In the end, all Seamus managed to divine was tomorrow’s lunch menu, while Dean didn’t even bother trying—after seeing how anxious Seamus got over his own prediction, Dean decided it wasn’t worth the stress.

As Dean put it, he didn’t want to be left hanging on some prophecy, unable to sleep at night.

Well, if it were about the answers to their final exams, he might have given it a shot. But listening to Hermione’s lecture on the subject was already exhausting enough, so he figured he’d pass.

“You sure we can actually learn Divination?” Seamus asked Harry expectantly.

“No idea,” Harry wasn’t about to make any bold claims. “I can teach you guys the basics when the time comes. If you’ve got the talent, you’ll be able to predict the future.”

“And if we don’t, then there’s no point trying, right?” Hermione huffed, sounding less than amused.

“That’s just how magic works, Hermione,” Harry said with a grin. Her indignant expression was oddly cute.

If effort alone determined everything, then it wouldn’t be Azeroth resisting the Burning Legion—it’d be the Burning Legion resisting Azeroth. After all, there’s never a shortage of hardworking people anywhere.

Azeroth has invaded our world. My noble Eredar brethren reduced to refugees… Why am I having dreams like this?

Harry’s prophecy was proven true the next afternoon when Seamus, wide-eyed with shock, saw his favorite roasted beef and kidney pudding appear right in front of him. For dessert, there were marshmallows and scones—exactly as Harry had foretold the day before.

“It’s real! Harry!” Seamus, sporting a pair of dark circles under his eyes, grabbed Harry’s arm and whispered excitedly, “Your divination is real!!”

The poor guy had spent the entire night tossing and turning, unable to sleep because of the prediction. By the time morning came, he was so exhausted that he accidentally blew up his desk in Charms class.

Uh, wait—was that really just because of sleep deprivation?

Well, Seamus insisted that it was, and he made up for it by napping through History of Magic during the second period.

Harry soon realized he had underestimated both the speed and creativity of Hogwarts students when it came to spreading rumors. The castle wasn’t that big, and the older students had long since lost their sense of novelty. With their days feeling rather monotonous, they relished any kind of excitement.

By the time Harry arrived at his first flying lesson in the afternoon, he could already hear whispers from the crowd pointing at him, claiming he had foretold an invasion of Hogwarts—professors being beaten to the point of coughing blood, heavy casualties everywhere.

Harry nearly burst out laughing.

What kind of nonsense was this??

Did these kids really have nothing better to do? Would it kill them to spend some time in the library instead?

We came here to learn magic!

Harry had a bad feeling. If this rumor spread any further, it wouldn’t be long before Dumbledore called him in for a talk—probably under the charge of “inciting mass panic.”

“So, what exactly have you guys been spreading?” Harry sighed, looking helplessly at Ron.

“Eh? You can’t really call it spreading rumors,” Ron scratched his head awkwardly, sensing he might have caused trouble. “It’s just about what you predicted for Quirrell yesterday. I didn’t think it would blow up like this—but Harry, you really can do Divination! And those older students don’t even believe you!! I can’t stand that!”

By the time he finished his rant, Ron was fuming.

“You just spoke for more than three lines, Ron,” Hermione remarked dryly. “Harry’s going to be annoyed.”

“Oh, so you actually remember that?” Ron, caught off guard, looked at Harry with a sheepish expression. “Sorry, mate, I didn’t think it’d turn into this mess.”

“It’s those upper-year students—they’re just insufferable! They’re saying no one can really predict the future. Some even claim that if you do have the gift, all you’d be able to foretell is people’s deaths.”

“Uh… well, based on what Ron’s been telling people, Harry did predict someone’s death—” Neville hesitated, glancing at the small crowd gathered around the flying lesson area. “—a professor’s, no less.”

Noticing Harry’s group looking their way, the older students chuckled among themselves, clearly amused.

“Don’t pay attention to them, Harry,” Neville quickly tried to reassure him. “Your lunch prediction was right, wasn’t it?”

“Hold on,” Harry was starting to get a headache. “Professor Quirrell isn’t dead yet—wait, no, even in the vision I saw, he wasn’t actually dead.”

“What do you mean by that?” Hermione asked curiously. “Is there another Seer at Hogwarts who predicted someone’s death?”

“No idea, they didn’t say,” Ron shrugged. “We might have to ask around. Fred and George could probably find out.”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“Hey, Potter! Heard you can see the future?”

Before they could continue, Malfoy’s voice rang out from the other side. He smirked and taunted, “If you’re really a Seer, why don’t you predict when you’re going to fall off your broom? After all, you’ve never even touched one before.”

“Oh no, Draco, I think he has seen one—when he was using it to sweep the floors at his Muggle uncle’s house.”

Laughter erupted from the Slytherin side.

Harry sighed. He was really getting tired of these childish provocations. It was like dealing with an annoying fly—one you weren’t allowed to swat.

“Don’t push me, Malfoy,” Harry turned to him. “I have no interest in playing childish games with you. I think you already know how hard my punches are.”

Now it was the Gryffindors’ turn to laugh.

Humans have always loved two things: bloodsport and a good show. This was no different.

“…Rude! Barbaric! Completely un-wizard-like! Gryffindors!!” Malfoy’s pale face turned red with anger as he spat out a string of insults. But to be fair, Harry thought the boy’s wording was still quite refined.

Credit where credit was due—Malfoy had decent etiquette, even if his worldview was completely skewed. Even his insults lacked any real vulgarity, making him far less crude than some adventurers Harry had encountered before.

And he was persistent. Despite getting beaten up just days ago, he was already bold enough to provoke Harry again.

When Gryffindor and Slytherin were in the same place, it was like fire meeting ice—sooner or later, something had to change.

