Chapter 9: A Seer’s Burden

POV: Damian Fawley

The stars shimmered beyond the enchanted ceiling of Ravenclaw Tower as Damian Fawley leaned over his blank notebook, tapping his quill rhythmically against its edge. The empty pages stared back at him, mocking the elaborate web of lies he had spun. This was supposed to be his "seer's journal," filled with profound insights and cryptic predictions, but tonight, inspiration evaded him.

He sighed, tossing the quill aside.

He now was Damian the Seer, a beacon of intrigue and mystery among his peers. Only, he wasn't a seer at all—just a fraud with a dangerous amount of knowledge about the future.

But lately, something about Arcturus Black unnerved him. The first-year's skill and poise were beyond his years.

It wasn't just intelligence; it was like he'd lived lifetimes already. Damian's stomach churned at the thought. What if he's like me?

With a resigned groan, Damian shoved the notebook into his bag and prepared for bed. Tomorrow, he'd have to maintain the illusion once more.

The Great Hall buzzed with morning chatter as Damian picked at his toast. His sharp eyes scanned the room, cataloging its occupants.

Holly Potter sat with Granger and Weasley, their heads close together. Serena Prince, always aloof, glared at her plate as though daring it to misbehave.

At the Slytherin table, Aurora Malfoy's pale hair glimmered as she exchanged terse words with a fellow housemate.

A first-year Ravenclaw tugged at Damian's sleeve. "Damian, your prophecy about the Quidditch match… do you think it'll still happen?"

Damian forced a serene smile. "The winds of fate are ever-changing. Remain vigilant."

The first-year's eyes widened, and she nodded solemnly before scurrying off. Damian stifled a groan. He'd have to come up with a believable explanation when his vague prediction inevitably failed to come true.

Aurora's gaze caught his from across the hall. For a moment, her icy grey eyes bore into his, and Damian's confidence faltered. He quickly looked away, pretending to be engrossed in his breakfast.

The dungeons were as cold and unwelcoming as ever, the air thick with the smell of bubbling concoctions. Damian adjusted his cauldron and set out his ingredients, careful not to attract Serena Prince's attention.

Her presence loomed over the class like a storm cloud, her sharp tongue ready to strike at the first sign of incompetence.

"Today, we'll be brewing a Draught of Peace," Serena announced, her voice as smooth and dangerous as molten glass. "Follow the instructions precisely, or risk catastrophic failure."

Damian's hands shook as he measured powdered moonstone. He'd practiced this potion before, but the pressure of Serena's scrutiny made his mind race.

As he reached for his stirring rod, his elbow knocked over a vial of syrup of hellebore. The thick liquid spilled into his cauldron, and the potion began to bubble ominously.

"Fawley," Serena's voice cut through the din, "you're about to create a sleeping gas potent enough to knock out half the castle."

Panic seized Damian, but before he could react, Aurora Malfoy stepped in. With a flick of her wand and a murmured incantation, the potion stabilized. The room fell silent as everyone turned to stare.

"Honestly, Fawley," Aurora drawled, "you're lucky I'm here to clean up your messes."

Damian mumbled a thanks, his cheeks burning. Serena's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she returned to monitoring the rest of the class.

The library was Damian's refuge. Among the towering shelves of ancient tomes, he felt a semblance of peace. Tonight, he had work to do. Spreading out his materials, he resumed his attempts to enchant a mirror—a tool he hoped would lend credibility to his seer act by "predicting" future events.

The mirror gleamed under the flickering light of a nearby candle, but its surface remained stubbornly blank. Damian muttered an incantation, tapping the frame with his wand. Still nothing.

"You're awfully dedicated for someone who's supposed to just 'see' things," a voice drawled behind him.

Damian jumped, nearly knocking over the candle. Aurora Malfoy leaned against a nearby bookshelf, her expression unreadable.

"What do you want?" Damian snapped, shoving the mirror into his bag.

Aurora's lips curled into a smirk. "Relax, Fawley. I'm just curious. You've been acting... peculiar lately."

"I'm perfectly fine," he said, forcing an air of nonchalance.

She raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Be careful," she said as she turned to leave. "Secrets have a way of unraveling when you least expect it."

Her words lingered long after she disappeared into the shadows.

That night, Damian's dreams were filled with chaos. He stood in the middle of the Great Hall, surrounded by his peers. They laughed and jeered, chanting "Fraud! Fraud!" as the walls crumbled around them.

The scene shifted. He saw flashes of two people locked in battle, their magic tearing through the fabric of reality.

Hogwarts lay in ruins, its spires collapsing into the abyss. Damian reached out, but his hands passed through the rubble like smoke.

He woke with a start, his heart pounding. Sweat drenched his sheets as he stared at the canopy above.

The nightmare felt too vivid, too real. Could it have been a true vision? The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

In the early hours of the morning, Damian sat at his desk, quill in hand. He wrote feverishly in his "seer's journal," recording every detail of the nightmare.

Whether it was a genuine premonition or a product of his overactive imagination, he couldn't be sure. But one thing was certain: the stakes were higher than he'd ever imagined.

As he closed the journal, Damian's thoughts turned to Arcturus, Aurora, and Serena. They were all keeping secrets, just like him. And if his nightmare was any indication, those secrets might be the key to understanding the future—and surviving it.

Damian Fawley woke to the soft rustle of parchment as a breeze from the Ravenclaw Tower window swept through the room.

He blinked away the remnants of sleep and sat up, letting his gaze linger on the crumpled piece of paper on his nightstand. It was his latest attempt at recreating another chapter of *Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets* from memory.

The task grew increasingly difficult as time went on; he had reread the book so many times in his previous life, yet the details were slipping away like grains of sand.

