As soon as the other centaurs appeared, Hagrid went on full alert. His huge body shifted to stand squarely between Sean and the herd, fingers clenched tightly around his bow.
With the moonlight blocked, the Forest turned pitch–black again. Not far away, branches snapped under heavy hooves, and in the tense silence, every sound made your heart race.
"Firenze, don't think we don't know what you're trying to do!"
The same centaur shouted again.
"Bane, can't you see it? Neptune is so bright. We should accept that change is coming."
Firenze replied calmly.
Neptune?
Before asking Hagrid to bring him here, Sean had prepared in advance. He pulled an old, nearly crumbling book from his bag.
He'd been carrying this book since his first month at Hogwarts. Now, at last, he could start peeling back some of the mysteries of astronomical magic.
"Neptune represents idealism, illusion, and enchantment. Whatever Neptune touches inspires a longing to transcend trivial reality and break through the limits and boundaries of everyday life.
The planets it influences take on a quality of yearning. We become reluctant to accept things as they are, which makes us dissatisfied or unwilling to accept the world in its current state."
As he read that passage, Sean felt something click into place. Out in the Forest, the argument went on.
"This is betraying the herd! Spreading our knowledge and secrets among humans—no amount of groveling can wash away a shame like that! Do you want to be a slave to the humans?!"
A grey centaur with sharp, chiseled features snarled.
Like Hagrid, he carried weapons: a quiver of arrows over his shoulder and a longbow.
"Slave?!"
Hagrid bellowed.
Bane turned his head and addressed Hagrid directly.
"You should leave, Hagrid. I'll let you go this time, because you have your young—"
"He's not his!"
The grey–maned centaur cut him off with a contemptuous snort.
"He's a student, Bane. One of those from the school above. And a promising one…"
"In any case,"
Magorian said evenly,
"harming a foal is a terrible sin—especially one whose presence brightens the stars. We do not harm the innocent. Go, Hagrid. Today we let this pass. If you ask us such an insolent favor again, you will lose our friendship."
As soon as those words were spoken, the herd closed in around Firenze. His expression stayed calm, unreadable.
Hagrid whispered for Sean to stay hidden, then immediately shoved himself between Firenze and the others. The centaurs had already raised their hooves; it looked very much like they were about to pass judgment.
"Slave? What are you lot on about? At Hogwarts, teaching knowledge is what professors do!"
Even with tempers flaring, Hagrid's blundering cheerfulness somehow remained intact.
Bane was quiet for a moment.
"We spent long ages learning to read the sky. We respect this wizard, but we will not interfere with the course of the fated stars."
"And what if our actions are part of that fate? Can you not see Saturn's aspect? That's the aspect of excessive defense."
Firenze said softly, only after staring at the sky for a long time.
The other centaurs scanned the heavens again, and their faces all soured.
Their resolve had clearly wavered.
The herd had arrived quickly, and left just as quickly.
Moonlight spilled down again in soft, broken shafts across the clearing, over the springy moss and the thick–leafed trees.
Hagrid had already gone as well; he needed to feed the thestrals.
He trusted Firenze, and had left Fang behind. Right now Fang was happily playing with a bone that kept magically throwing itself.
Sean heard a flurry of wings in the distance—sparrows, or something like them—bursting into flight. At Firenze's quiet gesture, Sean walked forward, full of anticipation.
The story of the centaurs wasn't hard to understand: they used the stars to forecast the future, and then obeyed what they saw.
But if all you ever did was obey, if you believed fate was absolute, then fate would end up ruling everything about your life—even when it wasn't what you wanted.
"Sean Green, don't be afraid. Centaurs never harm the innocent or the young.
And yet—it is always the innocent who suffer first. That has never changed in thousands of years."
Firenze said.
"Come, lie down here. We still have some time to watch the stars."
Sean lay back on the soft moss.
"I know that in Astronomy, you've already learned the names of the planets and their moons,"
Firenze went on in his slow, steady voice,
"and charted the paths of the stars across the sky. Centaurs have spent centuries unveiling the secrets of these motions. Our studies tell us that from the sky above our heads, we may catch glimpses of what is to come."
He spoke quietly; Sean listened just as quietly.
It seemed the stars themselves had nudged Firenze to teach him astro–magic. It was a rare opportunity.
"Have you learned anything of this already?"
Firenze asked.
"Yes. I've seen many fortune–telling books, like this one. They say Mars can trigger accidents and burns and that sort of thing, and that when Mars and Saturn form an angle—like this—"
Sean flicked his wand; sparks drew a right angle in the air.
"—it means people should be extra careful handling hot things—"
"That is humans making things up."
Firenze cut in.
Sean silently decided he'd be returning Predicting the Future to the library first thing.
"Trivial injuries, minor accidents,"
Firenze said, hooves thudding softly on the mossy ground,
"compared to the vastness of the universe, these are like ants scurrying about—utterly insignificant, not worth the notice of the planets."
It made a lot of sense. Sean's quill began taking notes almost on its own.
"Some human seers—Sybill Trelawney, for example. Perhaps she can glimpse the future; I'm not certain," Firenze continued, tail swishing through the undergrowth,
"but she spends most of her time puffing herself up with nonsense. Humans call that nonsense 'fortune–telling.'"
Sean thought that sounded very accurate. If Professor Trelawney weren't constantly spouting rubbish—like at least one death prophecy every year—maybe people wouldn't have to dig through ninety–nine fakes to find the one that came true.
Firenze's voice rose again:
"What I am teaching you tonight is the centaurs' objective and fair reading of the sky.
We watch the heavens for signs of great disasters or turning points. Sometimes the sky does mark them out. It can take ten years before we can be sure we understood what we saw."