Fortunately, not today. Madam Hooch arrived right on time, effortlessly separating the two groups. She didn’t seem the least bit surprised or concerned about the tension between Gryffindor and Slytherin, handling it as if it were just another routine task.

“You just wait, Potter! You’re going to fall right off that broom! I hope that pile of scrap metal you’re wearing doesn’t snap it in half!” Malfoy sneered one last time.

Honestly, Harry thought, this kid really should’ve been sorted into Gryffindor. It took some serious guts to keep challenging someone stronger after already getting punched. That was bravery, plain and simple.

“I think he’s actually reminding you to be careful about your weight,” Hermione whispered as she watched Malfoy leave. “Seriously, though—can you even fly in that armor?”

Harry had been wearing his chainmail practically around the clock, except when sleeping. It had become common knowledge at Hogwarts in just a few days—especially after a group of Slytherins, still salty about what happened on the train, tried to ambush him… only to end up unconscious in the restroom.

"Of course, no problem," Harry said firmly. "How could a mount not be able to carry someone? And it's just a magical broom, after all—I've ridden one before."

Dalaran’s enchanted broom was one of the mounts in Harry Potter’s collection. He even had a special edition gifted to him by Jaina—a meticulously crafted broomstick carved from arcane crystal, exuding an extravagant Blood Elf aesthetic. It emitted a blue-violet glow with twinkling stardust trailing behind, a sight Harry adored. It was truly one of a kind in all of Azeroth.

It was leagues beyond those temporary wooden brooms handed out during Halloween celebrations.

Harry had once soared through the night skies of Dalaran alongside Jaina, weaving between the towering spires, racing to see who would reach the finish line first. And he had never lost.

Honestly, he kind of missed that exhilarating sensation of a steep dive.

"…Extend your right hand, place it over your broomstick—then say, ‘Up!’"

Madam Hooch had begun her lesson. Harry simply lifted his hand, and his broom all but leapt into his palm, even rolling a little in his grasp as if eager to be ridden.

"Up—up! Up!! Come on, get up already!"

Beside him, Hermione was repeatedly urging her broom. Seeing that most of the others had already grasped theirs, she grew even more anxious.

"Remember how it felt when you cast Transfiguration, Hermione?" Harry reminded her. "You have to command it. Focus. Be determined."

"Alright, alright—command, right?" Hermione took a deep breath, concentrated, and said, "Up!"

This time, it worked.

"Is magic always like this?" Hermione muttered, staring at the broom in her hand. "Why does everything require this kind of mindset? Can’t it just work properly?"

She didn’t like the feeling of ordering things around.

"I don’t know," Harry shrugged. "But most of what I’ve learned at Hogwarts works this way."

Madam Hooch taught quickly—or rather, there wasn’t much to teach in a flying lesson. Whether one had a talent for it or not was immediately obvious the moment they sat on the broom.

Malfoy flew quite well—not quite as spectacular as the way he had bragged for days at the dinner table about dodging a Muggle helicopter on a broomstick, but at least he was steady and proficient.

He certainly didn’t look like someone flying for the first time.

Meanwhile, Harry was getting a feel for the broom’s handling—its responsiveness, its agility in turns… Then, when he glanced down, he spotted Hermione clinging desperately to her broom, looking like a terrified koala.

Hovering about two meters off the ground, she had latched onto the broomstick with every ounce of strength, as if wishing for a few extra hands to grip it even tighter. The sight was so comical that Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

"Don’t you dare laugh!!" Hermione shrieked. Though she was clearly terrified, she still managed to catch his laughter immediately.

"Sorry, sorry—watch out!!" Harry’s laughter suddenly vanished, his expression shifting in alarm.

"AHHH!!"

Hermione let out an ear-piercing scream as Malfoy suddenly zoomed toward her, deliberately knocking into her broom.

Like a bowling pin struck by a speeding ball, Hermione and her broom were sent tumbling several meters through the air.

"Malfoy! Are you out of your mind?!"

Surprisingly, the one who shouted wasn’t Harry—it was Neville. Hovering nearby at a low altitude, the normally timid boy completely shed his usual hesitance. In a rare moment of anger, he looked as if he was about to leap off his broom and punch Malfoy in the face.

And then came the second scream.

Neville’s broom instantly went out of control. It seemed to interpret his movements as a command for some extreme stunt. Like a cork bursting from a shaken champagne bottle, he shot straight into the sky—twelve feet—twenty feet!

He was still rising!

In just a blink, Neville had gone from barely hovering to a speck high in the sky, his panicked screams echoing non-stop.

But soon, he couldn’t even scream anymore. He could only clamp his mouth shut as the roaring wind stole his breath away.

"Oh, heavens! Child!!"

Madam Hooch was just as alarmed. She didn’t even have time to reprimand Malfoy before mounting her broom and taking off in pursuit. "Hold on!!"

Neville’s broom showed no signs of stopping, wobbling erratically as it veered toward the Black Lake.

"Ha! Another idiot!"

Malfoy looked a little shaken, but not too much. More than anything, he remained utterly devoid of remorse for causing the chaos. Instead, he sneered, "Look what I found!"

With practiced ease, he maneuvered his broom lower, skimming just above the ground to snatch up a small, semi-transparent orb.

The moment it landed in his palm, the glass sphere turned bright red.

A Remembrall. It would glow red if its owner had forgotten something.

"Did I forget something?" Malfoy tilted his head, looking mildly puzzled. "Oh well, who cares—look at that oaf! He dropped his precious little toy. Did you hear him screaming? How pathetic! Hahahaha!"

Gripping his broom tightly, Harry gazed down at Malfoy, his expression ice-cold.

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