"So what would you have of me?"
"We know what you doing." Her heart sank, and for a moment, the world went grey at the edges. I swore an oath . . . what's going to happen now?
"I don't see how." Playing for time. Praying for time.
"Not down to the details, but 'nuff." Dmitri gestured at the covered cage in the corner. "You OWL being neglected, you studies going by the wayside -- all the late nights alone down here."
"What you Atyets say, we let you fail this term? Let you drop you OWL?" Totenberg's voice was gentle, just as Atyets's would be when he lectured her about responsibility and disappointment in words that cut and stung. "Think he be happy?"
She shook her head.
"Not with you -- less with us." It was as if he was musing aloud to himself. "You the heir to the chair, he can't spare you. Us? We disposable. Send us off to keep the peace in the north 's best can be done, replace us with magickers, mebbe. Can you imagine?"
She could. It would be like living in a circle of Hogwarts staff; people concerned with rules and regulations and making certain they were followed to the letter. Like living with Umbridge in loco parentis. A half-dozen Umbridges. "So what do you want?"
"Be part of this. This project you do. Give what help we can so you can get done with this t'ing and move on. Said you had big plans for next term's OWL; using this one as a proving ground. What you gonna prove if it falls apart, not because is bad idea, but because you got--" he held up one hand, palm open and empty, gave half a shrug --"distracted?" The Hounds' ring on his third finger gleamed in the light, and Spike stared at it, an idea for this, the last Horcrux, slowly taking shape.
"All right. You each know a piece of what's going on, and if I know you, you've already put your heads together and figured out most of the rest."
"Horcruxes." The word was flat in his mouth, devoid of the resonance a wizard always said it with, whether loathing or longing.
"Right. We're -- and no, I can't tell you who, but that's not really important -- trying to make some other group -- and they don't matter either -- believe that Voldemort or someone with the same kind of raw power has risen again to carry on the work started all those years ago. I wanted to re-create the original seven, and I'm done. Almost. I'm here at the last one, the one for Hufflepuff's Cup." She took a deep breath, slumping with the release of her secret.
"So. We help. How?"
"Well, Hufflepuff. They're about teamwork, about gritting through the hard task and seeing all the way through. They're loyal, open, accepting, bonded. 'The yellow and black pack attack,' right? You never see just one Hufflepuff, they're always with at least one other person, and they're really comfortable with all the students -- I even see a couple in the Pit now and again!" She thought about her first Horcrux, the recreation of Gaunt's Ring. Going to have to do this. She reached behind her head, and pulled off the necklace that had hung there ever since she outgrew the tiny ring dangling from the chain. Puddled it in one hand.
"So I need something sentimental, something with meaning and history. I can't just use magic to turn this one into the four I need; that won't carry over the same way that the Cup would. It wouldn't have the vibrations of many diverse things coming together." She looked at each of them in turn. "I'm going to have to ask for your Hounds' Rings."
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Sunday, October 06, 2013
A Favor Asked
Spike picked up her coffee mug looking for inspiration at the bottom. It was empty, cold and dry, and she set it back down with a sigh. I could call a House Elf . . . but then I'd have to explain what I was doing here at this hour. They keep watch for the staff, you know they do. Perhaps I've actually had too much coffee, if I'm thinking this way* She pushed her stool back from the workbench, stretching muscles gone aching from the hours she'd spent hunched over the last horcrux. Hufflepuff's cup. Gold and black. Teamwork, hard work lightened by good cheer and many hands. I have to cram all that into . . . something, something and seal that with a little death and blood.
"No, they don't ask much, do they?" She started pacing the floor again as Nagini watched from atop the cage of mice. "I wonder how the other operatives are doing with this assignment? If only I could ask around, find out some pointers from more advanced students. But just the act of asking would probably be enough to tip the staff off that something was afoot."
Someone tapped at the door, and she whirled to give the bench a quick once-over. Seeing nothing obviously incriminating there, she called her visitor in. Maybe a break was what she needed, she'd been at it every waking hour that could be stolen away from studies and OWL.
Totenberg stood in the door. He had removed his hat, and held it in one hand. Spike blinked. They never take their hats off -- well, to scratch their heads, maybe. She wasn't sure of the significance, but they'd go barefoot through the snow before they went bare-headed in good weather. "Is good time?" She could just see Dimo and Sascha lurking behind him. All three of them together?
She shrugged. "Sure." Well, and why not? Now was no worse than any other time.
He came in, and Sascha closed the door behind them. No one left to guard the corridor. It must be important. "We you loyal minions, yah?"
"Since the day I was born." She'd heard the stories, how when she came into the world, Totenberg's were the fourth hands to hold her -- the midwife, her mother, her father, and then the captain of her father's personal guard.
"As you minions, we come to ask a boon."
She'd heard people plead with her father with that kind of formal language before, and he'd never refused to grant that favor, assuming it was in his power to do so. Sometimes it took some work behind the scenes, many whispered meetings, but it was always fulfilled. She'd asked once why, and he'd told her that when you took responsibility for holding someone else's life in yours, you did what you had to do for them. It hadn't made much sense to her, until she saw what he expected of his vassals and minions -- everything, with nothing held back for the return. It balances. The right hand, and the left. Now her left hand was asking a favor of the right.
"No, they don't ask much, do they?" She started pacing the floor again as Nagini watched from atop the cage of mice. "I wonder how the other operatives are doing with this assignment? If only I could ask around, find out some pointers from more advanced students. But just the act of asking would probably be enough to tip the staff off that something was afoot."
Someone tapped at the door, and she whirled to give the bench a quick once-over. Seeing nothing obviously incriminating there, she called her visitor in. Maybe a break was what she needed, she'd been at it every waking hour that could be stolen away from studies and OWL.
Totenberg stood in the door. He had removed his hat, and held it in one hand. Spike blinked. They never take their hats off -- well, to scratch their heads, maybe. She wasn't sure of the significance, but they'd go barefoot through the snow before they went bare-headed in good weather. "Is good time?" She could just see Dimo and Sascha lurking behind him. All three of them together?
She shrugged. "Sure." Well, and why not? Now was no worse than any other time.
He came in, and Sascha closed the door behind them. No one left to guard the corridor. It must be important. "We you loyal minions, yah?"
"Since the day I was born." She'd heard the stories, how when she came into the world, Totenberg's were the fourth hands to hold her -- the midwife, her mother, her father, and then the captain of her father's personal guard.
"As you minions, we come to ask a boon."
She'd heard people plead with her father with that kind of formal language before, and he'd never refused to grant that favor, assuming it was in his power to do so. Sometimes it took some work behind the scenes, many whispered meetings, but it was always fulfilled. She'd asked once why, and he'd told her that when you took responsibility for holding someone else's life in yours, you did what you had to do for them. It hadn't made much sense to her, until she saw what he expected of his vassals and minions -- everything, with nothing held back for the return. It balances. The right hand, and the left. Now her left hand was asking a favor of the right.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Dusty and Purple
Hogwarts had arranged for a field trip -- Finally, a chance for the underclassmen to get to explore the world! Spike had thought when they first announced the trip in her History of Magic class. Now, however, in the field, she was having second thoughts. It seemed that the upperclassmen, upon returning to the Pit, had carefully edited their adventures, leaving in only the best bits and taking out some of the grotty details, like the heat and the-- she sneezed -- the dust. Pyramids. Handy for sharpening razor blades, but otherwise-- Spike sneezed again. Dirty, dingy dust-traps. Why don’t they have house-elves? Oh, right, there are some things even a house-elf won’t touch.
The walls of the glorified tomb pressed in close and closer. Even the decorations’ glowing colors in the light of her wand failed to inspire. Down here, the dark eats the light. I can look at the art, which is what we’re here to see, or I can look where I’m going-- “Ouch!” Her ankle twisted as she set her high-heeled boot down on a pebble.
She sat down quickly, rubbing the sore joint. Picking up the pebble, she took a closer look by the light of her wand tip.
Huh. It’s a pretty little thing--too bad it’s broken. She tucked it absently in a pocket in her robes. Standing up, she rejoined the group.
Later that night, she put it atop a white lace doily on her nightstand. Violet was a favorite color of hers, lush and soothing.
When she woke the next morning, the figurine was missing! And the doily had changed from silvery-white to several shades of violet.
“What the--”
Then the three-legged cat with a human face hobbled into the room, and it all became clear.
The walls of the glorified tomb pressed in close and closer. Even the decorations’ glowing colors in the light of her wand failed to inspire. Down here, the dark eats the light. I can look at the art, which is what we’re here to see, or I can look where I’m going-- “Ouch!” Her ankle twisted as she set her high-heeled boot down on a pebble.
She sat down quickly, rubbing the sore joint. Picking up the pebble, she took a closer look by the light of her wand tip.
Huh. It’s a pretty little thing--too bad it’s broken. She tucked it absently in a pocket in her robes. Standing up, she rejoined the group.
Later that night, she put it atop a white lace doily on her nightstand. Violet was a favorite color of hers, lush and soothing.
When she woke the next morning, the figurine was missing! And the doily had changed from silvery-white to several shades of violet.
“What the--”
Then the three-legged cat with a human face hobbled into the room, and it all became clear.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Antidotes and Complications
Spike stared at the instructions on the board in dismay. Create a complex antidote. Lovely. She sighed, flipped open her book, and stuck her wand into her hair to hold it all back up off her face. All right. Part of the problem is mixing the ingredients. I haven’t been blending finely enough, and stirring in the right order is tricky. If only I had ekletrickity, like in Advanced Muggle Studies. I could use a blenderizer, like we did for those frozen drinks at the beach party … She stopped dead in the act of reaching for the powdered boomslang skin. A blenderizer …
Swiftly she combined all forty-six ingredients in the cauldron, setting the flame underneath to bring it to a slow simmer. Now, deiseil twice, widdershins once, then once, then twice, then three times, then once, once, twice, finishing once deiseil, then reversing direction but not number. Got it. She grabbed her wand from her hair, murmured ”Revuelvo,” and dropped it into the cauldron, where it sank to the bottom and began to spin. Clockwise, anticlockwise, then reversing around again.
Yay for Muggle Studies! thought Spike, as she began to tidy her bench.
All was going well until Drusilla asked Spike to pass the unicorn warts. “Is it supposed to be that color?” Dru hissed under her breath. Spike looked down, with sinking heart. The potion was willow green with streaks of color floating through it like ribbons. “How--?”
Spike touched her hair and found … her wand holding up her heavy bun. “Oh, bloody …” She had dropped her hairstick into the potion, and the Little Gods only knew what that had done to the complex antidote. Worse, here came Professor Halliwell, ready to check her work.
Thaddeus sniffed at the vapors.
“Nettle extract, sea buckthorn oil, nice, very nice. Ground pearl, unicorn hair, uhmmm hmmm. Willow … not willow bark, the actual wood. Interesting choice. And is that … yes, I think so. Glass and copper. The copper I understand, but the glass, Spike?”
“For … unification. And clarity.”
He raised one eyebrow. “And?”
Spike racked her brains. There was something else glass did that was important … got it. “For flow even in stasis.”
