Ha. If only we could
have known . . . Little Spike proved to be an apt pupil, one of those quiet
infants who take in the entire world through large dark eyes. I thought the challenges would arise when she
learned to walk, remembering my sons who seemed determined to throw themselves
under the hooves of the largest mammal they could find as soon as they took
their first staggering steps. Or to help
feed the fire, or to play with knives.
Ah, no. The trouble began when she taught herself to
read. Keeping her physically safe from
those who would do her harm was easy -- I recruited two other Hounds whom I
could trust as I would my own hands and eyes to take shifts with me as her
bodyguards -- but keeping her safe from herself was another matter entirely.
One of her uncles sent someone to eliminate her in her
sleep, and I had a long discussion with the messenger at the top of the tower
while Sascha rocked Spike back to quiet.
Another, cleverer man, sent a toy broom.
Spike quickly mastered the toy -- and then overrode the controls, as she
preferred flying to walking. She adored
the brightly illustrated books that read themselves to you, and then whenever
she was missing I could find her in the library; often spidered up in the
shelves that housed the forbidden books, sounding out the complex Latin
invocations. When she learned to
actually channel her will and bend the universe to her desire -- but that's all
in the other entries, the fires, the holes in the walls, the rooms that had to
be sealed off for months while the magisters performed the
counter-invocations.
It was a relief when she was accepted to Durmstrang. At last, she would have a challenge to face
in a safe place. A place to stretch her
wings and learn to fly so she could take her place in the skies.
Well. We all know
what happened next; that horrible moment in Arithmancy where it all went
pear-shaped. I like to think that if one
of us had been there we could have prevented it somehow; confiscated Spike's
note to herself with a promise of appropriate discipline to follow, maybe. Nudged her elbow at just the right moment to
spoil the line and render the diagram harmless. Horrible clumsy monsters, us.
That first night back, I spent thinking about all the times
I had combed and braided Spike's hair when she was tiny, wondering if I would
be able to do so one last time. A last service to perform for my mistress. Fortunately, her father is a man of reason,
rather than emotion. He plays the part
of the tyrant ruled by his heart well, sometimes almost too well, but he wasn't
about to toss all his plans aside because of one small misunderstanding.
So, we were off to Hogwarts.
I am proud of her for learning the qualities of perseverance, the laws
of magic, especially that that which you pay attention to becomes. Stubborn gritting it through and finishing,
pulling off magic in the last hour, making it all come together and
happen. These qualities will stand her
in good stead when she grows up and goes to fulfill the destiny planned for
her.
At the same time, I worry.
As if I were that father of her blood.
If anyone could teach power and the ways to wield it, that would have
been Durmstrang. But perhaps Hogwarts
can teach my little mistress a little cleverness, a little misdirection, a way
of thinking outside the boundaries. With
where she's going, these might serve her better than brute force.
Water wears away mountains, one slow soft lick at a
time. Perhaps she may learn the ways of
water.
It is late and getting later; the year has turned and the
hour of the Octopus gives way to the hour of the Cat. Time to close this for now.
--Totenberg
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