"Prophecies, in essence, aren't inherently wrong," Augustus remarked with a faint smile as he lifted a goblet of pumpkin juice. "True, precise predictions don't exist. Most so-called 'absolute prophecies' are just connections people draw themselves. The interconnections between things are endless. Once you identify a general direction, many so-called 'seers' can easily be regarded as prophets. Think about it carefully—it's not hard to see the trick."
"Agreed," Malfoy said with a nod, clearly unimpressed by the notion of seers. "Thor, you're putting too much faith in these sanctimonious frauds. Even Trelawney's grandfather likely made most of his 'prophecies' as guesses. As Augustus said, understanding the intricate web of interrelations makes it easy to deceive the masses."
"Even so," Thor replied, his ocean-blue eyes thoughtful, "there is some merit to prophecies rooted in observable patterns. Their existence suggests some logic. Like reflections in a mirror, they reveal another side of things."
"Honestly, as a Slytherin, believing in such nonsense is an embarrassment to our house," Loki sneered, his amber eyes glinting with mockery. "Why not join Professor Trelawney as her apprentice? With your faith, I'm sure she'd churn out a fine successor—a proper charlatan your family could be proud of."
Thor flushed slightly. "Ahem, I was merely making a casual observation. It's not as if I take these things seriously."
The feast ended amidst a lively and noisy atmosphere. As the students were leaving, Malfoy couldn't resist calling out to Harry across the hall, "The Dementors send their regards, Potter!" But this only earned him a strange smile from Harry—a subtle expression that sent an inexplicable chill down Malfoy's spine.
As Augustus and his group made their way back to the Slytherin common room via the grand staircase, they passed by the Gryffindor portrait entrance, where a large crowd of students had gathered, blocking the corridor.
"What's going on over there?" Malfoy asked, trying to peer over the crowd.
The Fat Lady's portrait appeared to be shut tight.
"Let me through!" Percy's voice rang out as he stepped forward with an air of authority. "What's the hold-up? Surely you haven't all forgotten the password? I'm the Head Boy—let me handle this."
The commotion quieted, as if a wave of cold had swept through the corridor. Percy's voice suddenly sharpened. "Someone fetch Professor Dumbledore! Now!"
The students turned toward the back of the crowd, those furthest behind craning their necks for a better view.
"Looks like the little lions have run into some major trouble," Loki remarked, his amber eyes alight with amusement. "Did Weasley's brothers invent another prank?"
"Doesn't seem like a simple prank," Augustus murmured, watching the increasingly tense scene.
"What happened?" Ginny asked as she arrived late to the crowd.
Moments later, Professor Dumbledore appeared, striding swiftly to the damaged portrait. The Gryffindor students parted to let him through, while Harry, Ron, and Hermione edged closer to see what was amiss.
When the crowd shifted, Augustus could finally see the scene clearly.
"Oh, my goodness—" Hermione gasped, clutching Harry's arm.
The Fat Lady was gone from her portrait. The canvas lay in ruins, slashed and torn to shreds, with fragments of paint scattered across the floor.
Dumbledore examined the vandalized painting quickly. "Professor McGonagall, please inform Filch to search every portrait in the castle for the Fat Lady."
"Impressive work," Malfoy sneered, a malicious smile playing on his lips. "Whoever did this has an artistic flair. Truly a masterpiece." The Gryffindor students glared daggers at him, but Malfoy remained unfazed.
"I doubt this was the work of a student," Thor reasoned. "Even in our house, no one would waste time targeting a painting. The other houses are even less likely to bother."
"Possibly," Augustus agreed. "But considering the heavy presence of Dementors around the castle, it's hard to imagine how an outsider could infiltrate. And even if someone did, would they risk it just to destroy a seemingly insignificant portrait?"
"Precisely," Lillian added, her tone skeptical. "Who would go through the trouble of evading Dementors, sneaking into Hogwarts, and wandering through the castle to target the Fat Lady? What kind of grudge could someone possibly hold against her to justify such an elaborate act of vengeance?"
"You're in for a treat!" a raspy voice interrupted. It was Peeves the Poltergeist, gleefully hovering above the crowd. Mischief and chaos were his bread and butter, and the current scene delighted him.
"What do you mean, Peeves?" Dumbledore asked calmly.
Peeves's grin faltered slightly; he was one of the few who dared not openly mock Dumbledore. He adopted a more slippery tone. "Oh, apologies, Headmaster. She's in a right state, she is. Saw her running through the fifth-floor landscape painting, bawling her eyes out about something dreadful."
"And did she say who was responsible?" Dumbledore asked evenly.
"Oh, she did, Professor," Peeves said, his glee returning. He did a somersault in the air, grinning impishly. "She wouldn't let him in, and he didn't like that, oh no. Lost his temper, he did." Peeves leaned closer, savoring his moment of drama.
"Who was it, Peeves?"
Peeves's grin widened as he dropped the bombshell: "Sirius Black!"
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