“Fifteen points to Slytherin. Well done.” The professor moved on, and Spike retrieved her hair stick from the cauldron. ”Evanesco,” she hissed, and the goo came away leaving the stick clean.
But when she took it out of her hair that night, the glass finial was nowhere to be seen. Instead, tiny copper branches supported tinkling green crystal leaves that chimed together softly.
Swiftly she combined all forty-six ingredients in the cauldron, setting the flame underneath to bring it to a slow simmer. Now, deiseil twice, widdershins once, then once, then twice, then three times, then once, once, twice, finishing once deiseil, then reversing direction but not number. Got it. She grabbed her wand from her hair, murmured ”Revuelvo,” and dropped it into the cauldron, where it sank to the bottom and began to spin. Clockwise, anticlockwise, then reversing around again.
Yay for Muggle Studies! thought Spike, as she began to tidy her bench.
All was going well until Drusilla asked Spike to pass the unicorn warts. “Is it supposed to be that color?” Dru hissed under her breath. Spike looked down, with sinking heart. The potion was willow green with streaks of color floating through it like ribbons. “How--?”
Spike touched her hair and found … her wand holding up her heavy bun. “Oh, bloody …” She had dropped her hairstick into the potion, and the Little Gods only knew what that had done to the complex antidote. Worse, here came Professor Halliwell, ready to check her work.
Thaddeus sniffed at the vapors.
“Nettle extract, sea buckthorn oil, nice, very nice. Ground pearl, unicorn hair, uhmmm hmmm. Willow … not willow bark, the actual wood. Interesting choice. And is that … yes, I think so. Glass and copper. The copper I understand, but the glass, Spike?”
“For … unification. And clarity.”
He raised one eyebrow. “And?”
Spike racked her brains. There was something else glass did that was important … got it. “For flow even in stasis.”
“Fifteen points to Slytherin. Well done.” The professor moved on, and Spike retrieved her hair stick from the cauldron. ”Evanesco,” she hissed, and the goo came away leaving the stick clean.
But when she took it out of her hair that night, the glass finial was nowhere to be seen. Instead, tiny copper branches supported tinkling green crystal leaves that chimed together softly.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
A Friend's Words
Spike sat in the lab, thinking. Two more faux Horcruxes to create, and then the project is through; I can send Nagini to disperse them through the castle. In front of her lay a scrap of parchment, written on both sides. She was now to the point of turning it ninety degrees and writing over her old notes in her hurried half-uncil scrawl. It wouldn't do to have this fall into the wrong hands; the fewer pieces of paper she needed to track, burn, and Vanish the ashes, the better.
At the top, she had started a bulleted list under the header "What Makes a Diary." Memories, obviously, memories, plans, dreams. The habit of doing it every day, that has a certain magic to it. The things we do for reasons of our own. The evolution of plots and plans as we write them down. She sighed, rubbed her temples.
"One would think this would be an easy one," she mused to Nagini, who blinked at her words. Spike wished she could teach the slug to blink in code -- left for no and right for yes, even. I'm to the point of asking a slug for advice. It must be bad. "The thing is," she continued, "while I have all kinds of notes to myself on scraps and bits, and I have some that are from before I even went to Durmstrang the first time, none of them really qualify as a diary. They're just . . . notes to myself. If they contain plotting and planning, it's because I needed to unpack them out of my head and see if they were workable or not. I just did them when it was too loud to think about anything else. There's no . . . consistency, no energy from the daily attention and care that goes into a diary."
Spike got up to pace; she thought better on her feet sometimes. Nagini watched her from the top of the workbench, safely away from her boots tapping on the flagstones. "I've tried keeping journals before, tried to write words every day about what was going on; tried to create images and words to evoke my week, thought it would be a good thing to have something tracking where i was and what I thought, but they always seem to devolve into what I ate for lunch. Or fall apart entirely. Then I'd burn them to get the energy back, and now . . . now I wish I had one. I'd gladly sacrifice it to complete the set.
"I could ask . . . could ask Totenberg for one of his old journals, but that's like asking for his heart. He'd give it to me gladly, but . . . but." She stopped, pondering. This must be one of the hard parts of being the Mistress. She'd watched enviously as her father gave orders that were obeyed without question, waiting for the day when she would have loyalty that she could call on like that. She'd never stopped to consider the Master's share of the cost, of knowing you were asking someone to do themselves harm to serve your ends. "Spend them carefully, Spike," he'd said to her more than once as the chamber cleared after a quick discussion with the generals, where he'd given the Hounds orders that were received with hardly more than a nod and salute. Muttering outside the door broke her reverie, and she quickly tucked the parchment scrap into her robes, grabbed a mouse from the cage, and quickly and sloppily Transfigured it into a teacup with whiskers and a tail, to explain why she was here in the lab so late.
"Come in!" No need to fake the frustration in her voice, let them blame it on the cupmouse.
Totenberg slouched in. "Sorry to disturb," he said, laying a cup of cocoa on the workbench, next to a bit of paper.
Actual paper. She picked it up. Yellowed and crumbling at the edges, she saw Totenberg's familiar copperplate and the word Rhaedestus near the top. That was . . . probably about the time he made captain, one of his first battles. "This is part of one of your old journals," she said slowly, as he nodded. She held it to him, but he took a step back, hands at his sides. "I can't --"
"You need it," he said.
She could feel the energy crackling in the paper, ready to be turned to new purpose. "But--"
"You need it," he repeated, as the door closed behind him.
And he was right, I do need it. She placed the cupmouse on top of the parchment, spilled a few drops of blood into its bowl, then shattered it on the table to create the Horcrux. Nagini blinked approvingly.
At the top, she had started a bulleted list under the header "What Makes a Diary." Memories, obviously, memories, plans, dreams. The habit of doing it every day, that has a certain magic to it. The things we do for reasons of our own. The evolution of plots and plans as we write them down. She sighed, rubbed her temples.
"One would think this would be an easy one," she mused to Nagini, who blinked at her words. Spike wished she could teach the slug to blink in code -- left for no and right for yes, even. I'm to the point of asking a slug for advice. It must be bad. "The thing is," she continued, "while I have all kinds of notes to myself on scraps and bits, and I have some that are from before I even went to Durmstrang the first time, none of them really qualify as a diary. They're just . . . notes to myself. If they contain plotting and planning, it's because I needed to unpack them out of my head and see if they were workable or not. I just did them when it was too loud to think about anything else. There's no . . . consistency, no energy from the daily attention and care that goes into a diary."
Spike got up to pace; she thought better on her feet sometimes. Nagini watched her from the top of the workbench, safely away from her boots tapping on the flagstones. "I've tried keeping journals before, tried to write words every day about what was going on; tried to create images and words to evoke my week, thought it would be a good thing to have something tracking where i was and what I thought, but they always seem to devolve into what I ate for lunch. Or fall apart entirely. Then I'd burn them to get the energy back, and now . . . now I wish I had one. I'd gladly sacrifice it to complete the set.
"I could ask . . . could ask Totenberg for one of his old journals, but that's like asking for his heart. He'd give it to me gladly, but . . . but." She stopped, pondering. This must be one of the hard parts of being the Mistress. She'd watched enviously as her father gave orders that were obeyed without question, waiting for the day when she would have loyalty that she could call on like that. She'd never stopped to consider the Master's share of the cost, of knowing you were asking someone to do themselves harm to serve your ends. "Spend them carefully, Spike," he'd said to her more than once as the chamber cleared after a quick discussion with the generals, where he'd given the Hounds orders that were received with hardly more than a nod and salute. Muttering outside the door broke her reverie, and she quickly tucked the parchment scrap into her robes, grabbed a mouse from the cage, and quickly and sloppily Transfigured it into a teacup with whiskers and a tail, to explain why she was here in the lab so late.
"Come in!" No need to fake the frustration in her voice, let them blame it on the cupmouse.
Totenberg slouched in. "Sorry to disturb," he said, laying a cup of cocoa on the workbench, next to a bit of paper.
Actual paper. She picked it up. Yellowed and crumbling at the edges, she saw Totenberg's familiar copperplate and the word Rhaedestus near the top. That was . . . probably about the time he made captain, one of his first battles. "This is part of one of your old journals," she said slowly, as he nodded. She held it to him, but he took a step back, hands at his sides. "I can't --"
"You need it," he said.
She could feel the energy crackling in the paper, ready to be turned to new purpose. "But--"
"You need it," he repeated, as the door closed behind him.
And he was right, I do need it. She placed the cupmouse on top of the parchment, spilled a few drops of blood into its bowl, then shattered it on the table to create the Horcrux. Nagini blinked approvingly.
Sunday, September 08, 2013
What's That Smell?
In the Potions lab underneath the lake, Spike snarled softly as she perused
a clay tablet marked like-- “Fenris’s bedraggled chewtoy!!” She pounded one
fist on the table, nearly crushing a wandering cootie. “I don’t know why I
didn’t stick with Divination. Or Nutrition. But no, it had to be Ancient Runes,
during the month when we studied early Muggle societies.” She lifted the lid
off a container filled with what had been snails, and winced at the aroma in
the air. I’d open a window, if I had one. She looked at the glass
ceiling above. Maybe … no, probably not.
Trevor came in. “What are you doing, Spike? It smells … well, you know what it smells like in here. Are you going for extra credit in Potions?”
“I wish. No, it’s Ancient Ruins. This is supposed to be a way to make dye from shellfish. Very expensive stuff--and I see why! I wouldn’t put up with this stink cheaply either.”
“So you--”
“Found a cuneiform tablet for Tyrian purple, just like objects that King Ashurbanipal would have had, and now I’m trying to color this square in a gradient.”
“Hooo. That’s a lot of work.”
“Tell me.” Spike rolled her eyes. “Fortunately, I think we’re done.” She flicked her wand to disapparate the smelly goo, leaving a clean square behind.
They looked it over. “Looks nice. And hey --at least no one is going to drink your dyestock--not like Kool Aid.”
Trevor came in. “What are you doing, Spike? It smells … well, you know what it smells like in here. Are you going for extra credit in Potions?”
“I wish. No, it’s Ancient Ruins. This is supposed to be a way to make dye from shellfish. Very expensive stuff--and I see why! I wouldn’t put up with this stink cheaply either.”
“So you--”
“Found a cuneiform tablet for Tyrian purple, just like objects that King Ashurbanipal would have had, and now I’m trying to color this square in a gradient.”
“Hooo. That’s a lot of work.”
“Tell me.” Spike rolled her eyes. “Fortunately, I think we’re done.” She flicked her wand to disapparate the smelly goo, leaving a clean square behind.
They looked it over. “Looks nice. And hey --at least no one is going to drink your dyestock--not like Kool Aid.”
Sunday, September 01, 2013
Magic Lantern Show
AS a Second Year, Spike was now expected to take place in the Headmistress's Challenge each term at Hogwarts. At first it had seemed like a lark, a way to earn a few more points for Slytherin. Now, lookeing out over the sea of eyes, Spike wasn't so sure.
Spike cleared her throat, shuffled through her scrolls of parchment at the lectern. Her carefully prepared speech might be resting on an owl’s outstretched wings, but right now, the cat had her tongue. And had most likely left it in the Potions lab under the lake.
