111 Divination (1/2)

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, the four of them 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.”

”What did I say,” said Arth with a smug grin. ”My shortcut of randomness would've have worked just as fine.”

”You are also mental.”

”The smartest and brightest of humans were all considered mental in their time.”

”What in the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”

”This generation of people holds stupid people like you.”

”People call them NORMAL people.”

Arth smirked.

”And normal people are stupid.”

Ron sighed in defeat.

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 Arthur 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?”

Arth sighed.

”Seriously? There is a trapdoor.”

As though to rub it in even more, the trapdoor suddenly opened, and a silvery ladder descended right at Harry's feet.

Arth shook his head and started to climb the ladder.

”After you,” said Ron, grinning, so Harry climbed the ladder first.

”Wimp,” Harry muttered before climbing.

They 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 least twenty 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 Arth's shoulder as the class assembled around them, all talking in whispers.