Chapter 6: Seer or crook ?

POV: Damian Fawley

Damian Fawley walked through the echoing corridors of Hogwarts, the weight of his self-crafted reputation pressing down on his shoulders. The ancient stones seemed to hum with the secrets of the castle, but none were as precarious as his own.

He kept his head high, his gaze distant, a carefully curated air of mystery enveloping him like a cloak. The occasional student would glance his way, some with curiosity, others with quiet awe.

Damian let their looks slide off him without acknowledgment—just another layer of the persona he had built.

"A seer doesn't explain himself," he reminded himself, the mantra as much for his own reassurance as it was a guideline.

The faint clatter of footsteps ahead drew his attention, and he instinctively moved to the shadowed side of the corridor. It was second nature now, staying out of the limelight unless he intended to make an impression. T

he voices grew louder, but Damian's mind drifted, pulled into the memories that always lingered just beneath the surface.

He was ten years old again, the memory vivid enough to feel real. His parents, both squibs, though he didn't know at the time, sat across from him in their small sitting room. Their faces bore a mixture of apprehension and hope as they examined the notebook he'd handed them. It contained his meticulously rewritten version of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.

"This… this is incredible, Damian," his mother said, her voice trembling. "How did you know all this?"

Damian had shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I… I see things sometimes. In dreams." It was a lie, of course, but the look of wonder that blossomed on their faces made the deception worthwhile.

"Our son," his father said, voice thick with emotion. "A seer. A true wizard. This is… beyond anything we could have hoped for."

"A seer ?"

His uncle, a wizard unlike his parents confirmed them in the idea that he was in fact a seer.

The memory twisted, and he was back in his bedroom that night, staring at the ceiling. Guilt gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. They were proud of him, yes, but for a lie.

A lie he had told because the truth—that he had simply remembered the story from a life long past and tried to make money on it—was too absurd to explain.

And now, their belief in him had only grown, their expectations mounting with each passing day.

A group of second-year students hurried past him in the corridor, their laughter pulling him out of his reverie. Damian's expression didn't falter, though his mind lingered on the memories.

He turned a corner, heading for one of the castle's quieter wings. Here, the halls were dimly lit, the flickering torches casting long shadows that seemed to stretch toward him like grasping hands.

His first year at Hogwarts had been a whirlwind. The Sorting Hat had barely touched his head before declaring, "Ravenclaw!" Damian's relief had been palpable. The house of wit and intelligence suited him perfectly, giving him a plausible excuse for his insights and knowledge.

The first few weeks had been tense. He'd spent hours perfecting his act, dropping vague comments and cryptic observations that could later be interpreted as foresight.

To his surprise, it worked. His classmates began whispering about his "visions," and even the professors took notice.

But it was during his second year that his reputation truly solidified. Holly Potter's adventures had unfolded exactly as he'd written them in his notebook years ago.

Every prediction he'd made came true, and his peers were quick to attribute it to his supposed gift. By the end of the year, Damian Fawley was not just a top student but a figure of intrigue and reverence.

Now, in his third year, the cracks were beginning to show. The arrival of Arcturus Regulus Black had thrown him off balance. A male Black heir at Hogwarts? It was unprecedented in both the world he remembered and the matriarchal reality he now inhabited. Damian had brushed it off at first, attributing it to the natural deviations of this reversed world. But the unease lingered.

He reached a tall window and paused, gazing out at the sprawling grounds. In the distance, the Forbidden Forest loomed, its edges blurred by the morning mist. He pressed a hand against the cold stone of the windowsill, grounding himself.

"Stay ahead of it," he muttered under his breath. "Control the narrative."

Another flash of memory struck him. He was back in his family's library over the summer, surrounded by towering shelves of forbidden tomes. His relatives, newly impressed by his supposed abilities, had granted him unrestricted access.

It was there he'd found the book on divination techniques. It had been a revelation, offering him the tools to make his "visions" more convincing.

He'd spent hours practicing in front of a mirror, perfecting the faraway look in his eyes, the deliberate pauses, and the cryptic phrases that would later send others into frantic speculation. It was exhausting, but it worked. And it had to keep working.

The sound of footsteps approached, and Damian turned to see Holly Potter herself walking down the corridor. She was alone, her green eyes sharp and focused. For a moment, their gazes met, and Damian felt a pang of unease.

Holly had always been a wild card. She was both the subject of his knowledge and yet the wildcard that menaced the whole game he was playing, a fact that both relieved and unsettled him. His future, woven between truths and lies rested on her shoulders and her decisions.

Holly gave him a brief nod, her expression unreadable, before continuing on her way. Damian watched her go, his mind racing. She was another piece of the puzzle, another variable he couldn't quite account for.

Turning away from the window, Damian resumed his walk. The corridors stretched out before him, dark and winding, filled with secrets he both sought to uncover and desperately needed to keep hidden.

In this world of shifting realities and altered destinies, one truth remained constant: Damian Fawley could never let the mask slip. Not now. Not ever.

His footsteps carried him to the quieter parts of the castle, where sunlight filtered through tall, arched windows, painting the stone floors with streaks of gold. Here, the noise of the school faded, and Damian allowed his thoughts to wander.

It had been a strange path, this life he now lived. He had grown up with memories of a world that was, in many ways, a reflection of this one—a world where he had been a fan of the Harry Potter books, unaware that he would one day find himself living within a version of that story.

He had been born with a sharp mind and an impeccable memory, which he had used to write the first Harry Potter book when he was only ten years old. It had been a lark at first, a way to prove his supposed genius. But then everything had spiraled.

His parents, both Squibs, had been ecstatic. The idea that their son might be a Seer, a rare and powerful gift in the wizarding world, was a dream come true. They had reached out to his uncle, Alaric Fawley, a historian and a figure of some repute, for guidance. Alaric had embraced the idea without hesitation.

Damian didn't want to deceive them but he couldn't disappoint them, his talents were the very thing that allowed his parents to join once again the Fawley family and to be accepted there.

Damian smirked at the memory. He had cultivated his supposed gift with care, speaking in riddles and offering cryptic statements that hinted at future events without ever committing to specific predictions.

His reputation had grown quickly, aided by his success in academics and his uncanny ability to "foresee" minor events.

By the end of his first year at Hogwarts, he was a household name in certain circles.

By the end of his second year, he had earned access to the family's extensive library of forbidden books.

Lost in thought, Damian turned a corner and nearly collided with the very person occupying his mind. Arcturus Black stood before him, his sharp, pale features set in a mask of cool detachment. The boy carried himself with an air of quiet confidence, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or suspicion.

"Arcturus Black," Damian said smoothly, inclining his head in greeting. "We meet at last."

Arcturus studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Damian Fawley," he replied. "You're the one they call the Seer."

Damian smiled faintly. "So they say."

There was a pause, heavy with unspoken questions. Then Damian tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as if he were peering into some unseen dimension. "You're different," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "You don't belong."

Arcturus stiffened, his cool facade cracking for just an instant. "What do you mean?"

Damian shrugged, his expression enigmatic. "A feeling. A sense that the threads of fate have twisted around you in ways they haven't for others. Perhaps it's nothing." He turned to leave but glanced back over his shoulder. "Or perhaps it's everything."

With that, he walked away, leaving Arcturus standing in the corridor, a faint frown creasing his brow. Damian's heart raced as he put distance between them. He hadn't expected the encounter, but it had given him an opportunity to observe the anomaly more closely. Whatever secrets Arcturus Black held, Damian was determined to uncover them.

For now, though, he would keep his distance and continue to watch from the shadows. The game was only just beginning.