Then she dropped her notes. Flaming Muggle Studies!! Smiling weakly, she gathered them all back up onto the lectern, selected a likely looking beginning, and started to read.
“ ‘Jim knew every centimeter of his shadow, could have cut it out of tar paper and run it up a flagpole – his banner.
“ ‘Will, he was occasionally surprised to see his shadow following him somewhere, but that was that.’ "
Wroxton waved her to a stop. She removed her glasses, pinched the bridge of her nose lightly between thumb and forefinger, as if warding off a headache. “Miss Spike …”
“Actually, Headmistress, it’s Miss von Schadelthron.” She dropped a brisk curtsey. “Everyone gets that wrong. It’s my great-great second cousin, forcibly removed, the blond vampire in the dungeons. It causes a lot of confusion, having undead in the family tree.”
The Headmistress’s smile wavered, then tightened, hanging on to her mouth with grim determination. “Be that as it may, Spike, I was going to say that while I am the Headmistress, and may perforce be presumed to know everything, I am also a dreadful Legilimens. While I can see you have some lovely character studies of a Gryffindor and a Slytherin going here, I would like – nay, sincerely appreciate—some context. If you would be so kind?”
“Jim, your dark Slytherin boy, is Jim Nightshade. The Gryffindor counterpart is Will Halloway. They’re the thirteen—almost fourteen—year old Muggle protagonists of Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes and the inspiration for my presentation." She let go of her death grip on the podium's wings.
“Now, Jim and Will encounter a very dark and quite powerful wizard. Assuming that Niven’s Law applies--”
“Unpack, Spike. This is your thesis to defend; define your terms.”
“Right. Well, Niven’s Law. Any sufficiently rigorously defined magic is indistinguishable from technology.”
“Nicely done. Continue.”
“So …” she found the actual beginning scroll at last. “Ray Bradbury was an esteemed writer of the First Fandom. Bradbury earned his membership by publishing a newsletter devoted to speculative fiction in the 1930’s. In 1962, he wrote Something Wicked This Way Comes.
“Here we have Jim and Will, dark and light together yet apart. Again, they are young male protagonists, much like the story of the Boy Who Lived. Again, they find themselves thrown up against a shrewder, stronger, more powerful enemy who knows more magic than they, with only a single older man to guide them and pass along the information they need in order to ultimately claim victory.
“Something Wicked This Way Comes opens with the carnival arriving in Jim and Will’s town, just as the Potter histories open with Harry receiving his admission letter to Hogwarts. Both sets of heroes find that the world they had always assumed would play by the rules they were taught has now turned upside down. Jim and Will find a carnival like a larger Mirror of Erised; it finds the deepest longings in your heart and pulls them to the surface, then grants them to you, with a wrenching twist. Miss Foley, the boy’s older spinster English teacher longs to be young and beautiful once more. The carnival grants this desire, except she’s rendered blind in the process. The town barber, who has an eye for the ladies, goes into the hootchie-kootchie tent, and is transformed into the carnival’s own Bearded Lady.”
“You mentioned Niven’s Law?”
“I did. See, there are no incantations, no wand movements, no potions. Magic happens, but through things, like the mirror maze that alters Ms. Foley, the dancers who transfigure Mr. Crosetti. And the calliope!” Spike’s eyes glittered. “The calliope which can add years or take them away. See, it’s all artifact-based.”
“Like the Philosopher’s Stone?”
“Mmmm, yes, but the Stone was created through alchemy, a subset of potions practice. There’s no mention of such in Something Wicked This Way Comes, just the carnival running on its own power, and perhaps the caged lightning of elec-- elec-tri-ci-ty.” She sounded the curious Muggle word out carefully.
“Hmmm. And the socks, Spike. I see the dark and light, for Will and Jim, yes?”
“Yes, and all the colors for the carnival. If I may?” She flipped through the scrolls again and read, “ ‘ For the tents were lemon like the sun, brass like wheat fields a few weeks ago. Flags and banners bright as bluebirds snapped above lion-colored canvas. From boots painted cotton-candy colors, fine Saturday smells of bacon and eggs, hot dogs and pancakes swam the wind. Everywhere ran boys. Everywhere sleepy fathers followed.’ “
“One last thing. I thought your proposal said this was multi-media, Spike.”
“It is, Headmistress, but ah—“ she gestured to the younger students perched on the edge of their seats. Word had been trickling through the school about the Muggle Lantern Show Spike was arranging for the finale. “So upon second thought, I’ll be playing the lantern show in theForbidden Forest
“Hmmmm. And just what would you know about theForest ? You’re only a second-year, after all.”
Spike dropped her notes again.
Spike cleared her throat, shuffled through her scrolls of parchment at the lectern. Her carefully prepared speech might be resting on an owl’s outstretched wings, but right now, the cat had her tongue. And had most likely left it in the Potions lab under the lake.
Then she dropped her notes. Flaming Muggle Studies!! Smiling weakly, she gathered them all back up onto the lectern, selected a likely looking beginning, and started to read.
“ ‘Jim knew every centimeter of his shadow, could have cut it out of tar paper and run it up a flagpole – his banner.
“ ‘Will, he was occasionally surprised to see his shadow following him somewhere, but that was that.’ "
Wroxton waved her to a stop. She removed her glasses, pinched the bridge of her nose lightly between thumb and forefinger, as if warding off a headache. “Miss Spike …”
“Actually, Headmistress, it’s Miss von Schadelthron.” She dropped a brisk curtsey. “Everyone gets that wrong. It’s my great-great second cousin, forcibly removed, the blond vampire in the dungeons. It causes a lot of confusion, having undead in the family tree.”
The Headmistress’s smile wavered, then tightened, hanging on to her mouth with grim determination. “Be that as it may, Spike, I was going to say that while I am the Headmistress, and may perforce be presumed to know everything, I am also a dreadful Legilimens. While I can see you have some lovely character studies of a Gryffindor and a Slytherin going here, I would like – nay, sincerely appreciate—some context. If you would be so kind?”
“Jim, your dark Slytherin boy, is Jim Nightshade. The Gryffindor counterpart is Will Halloway. They’re the thirteen—almost fourteen—year old Muggle protagonists of Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes and the inspiration for my presentation." She let go of her death grip on the podium's wings.
“Now, Jim and Will encounter a very dark and quite powerful wizard. Assuming that Niven’s Law applies--”
“Unpack, Spike. This is your thesis to defend; define your terms.”
“Right. Well, Niven’s Law. Any sufficiently rigorously defined magic is indistinguishable from technology.”
“Nicely done. Continue.”
“So …” she found the actual beginning scroll at last. “Ray Bradbury was an esteemed writer of the First Fandom. Bradbury earned his membership by publishing a newsletter devoted to speculative fiction in the 1930’s. In 1962, he wrote Something Wicked This Way Comes.
“Here we have Jim and Will, dark and light together yet apart. Again, they are young male protagonists, much like the story of the Boy Who Lived. Again, they find themselves thrown up against a shrewder, stronger, more powerful enemy who knows more magic than they, with only a single older man to guide them and pass along the information they need in order to ultimately claim victory.
“Something Wicked This Way Comes opens with the carnival arriving in Jim and Will’s town, just as the Potter histories open with Harry receiving his admission letter to Hogwarts. Both sets of heroes find that the world they had always assumed would play by the rules they were taught has now turned upside down. Jim and Will find a carnival like a larger Mirror of Erised; it finds the deepest longings in your heart and pulls them to the surface, then grants them to you, with a wrenching twist. Miss Foley, the boy’s older spinster English teacher longs to be young and beautiful once more. The carnival grants this desire, except she’s rendered blind in the process. The town barber, who has an eye for the ladies, goes into the hootchie-kootchie tent, and is transformed into the carnival’s own Bearded Lady.”
“You mentioned Niven’s Law?”
“I did. See, there are no incantations, no wand movements, no potions. Magic happens, but through things, like the mirror maze that alters Ms. Foley, the dancers who transfigure Mr. Crosetti. And the calliope!” Spike’s eyes glittered. “The calliope which can add years or take them away. See, it’s all artifact-based.”
“Like the Philosopher’s Stone?”
“Mmmm, yes, but the Stone was created through alchemy, a subset of potions practice. There’s no mention of such in Something Wicked This Way Comes, just the carnival running on its own power, and perhaps the caged lightning of elec-- elec-tri-ci-ty.” She sounded the curious Muggle word out carefully.
“Hmmm. And the socks, Spike. I see the dark and light, for Will and Jim, yes?”
“Yes, and all the colors for the carnival. If I may?” She flipped through the scrolls again and read, “ ‘ For the tents were lemon like the sun, brass like wheat fields a few weeks ago. Flags and banners bright as bluebirds snapped above lion-colored canvas. From boots painted cotton-candy colors, fine Saturday smells of bacon and eggs, hot dogs and pancakes swam the wind. Everywhere ran boys. Everywhere sleepy fathers followed.’ “
“One last thing. I thought your proposal said this was multi-media, Spike.”
“It is, Headmistress, but ah—“ she gestured to the younger students perched on the edge of their seats. Word had been trickling through the school about the Muggle Lantern Show Spike was arranging for the finale. “So upon second thought, I’ll be playing the lantern show in the
“Hmmmm. And just what would you know about the
Spike dropped her notes again.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
An Old Locket
She thought this would be one of the easier ones, the locket from the founder of the House she loved, but it was proving more complicated than even the Sword had been. I need just the right thing, she thought, closing the lid of her jewelry box, where she had spent a long and fruitless hour rummaging.
Nothing presented itself, nothing said power and sentiment at the same time. Nothing drew her eye. The Nagini-slug had been no help either. Probably because it's an "I'll know it when I see it." problem If I could describe exactly what I needed, it might be able to turn something up* She sighed, putting her hands together and resting her chin on her thumbs.
"Problem?" She looked up, startled. Dimo was there in the room. She hadn't heard the door open, nor shut, he was just suddenly there. Times like this, she could understand the superstitious dread the people of Schadelthron had of the Hounds -- something that large shouldn't be able to be that silent.
"It's -- this school project I'm working on. For extra credit." That was kind of the truth, if you looked at it sidelong in a dim light. If the staff knew we were doing this, they'd shut us down in a heartbeat, and institute policies about student gatherings that would make Umbridge's Headmistresship look positively liberal by comparison. She'd already skirted the prohibition about talking to non-Order members about the false Horcruxes pretty deeply in talking to Totenberg and Sascha. Which probably means Dimo already knows most of it. I'd swear they had some kind of limited legilimency going on among them, but they aren't wizardly.
"Tell me 'bout it. Mebbe that help." He leaned against the wall, not coincidentally between her and the door.
"It's . . . part Transfiguration, part Confundis, So it involved putting two charms on one item, a little more advanced than the work we normally do."
He raised one bushy eyebrow, nodded.
"I need to . . . create a locket that looks like a different locket, some. It can't be a positive exact duplicate, but it needs to have the same sort of . . . resonance, on the level of magic."
"So how it need to feel?"
"Powerful. Sentimental. Maybe a little greedy -- no, a lot greedy. Covetous, avaricious, miserly. An object of longing, maybe even desire that can't be slaked." She was surprised that the description came so easy now. She'd been trying to explain to the slug, but had gotten nothing but some bulgy-eyed blinking in response.
