free to discuss the reading list, so he could ask her which books it was absolutely essential to read, and which books he could just pretend he had read.

Harry directed his attention to the last line of the page, which said: Students are also advised that there will be no Potions classes for Sixth or Seventh year students on Friday, 13^th September.

"Where's Snape going to?" Seamus asked. "He's never away, is he? This sounds like he's nipping off for the weekend."

"I've no idea," Harry replied. The news that the Potions Master would be absent was unprecedented. But it was also so welcome that Harry did not care if his teacher was going on an express trip to the jaws of a Hebridean Black. Laughing, Harry added, "Wherever he's going, I hope he stays there."

Neville poked his nose over the top of the timetable and scanned the High Table furtively. "Wherever he's going," Neville said, "it doesn't look like he's too overjoyed about it."

Glancing over his shoulder, Harry looked at the teachers. McGonagall was sitting, stiff-backed, at the centre of the High Table. She was glaring at her mutton stew with the same cross expression she had borne when she handed the timetables to Ron. Next to her sat Professor Snape, whose gaze was directed toward the Slytherin students. Snape's mouth was set in the grimmest of thin lines and his dark eyes glowered menacingly. If Professor McGonagall was feeling displeased, Snape must be feeling ten times worse.

Harry wondered why Snape was looking - even for Snape - so foul. Had he received news from Voldemort that had blackened his mood? Was he going on some mission to spy for the Order of the Phoenix? Was he planning to meet some of the other Death Eaters, or even their evil master?

This made Harry feel so uneasy that his mind drifted away from the conversation with Dean, Neville and Seamus. He barely noticed when his friends said goodbye and left for classes. His thoughts were focused on one thing. Like Snape, Harry was part of the fight against Voldemort. Harry needed to face Voldemort again and he had to prepare himself for that meeting. But to prepare himself, he first of all needed to find a way and a place to practice safely and in secrecy. And all of this was infinitely more important than gaining an "O" in Muggle Studies.

At the end of lunch, the scramble around Ron and Hermione petered out. Ron was cursing under his breath, and Hermione was remonstrating with him about his choice of a particularly colourful adjective, when Harry decided to rejoin them. Ron still had a large number of crumpled parchments, which he placed on top of his pile of Charms and Transfiguration books. The three friends left the Great Hall together.

They had walked into the Entrance Hall, which was crowded with students walking to lessons. Somebody bumped Ron, who nearly lost hold of his burden. He complained, "It'd be easier if I didn't have heaps of these fool things. Do you think McGonagall wants the spares back?"

"You can ask her in class," Harry said vaguely. His eyes had fixed on the house hourglasses, each shining with their accumulations of red, green and yellow jewels. The Ravenclaw hourglass, normally a glittering blue, was stark and transparent.

"It's no surprise you've got so many left," Hermione explained irritably. "None of the Slytherins took theirs. It'll be their own fault if they don't know where to go on Monday. Or if they haven't prepared properly."

Ron checked the timetable on the top of his pile, fumbling with his books as he did so. "Monday's in Binns' room," he read. Then he added excitedly, "Hey Harry! Did you see this? No double Potions tomorrow." He bent towards Harry and asked conspiratorially, "What're you going to do with two hours of freedom?"

"Freedom!" Hermione snorted. "Did you see that reading list, Ron? And, we'll need to read all the O.W.L. texts before we can even make a start on the N.E.W.T. ones."

Harry was still staring at the Ravenclaw hourglass. Cho had been on the seventh floor, a place that was now apparently forbidden. The only thing of interest on the seventh floor, that Harry was aware of, was the Room of Requirement. And in that room a seeker could find whatever he desired. Suddenly, Harry knew exactly where he would be spending the cancelled double Potions lesson. However, he decided he would wait until later to let Ron know his intentions.

* * * * * * *

Severus Snape's employment history had, until that morning, been beyond reproach. While his colleagues saw fit to absent themselves for a bizarre variety of reasons (possession by Voldemort, year long imprisonment within trunks and lycanthropy among them) Snape had never been so much as five minutes late for a lesson. It was an achievement that was never noticed by his workmates, nor appreciated by his pupils.

