A Timely Celebration, Part Two

A few weeks later, the invitation caught fire. Not your normal orange and red flames, but green and silver, burning coolly. When Professor Wildsmythe opened the paper, she saw that the date, time and place had been neatly inked in. She folded it back up, making a not to have the house elves clean and press her dress robes. There was going to be a party.

The hotties carrying the sedan chair entered the Slytherin dungeon, and in one well-rehearsed, smoothly choreographed movement, set the chair on the floor. Dmitri offered Professor Wildsmythe his arm to balance on as she stepped to the floor. Spike’s hotties are trained as sideboys? Wildsmythe shook her head. Whatever will they think of next?

The floor of the dungeon was littered with butterbeer corks, streamers, and confetti. Silk hangings decorated the walls in orange, pink, and purple with gold lettering: “MMX -- MMXI” and Venus’s feminine cross overlaid onto Jupiter’s curlicued four. The ceiling of the dungeon reflected the stars— Wildsmythe squinted. Something was off … then she realized that the sky depicted the night of February 6, 2010.

The crowd fell silent, turning to look as one, and Spike stepped onto a small dais in the center of the room. The lights dimmed except for a single spotlight on her. She raised her arms, and music began to play. Wildsmythe recognized Holst’s The Planets Suite. Naturally, what else would it be?

Two hotties approached the stage, one male, one female, both masked. Wildsmythe started. That’s not regulation, she thought indignantly, then, just as she was about to call a stop to the party, she realized the performers were wearing flesh-colored leotards--just within school parameters of decency. The woman’s mask had bands of color, swirling slowly, and a large red spot around one eye. The man’s mask was pale and wisps of cloud trailed off from its edges, as if it were going to clear away at any moment and reveal the face underneath.

Spike smiled as the performers linked hands behind her and rose into the air. “Welcome to the Inaugural Celebration of the Festival of the 2010 Conjunction of Venus and Jupiter. When love and power are conjoined, our highest potential can be realized.” As the couple soared towards the ceiling, Wildsmythe noticed that each of the performers wore one orange sock, the man on the right foot, the woman on the left foot.



The pair swirled, aerial dancing together as the music reached its crescendo. They hooked their socked legs together, and exploded in a burst of petals—rusty tiger lily petals and white rose petals showered down on the stage and audience, who all applauded the conjunction.



Dimitri picked up the socks from the floor, brushing the petals off, and presented them to Professor Wildsmythe on a silver tray for grading.



A note inside read, “Orange for Jupiter, hearts for Venus, cables to bind them both together. Wishing you love, power, and achievement in the year to come. –Spike”

A Timely Celebration, Part One

Spike had been looking forward to her Astrology class all term. Should be a doddle, she thought, watching as the professor scrawled the current assignment on the board in the classic overhead backhand. The conjunction of Venus and Jupiter. The pen and ink drawings of the Roman gods flicked to mind in a grainy display. Hey, doesn’t conjunction mean . . . She blushed, distracted.

In the front row, a Ravenclaw was waving her hand madly, nearly falling out of her seat as she leaned forward, striving for the professors’ attention. “Yes, Miss Pascoe?” The professor sounded irritated, and no wonder. Belvina Pascoe seemed to make it a point to pick holes in any argument, find any flaws in rhetoric. It was a common trait in Ravenclaw, but what made her irritating was that she refused to be dissuaded by the facts.

Belvina stood by her desk, throwing a smirk over her shoulder to the rest of the class. “Professors, you do realize that the Conjunction happened last year, and will happen again next year, but does not happen this year. There’s no way for us to observe the conjunction from the Astronomy Tower. Could we please have another assignment?”

Spike mentally subtracted ten points from Ravenclaw for unnecessary passive aggressive tendencies, rolling her eyes behind a carefully placed hand. As the professors huddled together to determine the new assignment, a thought slowly came to her. She quickly jotted some notes to herself in her book.

Do I have to demonstrate possession of a time-turner so I can make them for last year, and then present them now?

Or, uh, make them NOW so they count for points, then go BACK and present them during the Conjunction last year and then come BACK to now, just after I cast them off (otherwise they’ll unravel) and -- oh, bother.

Where’s my Chronometrical Grammar text now that I really need it?

This idea was too good to waste.

Latisha Wyldsmythe was in her office, busily grading homework, when she was interrupted by a knock at the door. At this hour?? Opening the door, she looked up -- and up -- and up past the brightly polished brass buttons and intricate embroidery of a high-collared, boiled wool jacket to see a bemused smile and cat-slit pupils beaming down at her. A moment’s thought, and she recalled the monster’s name.