He looked at her long and hard, on hand on his chin. Pondering, weighing some course of action. Dimo had always been the cool, stoic, distant one of the three. Sascha was a sweet pussycat in his own way, full of fun and mischief. Totenberg was ruled by passion and moody, sometimes high and often low, but Dimo -- she'd never been quite able to read where he was coming from. She would have thought he didn't feel at all, had she not seen his reactions after visiting Herr Scherblocken just before term started. He dug a hole and pulled it in after him for several days, didn't say a word. Sascha had been nearly manic, Totenberg even more watchful and wary, but Dmitri had been silent and absent in a way, looking into the middle distance as if watching a Muggle movie on a screen in his head.
At last he nodded, unwound the stock from around his throat. "What are you --" He grasped something at the base of his throat, gave a swift savage yank. "Dimo!"
He crossed the room in a heartbeat, pressed the tiny silver medallion into her hand. "This do?" The silver faces winked up at her, the Mother and her Child, faces entwined in a yin and yang. The only human faces in the pantheon, unless one counted the hooded countenance of the Stranger, whose face was never seen in the shadowed folds.
"Yes, but --" He had worn that around his neck since forever, she could dimply remember the pain of cutting new teeth waking her in the night, and then something cool and soothing in her mouth, hard and textured and comforting to rub on the sore places. "I can't --"
"You can. You need it more than I do, now." With that, he turned, tapped on the door, and left.
Nothing presented itself, nothing said power and sentiment at the same time. Nothing drew her eye. The Nagini-slug had been no help either. Probably because it's an "I'll know it when I see it." problem If I could describe exactly what I needed, it might be able to turn something up* She sighed, putting her hands together and resting her chin on her thumbs.
"Problem?" She looked up, startled. Dimo was there in the room. She hadn't heard the door open, nor shut, he was just suddenly there. Times like this, she could understand the superstitious dread the people of Schadelthron had of the Hounds -- something that large shouldn't be able to be that silent.
"It's -- this school project I'm working on. For extra credit." That was kind of the truth, if you looked at it sidelong in a dim light. If the staff knew we were doing this, they'd shut us down in a heartbeat, and institute policies about student gatherings that would make Umbridge's Headmistresship look positively liberal by comparison. She'd already skirted the prohibition about talking to non-Order members about the false Horcruxes pretty deeply in talking to Totenberg and Sascha. Which probably means Dimo already knows most of it. I'd swear they had some kind of limited legilimency going on among them, but they aren't wizardly.
"Tell me 'bout it. Mebbe that help." He leaned against the wall, not coincidentally between her and the door.
"It's . . . part Transfiguration, part Confundis, So it involved putting two charms on one item, a little more advanced than the work we normally do."
He raised one bushy eyebrow, nodded.
"I need to . . . create a locket that looks like a different locket, some. It can't be a positive exact duplicate, but it needs to have the same sort of . . . resonance, on the level of magic."
"So how it need to feel?"
"Powerful. Sentimental. Maybe a little greedy -- no, a lot greedy. Covetous, avaricious, miserly. An object of longing, maybe even desire that can't be slaked." She was surprised that the description came so easy now. She'd been trying to explain to the slug, but had gotten nothing but some bulgy-eyed blinking in response.
He looked at her long and hard, on hand on his chin. Pondering, weighing some course of action. Dimo had always been the cool, stoic, distant one of the three. Sascha was a sweet pussycat in his own way, full of fun and mischief. Totenberg was ruled by passion and moody, sometimes high and often low, but Dimo -- she'd never been quite able to read where he was coming from. She would have thought he didn't feel at all, had she not seen his reactions after visiting Herr Scherblocken just before term started. He dug a hole and pulled it in after him for several days, didn't say a word. Sascha had been nearly manic, Totenberg even more watchful and wary, but Dmitri had been silent and absent in a way, looking into the middle distance as if watching a Muggle movie on a screen in his head.
At last he nodded, unwound the stock from around his throat. "What are you --" He grasped something at the base of his throat, gave a swift savage yank. "Dimo!"
He crossed the room in a heartbeat, pressed the tiny silver medallion into her hand. "This do?" The silver faces winked up at her, the Mother and her Child, faces entwined in a yin and yang. The only human faces in the pantheon, unless one counted the hooded countenance of the Stranger, whose face was never seen in the shadowed folds.
"Yes, but --" He had worn that around his neck since forever, she could dimply remember the pain of cutting new teeth waking her in the night, and then something cool and soothing in her mouth, hard and textured and comforting to rub on the sore places. "I can't --"
"You can. You need it more than I do, now." With that, he turned, tapped on the door, and left.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Running the Numbers
It was a quiet end-of-term night in the Dungeon as the students frantically worked to finish the last of their homework so they could advance with the rest of their class. Heads down, they worked into the night, interrupted only occasionally by muffled pops and bangs from the Potions lab downstairs.
“Bubotuber balls! Wingarduim leviosa! Confuego!!” From the first-years’ table, papers rose in a tornado of flame as Charity Gormling burst into tears.
“You’re the designated firstie wrangler,” murmured Narcissa from her chair near the fire. Spike looked up from her Ancient Runes text, and sighed, getting up.
”Augamente,” she said, and the flames were extinguished. “What’s up, Gormling?”
“I hate Arithmancy!!! Hate it, hate it, hate it!”
“Hate it--or it doesn’t come easy?” Spike handed Gormling a handkerchief with a black lace edging.
Gormling dried her eyes.
“Both,” she admitted sourly. Slytherin to the core, Gormling refused to admit defeat, or concede she might need help.
“Let’s see what I can do--Arithmancy was one of my best subjects.” Narcissa overheard, and looked up with a raised eyebrow.
“Also the reason Spike was kicked out of Durmstrang,” she whispered, sotto voce, to the upperclassnakes nearby. “The dark geometries teacher caught her passing notes--”
“Not exactly.” Spike smiled at Hecuba and Drusilla. “But that’s a story for later.” Turning back to Gormling, she said, “So. The practical assignment is to create a pair that are the same size, but not the same gauge, right? And no cheating with engorgio/reducio, you’re supposed to change space itself with numbers.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So okay. You know your usual sock is 60 stitches on a size 1 needle, and you get 7.5 stitches per inch, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“So make me one now.” Gormling flicked her wand, and an orange and white striped sock appeared.
“Great! Now, what other yarn do you craft in?”
“Worsted. And I have some plain orange.”
“Ok. And what’s your usual gauge in worsted?”
“4.4 stitches per inch.”
“So--you know that a sock that fits at 7.5 stitches per inch takes 60 stitches, and you want to know how many stitches a sock at 4.4 stitches will take. We do a little algebra--”
“Algae-what?”
“Mermish math. Has to do with unknowns. And--” Spike scribbled on a spare bit of parchment. “--We get 40 stitches for the plain orange sock. That should give you two socks that both fit your feet.”
Gormling tried them on, “Thank you! I could do the same thing to change a sweater, couldn’t I?”
Spike nodded. “You could, but swatch first. A larger gauge is likely to be stiffer and won’t drape as nicely or be as fluid.” She shrugged, getting up. “It has fewer stitches to bend and flex, after all.”
“So what exactly happened at Durmstrang?” asked Drusilla.
Spike had told the tale over and over in her interviews at Hogwarts; the story flowed smoothly now. “The professor there thought I was passing notes, so he snatched one up to read to the class. Have you ever had an idea that set you on fire? Where you had to stop right now and get it all down?” The other Slytherins nodded, they knew that feeling. “So that’s what I was up to; I was drawing up an equation relating time and space. If I was right, you’d have something between Legilimency and the Floo Network; you could communicate mind-to-mind over great distances using the aether.”
“But what about--well, I’ve heard that there are things in the aether. Just hints and murmurings and stuff. Practically Quibbler things, but once in a while they get it right.”
Spike sighed. “That would explain what happened to the professor then. He …” She closed her eyes for a second, thinking about that day in the classroom. *The blood on the walls.* “I hear he’s doing much better,” she concluded. “I understand the Healers have been able to *scrougify* the feeding instructions they posted to save paperwork.”
“Bubotuber balls! Wingarduim leviosa! Confuego!!” From the first-years’ table, papers rose in a tornado of flame as Charity Gormling burst into tears.
“You’re the designated firstie wrangler,” murmured Narcissa from her chair near the fire. Spike looked up from her Ancient Runes text, and sighed, getting up.
”Augamente,” she said, and the flames were extinguished. “What’s up, Gormling?”
“I hate Arithmancy!!! Hate it, hate it, hate it!”
“Hate it--or it doesn’t come easy?” Spike handed Gormling a handkerchief with a black lace edging.
Gormling dried her eyes.
“Both,” she admitted sourly. Slytherin to the core, Gormling refused to admit defeat, or concede she might need help.
“Let’s see what I can do--Arithmancy was one of my best subjects.” Narcissa overheard, and looked up with a raised eyebrow.
“Also the reason Spike was kicked out of Durmstrang,” she whispered, sotto voce, to the upperclassnakes nearby. “The dark geometries teacher caught her passing notes--”
“Not exactly.” Spike smiled at Hecuba and Drusilla. “But that’s a story for later.” Turning back to Gormling, she said, “So. The practical assignment is to create a pair that are the same size, but not the same gauge, right? And no cheating with engorgio/reducio, you’re supposed to change space itself with numbers.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So okay. You know your usual sock is 60 stitches on a size 1 needle, and you get 7.5 stitches per inch, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“So make me one now.” Gormling flicked her wand, and an orange and white striped sock appeared.
“Great! Now, what other yarn do you craft in?”
“Worsted. And I have some plain orange.”
“Ok. And what’s your usual gauge in worsted?”
“4.4 stitches per inch.”
“So--you know that a sock that fits at 7.5 stitches per inch takes 60 stitches, and you want to know how many stitches a sock at 4.4 stitches will take. We do a little algebra--”
“Algae-what?”
“Mermish math. Has to do with unknowns. And--” Spike scribbled on a spare bit of parchment. “--We get 40 stitches for the plain orange sock. That should give you two socks that both fit your feet.”
Gormling tried them on, “Thank you! I could do the same thing to change a sweater, couldn’t I?”
Spike nodded. “You could, but swatch first. A larger gauge is likely to be stiffer and won’t drape as nicely or be as fluid.” She shrugged, getting up. “It has fewer stitches to bend and flex, after all.”
“So what exactly happened at Durmstrang?” asked Drusilla.
Spike had told the tale over and over in her interviews at Hogwarts; the story flowed smoothly now. “The professor there thought I was passing notes, so he snatched one up to read to the class. Have you ever had an idea that set you on fire? Where you had to stop right now and get it all down?” The other Slytherins nodded, they knew that feeling. “So that’s what I was up to; I was drawing up an equation relating time and space. If I was right, you’d have something between Legilimency and the Floo Network; you could communicate mind-to-mind over great distances using the aether.”
“But what about--well, I’ve heard that there are things in the aether. Just hints and murmurings and stuff. Practically Quibbler things, but once in a while they get it right.”