But on Friday morning Snape's third year Hufflepuff and Gryffindor class gathered in the Potions dungeon without him. Snape stayed in his office next door, resolutely marking the essays on Moonstones he had collected from the fifth years the day before. The fireplace was blazing, making the small space uncomfortably stuffy. Yet Snape needed to keep the fire going, in case Narcissa Malfoy's servant arrived by Floo. He had no idea when to expect his visitor, since Narcissa had not bothered to let him know her plans for the day. Snape had long ago come to expect this sort of disdain when dealing with the Malfoy family.

He could hear his students, who were being supervised by Professor Flitwick, chattering as though they were attending a party. Snape doubted that any of them would be paying much attention to the Shrinking Solution they were supposed to be concocting.

A loud crash in the dungeon confirmed Snape's fears. He sprang from his chair and snatched up his wand. The incantation for a Flame Freezing Charm was on his lips before he had even turned the handle of the adjoining door. Then, he heard laughter erupt and Flitwick's high-pitched voice exclaim, "An interesting way to test your potion, Mr Creevey! Ten points to Gryffindor for being the first one finished." The classroom filled with cheers and applause. Snape could barely make out Flitwick's voice, squeaking happily above the din. "Miss Bradmill, why don't you carry Mr Creevey up to the desk and I'll fix him with an Engorgement Charm?"

Snape backed away from the still closed door, trying his best to ignore the taunting sounds of merriment that wafted from the classroom. He sat down again and vindictively saturated his quill nib with red ink. But the laughter refused to abate and after a few moments Snape realised he could not concentrate on his work. He took a blackened, battered cauldron from his bottom drawer, snarled a spell to fill and light it, and brewed himself a mug of Bovril.

The beverage was thick and salty. It was also too hot. Snape's eyes and nose began to run after the first mouthful. He fished into his pocket for a handkerchief, but instead pulled out a sticky wad of Veneficus Membrane. Snape always kept an adequate amount of this substance on his person because, when pressed to one's mouth and nose, the membrane acted as a filter for poisonous gas. This was a sensible precaution for any Potions Master to take; each year at Hogwarts seemed to produce its own Longbottom. The gelatinous ball in Snape's hand was blackened from the acrid fumes it had absorbed over many years. Snape put it back and drew out his handkerchief, which was only marginally cleaner.

After blowing his nose violently, Snape took another gulp of Bovril. This time, the heat was more bearable, so Snape allowed the drink to linger on his tongue. The tang was stronger than ordinary beef tea. Snape tried to recollect what the taste reminded him of. Another sip crystallised the memory. It tasted like blood.

Snape was nervous, but he could conceal it readily enough. After all, he was not some weak fool who wore his heart proudly on his sleeve, or wallowed in sad memories, or allowed himself to be provoked easily. However it was pointless to deny his fear in the seclusion of his own office. He was dreading the day's excursion - returning to Azkaban, confronting Lucius. The lingering taste in the back of his throat was oddly soothing. Snape supposed it was not unheard of, in times of great stress, for a person to seek the comfort of nursery food. However, Snape thought, it is perhaps slightly more unusual to crave the taste of the bloodied noses and cut lips of one's childhood.

His eyes panned the scroll on his desk, which had been polluted with the execrable penmanship of Jack Sloper. Snape tried to make sense of the scrawl, but his mind did not dwell on the intricate, boring properties of Moonstones. Instead, he heard a howling wind and a pounding sea. He felt each breath sting with salt and ice. In his thoughts, he returned to Azkaban. Even though a steaming mug sat next to his quill and a roaring fire burned behind him, Snape was as cold as death.

Snape checked his watch and noted that the first lesson of the day was not even half over. Perhaps Narcissa's servant would not come for a while. He decided that he would have time to fetch his traveling cloak from his rooms, and maybe even a cloak for Draco, before any messenger arrived. Another joyful shout came from the Potions Dungeon, which Snape duly ignored. He scratched a savage "T" on Sloper's work and left the office.

The third years were still carrying on brazenly when Snape returned. He clenched his teeth as he strode down the hall and resolved to find something especially unpleasant for them to brew on Monday. He was inwardly tossing up between a Draught of Despond and an Eczema Elixir when he stepped through the doorway of his office. Immediately, his nostrils were assaulted by the odour of a festering drain. He heard a croaking cackle. Something filthy was crouching on Snape's desk.