“Dimitri!” One of Spike’s minions. She had had to inform the firstie that, no, she had to sharpen her own pencils, and to leave her assistants in the Dungeon during class. Transfer students! But what’s he--

He bowed, clicked his heels together, and presented Professor Wildsmythe with an engraved invitation to the Inaugural Festival of the 2010 Conjunction of Venus and Jupiter. “Thank you -- but--” She held up the invitation to show him that the time, date, and location were all blank.

He grinned wider, showing teeth like an anglerfish’s. He stepped back, gesturing to display a sedan chair borne by four hotties, stripped to the waists, oiled skin gleaming. “We gets you dere … when is time.”

Best Friends Forever

The school had been buzzing for weeks about the upcoming field trip to Hogsmeade. Spike had made certain that her permission slip was signed weeks in advance, biting her nails as she watched Gwenhwyvar take to the air on silent wings. Waiting for the owl to come back, and unrolling the parchment with icy hands, half-certain that Atyets would have refused permission after hearing about the mishap with her advanced Astronomy studies.

Blessedly, he hadn't. His florid signature, an enormous swirl of loops and spikes decorated nearly a quarter of the page, centered vaguely about the signature line and obscuring it. She had slept with it under her pillow to be certain she knew where it was, packing it into her rucksack the next morning, even though her History of Magic class, where they would be taking an official school chaperoned trip into Hogsmeade, wasn't until later that week.

But they were meeting at Honeydukes! Writing a paper on History would be much less dull when there were sweets to consider. She had heard all term about Honeydukes from the upperclassmen, who could tour the village at their whim. The shelves that reached from below the floor to the top of the twenty-foot ceiling, lined with apothecary jars glimmering with sweets of every kind—honeycomb with cinnamon bees, Fizzing Whizbees, Acid Pops, saltwater taffy, Moondrops! Rolling ladders attached to the shelves so students could more closely examine the exotica placed high above eye level. Candied heads! Licorice allsorts! And now she was going to be able to go.

When she arrived it was everything she had dreamed of, and more, if possible. A riot of chocolate and color and scent. She wanted one of everything—maybe even all of everything! But she only had spending money for the term, and had to ration it carefully. But which one was the best?

She investigated carefully, prowling the shelves, rummaging through the bins, when she heard a noise. A tiny piping sort of noise, like a chick calling for its mother. *peep, peep*

She looked under the stack of yams, but nothing there. *peep, peep*

She moved a box of truffles made with real truffles. I could take some of these back as a bribe – I mean, gift for the Herbology professors. But her thought was interrupted by the tiny sound again.

Finally, she looked behind the dusty jars of whipped turnips. There were two tiny pastel beasties looking up at her with beady, lonely eyes. *peep peep* Soft and puffy.



“Awwww,” Spike breathed, picking them up to look at them more closely. They reminded her of her pet half-pony half-monkey riding beast, Frankie. They were clearly the last two of their kind left on the shelf, and just as clearly, they were lonely.

She thought for a moment, then pulled out her wand. “Engorgio!” They grew bigger, obedient to the laws of magic, from tiny mouthfuls to the size of her hand. “Certamen!” she hissed, and the two were welded together, eternal companions.



Neither one would ever be alone again. Spike nodded, pleased with herself for finding a simple solution to another’s problem. Who said her House was full of heartless people? She started to put them back on the shelf, and then a heavy hand fell on her shoulder. The proprietor, a round man with a face wreathed in smile lines, was not smiling now. In fact, he looked awfully stern.

Spike paid for the animals quickly, and was escorted from Honeyduke’s. She took the little animalcules back to the dorm with her, and made a home on her bookshelf for them, bunny and duck together.



Eventually, they stopped screaming.

A Flight Diverted

The day seemed to take forever. Spike was eagerly looking forward to the time she had booked at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Everything she could do from her careful research and notes had been done; and it was time to go back up and take readings from the actual stars themselves.

The stairs seemed to multiply under her feet. Surely it hadn’t taken this long to get to the top of the Tower that first night, when the constellations had danced before her eyes and it seemed she had her finger on the pulse of the cosmos itself. She finally reached the top, pausing to breathe deeply of the cold crisp air.

She focused the eyepiece, scanning for the section of sky she had found before, reading her chart carefully, comparing what she saw to what was in the sky . . . frowned. Tried again. And again. All night long in a fruitless search for what she had seen.