Spike sighed. “That would explain what happened to the professor then. He …” She closed her eyes for a second, thinking about that day in the classroom. *The blood on the walls.* “I hear he’s doing much better,” she concluded. “I understand the Healers have been able to *scrougify* the feeding instructions they posted to save paperwork.”
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Not the Sword, Conclusion
She rubbed her temples in small circles. "So first, a little history." Tapping the textbook, she continued, "Riddle -- Voldemort -- was a powerful wizard who intentionally split his soul seeking immortality. So long as any part of him survived, then he would survive. So he tied the parts to various objects he associated with power -- Hufflepuff's Cup, Ravenclaw's Diadem, Slytherin's Locket. But notice-- he never managed to corrupt Gryffindor's Sword."
Sascha nodded, playing good minion. "Yahhhs," he drooled again, for effect.
"All right." Getting up off the bench for the first time since dinner, Spike began to pace, the candles in their puddles of wax flickering in the breeze she created. "So . . . if the plans I'm laying depend on making it appear that another dark and powerful wizard has arisen -- maybe Voldemort himself, maybe a worthy successor -- then would it not make sense to do the one thing Voldemort himself never managed? Create a Horcrux from the Sword?"
Sascha tilted his head to one side and pondered. Bit down on the first immediate question -- Why? They'd been over that; it was something magicker that she couldn't talk openly about right now. Part of being a minion was being willing to accept whatever the master doled out -- a thwack on the head, a piece of a convoluted plot, a quick handshake before being sent to lay down one's life. Although, hopefully, that last wasn't in the offing for a while. "That makes sense," he agreed, slowly.
"So! Now here's the thing. The Sword was returned to the goblins ages ago. They probably wouldn't have destroyed it; it's far too pretty and well-crafted to be melted down and returned to metal. But neither is is walking in the wizarding world, and it would have no place for the Muggles, either. So how does our putative Dark Wizard lay his hands on it to make it a Horcrux?"
"Couldn' he force the goblins to part with it somehow?"
"Sure -- but that kind of eruption wouldn't pass unnoticed. At a minimum, that would be a clear declaration of war. Same with sneaking it out and replacing it with a fake -- the goblins would know immediately that the true Sword was gone. But here's the thing -- the Sword goes where it will. So what if he was able to convince the Sword to come to him? To lie to it?" Behind her, the slug oozed its way up to the top of the bench, dropping something small and light onto the top.
Sascha took a quick step back. A rough campaign against an enemy who used gelatinous blobs as riding mounts for his cavalry had left him with a creeping horror of all things slimy. Spike had smuggled back a Muggle delicacy, Jell-O salad, one time, and Sascha had left the room in a hurry. "Vass --DAT?" he hissed.
Spike picked it up. "A small plastic knife. Thank you, Nagini." She scratched the slug's eyestalks gently. "So -- wouldn't that work? To have the Sword volunteer itself, under false pretenses? The goblins wouldn't be in any hurry to announce that this was possible; they'd never be able to keep the Sword after that."
Sascha pondered for a moment, keeping an eye on the horrible crawling thing on the bench. "It holds together," he said after a moment, "If they don' look too close."
"That's what I'm hoping -- that their desire is going to blind them to what is, and make them see what I want them to see." Like a Muggle magician -- all misdirection, smoke and mirrors. She was never going to sneer at them again, not after this experience. It was harder than it looked, getting people to pay attention to the right hand while the left took care of business in secret. She tapped the hilt of the knife against her teeth as she thought. It's going to take more than a drop of blood to make this feel right. There needs to be an element of loyalty and bravery tied in, a willingness to lay down everything for a friend . . .
"Sascha? One more thing."
He raised one eyebrow, the twisted burn scars on the other side writhing above the eyepatch.
"Can I have a small lock of your hair?" He snorted, pulling out his boot knife, and sawing off a thin strand from behind one ear. "Thanks. Ah, you don't have to stay for this next part, if you don't want to." She reached into the cage of mice she'd taken to keeping in the lab to select a small, fat creature; set it on the table, and with a whisper, stunned it into immobility.
He grimaced, seeing it in her hands, knowing what was coming. "If you need to . . . is there anything else I can do?"
"Tie the hair around the knife -- thanks." Arranging the pieces quickly, she pricked her finger, and smeared the blood down the mouse's back. A moment later, the Horcrux was made.
Sascha nodded, playing good minion. "Yahhhs," he drooled again, for effect.
"All right." Getting up off the bench for the first time since dinner, Spike began to pace, the candles in their puddles of wax flickering in the breeze she created. "So . . . if the plans I'm laying depend on making it appear that another dark and powerful wizard has arisen -- maybe Voldemort himself, maybe a worthy successor -- then would it not make sense to do the one thing Voldemort himself never managed? Create a Horcrux from the Sword?"
Sascha tilted his head to one side and pondered. Bit down on the first immediate question -- Why? They'd been over that; it was something magicker that she couldn't talk openly about right now. Part of being a minion was being willing to accept whatever the master doled out -- a thwack on the head, a piece of a convoluted plot, a quick handshake before being sent to lay down one's life. Although, hopefully, that last wasn't in the offing for a while. "That makes sense," he agreed, slowly.
"So! Now here's the thing. The Sword was returned to the goblins ages ago. They probably wouldn't have destroyed it; it's far too pretty and well-crafted to be melted down and returned to metal. But neither is is walking in the wizarding world, and it would have no place for the Muggles, either. So how does our putative Dark Wizard lay his hands on it to make it a Horcrux?"
"Couldn' he force the goblins to part with it somehow?"
"Sure -- but that kind of eruption wouldn't pass unnoticed. At a minimum, that would be a clear declaration of war. Same with sneaking it out and replacing it with a fake -- the goblins would know immediately that the true Sword was gone. But here's the thing -- the Sword goes where it will. So what if he was able to convince the Sword to come to him? To lie to it?" Behind her, the slug oozed its way up to the top of the bench, dropping something small and light onto the top.
Sascha took a quick step back. A rough campaign against an enemy who used gelatinous blobs as riding mounts for his cavalry had left him with a creeping horror of all things slimy. Spike had smuggled back a Muggle delicacy, Jell-O salad, one time, and Sascha had left the room in a hurry. "Vass --DAT?" he hissed.
Spike picked it up. "A small plastic knife. Thank you, Nagini." She scratched the slug's eyestalks gently. "So -- wouldn't that work? To have the Sword volunteer itself, under false pretenses? The goblins wouldn't be in any hurry to announce that this was possible; they'd never be able to keep the Sword after that."
Sascha pondered for a moment, keeping an eye on the horrible crawling thing on the bench. "It holds together," he said after a moment, "If they don' look too close."
"That's what I'm hoping -- that their desire is going to blind them to what is, and make them see what I want them to see." Like a Muggle magician -- all misdirection, smoke and mirrors. She was never going to sneer at them again, not after this experience. It was harder than it looked, getting people to pay attention to the right hand while the left took care of business in secret. She tapped the hilt of the knife against her teeth as she thought. It's going to take more than a drop of blood to make this feel right. There needs to be an element of loyalty and bravery tied in, a willingness to lay down everything for a friend . . .
"Sascha? One more thing."
He raised one eyebrow, the twisted burn scars on the other side writhing above the eyepatch.
"Can I have a small lock of your hair?" He snorted, pulling out his boot knife, and sawing off a thin strand from behind one ear. "Thanks. Ah, you don't have to stay for this next part, if you don't want to." She reached into the cage of mice she'd taken to keeping in the lab to select a small, fat creature; set it on the table, and with a whisper, stunned it into immobility.
He grimaced, seeing it in her hands, knowing what was coming. "If you need to . . . is there anything else I can do?"
"Tie the hair around the knife -- thanks." Arranging the pieces quickly, she pricked her finger, and smeared the blood down the mouse's back. A moment later, the Horcrux was made.
Sunday, August 04, 2013
Not the Sword, Part One
Spike slouched at the workbench, supporting her tired head
on one hand. Now what?
It had seemed like a brilliant plan when Hecuba had
explained it, creating false Horcruxes to lead the Knights of Walpurgis on wild
goose chases, all on the off chance that one, just one, might have survived
somehow as their former dark lord had cheated death once before. It had appealed to her sense of mischief to
walk in Voldemort's footsteps and create seven Horcruxes, all based on
his. The Four Houses of Hogwarts, an
assistant as a spare pair of eyes. But this . . . this one is so iconic and so
well-known, thanks to the Boy Who Was All That.
How on earth am I going to fake the Sword of Gryffindor?
She stretched her aching neck, rolling her head on her
shoulders. Hands on her hips, she
twisted her spine like cracking her knuckles.
The sword was returned to the
goblins years ago, as part of the Pax Magus.
Everyone knows that. She
pondered a moment, Although . . . the sword goes where it will. Everyone knows that, too.
"Well, as long as we're working with what everyone
knows," she muttered, pulling out her History of Magic text and flipping
through for the chapters dedicated to the Second Wizarding War. A moment of reading, and . . .
Sascha burst through the door at the first howl, just barely
pausing to fling it open rather than tearing it off the hinges; Dmitri right
behind him to secure the doorway. His
little mistress was seated at her workbench, hands twined in her hair, a large
book open in front of her next to a plastic knife. He took a cautious sniff. No blood, no sweet-bleachy smell of recently
discharged magic, no one in the room but Spike, himself, and Dimcha. "Sitrep?"
Spike pointed at the book.
"It won't work," she said, wiping at her cheeks
impatiently. "I can't make it do --
what I need it to do," she finished lamely. "I can't explain further."
"Cause of what we talk about." She nodded glumly,
and he sighed. "Can talk to other
magicker? No, not teacher," he
said, to forestall the explosion he saw coming, "but maybe . . . someone
else involved in secret project you doing."
"It's kind of . . . experimental," she explained,
"but safe." Surreptitiously
crossing her fingers in a fold of her robes, hoping he wouldn't notice the
slight movement.
"Experimental like sending you heart out of you
body? Safe like 'probably won't tear
hole in the fabric of the universe as we know it? Dat kind of experimental but safe?"
"I only tried that once, and I was much younger
then. It didn't work, anyway." It
was an idea, but going to Hecuba and confessing that she had no idea what to do
for Gryffindor, since Voldemort had never been able to convert the sword. I’d
rather drink pulverized flobberworms.
With that thought, she had it.
"Sascha, I still can't tell you what I'm doing, and why. But I have a
. . . strategy I want to bounce off you, and as my loyal
minion--" she quirked air quotes
around "loyal minion" "--that should be perfectly acceptable,
right? I am the evil genius, it is my
job to monologue at you when I have no hero and a Byzantine method of slowly
dissecting him with only one vulnerable point that could be easily accessed by
a scantily clad heroine."
Sascha grinned. He
loved this game. He flopped his tongue
out of one corner of his mouth and drooled, "Yaasss, Mistress." Better
than tea parties with the dolls.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
A Letter Home
Spike leaned on one elbow, pondering the parchment. She hadn't written home since the term started, and this was one term she really didn't want her parents calling in to find out what was going on. She sighed. They know me too well, she thought. Any time it gets too quiet . . .
So, a note and a trinket would suffice to keep things quiet. She hoped.