The disgusting thing was clad only in a grubby rag. Snape's lip curled at the offensive sight. It was a house-elf that, Snape estimated, had long outlived its usefulness. Snape was surprised that such a decrepit servant would have been permitted to leave the laundry rooms or scullery of Hogwarts Castle, since it was hardly a fit thing for a wizard or witch to view. The house-elf slowly rose to stand. Then it flung itself into a ridiculously low bow so that its snoutlike nose flattened against Jack Sloper's essay.

"Kreacher has a message from his young, fair Mistress," the house-elf announced in a hoarse, deep voice like a bullfrog's, "for the Housemaster of Slytherin." It then continued to mutter, perfectly audibly, "Nasty, hook-nosed blood traitor that he is."

Snape was utterly amazed at being addressed by a house-elf in this way. Normally, he did not talk to them and they merely bowed to him in silent courtesy. The creature rose from its bow and Snape stared into its bloodshot, watery grey eyes. Snape regarded all house-elves as looking pretty much alike, but the hatred in those orb-like eyes was vaguely familiar.

"Where are you from, servant?" Snape demanded.

"Kreacher is bound to serve the noble and ancient house of Black. But stinking Mudbloods, half-bloods and blood traitors befoul the family! They have robbed Kreacher of a home. Now, Kreacher serves a new, young and fair Mistress, a loyal and true Black." The house-elf gave a rasping chuckle again and went on, "If only Kreacher's new Mistress could see what a greasy-haired piece of scum passes for the Housemaster of Slytherin."

Snape's lips curled into a sneering smile. "You're the Black family house-elf?" The Potions Master took a step into his office. He asked, "Working for Narcissa now?" Suddenly, Snape dropped both the cloaks he was carrying and lunged towards his desk. He grabbed one of the house-elf's spindly arms. While the little fiend kicked and cursed, Snape lifted the house-elf and shook it mercilessly, until a tiny phial slipped from its loincloth onto the desk. Then Snape threw Kreacher to the floor.

The phial was empty, but smelled of cleaning fluid. Snape picked up the mug he had left on his desk. His Bovril also emitted a pungent, ammonia smell. Snape dashed the beverage, mug and all, into the fire.

Collecting himself, the Potions Master folded his arms and looked down at the cowering house-elf. "I imagine this must be rather frustrating for you," Snape drawled reasonably. "Everything you saw and heard at Grimmauld Place, all our monstrous treachery, is still protected by Dumbledore's Fidelius Charm. And even if you could find a way around that, you can't go against your dear, dead Master's orders -"

"Kreacher is glad the nasty ungrateful brat is dead. Now Kreacher may serve a true daughter of the Black family." The house-elf rose, trembling with ire, and shook its gnarled fists. "Kreacher will protect her from the blood traitors!" He shuffled towards Snape, who kicked him back.

"I wasn't actually planning on harming her today," Snape said with a shrug. "I think it would be a waste of my time - Narcissa's no threat to me." Snape's foot nudged Kreacher towards the dropped cloaks and he ordered gruffly, "Pick those up."

Kreacher gathered up the cloaks and, with a long string of profanities, handed them to Snape. Then, the house-elf shuffled back to the fire.

"You haven't given your message yet," Snape snapped.

Kreacher turned, performed another low bow and croaked, "Kreacher's Mistress said that she will meet her beloved son in Hogsmeade in half an hour." He stepped backwards into the fire, to vanish in a burst of green flame.

Snape snorted in exasperation as the flame sputtered and expired. Half an hour was not much time to locate Draco and reach Hogsmeade. And Snape had no way of telling how much time that pathetic creature had wasted in trying to poison him. He directed a Summoning Charm to his filing cabinet, which sent the sixth years' timetable flying into his hands and several other pages fluttering to the floor. Draco was supposed to be in Divination, far away in the North Tower. Snape hurried there at once.

* * * * * * *

Harry Potter was quite used to confusing things happening to him. But as he stared into Firenze's brilliant blue eyes, he was beginning to feel that things in general had become too confusing for words.

The previous evening had been marginally frustrating, but comparatively straightforward. Harry had wanted to tell Ron about his plan for the free time he would have before lunch, thanks to the cancelled double Potions lesson. He had thought that it would be best if Hermione did not overhear him. He should have told Ron after dinner, but it had been difficult to find a suitable moment.

