Ancient Wizards Return to Hogwarts...

Chapter 376 Trelawney's Divination

Although most people of sound mind knew that the down-on-her-luck woman Professor White mentioned must be Professor Trelawney's ancestor, with no other possibility, everyone still gasped in unison when Professor White uttered the name "Puffett Trelawney," and a suppressed gasp rippled through the long table.

Of everyone, only Rice didn't pay attention to Professor White. The reason was simple: the stories she recounted were all based on his own experiences. Hearing an old friend talk about them now not only lacked novelty but also made him easily annoyed by some of the details that seemed to be influenced by his own biases.

He grabbed some good food, intending to eat it while it was still hot—by the time Helga finished telling the story, the turkey would be as cold as a rock.

"The four men led the woman away from the ruins of the village and escorted her to the nearest town. It was called a town, but it was actually the territory of a viscount..." Helga continued to tell the story vividly, occasionally taking a sip of her cocktail.

Ravenclaw prepared a new linen robe for her, Hufflepuff prepared a hot and delicious meal for her, Slytherin fetched water, Gryffindor started a fire, and bathwater was also prepared.

After washing up, Ms. Puffett thanked the four kind wandering wizards. To express her gratitude, she decided to perform a divination for them.

However, before she could begin the divination, Salazar suddenly stood up, interrupting her.

"Ms. Puffett, please explain to us why the Normans spared you first, and then sent you to the stake?" Salazar questioned in a slow, deliberate tone. Suspicious by nature, he viewed everything with suspicion, and once he sensed something amiss, he would strike like a viper, attacking any flaws.

Rice was quite pleased to hear Helga describe him this way; if he hadn't been so vigilant, they would have been wiped out several times over. Whether viewed metaphorically or factually, Helga's description was spot on.

Puffett paused for a moment, then stammered, her expression shifting: it turned out she didn't know why she had suddenly been tied to the stake.

Slytherin's expression grew increasingly suspicious; in his eyes, this witch who claimed to be a fortune teller was indeed a bit suspicious.

Without any hesitation, he took action. After that, Salazar learned what had just happened and gradually came to understand everything.

Initially, the Normans did indeed respect her quite a bit, because she claimed to be a fortune teller, which was a respected profession among the Normans.

The Norman chieftain politely invited her over, hoping this prophet from another race could divine his fate and see if he could successfully ascend to Valhalla to serve the King of the Gods.

Pfitter agreed.

After a complicated process, she truly saw the future.

The sky was stained red with blood, the sea boiled, the lofty sky city fell to earth, and the once magnificent palaces turned to dust.

The gods roared, wept, screamed, and wailed. Some knelt and begged for mercy, some fled, and others charged towards death without uttering a word.

Trelawney's lineage of diviners has a fatal flaw: once they enter a true state of divination, the things they say are completely beyond their control. Otherwise, how could she have said such things in front of the Normans? Did she have a death wish?

The five of them fell silent as they watched the scene recreated by Slytherin.

It can only be said that Pfitter deserved the treatment he received.

"I really can't control myself..." Puffett said in a tearful voice.

"That's good news, isn't it?" Gryffindor laughed heartily.

He had long disliked these Normans; all of Britain both hated and feared them. For a hundred years, these Normans had been appearing in droves along the coast of Britain in their dragon-headed ships. Wherever the Normans went, villages were reduced to ashes, and even monasteries were not spared.

Under the protection of the gods, the Normans did whatever they pleased. Now, a prophet says the gods will fall—that's fantastic! I just wonder who did this brilliant thing?

Gryffindor's words were unanimously agreed upon by his three friends.

After this minor incident, Ms. Puffett's divination continued. She took out several herbs, poured them into a basin, and then lit them on fire.

Amidst the swirling smoke, Ms. Puffett seemed to be asleep, murmuring in her sleep as if reciting poetry:

"Your journey will eventually come to an end, and by then you will have already achieved the goal you set out for."

But like mushrooms in the shade after the rain, you have already found new goals;

The journey is like Sisyphus's boulder; just when you seem to be nearing the end, you arrive at a new beginning.

In the process of pursuing your goals, you will gradually grow old, have disagreements, and part ways.

Some of you will grow old, some will leave and never return, some will find a place to take a nap when they are tired, and some will die.

You might meet again on your journey in the future, exchange a smile as you pass by, and perhaps continue traveling together as you did when you were young.

Everything is like the moon's reflection in water, or a flower in the mist, but one thing is certain: the traces you have left behind will stand there like the boulder in Salisbury, for those who come to admire.

Mimicking Pfitter's tone, Helga recited the prophecy in a half-recited, half-singing manner before closing her mouth, filling her empty glass with port wine, and then drinking it all in one gulp.

Everyone around the table fell silent, savoring the story Professor White was telling.

"Professor White, what's next?" Daphne took a deep drag on her Tequila Sunrise and then pressed for the ending of the story.

"Next? That's it." Helga smiled at the very Gryffindor Slytherin girl and said, "The four of them gave Madam Puffet a bath, left her some money, and then the next morning the four young wizards set off again, while Madam Puffet stayed in that town to continue being her fortune teller—back then there was no law of secrecy, and the line between wizards and Muggles wasn't so clear."

A thoughtful expression appeared on Dumbledore's face.

In the story, Pfite makes two very interesting prophecies. One prophecy accurately foretells the demise of the Norse gods, and the other prophesies the story of the four founders.

"Like the marks on the stones of Salisbury," that must be Hogwarts, right? Truly a prophet; the accuracy of his two predictions is chilling.