Dearest Mats and Atyets--
School proceeds apace; I am looking forward to returning home to Schadelthron for the break. Yes, even though you will undoubtedly set me among the roving felinity to help watch over the clowder. I have been a mentor this term at Hogwarts; herding cats holds no terrors for me. Jesper should only know how lucky he is.
I enclose this cushion top made in purple.
I hear you ask why purple, when the House livery here is green and silver. Purple is the color of school unity, to remind us that while we have been sorted into towers and dungeons, we are all still here in this together. Much like the herd of cats--each one going his own direction, but gently guided into cooperation.
Totenberg thanks you for the fruitcake you sent. I have attempted to talk the house elves into leaving him the bones from the kitchens to chew on, but after that unfortunate incident with Tinker last term, they are still somewhat wary.
To the greater honor and glory--
-- Nikolevnischka “Spike” von Schaedelthron
So, a note and a trinket would suffice to keep things quiet. She hoped.
Dearest Mats and Atyets--
School proceeds apace; I am looking forward to returning home to Schadelthron for the break. Yes, even though you will undoubtedly set me among the roving felinity to help watch over the clowder. I have been a mentor this term at Hogwarts; herding cats holds no terrors for me. Jesper should only know how lucky he is.
I enclose this cushion top made in purple.
I hear you ask why purple, when the House livery here is green and silver. Purple is the color of school unity, to remind us that while we have been sorted into towers and dungeons, we are all still here in this together. Much like the herd of cats--each one going his own direction, but gently guided into cooperation.
Totenberg thanks you for the fruitcake you sent. I have attempted to talk the house elves into leaving him the bones from the kitchens to chew on, but after that unfortunate incident with Tinker last term, they are still somewhat wary.
To the greater honor and glory--
-- Nikolevnischka “Spike” von Schaedelthron
Sunday, July 21, 2013
One God, Two God
It was mid-terms at Hogwarts, and Muggle Studies had focused on Comparative Religions in the Muggle world. So many to choose from, like a box of chocolates from Honeydukes! So many varieties of Dark and Light, although, confusingly enough, each one claimed to be the sole source of Light.
For mid-terms, each student had selected a Muggle religion to study in depth, and created a shrine for their chosen deity. Naturally, this had interesting results, as faith and magic intertwined. The smell of incense lingered in the air, and the winged rainbows from Miranda Softshanks’s presentation of Limpidia still fluttered in the corners almost an hour later.
Belvina Pascoe was just concluding her presentation. Her shrine was polished green marble carved with an eyeless face. ” … demanding everything from his followers, and offering very little in return. Except power, and glory where it can be snatched.” She dropped a raven’s feather into the brazier atop the shrine, and the smoke formed into a fanged and gaping maw before it blew away. “Not surprisingly, Crom is no longer worshipped as such, except by the small, scattered, nomadic tribes of the Cimerrians.” She turned and took a small bow before resuming her seat next to her project.
Professor Poole applauded. “Nice work, Miss Pascoe. And next we have Spike.”
Spike stood up next to her shrine, which was covered with an obscuro. She pointed her wand and snarled, “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn! Ia! Ia!” The mist resolved into a writhing mass of black snakes to reveal:
“Dread Cthulhu is still worshipped in Muggle Innsmouth, although it is not entirely clear whether this is purely deity-related, or more ancestor worship. He is formally considered to belong to the group of gods referred to as ‘The Many-Angled Ones,’ beings of near pure mathematics.
“He is said to send dreams to his followers of the terrors to come when the stars come right once more, and he ascends to power over the Earth. Their minds are slowly consumed by contact with his particular psychic energies … yes, Professor Ethelbard?”
“Why don’t you tell us about the blanket square, Spike. And the beer.”
Spike looked at the square.
She scratched her head. “That’s funny … I had made a simple concentrically striped square because after a long hard day, even a squamous and rugose sanity-devouring horror from beyond time and space likes to chill out with a cold brew and a warm binkie. I don’t get what could have happened …”
“Spike?”
“Yes, Professor?”
“Meet me in Professor Gorre’s office, please. Usual time.”
“During Quidditch practice? But … yes, Professor.”
Begonia Hoddington coughed as she stood up next to her shrine, a drifting tattered yellow veil. Silvery liquid dripped thickly from the hem, somehow disappearing before it hit the floor. “Leave the beer. Xuthal of the Dusk is propitiated by grain sacrifice.” She poured a small puddle, and the veil dropped hungrily to consume it.
For mid-terms, each student had selected a Muggle religion to study in depth, and created a shrine for their chosen deity. Naturally, this had interesting results, as faith and magic intertwined. The smell of incense lingered in the air, and the winged rainbows from Miranda Softshanks’s presentation of Limpidia still fluttered in the corners almost an hour later.
Belvina Pascoe was just concluding her presentation. Her shrine was polished green marble carved with an eyeless face. ” … demanding everything from his followers, and offering very little in return. Except power, and glory where it can be snatched.” She dropped a raven’s feather into the brazier atop the shrine, and the smoke formed into a fanged and gaping maw before it blew away. “Not surprisingly, Crom is no longer worshipped as such, except by the small, scattered, nomadic tribes of the Cimerrians.” She turned and took a small bow before resuming her seat next to her project.
Professor Poole applauded. “Nice work, Miss Pascoe. And next we have Spike.”
Spike stood up next to her shrine, which was covered with an obscuro. She pointed her wand and snarled, “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn! Ia! Ia!” The mist resolved into a writhing mass of black snakes to reveal:
“Dread Cthulhu is still worshipped in Muggle Innsmouth, although it is not entirely clear whether this is purely deity-related, or more ancestor worship. He is formally considered to belong to the group of gods referred to as ‘The Many-Angled Ones,’ beings of near pure mathematics.
“He is said to send dreams to his followers of the terrors to come when the stars come right once more, and he ascends to power over the Earth. Their minds are slowly consumed by contact with his particular psychic energies … yes, Professor Ethelbard?”
“Why don’t you tell us about the blanket square, Spike. And the beer.”
Spike looked at the square.
She scratched her head. “That’s funny … I had made a simple concentrically striped square because after a long hard day, even a squamous and rugose sanity-devouring horror from beyond time and space likes to chill out with a cold brew and a warm binkie. I don’t get what could have happened …”
“Spike?”
“Yes, Professor?”
“Meet me in Professor Gorre’s office, please. Usual time.”
“During Quidditch practice? But … yes, Professor.”
Begonia Hoddington coughed as she stood up next to her shrine, a drifting tattered yellow veil. Silvery liquid dripped thickly from the hem, somehow disappearing before it hit the floor. “Leave the beer. Xuthal of the Dusk is propitiated by grain sacrifice.” She poured a small puddle, and the veil dropped hungrily to consume it.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
For Your Friendship, Concluded
He laughed, a bitter laugh that hinted at a snarl
concealed. A growl lightly coated with
black humor. “You gots de justifications
in place. Now all you needs is the
speech that ends with ‘Fools! I will
crush you all!’ and you be ready, hey?”
Spike flinched. She'd
had enough family history to know that anything that started out that way
presaged a very bad end indeed. But
she'd also sworn an oath, promised with her life's breath that she wouldn't
tell about the newly hatched Order of the Phoenix Reborn. And anyone who'd take one oath lightly, she
thought, and in that, she had it.
"Sascha, I promise that if I were able to explain what
I was doing, and why I was doing it, why I had to use the bird the way I did,
that I would." He raised an eyebrow,
and she took his hand. "But to do
that, I would have to break another promise.
That would leave us in a bad way, because . . . because I think if you
knew what I was doing, you'd feel compelled to stop me -- or at least to make
me promise that I'd conscript my behavior to the safer paths -- and how could
you trust my word after that?" His
ears laid back flat against his head for a second, then moved back to
neutral. "If you see another way,
please help me find it."
"So . . . necessary, was it?" She nodded, showed him the bandage on her
finger where she'd drawn the drops of blood to finish giving it the right
smell. He looked at it closely, seeing
the tiny red fleck that had come through the gauze. The fire in his eye died, and his shoulders slumped.
"Necessary like the monster you building for the OWL?"
She sighed, shook her head.
"The OWL . . . the OWL is because I can. Yeah, hubris, I know, I know. 'Fools! I will crush you all!' and all
that. This . . . this really does have a
higher purpose in mind, and there's a team counting on me. Watching out for me. I'm responsible to others who will help me
stay on the straight and narrow. I think
. . . I think that if I could tell you all about it, you three would be proud
of me." Scared out of your minds
for me, terrified of what Atyets would do if you slipped and I fell out of your
hands like an egg on the flagstones, but
proud.
He leaned down, picked a flower, turning it over in his huge
square hands, examining the tiny florets carefully. Running one finger over the texture of the
petaled bells. "So. Promise me one thing."
"If I can."
"When you can talk about this, do. Tell all three of us. We can watch you, guide you, but we gots to
know where you going. And right now, it
looks like you going a very bad way indeed."
"Right off the cliff, where the villagers wait below
with torches and pitchforks." She
stood up, brushing the leaves and mulch off her robes. "I promise. If and when I am free to tell you about . . . what I'm doing and why, I will."
Later that night, as a token of her promise, she crafted a
square out of purple. Purple for unity, purple for hyacinths, purple for a
bruised heart, and hung it on the wall by the door to her rooms.
Sunday, July 07, 2013
For Your Friendship, Part Two
Outside the castle, at the end of the bridge over the lake, Spike took a deep shivering breath. Where would Sascha go, to think things over? To be alone for a time. Where would I go? And in that thought, she had it. The hyacinth glade.
Some time ago, probably before the time of the Second Wizarding War, someone with a gift for wild Herbology had planted little grape hyacinths in a sheltering grove of oak trees. Just enough sun to let the little flowers live, enchanted to keep them warm and blooming year-round. Even in the deepest winter, the little glade was sweet smelling and warm, with no snow on the ground. You had to know where it was; the track led you all around the Forbidden Forest to the side furthest from Hogwarts. Sascha had picked up a boulder from the south field and carried it on one shoulder, "borrowed" some tools from a dusty broom closet, and carved himself a reasonable seat there where he could enjoy the flowers.
Spike herself found it restful and peaceful, the lovely purple and green, the filtered light gently coming through the trees, the candy scented air. A good place to bring parchment and quill to chew on a particularly knotty problem, drafting and redrafting a solution to something that did not have an easy answers. Like now, for instance.
She squared her shoulders. Nothing to it, but to do it. Easy to say, harder to live. When she found a hatchling spider on the path, barely the size of her hand, she nodded and bade it an absent good day. Thinking she would rather be confronting Aragog than going to have this conversation.
His back was to the path where it entered the clearing, his bright apricot blond ringlets bound with a bit of ribbon. Black today, to match the piping on his charcoal grey livery. Tomorrow, it might well be lime green, to go with the violet. Sunset orange, with the blue, or cream with the hot pink.
He'd heard her coming, she could see it in the way he was sitting, tensed and alert. Probably smelled me, too. The gentle breeze had been at her back for the past several minutes, prying gently at the cardigan she'd pulled over her robes. She took two steps to her left, to approach from the good side, and called, "Sascha?"