First, Hermione had made them come with her to the library to borrow Muggle Studies texts. The library had been crowded with fifth, sixth and seventh year students, all bewailing their need to study "stupid bloody Muggles." Madam Pince's shriveled face had contorted with annoyance while she had darted in and out of the shelves, pulling books down and handing them out rather indiscriminately. Luckily, Hermione was on excellent terms with the library-elf, who had secretly reserved an impressive stack of the most useful books for her, hidden in the bottom drawer of Madam Pince's desk.

Next, Hermione, Harry and Ron had taken the texts to Gryffindor Tower and Hermione had erected a small fortress around herself with them. Once she had settled down to read the lot, Harry had hoped to have a minute alone with Ron. But surprisingly, Dean Thomas had been keen to explain Muggle Studies to Ron, too. Dean had hardly left Ron's side all evening. Harry had thought it was very considerate of Dean to offer to help in this way, especially seeing Ron had not always been very considerate to Dean of late.

Eventually, Harry had opted to do his Potions homework, an essay on Befuddlement Brews, and to talk to Ron at breakfast. However, before breakfast had properly started the flock of owls bearing the morning post had arrived. Harry's toast had been scattered all over the table by the Weasley family's owl, which had made a stupendously inelegant landing. Once Errol had been picked up and the crumbs were brushed from his wings, Ron had read his letter from home. The letter had contained news that seemed to please Ron immensely.

"Brilliant," Ron murmured as he folded the envelope and stashed it in his pocket.

"What's brilliant?" Hermione asked distantly. She had propped the Daily Prophet against a coffee pot and was reading the headlines. But she also had a copy of Mordicus Egg's book open on her knees.

"Er, Quidditch results," Ron quickly replied. He tilted his head to read the newspaper. "Magpies. Beat the, er," he inclined his head even further, "Kestrals. By thirty points." Harry thought this was an odd thing to say, as Ron was a fan of neither the Montrose Magpies nor the Kenmare Kestrals. Ron kept reading and said, "And one of the Kestral Beaters lost an ear." He was grinning broadly as he concluded, "Right, I'm off now."

As Ron rose from the table, Harry asked him, "So, where'll I meet you after Divination?"

"Dunno," Ron replied, before wiping the pumpkin juice from his lips. "Do you want to see if the Quidditch pitch is free?"

"Ron!" Hermione scolded.

"Right," Ron continued in a suitably chastened tone. "I guess I'll be in the library. See you there." Ron departed the Great Hall in a very suspicious hurry, without even touching his kippers.

After listening to Hermione fume about Muggle Studies for the rest of breakfast, Harry had set off for Divination. Because it was Friday, Harry headed for Professor Trelawney's rooms. He had reached the rope ladder in the North Tower when he heard loud voices coming from the classroom above.

"But Professor," somebody who sounded like Lavender protested in a shocked voice. "We never - never ever - said that we doubted the working of your Inner Eye."

"We're absolutely sure you are a true Seer," another voice which Harry recognised as Parvati's agreed.

"We just meant that, you know, it's a bit confusing," Lavender continued nervously. "Professor Firenze doesn't seem to read the stars the way you do."

"But that doesn't mean we disagree -"

Parvati was interrupted by a screech that sounded as if it belonged to a choking parrot. "READ THE STARS?" The screaming voice was Trelawney's, but it was not the breathy whisper she normally adopted when teaching lessons. Harry had only heard Trelawney use such a hysterical tone once before, when Dolores Umbridge had tried to evict the Divination teacher. "How can that half-breed - with not a drop of Seer's blood in his veins - who wouldn't know a horoscope if it pulled his tail -" Harry then heard a loud, wailing sob that was followed by a torrent of vitriolic (and very slurred) abuse, mainly concerning centaurs.

"No, please - Professor!" By this stage, Lavender sounded as if she was crying as well.

"Get out! Get out, NOW!" Trelawney yelled. "Go to that four-footed freak!" Lavender descended the ladder awkwardly, her whole body shaking with heartbroken sobbing. Trelawney called out as Parvati followed Lavender, "Learn to divine the unknown by scrabbling in the dirt, if you think that's what it takes! I can see that the ethereal and mystic arts are wasted on all of you!" Harry heard the sound of glass breaking in the classroom above, and then Trelawney aggressively slammed shut the trap door at the top of the ladder.

