Chapter Text
"Divination is an art," Harry declared pompously, looking down at his companion over his glasses. "The mediocre cannot grasp it."
He was speaking to the Slytherin prefect, Tom Riddle. The whole situation felt like sticking his head into a lion's mouth out of morbid curiosity: would it bite or not? Don't get him wrong, Potter was no coward, but all this didn’t quite align with his decision to live a quiet, peaceful, and very ordinary student life.
After traveling to the past with no way back, and tearfully begging the Sorting Hat to place him in Ravenclaw as the least adventurous house, he felt he deserved some peace. And why on earth did he start giving his classmates advice about the future? It would have been fine if it stopped there, but the news of the accuracy of his divinations spread like a Bludger driven by a wildfire, even reaching other houses. At first, this didn’t bother him much.
It didn’t bother him even when he was alone in the Divination classroom again, where he supposedly went to "explore the finer nuances of reality," but really just to be alone, away from the enthusiastic crowd. But now, with Tom Riddle himself blocking the exit from the class, the scale of the tragedy began to dawn on Potter.
The prize for alternative giftedness and inability to live an ordinary life was awarded to him by his own thoughts in real-time, right in front of the unsuspecting Tom, who demanded to be taught the art of Divination.
That persuading him would be difficult was immediately clear: the odds were uneven. Even young Voldemort had the secret art of turning any verbal battle into a performance, while Harry only won 10 out of 10 times in Quidditch, which he had practically given up in this time. Overall, he could have written a book called "Imaginary Arguments I Won While in the Shower," but that wouldn’t help the current situation.
Riddle squinted, clearly displeased with the answer but not ready to ruin potential business relations he deemed beneficial. Little did he know how wrong he was...
"Then I want a divination," Tom offered an alternative unexpectedly graciously.
"Five galleons for half an hour, the nearest slot in March," Harry blurted out and continued, riding the wave of inspiration before it faded. "I don't work on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, or Thursday. Also on weekends, if they fall on odd numbers or from the twenty-fourth to the twenty-seventh. Bad connection with the astral plane on those days, the fine matters glitch, the deck doesn’t fold. And if the Moon is in Capricorn. When it's not in Capricorn it’s also bad, but tolerable."
Meanwhile, it was early October, and the patience of one Slytherin prefect was being tested.
Harry even thought that he heard the grinding of teeth and could feel the growing aura of murderous intent nearby, but Riddle's face gave away nothing, even to the wildest imagination. He smiled politely, demonstrating patience, forgiveness, and other incredibly important virtues. An angel in the flesh.
"What a liar," thought Potter, trying to muster something resembling a friendly smile but failing miserably, like a drunken Chaser aiming for the hoop.
"I understand. Who’s scheduled for..." Tom paused to pull a scroll from his bag, in which Harry horrifiedly recognized the astronomy calculations their class did last week. "The sixteenth of October?"
Damn! Harry hadn't considered that there was only one Moon in Capricorn in October this year! He should have chosen Pisces. Hermione had told him that astronomy required more than just napping!
"Now I see why the hat didn’t want to send you to Ravenclaw!" Hermione’s voice in his head chided. But it was too late to back out now.
"M... Macmillan?" Harry guessed at random. "But I don’t really remember, too many people, I need to check the calendar and the to-do list, and I left them in the dormitory..."
But Riddle was already on the scent, nearly glowing with benevolence and sincerity to the point where Harry wanted to shield his eyes from the dazzling light with a mix of disgust and mild envy.
"Then maybe you could fetch them, if it's not too much trouble? I'll wait," the prefect suggested, finally stepping aside to clear the way.
"Actually, it is..." Harry began, but seeing other students approaching, who likely had a class in the same room soon, he realized that causing a scene would have bigger consequences for the entire house than a personal argument with a Slytherin, even an overly illustrious prefect. He had to change his plan on the fly.
"But for such an important matter, I’ll gladly take some time!" he finished, feeling that his fake enthusiasm fooled no one.
"Shall I accompany you to the common room, Potter?" Riddle asked, still pretending to be a gentleman.
But here, the reflexes of a former Quidditch player were on Harry’s side. Using the moment of hesitation and the clear exit from the classroom, he deftly slipped past Riddle.
"No, thank you! I’ll be right back!" he shouted while running, jumping down several steps at a time.
It was time for decisive action.
But decisive action died a painful death when Harry’s momentum was almost completely killed by the raven at the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room. The mischievous bird posed riddles, each worse than the last, and only let him through under the threat of conversing with it in the language of Bombarda.
"Hey!?" he yelled as he burst into the common room, immediately attracting surprised and indignant looks from all present.
"Everything okay, Potter?" someone asked.
He had to quickly remember that Ravenclaw was one of the least adventurous houses for a reason. The locals were utterly unaccustomed to people bursting in with shouts, disturbing their reading and other useful and undemanding activities. Potter was almost sure: if these guys had even a pinch of Slytherin ambition, they would have developed a world domination plan long ago, right here in this common room, between reading a book and playing Gobstones.
"I meant to say: dear comrades and friends, it is time for us to unite as a house and help one of our own. Specifically, me. I really need your help."
"And how can we help?" asked Irma Perrault, the prefect of his year.
"Create a schedule of appointments with me for divination sessions up to March, filling all Tuesdays and weekends except those that fall on a Moon in Capricorn and odd numbers, as well as the days from the twenty-fourth to the twenty-seventh?"
The common room came to life.
The importance of making plans and schedules was understood by nearly everyone except Harry, who had spent his short time at Ravenclaw trying to blend into the general mass of his new housemates. But either he had too little strength or Mercury was in the wrong position for a whole month — the process of integrating into the collective of "the smartest" was going poorly.
But this was not about Potter’s poor mimicking abilities: his new housemates enthusiastically took up the task, revealing the true purpose of their tower's library: storing all types of school reference books, cheat sheets, and manuscripts left by past generations. Looking at this wealth, one could only whistle quietly — Gryffindor couldn’t dream of such unity at that moment.
A ten-foot scroll was rolled out on the floor, immediately being filled with notes under the direction of wizards standing over it and occasionally arguing. The hastily devised plan, which Harry intended to carry out purely on luck, was beginning to seem more and more feasible. Mentally, he already envisioned unrolling this chronicle of appointments before Riddle, impressing him and making him decide not to mess with such a well-thought-out system and an obviously insane wizard.
The plan was good, beautiful, and brilliant; the list looked more impressive with each passing second, and his new volunteers for the non-existent reception were increasingly proud of themselves.
Amid these successes, finally receiving the result of their efforts in his hands, Harry practically flew down the stairs, not forgetting to stick his tongue out at the raven on the house door. Riddle was found right where he had been left — all patience and expectation.
But the grand gesture failed: the moment he saw the start of the list, the future Voldemort was not impressed, just nodded at something and made a note in his notebook.
"Thank you for your cooperation. See you later, Potter," was all he said, heading off to his business.
‘The great seer’ could only pick his jaw up off the floor at such audacity and feel cheated and offended in his best feelings, called schadenfreude.
And realize that he now had to roll up the scroll manually: he didn’t remember the spell.