Looking at Professor White's aged face, he was filled with emotion. Indeed, the founders had grown old and separated during their travels.

Everyone at the table was thinking something different. Trelawney was ecstatic when she heard "a pot of herbs was lit"—she had spent so much time getting close to Professor White just to find out the recipe for these herbs!

She didn't really care much about the stories of her ancestors; it was good to hear them, but it wouldn't be a big loss if she missed them.

After all, no matter how powerful it was, it was just the glory of the ancestors and had nothing to do with him personally. However, the herbal formula was extremely important to him.

"Professor White, did the legend mention... um, what herbs did the prophet Pfite burn?" She wanted to ask Professor White directly what he had burned in her office, but she was a little embarrassed.

Looking at Trelawney's face, Helga suddenly remembered the conversation between the four of them and Puffett before they parted ways.

"By the way, I remember you lit a pot of herbs before the divination?" Helga asked curiously, "Did those herbs have any special effects?"

"Actually, it's not very useful..." Pfitter scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "It's a recipe passed down from my ancestors. Most of the time, it's just a little gadget to make customers feel that they've gotten their money's worth. But they do seem to have some calming and soothing effects. I often fall asleep in the smoke. It's said that it can make prophecies, but I don't remember any of that."

Helga blinked.

Pfitter slapped her forehead, found a thin wooden board, and quickly wrote down the herbal formula she was using with a charcoal pencil.

"Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme???" Helga was stunned when she saw the four very common herbs on the wooden board: if she hadn't been told that these were herbs used by fortune tellers, she would have thought it was a recipe for a dish!

"There are some special requirements as well. All four plants must be planted on brown mountains covered in snow, fertilized with grave soil, watered with tears, and finally harvested with a sickle. The cut and dried herbs must be tightly bound with heather," Pfite added.

Helga: "..."

"Okay." She accepted the gift from Puffett with some skepticism.

"Don't underestimate this recipe; it's been passed down in my family for generations." A hint of pride appeared on Pfite's face as he said this: "To prevent it from being lost, we even turned the recipe into a song! It mentions the herbs needed for the recipe, as well as how to grow and harvest them!"

To prove he wasn't just making things up, Puffett even sang the song for Helga, which left a very deep impression on her regarding the recipe.

After that, the four of them resumed their journey, while Puffett Trelawney returned to her hometown, Scarborough.

"The prophet used four herbs: parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. I'll write them down for you along with some specific planting requirements."

To Trelawney's astonishment, Professor White showed no sign of trying to make things difficult for her. She simply pulled out a roll of parchment and wrote down the herbs the prophets used in their prophecies and the key points for cultivating them.

For a moment, she had no idea what to say.

"Come on, let's eat! It'll get cold if we don't eat soon!" Helga didn't dwell on these "trivial matters" any longer and instead began to devour the abundant dishes on the table.

Professor Trelawney felt tears welling up in her eyes, and her eyes reddened.

The atmosphere at the table was warm and cheerful, and everyone ate until their bellies were full before putting down their knives and forks. In the latter part of the banquet, everyone began to unpack Christmas firecrackers one by one. Rice was no exception; he opened one and found a Santa hat inside.

Amidst laughter and cheerful conversation, the banquet ended, and the students, somewhat dazed, headed towards their respective lounges. Rice winked at Helga, then followed the crowd out of the auditorium.

After taking Daphne and Astoria back to the lounge, Rice came out again and headed towards the dungeon—he was going to visit them!

Just kidding. If Rowena knew, he wouldn't be able to have a single day of peace for the next ten years.

At the dungeon entrance, he indeed encountered Helga.

"Students who stay up all night and wander around the castle—Slytherin loses twenty points!" Helga declared righteously and loudly, "And Mr. Lint, you'll pay the price with detention!"

Rice: ? ? ?

A happy smile appeared on Helga's face. From a procedural standpoint, her actions were perfectly correct, and Slytherin had indeed lost twenty points.

She's a full-fledged professor at the school now, so punishing a third-year wizard with solitary confinement is a piece of cake for her.

Rice was stunned by Hufflepuff's actions, and what angered her most was that what she did was completely reasonable!

Upon thinking about this, Rice was so angry that his vision blurred.

Happiness and anger are conserved. Salazar's happiness decreases and her anger increases, so Helga Hufflepuff's happiness increases and her anger decreases—how wonderful, the law of conservation!

Rice took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. He silently noted what had just happened down in his mental notebook, then casually opened the seal leading to the depths of the dungeon.

"Professor White, I also broke the seal beneath the school. Are you going to expel me?" he asked sarcastically.

"That requires the principal's approval," Helga replied seriously, but the smile on her lips was harder to suppress than the lid of a boiling cauldron.

The two entered the sealed dungeon one after the other. They planned to visit Rowena during Christmas to make sure she was truly staying obediently inside the seal and not conducting any strange experiments.

They soon found Rowena, who was engrossed in playing with sand tray figurines.

Compared to their last meeting, her sand table was more exquisite, and the little clay figures inside behaved more realistically. In Rice's eyes, it was nothing short of a magical miracle—shrinking a person and placing them in the sand table would allow them to truly live a lifetime inside. And that person might not even realize it, mistakenly believing they had traveled back to medieval Europe.

"What brings you here?" Rowena quickly noticed the two old friends who had come to visit.

She found their arrival somewhat strange.

"Royna, Merry Christmas!" Rice and Helga said in unison, pulling out food boxes full of food from their pockets.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Update delivered, hehe~

By the way, the roles of the four founders have all been created, and you can like them according to your personal preferences!

(End of this chapter)