He turned his head, and she could see tear tracks down that cheek. "Little mistress. Beg pardon if I don't get up."
She came closer, walking slowly. "Sascha, I'm . . . I'm sorry." He turned away, staring off into the middle distance, and she crouched next to his stone chair. She looked up into his face, which seemed barely less cold and hard than the rock he perched on.
"What for?" His voice was hoarser than usual, gruff with emotion. "Just a bird, yah? A thing to be used and thrown away."
She put a hand on his knee, and a moment later, leaned her head against his leg. "I'm sorry because of what I didn't know; sorry because of the things I can't tell you. I hurt you in ways I don't really understand; I betrayed some of what you thought of me."
"Thought mebbe you would help. Doing work late at night all alone in the labs below the Pit with the other animals, thought mebbe . . . ah, don't matter what I thought, do it? Just big stupid lump of muscle, a brick. Useful tool, to be used and . . ."
Spike felt hot all over for a moment, the world skidding into redness. Did he really think-- and then she recalled the history lesson she'd just learned. Yes. A thing to be used. Like a brick being used to fortify a wall, to keep a door open, to open a window. Didn't Atyets often mutter "That's what the Hounds are for?" when a minister would advise of some peacekeeping that needed to be attended to in one corner or another of the dukedom?
But and but and but . . . These were her Hounds, these three whose faces were more familiar than her parents', certainly than her own. "Ah, by all the gods, Sascha, I wish there was something I could say, some way I could explain that the bird wasn't just useful. That its end had a higher purpose -- but isn't that what they all say?" She looked up at him, and now he had turned to look back down at her. The metal embedded in the scars not covered by the eyepatch gleamed dully in the light. "That the end justifies the means?"
Some time ago, probably before the time of the Second Wizarding War, someone with a gift for wild Herbology had planted little grape hyacinths in a sheltering grove of oak trees. Just enough sun to let the little flowers live, enchanted to keep them warm and blooming year-round. Even in the deepest winter, the little glade was sweet smelling and warm, with no snow on the ground. You had to know where it was; the track led you all around the Forbidden Forest to the side furthest from Hogwarts. Sascha had picked up a boulder from the south field and carried it on one shoulder, "borrowed" some tools from a dusty broom closet, and carved himself a reasonable seat there where he could enjoy the flowers.
Spike herself found it restful and peaceful, the lovely purple and green, the filtered light gently coming through the trees, the candy scented air. A good place to bring parchment and quill to chew on a particularly knotty problem, drafting and redrafting a solution to something that did not have an easy answers. Like now, for instance.
She squared her shoulders. Nothing to it, but to do it. Easy to say, harder to live. When she found a hatchling spider on the path, barely the size of her hand, she nodded and bade it an absent good day. Thinking she would rather be confronting Aragog than going to have this conversation.
His back was to the path where it entered the clearing, his bright apricot blond ringlets bound with a bit of ribbon. Black today, to match the piping on his charcoal grey livery. Tomorrow, it might well be lime green, to go with the violet. Sunset orange, with the blue, or cream with the hot pink.
He'd heard her coming, she could see it in the way he was sitting, tensed and alert. Probably smelled me, too. The gentle breeze had been at her back for the past several minutes, prying gently at the cardigan she'd pulled over her robes. She took two steps to her left, to approach from the good side, and called, "Sascha?"
He turned his head, and she could see tear tracks down that cheek. "Little mistress. Beg pardon if I don't get up."
She came closer, walking slowly. "Sascha, I'm . . . I'm sorry." He turned away, staring off into the middle distance, and she crouched next to his stone chair. She looked up into his face, which seemed barely less cold and hard than the rock he perched on.
"What for?" His voice was hoarser than usual, gruff with emotion. "Just a bird, yah? A thing to be used and thrown away."
She put a hand on his knee, and a moment later, leaned her head against his leg. "I'm sorry because of what I didn't know; sorry because of the things I can't tell you. I hurt you in ways I don't really understand; I betrayed some of what you thought of me."
"Thought mebbe you would help. Doing work late at night all alone in the labs below the Pit with the other animals, thought mebbe . . . ah, don't matter what I thought, do it? Just big stupid lump of muscle, a brick. Useful tool, to be used and . . ."
Spike felt hot all over for a moment, the world skidding into redness. Did he really think-- and then she recalled the history lesson she'd just learned. Yes. A thing to be used. Like a brick being used to fortify a wall, to keep a door open, to open a window. Didn't Atyets often mutter "That's what the Hounds are for?" when a minister would advise of some peacekeeping that needed to be attended to in one corner or another of the dukedom?
But and but and but . . . These were her Hounds, these three whose faces were more familiar than her parents', certainly than her own. "Ah, by all the gods, Sascha, I wish there was something I could say, some way I could explain that the bird wasn't just useful. That its end had a higher purpose -- but isn't that what they all say?" She looked up at him, and now he had turned to look back down at her. The metal embedded in the scars not covered by the eyepatch gleamed dully in the light. "That the end justifies the means?"
Sunday, June 30, 2013
For Your Friendship, Part One
Spike took a long deep breath, let it out slowly, looking at Totenberg in a new light. A not entirely flattering light. Their calm firmness that she'd always counted on suddenly seemed dark and grim, foreboding and dangerous. A cave can be a safe hiding place, or lead to endless darkness where no one can hear you screaming. She had relied on them for shelter and protection all these years, never considering the other side of what protection meant. "So what do I do now?" Her voice felt very small in her mouth.
A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Depends. You gots loyal servant in Sascha. He don't got a choice in that matter. Can leave it at that; he be back by nightfall. His turn outside the door, after all." Even when they were home in Schadelthron, the trio always arranged themselves the same way. One outside the door, one inside against the wall, and one at the foot of her bed. It was just the way things had always been, and now Spike could see the genesis of the plan. Always know what was on the other side of the closed door.
"Or," he continued, "you could go tell him you and I, we talk, and you understand better now. Tell him you wish you could have fixed -- is true, yah?" Spike nodded, slowly. She would have fixed it if she could have. A broken wing? Sure, just a matter of coaxing bones back to the right place, binding muscle around them, clean up the bleeding. A broken neck, with the light slowly fading? The little she had learned and been able to piece together would have had a thing that flapped and screamed endlessly, but never flew or sang again. "Be his friend as well as his mistress. Tell him why. Or at least as much as you willing to tell of why." He raised an eyebrow, looking at her long and hard. "Cause there more than you saying, I thinks."
Spike flinched, trying to keep it off her face. When she was little it seemed as if the Hounds could read her mind. She'd learned since that it was more a matter of attention to details, such as the incriminating smears of chocolate on her apron, but even now it was spooky how they picked up on what was unsaid. "There is more," she said slowly, "but I can't really tell you about it now."
"Would Hogwarts approve? Or you doing some wild work on you own again?"
Hogwarts the staff would almost certainly not approve, Spike thought, with a chill down her spine, imagining trying to explain to Headmistress Wroxton about the false Horcruxes and the Order of the Phoenix Reborn. Hogwarts the castle on the other hand . . . that certainly seemed to approve of the work being done. Perhaps its years standing and observations of the students was more acute than the long-lived, but mortal witches and wizards administrating the education. Or perhaps it was simply ignorant of the failings of flesh. She chose the safer answer.
"It's not wild work, per se, and it's not on my own," she hedged. "But at the same time, I'm not exactly free to talk about it just yet."
He steepled his fingers, resting his chin on his thumbs, fingers across his lips as if to urge silence. "Maybe later, then. Right now, though, I think you need to talk with Sascha. Is what you Atyets would do."
Spike nodded, pushing her chair back. "Thanks. For the advice, the history lesson, and for your trust." Halfway to the door, she stopped, turned back, and hugged him tightly where he sat, her head on a level with his. "Most of all, for your friendship."
A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Depends. You gots loyal servant in Sascha. He don't got a choice in that matter. Can leave it at that; he be back by nightfall. His turn outside the door, after all." Even when they were home in Schadelthron, the trio always arranged themselves the same way. One outside the door, one inside against the wall, and one at the foot of her bed. It was just the way things had always been, and now Spike could see the genesis of the plan. Always know what was on the other side of the closed door.
"Or," he continued, "you could go tell him you and I, we talk, and you understand better now. Tell him you wish you could have fixed -- is true, yah?" Spike nodded, slowly. She would have fixed it if she could have. A broken wing? Sure, just a matter of coaxing bones back to the right place, binding muscle around them, clean up the bleeding. A broken neck, with the light slowly fading? The little she had learned and been able to piece together would have had a thing that flapped and screamed endlessly, but never flew or sang again. "Be his friend as well as his mistress. Tell him why. Or at least as much as you willing to tell of why." He raised an eyebrow, looking at her long and hard. "Cause there more than you saying, I thinks."
Spike flinched, trying to keep it off her face. When she was little it seemed as if the Hounds could read her mind. She'd learned since that it was more a matter of attention to details, such as the incriminating smears of chocolate on her apron, but even now it was spooky how they picked up on what was unsaid. "There is more," she said slowly, "but I can't really tell you about it now."
"Would Hogwarts approve? Or you doing some wild work on you own again?"
Hogwarts the staff would almost certainly not approve, Spike thought, with a chill down her spine, imagining trying to explain to Headmistress Wroxton about the false Horcruxes and the Order of the Phoenix Reborn. Hogwarts the castle on the other hand . . . that certainly seemed to approve of the work being done. Perhaps its years standing and observations of the students was more acute than the long-lived, but mortal witches and wizards administrating the education. Or perhaps it was simply ignorant of the failings of flesh. She chose the safer answer.
"It's not wild work, per se, and it's not on my own," she hedged. "But at the same time, I'm not exactly free to talk about it just yet."
He steepled his fingers, resting his chin on his thumbs, fingers across his lips as if to urge silence. "Maybe later, then. Right now, though, I think you need to talk with Sascha. Is what you Atyets would do."
Spike nodded, pushing her chair back. "Thanks. For the advice, the history lesson, and for your trust." Halfway to the door, she stopped, turned back, and hugged him tightly where he sat, her head on a level with his. "Most of all, for your friendship."
Sunday, June 23, 2013
A History Lesson, Concluded
He decided. Time she knows. "Not quite. You know how many gets lost in the process? Either don't survive the Draught, or don't complete the Change?" She shook her head. "Nine in ten. Of the ones who breathe at the end, nine of those have to be put down -- can't remaster the body, or don't have a mind left." He took a deep shuddering breathe, remembering the agony as bone melted and flesh flowed, the vivid hallucinatory qualities that smell and sound took on during brief flickers that slowly flowed together. The first timeless time where his limbs were too long, the lights too bright, everything crashing in on him and crushing him beneath the weight of the world.
His voice was gentle as he finished, "So. Think. One in one hundred is still useful at the end. Terrible waste, yes?"
Spike sat for a moment, then looked up at him. "It's a death sentence." Her voice and eyes were flat.
"With a slim chance of beating the hangman, yah."
Her brows knit together. "But -- you still serve the family."
He spread his arms. "How we run? How we hide?" With a wry smirk, he continued, "Can hide brands, peel off tattoos, cut collars. But this -- this pretty damn obvious."