Once down the ladder, Parvati attempted to comfort her distraught friend. The area at the top of the North Tower stairs started to fill up with the other sixth year Divination students, but the trap door remained steadfastly closed. Parvati explained, as primly and diplomatically as she could manage, that Professor Trelawney was "indisposed."

"What are we supposed to do now?" Terry Boot asked impatiently, while he scowled at the swaying silk rope ladder.

"I guess the lesson's called off," Harry said hopefully. He hardly believed his luck. He could not recall enjoying three cancelled lessons in a row before. Harry turned to head down the spiral staircase, with the intention of finding Ron as soon as possible. However, he had not gone very far before he had heard Professor McGonagall's voice, magically magnified, echoing from the North Tower's stone walls:

Attention all sixth year Divination students. Due to an "unforeseen" illness, Professor Trelawney will be unable to teach this morning. Please go directly to classroom eleven.

So Harry now sat on a mossy log in Firenze's classroom, trying to make sense of the conversation being carried on around him.

They were studying xylomancy. Firenze (who did not appear the least bit surprised to be teaching an extra class) had instructed each student to select a fallen branch from the forest floor. Harry found an unprepossessing yew twig. Terry was sitting on a rock, nursing an oak branch that was taller than Harry. Parvati had "scrabbled in the dirt," picked out two branches and handed one of them to Lavender. Lavender huddled, red-nosed and sniffing, in a shadowy glade at the far corner of the room, with Draco Malfoy skulking nearby.

"All living things have a power to anticipate the future," Firenze announced, while he trotted into the canopy of a willow. "The bird that builds its nest, the fox that leaves its winter den - they see nature's signs of the advancing seasons. Only those species so foolish as to live contrary to the dictates of nature, who light torches against the darkness and build fires to banish the cold - only those species have blinded themselves to the future foretold all around them."

The centaur reached out and broke a huge bough from the willow tree. Lavender gave a small yelp as the branch thudded on the muddy floor of the classroom.

With one of his front hooves, Firenze rolled the bough over and began to point out its features. He asked various students to show corresponding buds, junctions and leaf patterns on their own branches. Harry realised that his yew twig was completely inadequate and was hoping he would not be asked any questions. He was trying to look as inconspicuous as he could, while he watched Terry explain how the growth rings on his oak branch told of a potentially wet autumn.

Firenze gave a derisive snort and flicked his tail. "Rainfall? This is not a Herbology lesson, Terry Boot!" A few of the students shifted uncomfortably. Firenze tossed his white blonde hair and asked haughtily, "Has nobody explained the impact of the planets on growth to you? Are you all in ignorance of the influence of Saturn?"

"No, we learnt about Saturn," Parvati volunteered. "It's a cold, dry planet. So, if you're ruled by Saturn - I think you'd be a Capricorn - you'd have horrid teeth and trouble with your knees." Parvati paused. Firenze appeared to be too astonished to respond, but the girl misinterpreted this silence as an invitation to continue. "Lots of people ruled by Saturn have dull, routine jobs. Or - they might work underground - "

"That," Firenze interrupted, "is human nonsense." He raised his hand to the ceiling and continued calmly. "What concern would the Titan god, whose return heralds the Golden Age, have with trivialities such as human teeth and knees?" Firenze lowered his arm slowly. As he did so, the light in the room faded and stars began to twinkle above them. Harry's classmates were accustomed to astrology being taught in this manner, and several of them lay on the floor of the room without being asked. Harry remained sitting, but leaned back to view the arc of the evening sky.

"For more than two decades," the centaur explained, "we have observed the influence of warlike Mars on wizardkind." The teacher pointed to a reddish star on the horizon. "The dominance of Mars continues. This may foretell an age of battles or it may not. It may be many years before we know for sure."

"What do you mean, sir?" Harry asked. He was used to his Divination teacher's vagueness, but it seemed unthinkable that anybody could still doubt a great battle was imminent.

Firenze turned his face towards Harry and eyed him keenly. It seemed like an age before he responded. "The heavens cannot be read like the prosaic pages of an almanac, Harry Potter. We do not yet know how fully the earth will bend to the will of Mars."

"But, there's a war on now," Harry protested. "It's in the newspaper - every day. It's already started."

