The cold night wrapped itself around Ethan like a damp cloak, each gust of wind needling against his skin as he sat high atop the Astronomy Tower. His hands were numb, knuckles pale as he adjusted the telescope's focus, peering deep into the ink-black sky, its expanse stitched with flickering stars. Far below, the castle of Hogwarts slumbered, its turrets lit faintly by glowing sconces, but up here, the world was quiet. The only sound was the soft hum of wind scraping stone, and the occasional scrape of parchment as students jotted down notes.
It had been several months since Ethan had first arrived at Hogwarts, and by now, most things had fallen into routine, early classes, wand practice, learning the dizzying maze of magical theory. He'd managed to keep to himself, not out of rudeness but by choice. The world of magic was overwhelming enough—he had no intention of adding friendships or attachments to the equation. Astronomy, though, had quickly become his sanctuary. There was comfort in its precision. The stars moved according to laws, to math and mechanics. Celestial logic had no room for guesswork or mysticism.
Which was why tonight's lesson left a strange taste in his mouth.
Professor Sinistra stood poised at the edge of the tower, her silhouette sharp against the lantern-lit sky, robes catching glints of starlight. She gestured gracefully with her wand, and constellations flared into brightness above them. "Turn your telescopes eastward," she instructed, her voice cool and confident. "Mars is in its brightest phase tonight. A powerful omen in many traditions, linked to conflict and transformation."
Ethan turned the knobs of his telescope, bringing the red glow of Mars into focus. It shimmered like a drop of blood suspended in space. Around him, other students whispered, eyes wide with intrigue, gossiping in hushed tones about what Mars might mean. Divorce in the family, another cursed vault opening, or even a Quidditch upset. He sighed softly, his breath curling into mist.
Mars is just a planet, he thought bitterly. Conflict and change don't need stars to arrive. People bring those with them, all on their own.
It wasn't the celestial body that irritated him, it was what it represented in this world of wizards. Prophecy. Fate. The assumption that the future was already written in the stars, waiting to be read like a bedtime story. And if that were true, what did that mean for free will? For choice? For responsibility?
The thought of it tangled in Ethan's mind like thread caught on a nail.
He'd read about prophecies already, of course. You couldn't grow up in the wizarding world, or even as a Muggle-born learning its history, without tripping over prophecies. For example, the one about Harry Potter. The one that supposedly set everything in motion, from Voldemort's attack on the Potters to the rise and fall of the Dark Lord himself. A single utterance made by a Divination professor during her interview to be at Hogwarts, had somehow decided the fates of an entire generation.
Except, had it?
What if Voldemort had never heard the prophecy? Never found out. What if he'd chosen to ignore it? Would Harry still have been marked? Would the war have unfolded the same way? Or had the prophecy only come true because Voldemort acted on it, out of fear, out of arrogance?
The idea chewed at Ethan's brain. Because if that prophecy had only come true because someone acted on it, then maybe prophecy wasn't some divine roadmap. Maybe it was just a guess. A dangerous, influential guess.
As the lesson droned on, Ethan found himself pulling apart the logic. In his previous life he wasn't much of a thinker in this area. He only read out them in stories like the Harry Potter series and many others. But when people who heard prophecies react to them, that is when the wheel turns. Some tried to prevent them and ended up causing them. Others tried to fulfill them and twisted fate into place by force. And then a few ignored them entirely, though, in a world like this, ignorance rarely lasted. The mere knowledge of a prophecy seemed to reshape behavior, to ripple outward like a stone dropped into a still lake.
He stared again at Mars, its red light steady and indifferent.
Take the prophecy that mentioned a child born at the end of July. It could have meant Harry. Or Neville. It didn't matter. Voldemort had chosen Harry. That single decision had changed everything. The prophecy had not named Harry. It had only predicted a possibility. A potential. It had been Voldemort's choice that turned possibility into reality.
From that perspective, prophecy didn't shape the future. People did.
"You're staring at that telescope like it owes you money," came a voice beside him, low and amused.
Ethan blinked, drawn back to the present. Helena, one of the few Ravenclaws who ever engaged him in conversation, was watching him with a raised brow. She tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear, smirking. "Careful. You'll burn a hole through the lens."
"Just thinking," Ethan muttered.
"Dangerous habit? What has you thinking?"
He glanced at her sidelong. "Prophecies."
That caught her attention. "Didn't peg you for the dreamy, fate-contemplating type."
"I'm not," he replied, adjusting the telescope again more out of habit than purpose. "That's the problem."
Helena leaned on her elbow. "So? What's wrong with them?"
"I don't think they're real. Or-no, they're real in the sense that people think they're real. But that belief is what gives them power. They're self-fulfilling."
She blinked at him. "You think they're like… what, magical rumors?"
"Something like that." He paused. "Imagine no one heard a prophecy. Then no one would act on it. But the moment someone hears it, it warps everything. They start making choices because of what they think is going to happen."
Helena tilted her head. "But if the prophecy's accurate, doesn't that mean the future was already set?"
Ethan looked back up at the sky, searching the stars for clarity. "No. I think the future is like… hundreds of rivers branching off in different directions. A prophecy just glimpses one. Maybe it's the most likely path. Maybe not. But it only becomes the path when someone chooses to walk it."
Helena whistled softly. "You ever think about not being a Ravenclaw and just becoming a philosophical hermit?"
Ethan smiled faintly. "Definitely not."
She grinned. "Well, Professor Wright, I don't entirely disagree. I think it's easier for people to believe there's a plan. A design. That way, bad things make sense. They're supposed to happen."
"That's the part I hate most," he said. "The idea that pain or loss or war is 'meant to be.' That someone, somewhere, signed off on it."
For a moment, they sat in silence, both watching the stars turn slowly overhead.
Eventually, Professor Sinistra's voice rose above the murmurs. "Class dismissed. Record your observations before next session. Your charts will be due next week."
Students began to gather their supplies, some still chatting about omens, others laughing as they descended the stairs.
Ethan took his time packing. His fingers were stiff, and his thoughts heavier than before. He glanced at Mars one last time before capping the lens.
People clung to prophecy because it gave them something to hold onto. A reason. A comfort. But comfort wasn't truth. And the stars, beautiful though they were, didn't write destinies. They simply existed. That is what he believes.