"That's slavery!"
"Nah, has a choice. Can drink the Hundsbrau and take your chances, or can climb the scaffold. Isn't a bad life. We all has cages, even you."
"Cages?" But thinking a little further, she could see the point. She was at school, free to do as she would -- within the confines of doing well at her lessons, learning the skills she would need. Would need in order to get into a cage of bigger expectations, she realized, where she would be free to do as she pleased so long as she bore an heir and a spare, and did whatever other work she was called to do. "Cages."
"When you Atyets decided that his infant daughter would have an honor guard, he also determined that we would be bonded to you as tightly as we was already bonded to him. So he had the Doktor help out with some conditioning to protect Little Mistress." He closed his eyes for a moment, turned his head away. "Ensured we'd be safe to watch over you, never be turned from our duty." His claws scratched the wood of the table as the hairs at the nape of his neck prickled.
"Took longer for Sascha. Bit harder for him than for me and Dimcha." He shrugged, quickly, as is warding off a blow from behind. "We had childer, way back in the beyond, before we were changed. Already knew what it was to have piece of our hearts walking around outside our bodies. Made a channel there, all that needed to happen was to clean the detritus of time out and let if flow again."
"So Sascha . . ."
"Took broader and deeper -- anything small and helpless and hurt." He looked back at her, nodded gravely. "He believe in you, Little Mistress. Maybe have more faith in you than you do, at this point. You grow into the magicker he think you are, you be powerful indeed.
"Which is why he ask you to fix, to make it all be all right again, when he find something small and hurt."
The penny dropped for Spike. "Oh, by all the absent gods."
"Take it you didn't fix, just now."
"Oh, Totenberg. I couldn't fix; no one could have fixed. I had to . . . end. You know. Sometimes . . ."
He nodded. He'd had to end more than once himself.
"But I thought -- I thought he was just gentle. Like a child himself. So I didn't want to confuse or hurt him be explaining that --" she closed her teeth on the last words. The Order of the Phoenix was supposed to be secret. Her secret. Something she couldn't -- didn't -- share with anyone. "--That it was already dead and just didn't know it yet. That it was dying by inches -- by miles! -- All I did was make the hard part stop." For a bigger purpose. She put one hand on the table between them, begging him to understand.
He looked at it for a long moment, finally laid his hand atop hers, completely engulfing it. "I know you mean good. Just watch that meaning and action remain in tandem, yah? Too easy to stand in the ashes after, saying 'But I meant well, why can't you see that?' as the survivors come marching with pitchforks and torches."
"But -- "
"But Uncle Vasily meant well, didn't he? Wanted the throne to pass to a successor who was powerful and could not only keep it, but expand. Wanted to keep the family strong."
"I don't know, I never actually met him. Just cousin Rezno, once." She frowned. "If Vasily thought a girl was too weak to hold Scahdelthron, how would he have expected someone in leg braces and a cane to --" She stopped in midthought, staring at Totenberg over one hand covering her face.
He read the message in her wide eyes and pale skin. "Just so. Just as Sascha meant well when he stopped the plotting. Be careful what you do if you can't undo it once done."
Sunday, June 16, 2013
A History Lesson, Part One
Spike left the Horcrux on the bench and hurried up the stairs. Maybe I can catch him and explain. Behind her, the slug picked it up and carried it away to hide it somewhere in the castle.
Totenberg was in the main room, seated at the table in the sturdiest chair. He'd broken one of the spindly Heppelwhites during her first term there. He'd permanently collected a chair from Hagrid's cabin, and used that when he needed a place that wasn't on the green velvet chaise lounge.
"Have you seen Sascha?"
"Went out for walk. More like 'stomp', actually." He had been sharpening his boot knife with a strap and oil, honing the already keen edge. He put it back in its sheath, pushed the paraphernalia aside. "Something happen." He leaned back in his chair, one arm over the back, opposite hand resting on his wrist, head cocked as he regarded her silently.
Spike took the seat next to him, toying with the leather, fiddling with the bottle of oil, string at her hands as if they were little scurrying animals acting on their own. She turned the problem over and over in her head, toying with it the same way she toyed with the sharpening kit.
A long moment passed. Totenberg took pity on his mistress. "Funny thing," he said, eyes fixed on the middle distance, "that someone with such a tender heart should be set to guard the sole heir, yah? The sole female heir, at that."
Spike nodded. She couldn't look him in the eye; ashamed of what she had done. And that was part of being like the Doctor, wasn't it? Part and parcel; knowing what you were going to do would cause hurt in the name of helping. The ends justifying the means. She shivered. No wonder he lived apart, with only his loyal creations for company. Surrounded by mirrors; he never sees himself reflected in someone else's eyes.
"Caused some problems in the extended family, you being born a girl, being born later in life to you parents. Not that you could help that, especially. But the line of succession, the endless calculations and machinations, and you was so small. Wasn't a strong baby. Was just a girl child, at that, a weak little girl child, too frail to hold power, never mind keep it, never mind grow it, yah? Some talk of . . . ah, trying again, of erasing the past, you follow?" Spike blanched, and he nodded. "Just so. You Uncle Vasily and coz Rezno, they louder than most. Rezno had been first in line behind you Atyets, had had that lucky place for ten years. Big boy, Rezno, strong like bull. And Vasily smart. Clever man. Cunning man. Full of plots and plans, that one was.
"You Atyets, though, he keep what is his close. And you was certainly his. His magicker daughter. So he thought about it, when he heard the thunder in the distance, thought about it long and hard. How to protect this wee chick? And he thought of us, of his Hounds.
"You know how we made, right?' Spike blinked at the sudden change in subject, but tried to follow.
"It's potion based," she said, slowly. "You drink the potion, and the transformation begins."
"Mmm. Try again, you know how we selected to be made, right?"
Spike brightened. Everyone knows that. "You're chosen from among the best and brightest of the warriors. The strongest, cleverest, bravest. When age or damage sets in, and you can no longer serve, you're given the option to retire, or to drink the Hound's Draft. A second life, as it were, an opportunity to continue doing what you're best at. A second life, full of vitality, power, and purpose."
Totenberg kept his face still. He'd had a lot of practice at that, first from playing cards when he was enlisted, then after the Change while he worked to re-learn the unfamiliar muscles, where nothing was exactly as it should have been. What a pretty fairy tale. Do I have the right to dispel that? To tell her the whole and honest truth?
Sunday, June 09, 2013
Feathers and Betrayal
Spike twisted the bronze chain through her fingers, idly weaving cat's cradles with it. A diadem, she thought. Leave it to the Ravenclaws to have to use a fancy and particular name for a thing -- not a coronet, not a crown, not a tiara, no. A diadem. "What's the bloody difference, anyway?" she muttered.
It had seemed like a good idea when she joined the gang in purple, the Order of the Phoenix Reborn. A chance for mischief, an opportunity to foment some chaos. To be the wrench in the wheel of the Knights of Walpurgis, safe behind the shield of youth and inexperience. Making false Horcruxes to bring a schism into the unified Knights, to break them into factions that would trust that someone was strong enough to take the place of Voldemort and seek the banner to gather under, and to create another faction distrusting their own magical senses. Meanwhile, this keeps their energies diverted and has the group acting at cross-purposes. She sighed, looking at the clutter of unfinished practicals awaiting her attention. Trouble is, it's diverting my energies, too.
She laid the chain down, twisting it into a series of loops. It looks almost like a crown from this angle . . . if I could get it to hold steady . . . Sascha broke into the room, something cradled in his hands. "It flew into a window," he said. "Sorry to be disturbing, but, can fix?" He held out the bluebird, beak open as it gasped for air.
Spike looked it over, from the splayed wings as it lay on its back, toes grasping an imaginary branch. Its eyes still had a little light, but they weren't seeing anything. Its heart shook under the white feathers of its breast. Its head lolled in his palm.
She shook her head. I hate to do this in front of him . . . but I need it to complete the Horcrux. "Give it here."
He handed it over, and she placed it gently on top of the looped chain. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and it was over. She pricked her finger and dabbed the blood, watching as the blue and bronze Horcrux formed.
"It had no chance, Sascha," she explained. To him, and to the remaining feather that had fallen from the bird. "It was gone in essence when it fell from the window; it was dead but didn't know it yet. There wasn't any fixing, just ending. You understand, don't you?" Silence.
"Don't you?" She turned, pleading, but saw only the empty room, the door left standing open.
Sunday, June 02, 2013
One More Ring
Spike stared at her notes. Hopeless. It’s all hopeless.
They might as well be written in Gibberish for all the good they were
doing. The slug crept up onto the table,
took a deep swig of her beer. Its lips
moved as it read over what she was working on.
Spike swatted at it absently. “Get off there.” A horcrux that would fool the casual Death
Eater into believing it was the Ring Horcrux.
Just for long enough to send them on a wild goose chase after the thing,
track it down in the belief that their dark master – or his equivalent – had
arisen to carry on the purge of the Second Wizarding War. “No, of course that’s not too much to ask of
yourself,” she grumbled. “Surely you
could have that completed by teatime, and a cure for the nargles by bed.”
Rings . . . what did
she know about rings? The slug crept across the table, oozed down the leg, and
out the door. “I made you to help me,”
she accused at its retreating back over her shoulder, and then returned to her
parchment. Behind her, unseen, it rolled
its eyestalks, and continued on its errand.
Off to eat the daisies, no doubt. “They’re round. They go on fingers. They can turn you invisible, three for the
elves, seven for the dwarves, nine for men.
Uhm.” She drummed her fingers on
the table. “Gaunt had a ring that was
treasured and important to him, which was why Riddle chose it to house a piece
of his soul. So it has to be something .
. . special. Something unusual.” She poked at her supplies with a wand.
“I suppose I could go shopping at Borgin and Burkes . . .
but I’d still need to get a pass to leave campus, as an underclassman. This would be so much easier if I were a
Third Year.”
Something clattered on the table, and Spike turned to see
the slug goggling hopefully up at her.
It nudged a pale plastic ring a little closer to her, and she picked it
up, smiling a little.
“I haven’t thought about this in ages. I found it in a box of treats back when I was
little. I used to pretend it was . . . special. Magical.”
She peered through the center hole, tossed it and caught it in one
hand. “I wonder if enough pretense could
have invested it with just a little –“ Yes.
It tingled a little, there in her palm.
Well.
“Worth a shot.” She
cast a geminio and had four rings, all with the same little tickle of
magic. “That should be enough, if I bind
them together. Enough to feel
substantial, right?”
With a little wand work, the rings were twisted and
intertwined, and she and the slug examined them, lying on the table.
“Now all I need is a little death to give it the right
flavor.” She sighed, and the slug
flinched. “I don’t suppose you could –“
and the slug ran, squeezing into a small crack in the wall. “Wait!
I didn’t mean you!” She heard a
squealing shriek from within the walls, and the gastropod reappeared, clutching
a rat by the scruff of the neck. In a
moment, Spike had it by the tail, and the deed was done.
She added a drop of her own blood to the joined rings; wiped her hands on a rag, shivering. I don’t know that I could ever take the Dark
Mark. I can’t see ever being comfortable
with taking the light out of a person, if doing a rat in is like this.
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