Firenze seemed not to hear. His face turned to the stars. "Mars is bright, but Mars is no longer alone in our skies." He trotted to the corner of the room nearest Lavender and Draco, and indicated the quadrant of the ceiling where the full moon was rising. "Since the solstice, Saturn has returned. Saturn, the ancient Titan, heir of Uranus and Gaea, was banished by his son Jupiter. When Saturn returns, the Golden Age of peace and prosperity may be restored. All that grows and blooms will rejoice in abundance. We see the rising of Saturn - here," he pointed just left of the moon, where Harry could dimly make out a yellow, fuzzy light, "beside the moon of the seventh month."

The muffled tittering of the students showed that Harry was not the only one who had noticed Firenze's mistake. Firenze however, appeared oblivious to his error. "So, from this seventh month onwards, we will see nature awaken to welcome Saturn." He waved his arm and returned the classroom to daylight.

"Seventh month, sir?" Terry's tone was more than a little bit disparaging.

"Septembris," Firenze replied shortly.

"Isn't that the ninth month?" Terry smugly enquired.

"To See the future is to bear witness to eternity," Firenze answered loftily. "Why should a true Seer be bound by a human calendar?"

Harry looked around, trying to determine whether anybody else found this information as perplexing as he did. If Septembris was the seventh month, what was July? He was about to ask exactly that question when a cold voice drawled, "Excuse me, Professor Firenze." The shadowy form of Harry's least favourite teacher, Severus Snape, was silhouetted in the doorway.

The centaur also turned his head to acknowledge the Potions Master. Stepping into the light of the classroom, Snape continued, "I need to take Mr Malfoy with me now."

"You may wait there," Firenze replied. "My lesson will be finished soon." He turned his back on his colleague and resumed his stance beside the willow bough. Tapping the log with his hoof he asked, "Now, Terry Boot, would you care to offer another explanation for those recent growth rings?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry continued to watch Snape, whose sallow complexion was turning the colour of sour milk. "I am not able to wait," Snape said through gritted teeth. "As you will recollect from the staff meeting, I need to take Draco with me."

Harry was profoundly disappointed that the conversation had drifted away from the meaning of "the seventh month." He desperately wanted to know how a Seer could prophesy an event in July (such as Harry's birth), if "the seventh month" meant September. Much as he was enjoying the sight of Firenze snubbing Professor Snape, he wished he could ask a question about July.

"The growth rings, Terry Boot," Firenze prompted. An uncharacteristically mischievous smile was playing on his lips.

"Draco, get your things," Snape commanded irritably. "We need to go."

"Draco Malfoy." Firenze's tone was formidable. "You are not dismissed. Remain seated."

Draco looked from one teacher to the other nervously. Harry wondered where Draco was supposed to be going that was so important. Professor Snape strode to the front of the room and gave a stiff bow to the centaur. The Potions Master's hideous, lank hair fell over his face so that only his large nose was visible. He remained in this grovelling posture as said, slowly and deliberately, "Professor Firenze, forgive my intrusion. My need to leave with Draco Malfoy is, unfortunately, unavoidable. Please excuse this interruption to your class." The centaur apparently enjoyed this show of subservience and nodded indulgently. Snape backed away, with his head still bent low in humility. But Harry was certain there was something very insincere about the way Snape was acting.

"And once we are gone," Snape said loudly, and he shooed Draco towards the open door. "You are welcome, Professor Firenze, to resume control of your class." He walked swiftly to the door, but turned and said in parting, "By all means, take the reins."

What happened next was difficult for Harry to comprehend. Firenze smashed his hoof so hard on the willow branch that it split, sending splinters flying. Terry and Harry both ducked for cover behind a tree stump while the centaur reared angrily. Parvati and some of the other girls ran to Lavender's corner of the classroom and clung together in a terrified huddle.

After the Divination teacher bucked and kicked for several minutes, he appeared to regain his composure. However, just when he seemed sensible enough to teach them some more, the lesson bell rang. In a voice that sounded as though he never wanted to see any of them again, Firenze hoarsely announced, "Ignorant humans - unteachable foals - this lesson has ended."

Nobody said a word as they hurried from the classroom. But once they were in the hall, the Divination students all began to whisper and mutter about their teacher's outburst (except for Lavender, who was overtaken by another fit of sobbing). Harry was as curious about Firenze's behaviour as anybody else, but he did not stay to discuss the incident. He needed to collect a few things from Gryffindor Tower before he met with Ron.