"I think it's this way," said Hermione, peering down the empty passage
to the right.
"Can't be," said Ron, "that's south! Look you can see a bit of the lake
out of the window."
Harry was watching the painting. A fat, dappled grey pony had just ambled
onto the grass and was grazing nonchalantly. Harry was used to the
subjects of Hogwarts' paintings moving around and leaving their frames to
visit one another, but he always enjoyed watching it.
A moment later, a short, squat knight in a suit of armor clanked into the
picture after his pony. By the look of the grass stains on his metal
knees he had just fallen off.
"Ah!" he yelled, seeing Harry, Ron and Hermione. "What villains are
these, that trespass upon my private lands! Come to scorn at my fall,
perchance? Draw, you knaves, you dogs!"
They watched in astonishment as the little knight tugged his sword out
of its scabbard and began brandishing it violently, hopping up and down
in rage. But the sword was too long for him; a particularly wild swing
made him overbalance, and he landed facedown in the grass.
"Are you all right?" said Harry, moving closer to the picture.
"Get back, you scurvy braggart! Back, you rogue!"
The knight seized his sword again and used it to push himself back up,
but the blade sank deeply into the grass and, though he pulled with all
his might, he couldn't get it out again. Finally, he had to flop back
down onto the grass and push up his visor to mop his sweating face.
"Listen," said Harry, taking advantage of the knight's exhaustion,
"we're looking for the North Tower. You don't know the way, do you?"
"A quest!" The knight's rage seemed to vanish instantly. He clanked to
his feet and shouted, "Come follow me, dear friends, and we shall find
our goal, or else shall perish bravely in the charge!"
He gave the sword another fruitless tug, tried and failed to mount the
fat pony, gave up, and cried, "On foot then, good sirs and gentle lady!
On! On!"
And he ran, clanking loudly, into the left side of the frame and out of
sight.
They hurried after him along the corridor, following the sound of his
armor. Every now and then they spotted him running through a picture
ahead.
"Be of stout heart, the worst is yet to come!" yelled the knight, and
they saw him reappear in front of an alarmed group of women in
crinolines, whose picture hung on the wall of a narrow spiral staircase.
Puffing loudly, Harry, Ron, and Hermione climbed the tightly spiraling
steps, getting dizzier and dizzier, until at last they heard the murmur
of voices above them and knew they had reached the classroom.
"Farewell!" cried the knight, popping his head into a painting of some
sinister-looking monks. "Farewell, my comrades-in-arms! If ever you have
need of noble heart and steely sinew, call upon Sir Cadogan!"
"Yeah, we'll call you," muttered Ron as the knight disappeared, "if we
ever need someone mental."
They climbed the last few steps and emerged onto a tiny landing, where
most of the class was already assembled. There were no doors off this
landing, but Ron nudged Harry and pointed at the ceiling, where there
was a circular trapdoor with a brass plaque on it.
"'Sibyll Trelawney, Divination teacher'," Harry read. "How're we
supposed to get up there?"
As though in answer to his question, the trapdoor suddenly opened, and a
silvery ladder descended right at Harry's feet. Everyone got quiet.
"After you," said Ron, grinning, so Harry climbed the ladder first.
He emerged into the strangest-looking classroom he had ever seen. In
fact, it didn't look like a classroom at all, more like a cross between
someone's attic and an old-fashioned tea shop. At leasttwenty small,
circular tables were crammed inside it, all surrounded by chintz
armchairs and fat little poufs. Everything was lit with a dim, crimson
light; the curtains at the windows were all closed, and the many lamps
were draped with dark red scarves. it was stiflingly warm, and the fire
that was burning under the crowded mantelpiece was giving off a heavy,
sickly sort of perfume as it heated a large copper kettle. The shelves
running around the circular walls were crammed with dusty-looking
feathers, stubs of candles, many packs of tattered playing cards,
countless silvery crystal balls, and a huge array of teacups.
Ron appeared at Harry's shoulder as the class assembled around them, all
talking in whispers.
"Where is she?" Ron said.
A voice came suddenly out of the shadows, a soft, misty sort of voice.
"Welcome," it said. "How nice to see you in the physical world at last."
Harry's immediate impression was of a large, glittering insect.
Professor Trelawney moved into the firelight, and they saw that she was
very thin; her large glasses magnified her eyes to several times their
natural size, and she was draped in a gauzy spangled shawl. Innumerable
chains and beads hung around her spindly neck, and her arms and hands
were encrusted with bangles and rings.
"Sit, my children, sit," she said, and they all climbed awkwardly into
armchairs or sank onto poufs. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat themselves
around the same round table.
"Welcome to Divination," said Professor Trelawney, who had seated
herself in a winged armchair in front of the fire. "My name is Professor
Trelawney. You may not have seen me before. I find that descending too
often into the hustle and bustle of the main school clouds my Inner
Eye."
Nobody said anything to this extraordinary pronouncement. Professor
Trelawney delicately rearranged her shawl and continued, "So you have
chosen to study Divination, the most difficult of all magical arts. I
must warn you at the outset that if you do not have the Sight, there is
very little I will be able to teach you.. Books can take you only so far
in this field...."
At these words, both Harry and Ron glanced, grinning, at Hermione, who
looked startled at the news that books wouldn't be much help in this
subject.
"Many witches and wizards, talented though they are in the area of loud
bangs and smells and sudden disappearings, are yet unable to penetrate
the veiled mysteries of the future," Professor Trelawney went on, her
enormous, gleaming eyes moving from face to nervous face. "It is a Gift
granted to few. You, boy," she said suddenly to Neville, who almost
toppled off his pouf. "Is your grandmother well?"
"I think so," said Neville tremulously.
"I wouldn't be so sure if I were you, dear," said Professor Trelawney,
the firelight glinting on her long emerald earrings. Neville gulped.