Heimdall gripped his massive sword, a faint smile curling at his lips. "Got you!" With a flicker of motion, he brought the blade down in a swift arc. Sol's weary form materialized in the dueling circle. Another explosive sound echoed through the arena as Sol's electromagnetic shield began to falter, sparking erratically under the strain.
"As expected of a family born for battle," Malfoy remarked with a smirk, his expression laced with schadenfreude. "Even stealth can't fool him. Sol's hit a solid wall this time." Malfoy cast a furtive glance toward Augustus, who watched the fight intently.
"True skill hides in the unassuming," Loki interjected with his usual flair. "Underestimating newcomers always has its price, and now it's time to pay." His tone carried a mischievous amusement.
Sol summoned an ice-blue spear, barely managing to parry Heimdall's relentless strikes. As the two clashed repeatedly, it became clear to all observers that Heimdall's speed far outmatched Sol's.
"Hand-to-hand combat now? This is turning into something a Muggle would pull. What's next, our Slytherin Head Boy charging into battle with a weapon in hand?" Malfoy sneered, his gray-blue eyes brimming with disdain.
The dynamics shifted abruptly. After deflecting several blows, Sol hurled his spear, which carved a graceful arc through the air before embedding itself just outside the dueling circle with a resonant thud.
"Is he giving up?" Loki murmured, puzzled. "That's unlike him."
Sol traced a ripple in the air with his hand. As Heimdall prepared for a decisive strike, thin ice-blue threads materialized overhead, binding Heimdall like ropes. Before he could react, the threads tightened and pulled him from the ring with a powerful magnetic force that connected Sol's spear to the chains. The match ended with Heimdall being dragged outside the circle—an ingenious maneuver securing Sol's victory.
"Well played," Sol said, his sea-blue eyes glinting with amusement as he nodded respectfully to Heimdall.
"Impressive," Heimdall admitted with a hearty laugh. "Your reputation isn't exaggerated. I lost fair and square this time. I look forward to another match in the future—next time, the outcome might not be so favorable for you." Clearly, Heimdall had no interest in the Head Boy title and fought purely for the thrill of battle.
"Absolutely. I hope for another chance to learn from you," Sol replied, matching his opponent's good-natured smile.
"The match is over," Augustus declared, waiting a moment to ensure no one else challenged Sol. "Sol is hereby appointed this year's male Slytherin Prefect."
The subsequent girls' selection battle lacked the excitement of the boys'. Few notable challengers stepped forward, and the night passed uneventfully.
The following morning, Augustus, Lillian Malfoy, and another friend made their way to the North Tower for their first Divination lesson. Augustus had little interest in mystical subjects, finding them largely impractical.
They arrived in what seemed less like a classroom and more like a peculiar mix of an attic and an old teahouse. At least twenty round tables were crammed into the room, each surrounded by armchairs and plump cushions draped with colorful Indian prints. The dim lighting came from shaded lamps, casting a reddish glow. Heavy curtains blocked out the windows, and a crowded fireplace filled the room with oppressive warmth. The walls were lined with dusty shelves holding ornate feathers, candle stubs, battered tarot decks, countless crystal balls, and a jumble of mismatched tea sets.
Despite their early arrival, the room was already crowded, filled with students whispering excitedly.
"Where is she?" Malfoy asked impatiently.
A voice emerged from the shadows—soft and airy. "Welcome," it intoned. "It is wonderful to see you all in the tangible world."
Tangible world? Augustus raised an eyebrow, skeptical. If this professor could teach anything useful, it would be a pleasant surprise. Astrology in their first year had been marginally helpful despite its mystical overtones. Would Divination prove equally worthwhile?
Professor Trelawney stepped into the flickering firelight, revealing a thin frame draped in a sheer, sparkling shawl. Her oversized glasses magnified her eyes several times over, and her neck and arms jingled with layers of necklaces, bracelets, and rings.
Adjusting her shawl delicately, she addressed the class: "You have chosen to study Divination, the most challenging of magical arts. I must warn you, if you lack 'the Sight,' there is little I can teach you. Books can only take you so far…"
Augustus's silvery eyes remained skeptical. Her words felt theatrical, veiled in mystique—a tactic reminiscent of religious leaders manipulating the masses.
Professor Trelawney continued, unfazed by the room's mixed reactions. "This year, we will focus on basic forms of Divination. In the first term, tea-leaf reading. By the second, palmistry. And in the summer, we'll delve into crystal gazing—assuming we've covered fire omens by then. Unfortunately, a bout of influenza in February will disrupt our lessons. I'll lose my voice, and before Easter, one of you will leave us forever."
A tense silence followed her ominous declaration, but Trelawney appeared oblivious to the discomfort she had caused.
Turning to Lillian, who was seated nearby, she asked, "My dear, could you pass me the largest teapot?"
Lillian handed it over politely, but Trelawney added cryptically, "By the way, that thing you fear will happen on Friday, October 16th."
Lillian rolled her eyes, chuckling dryly as she rubbed her forehead.
As expected, Augustus concluded, this professor was more about theatrics than true insight. Genuine mysticism didn't rely on ominous predictions. He glanced out the window at the bright, sunlit day. The green landscape outside was vibrant, a sharp contrast to the oppressive room. It seemed Divination lessons might be a waste of time after all.
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