Harry Potter: The art of divination

Hogwarts Castle stood dark against the rolling Scottish hills, its towers reaching skyward like fingers frozen mid prayer. From a distance, it looked abandoned. The lake shimmered, undisturbed. No first-years rowed its surface in little boats. The Quidditch stands sagged under months of disuse, the pitch below overgrown with patches of frost-kissed grass.

The windows, once alight with laughter and candleflame, were mostly shuttered, their reflections dull in the gray light of a waning sun.

But the stillness was a lie.

Inside the castle's ancient bones, the Great Hall was alive with noise.

Hundreds of students most no older than seventeen, a few barely ten sat shoulder to shoulder, packed tighter than any ordinary term. The enchanted ceiling above still reflected the sky, but there were faint magical reinforcements in the air subtle warding veils cast over the uppermost arches. Professors moved among the tables with steeled expressions and tired eyes.

Class years had blurred. Slytherins shared bench space with Hufflepuffs. Gryffindors poured tea for Ravenclaws. The house banners still hung, but now they looked more ceremonial than anything. 

And though there were professors at the head table, it was the Aurors who drew the most glances stationed near each door, armored in leather and quiet vigilance.

This was no longer just a school.

It was a fortress.

The faint sound of hooves clattering across stone echoed from the upper halls Centaur envoys had come again, likely bringing messages from the Forbidden Forest outposts. The war pressed in on every border.

Suddenly the flutter of wings could be heard. 

the mail arrived.

The ceiling rippled, as if from a pebble dropped into still water. A second later, a great rush of wings thundered through the air as owls descended in messy waves. Not all were school-trained; some bore foreign sigils, others carried no markings at all. There were fewer than usual many owls had been lost in recent months but still they came, spiraling and dipping between floating candles, scattering feathers and scrolls alike.

A brown owl dropped a bundle into a Slytherin student's lap a folded parchment sealed in red wax and a shrunken pouch of galleons. Another owl screeched, talons dragging across the Gryffindor table as it delivered a missive scrawled with Ministry stamps. A young Hufflepuff girl opened hers and blinked rapidly, eyes watering as she clutched it close.

One parchment landed softly in front of Professor McGonagall. Her eyes narrowed as she broke the seal.

Across the hall, the mood shifted subtly. Whispers passed like sparks. Everyone knew each owl carried not only letters from home, but a look into the world beyond the castle wards. 

War updates. Missing persons. Defense orders. Some bore names in handwriting never before seen by the recipient, sent from survivors who'd joined the wider magical effort.

And occasionally… condolences.

The castle's walls, old as they were, had seen many kinds of silence.

But the one that followed the mail's arrival half hope, half dread was one Hogwarts had not known before.

The mail owls had barely cleared the rafters when the enchanted plates shimmered then filled in an instant with food.

Thick, buttery mashed potatoes piled high beside golden Yorkshire puddings. Platters of roasted lamb, glazed carrots, and steamed greens lined the tables. Trays of flatbreads and dumplings courtesy of the few international students now living within the castle sat beside meat pies and tart apple crumble.

For a heartbeat, the aroma seemed to push back the weight of the world.

Conversation slowly returned, hesitant at first, then growing louder as the comfort of food began its quiet work. Forks clinked against plates. Steam curled from cups of pumpkin juice and herbal tea. The warmth grounded them, if only for a while.

Across the Ravenclaw table, a fifth-year boy leaned in over his plate.

"They say the pyramid in Egypt collapsed," he whispered, eyes darting toward the Auror by the far arch. "Not from the gods but from the inside. One of ours did it. A wizard."

A younger girl beside him frowned. "That's not what I heard. My cousin in Cairo sent a letter said Odin himself tried to break the anchor, and it exploded in his face."

"Doesn't mean we didn't help it along," said an older Ravenclaw, flicking his eyes toward the Slytherin table. "Morpheus was seen before it blew. Coincidence?"

"I thought he died," someone muttered from Hufflepuff.

