Breakfast at the Ravenclaw table was its usual mix of toast crumbs, half-read books, and students arguing over whether they had Herbology or Charms first. Sowhere between the porridge and the pumpkin juice, Edgar slapped the Daily Prophet down on the table like it owed him a galleon.
"Well, would you look at that," he said loudly, flipping it around. "Our very own Benedict Brown. Front page again. And he didn't even blow anything up this ti."
Ben, mid-bite of peach, sighed. "What do they want now?"
"THE BOY WHO KNEW?" Edgar read in a deep, dramatic voice. "Second-year student with uncanny foresight—sign of a Seer or sothing more sinister?"
"Oh, he's definitely got sothing sinister going on," Cho chid in, grinning a little at Ben over her goblet.
Edgar leaned closer to the paper, squinting like a suspicious librarian. "Let's see… 'Insider claims the second-year may have known about the danger before it occurred. Premonition or preparation?' "
"Oi, who's this insider?" said Davies, frowning. "No one asked anything."
Ben narrowed his eyes at him. "It was you, wasn't it?"
"Can't bla , mate," Roger said, unapologetic. "She offered Galleons and promised my na in print. Lying Skeeter cow."
Ben raised a brow. "How cheap do you sell your friends, then?"
Roger shrugged, flicking a Galleon into the air—just to show off. "What good are friends if you can't profit off their misery?"
Ben caught it mid-air without looking. "Cheers. My cut."
"Oi, give that back!" Roger protested.
"Nope. I was in the story too, rember?" Ben said, slipping it into his pocket.
"You didn't even say anything!" Roger said.
"Exactly. Which is probably why people believe it," Ben said.
Eleanor smirked and turned to Ben. "So what is it, Brown? Got a crystal ball stashed under your bed, or you plotting in the dark?"
"I believe it," said Cho quietly, sipping her pumpkin juice. "He sees things."
Marianne leaned in with a grin. "I'd believe it, too. He's got that creepy know-it-all stare sotis. Real Trelawney vibes."
"I'll believe it when he predicts we win the Cup," Roger grumbled through a mouthful of toast. "Hell, I'll start a fan club."
Ben grinned. "Great. Start printing badges. We're winning it this year."
"Ugh," Marianne groaned. "That's it? No glowing eyes? No cryptic rhys? You're the worst fake Seer ever."
She stabbed a sausage with dramatic disgust, making it squeak slightly on the plate.
Ben leaned away, eyeing the impaled sausage like it might be a warning. "Careful, that one had a family."
Marianne smirked. "Should have told that before I ate its cousins, Brown."
"Too late," Ben said, grabbing a strip of crispy bacon from the platter. "You've now angered the Sausage Council."
Roger, halfway through a mouthful of greasy bacon, choked a little. "Next Prophet headline: Local Seer Predicts Revenge of the Pig."
Ben gave him a dry look. "Yeah, well, I see... indigestion in your future."
-
The Black Lake was always quiet at night. The surface lay still, reflecting the moonlight like glass.
Ben surfaced with a gasp, slicking his hair back as water stread down his face. The cold hit hard, but he liked it that way. Woke him up. Kept his head clear. He floated on his back for a bit, staring at the stars. No noise. No questions. No one yelling about howork or Bludgers to the head. It was peaceful.
He'd co down for a swim after Quidditch practice—and to move a bit of aquatic life over to Nirn Island while he was at it. Nothing fancy. Find a school of fish, open a portal to Nirn Lake, and boom—express delivery. The fish didn't seem to mind.
A pink speck floated across the sky.
Ben didn't need a second look—only one person flew around in a bright purple carriage like it was completely normal. Dumbledore.
He frowned slightly, still floating on his back. Where's he coming from this late? The carriage began descending, drifting in lazy loops before angling toward the Black Lake shoreline.
Ben groaned under his breath. "Got sharp eyes for an old man, don't you?"
A minute later, soft footsteps approached the shore.
"Evening, Mr Brown," ca Dumbledore's voice, warm and cheerful like they were bumping into each other at breakfast.
Ben didn't look over. "Evening."
"Lovely night for a swim."
Ben kicked his feet lazily. "It really is. Fancy a swim, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore chuckled. "Tempting. But I don't happen to have my swimming trunks with at the mont."
Ben nodded solemnly. "A sha."
Dumbledore smiled. "Ah, alas. I'm an old man now, Mr Brown. The cold doesn't agree with the way it might with a second-year Beater built like a fireplace."
Ben snorted. "You're not that old. Just old enough to fly around in a bright purple carriage without sha."
Dumbledore gave a thoughtful nod. "It does make spotting terribly easy."
He produced a towel from his sleeve with a flick. "I used to swim here as a boy. Quite fond of the freshwater grindylows. Never bothered to ask why they were called 'grindylows,' though. Might've been impolite."
Ben pulled himself out of the lake and took the towel, wrapping it around his shoulders with a grateful grunt. "Was it the kind of swim where you catch dinner after, or just one of those 'clear your mind' types?"
"A bit of both," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. "Though I find that what clears the mind often leaves the stomach suspiciously empty."
"Well, it doesn't have to," Ben said, nodding toward the small pile of coals where several plump brown trout sizzled over the fire. "Would you like so grilled fish, Headmaster?"
"I'd be delighted, Mr Brown," said Dumbledore, easing himself onto a sun-bleached bit of driftwood beside the fire. He inhaled deeply.
"Ah, brown trout. Rather fitting that you'd be the one serving it, Mr Brown," Dumbledore said with a small smile. "I must say, it's quite promising when dinner starts off with poetic symtry."
-To be Continued...
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