He rubbed his temples. "Focus," he muttered. Damian had carved out a niche as the quirky Ravenclaw seer who occasionally predicted the future. It was a lie, of course, but one he'd been forced into when his parents forced unto him when he wasn't expecting it, he just couldn't say no to them when they were watching him with hope, proud of him. In his lat life, he had been an orphan, he didn't want to deceive this guys who truly cared for him.

But now there was a problem, more like a problematic student.

And it wasn't just any student—it was Aurora Malfoy, who had cornered him with her sharp gray eyes and wry smirk, demanding an explanation.

Now, he was bound by this facade. With every so-called prophecy he delivered, the web grew tighter, more tangled.

Most of the time, it was harmless—vague predictions about upcoming quizzes or Quidditch matches that were easy to deduce based on context. Other times, it veered into dangerous territory.

At least, he had never been wrong as of now.

Breakfast in the Great Hall was a calculated performance. Damian entered, his dark robes billowing slightly as he clutched an old leather journal—an affectation to sell the idea of his "visions."

He made his way to the Ravenclaw table, nodding to a few acquaintances but otherwise keeping to himself.

As he sipped his pumpkin juice, he overheard snippets of conversation from nearby students.

"Did you hear about the potions mishap yesterday?" one Hufflepuff whispered. "Aurora Malfoy practically saved the entire class."

Damian's ears perked up. Aurora had always been an enigmatic presence—cool, composed, and perpetually one step ahead. He had learned early on to tread carefully around her. Despite her reserved demeanor, she had a keen intellect that could unpick his lies if he wasn't careful.

He glanced toward the Slytherin table and caught sight of Aurora sitting with a few of her housemates. She met his gaze briefly, her expression unreadable, before returning to her conversation. Damian couldn't help but feel a flicker of unease.

The first class of the day was Herbology, held in the verdant greenhouses that glistened with dew. Professor Sprout had paired the Ravenclaws with the Hufflepuffs, a combination that generally led to harmonious lessons.

Today, however, was different. They were working with Venomous Tentacula, a plant that seemed to sense Damian's unease and lashed out whenever he drew near.

"Careful there," warned a Hufflepuff girl, pulling Damian back just in time to avoid a snapping tendril. He gave her a tight smile, clutching his gloves.

"Thanks," he muttered, focusing on trimming the plant's leaves as instructed. His mind wandered, replaying the morning's conversation about Aurora. He wondered if she had suspected anything about his act.

Professor Sprout bustled around the greenhouse, her cheery voice instructing students to "mind the thorns" and "watch for any movement." Damian's sixth sense tingled but he paid it no mind.

Suddenly Damian's hand slipped, and a thorn grazed his palm. He hissed in pain, clutching his hand as a small bead of blood welled up.

"Here," said a calm voice behind him. He turned to find Aurora standing there, offering a clean handkerchief. Her expression betrayed no emotion, but her eyes locked onto his. "You'll want to disinfect that."

Damian accepted the handkerchief, fumbling a thank-you. As Aurora walked away, he felt a knot tighten in his stomach. Did she know?

The tension came to a head during lunch. As Damian sat at the Ravenclaw table, a group of younger students approached him.

"Damian," one of them began hesitantly, "do you have any new predictions? Something big is going to happen, right?"

Damian forced a smile, his mind racing. He couldn't afford to lose their trust—or worse, have them suspect he was a fraud.

He closed his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temples in what he hoped was a convincing display of concentration.

"I didn't Dream but the stars," he began dramatically, "speak of a great challenge in the days ahead. A test of skill and courage. But beware—it will come with unexpected danger."

The group exchanged nervous glances, murmuring among themselves. Damian exhaled quietly, relieved that they seemed satisfied.

But when he opened his eyes, Aurora was standing a few feet away, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

"Interesting," she said, her tone laced with skepticism. "And what, exactly, do the stars say about our Potions assignment tomorrow?"

Damian swallowed hard. "That..." He scrambled for a response, "depends on how prepared you are."

Aurora's lips quirked into a faint smile. "Good answer."

Later that evening, Damian found himself in the library, poring over a tome on magical flora. He was trying to distract himself from the day's events when Aurora appeared, her presence as commanding as ever.

"We need to talk," she said without preamble, sliding into the seat across from him.

Damian tensed. "About what?"

"Your little act," she replied, lowering her voice. "You're not as subtle as you think, Damian."

His heart pounded. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Aurora sighed, leaning closer. "Relax. I'm not here to expose you. If anything, I admire your creativity. But you're playing a dangerous game."

Damian stared at her, unsure how to respond. Aurora's expression softened slightly, though her tone remained firm.

"Whatever it is you're trying to achieve," she continued, "just make sure you don't lose yourself in the process."

For a moment, the two sat in silence. Then Aurora stood, smoothing her robes. "Good luck with the stars," she said, her voice tinged with dry humor.

Damian watched her go, his thoughts a whirlwind. For the first time in a long while, he felt the weight of his deception pressing down on him.

"The stars may not be the most useful but prophetic Dreams are, Aurora ! You just don't have a talent for it !"

"Right you are Damian ! And what I don't see, I don't believe ! Especially for one as suspicious as you are !"

As Damian returned to the Ravenclaw common room that night, he felt a mix of relief and apprehension.

Aurora hadn't exposed him, but her words lingered in his mind. Perhaps it was time to reassess his approach.

He couldn't change the past, but he could control the future—his own, at least.

Sitting by the window, Damian opened his journal and began to write. The ink flowed smoothly, each word a small step toward clarity.

And as the stars twinkled above, he resolved to find a way to balance the truths of his past with the lies of his present.