"No," said a Gryffindor seventh-year firmly, slamming her goblet down. "He didn't. He's at the one in Asia."

More heads turned.

"You sure?" asked a first-year with jam on his chin.

"My sister's with the Allied Defense she was moved to the asian anchor three weeks ago. She wrote to say Morpheus walked into the fortress like he owned it." 

The table went quiet for a moment.

"Do you think… he's human?" someone whispered.

The older Gryffindor hesitated. "I think he was."

At the Slytherin end of the hall, the conversations were quieter, more calculated. One girl pale, sharp-eyed ate slowly while listening to her peers debate dark magic.

"They're really going to legalize it?" asked a boy with ink-stained fingers. "Curses? Black magic?"

"Temporarily," she said, eyes unreadable. "The vote's not public yet. But they need every edge."

"And after the war?"

"Who knows?" she replied. "Maybe we'll all be criminals again."

On the Hufflepuff side, a small group of second-years poked at their food while whispering about the strange weather reports "There was a storm in Brazil that came from nowhere, I swear!"—and arguing over whether the goblins really sided with humans now or were just biding their time.

Back at the staff table, Professor Sprout refilled her tea with a weary sigh while Flitwick scribbled something onto a scroll.

McGonagall sat watching it all, her expression tight.

Every student ate with the edge of unease.

They were safe for now but even Hogwarts, for all its walls and magic, felt like it was next. 

**

Somewhere deep within the belly of Hogwarts past locked classrooms, behind tapestries that hadn't moved in centuries, and through a warded door repurposed from an old dueling chamber a different kind of lesson was underway.

The torches lining the stone walls flared to life with a flick from Stiles Marr, their glow casting long shadows across the circular training room. The air was heavy with residual spellwork crackling traces of magic that shimmered faintly in the corners like heat off stone.

"Again," James Potter ordered, wand raised.

Across from him, Evan Rosier was already moving. A flash of green erupted from his wand, "Verdimors!" and James spun, shield erupting mid-turn.

"Protego Maxima!"

The curse burst against the conjured ward, hissing like acid across glass. The impact sent a gust of air blowing back James's robes.

"Better," Sirius muttered from the side, arms crossed. "Still a half-second too slow. He'd gut you in open combat."

"Then get over here and do better," James snapped, breath short.

Sirius grinned.

"Gladly."

In the corner of the room, Lily Evans and Severus Snape were dueling with almost surgical precision. Her spells were fast, clean, cutting the air with sharp light. His counters were tight, practiced each wand movement executed with clinical calm.

"Impedimenta!"

Severus slid left, deflecting with a low flick. "Lacero."

The slicing hex snapped through the air, missing Lily by inches. She scowled, planting her boots. "Playing nice today, are we?"

"I'm not here to be nice," Snape said coldly.

From the wall, Stiles called out, "Switch partners!"

Groans followed, but they obeyed.

Within moments, the room was a flurry of shifting positions Rosier and Snape squaring off with mirrored posture, Sirius now grinning as he fired spells at a visibly tired James, and Lily facing Stiles, who held his wand not like a duelist but like a knife fighter tilted, practical, and oh so dangerous.

"You lot should slow down," Rosier said between spells, breathing hard. "You're burning through your stamina like amateurs."

"Better to collapse here," Lily shot back, "than out there."

James swiped sweat from his brow, wand still raised. "This isn't about winning against the next school." 

Rosier's face twisted in something halfway between agreement and disgust. "Funny. I remember when half of you would've hexed me for walking into the wrong corridor."

"And now you're here," James said, voice cool, "because the bastards beyond the veil don't care what House you were in."

"Maybe not," Rosier muttered. "But they will care if you hesitate."

Across the room, Sirius deflected a blast from Snape that singed his sleeve.

"Oi, try not to kill me, Snivellus."

Severus didn't answer. His next spell came even faster.

For a brief moment, the only sounds were the thudding of feet, the hiss of magic, and the low hum of the room bristling with energy.

These were no longer schoolyard rivals.

They were soldiers in training.

Morpheus would be so proud.