She looked at her chart again. All those long hours; all that hard work. It couldn’t be for nothing! Then she turned it around . . . and it all became clear.

The new constellation, the Pavo Pavonis, was actually the well-known Tree of Lights, the Arbor Lucent. All those long hours. All that hard work. It wasn’t that she was going to fail the OWL, exactly. But she was going to have to re-create the entire chart, and she only had half the term to do it in.

Half the term! She looked at her watch in the glimmerings of the predawn light. Yes, she had just enough time to contact her OWL Examiner and explain that the chart she had created was incorrect and she was going to start over again. Spike ran down the stairs, back to the Great Hall with her news . . . as Sascha chuckled at the efficacy of his little joke.

A Jinx Deflected, Part Two

The next morning, Spike was ready. She’d practiced a couple of new spells on her minions last night (who thought magic was funny when you were prepared for the effects). She waited as the table cleared and the students left for class. Hecuba hung back, clearly hoping that the Coveted Coven would invite her to walk with them to Potions. Spike pretended to relace her boot, wand tucked in her hair, where it would be handy to grab. As Narcissa tossed her hair in preparation for the exit, she grabbed her wand. Wait for it, wait for it . . . now! “Podes lentesco!” she hissed, and Hecuba’s feet stuck fast to the floor.

Spike hurried from the hall, the last person to leave save for Hecuba, who clearly couldn’t. The warning bell chimed.

“You can’t--! Wait!”

At the door, she stopped and turned. “You’re right. I can’t wait. Snape is pretty strict about attendance. Even if he’s not the actual teacher anymore, he still looks over the list of chronic tardies. I believe your name is right up there, isn’t it?”

“You can’t leave me like this!” Shock and outrage were vying for dominance.

Spike pretended to think it over. “Right again. I can’t do that. Someone might hear and come free you before dinner. Langlock!” Hecuba’s eyes widened as her mouth vanished. “Much better.”

Spike smiled even as she was assigned Detention washing glassware for being tardy. It was worth it. Hecuba would be shoveling out the stables for a month once all the teachers whose classes she missed were done with her.

The next day, Hecuba tried casting the new spell. “Podes lentesco!” she cried gleefully, and Munificent stopped dead, dropping her pumpkin juice and spattering the draggled hem of her third-best robes. She tried to join in the laughter, but it was a pallid thing. Spike shook her head. There’s only so much you can do; at some point, they all have to live their own lives.

“Podes lentesco!” Hecuba’s wand was pointed at Spike, to no effect. “Podes lentesco!” Spike kept walking, not even slowed by the spell. Hecuba leaped in front of her, pointed directly at her feet and tried a third time. “Podes lentesco!”

Spike twitched the hem of her robe aside to display her new socks.




“For every curse, there’s a countercurse. Pays to learn them. Langlock!” Hecuba was once again silenced. Without wandless magic, there was no way she’d get out of that unless she went to the Infirmary again.

Spike strolled away, heading up the stairs to the Forest, humming the old Latin song Gausis Podes. “Happy Feet,” to the Muggle world.

A Jinx Deflected, Part One

Narcissa had learned a new jinx in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and was practicing it on her classmates. Or at least, that would be her story when the Head of House caught her at it. Likely, Spike mused from her customary green leather armchair, the Head would buy the tale that “We must be prepared at all times; no Knight of Walpurgis is going to say ‘Heads up!’ before he tosses off a curse, now is he?” She watched, peering from behind her tome as Sissy waited for her next victim.

And here she came, Munificent Balstrode. Poor puny Muni might grow up to be a shining example for Slytherin, based on the amount of bullying she took at the clique’s hands. The sheer lust for vengeance that had built up would be astounding when released. Either that, or she’ll end up Sorted to Hufflepuff. She wants to be friends with everyone, and won’t believe anyone would wish her ill. Forgive and forget, that was Muni.

“Hallux engorgio!” whispered Sissy, snickering. Her little knot of sycophants chuckled along as Munificent’s toenails all grew long and clawlike, twisting as they dug through her boots and scraped along the stones. Munificent screamed and ran from the room, stumbling into the walls as her balance was thrown off by the horn-like growths. Magically enhanced toenails were impervious to breakage, and snapped toenail clippers. The hoof trimmers and rasps used to keep the thestrals’ hooves under control helped a little, but the whole nail had to cycle before the enchantment wore off. Munificent would be spending weeks filing and clipping away the excess nails.

“That was a good one,” smirked Drusilla Wormwood.

“Do it again,” urged Hecuba Entwhistle, a third-year hanger on, delighted to have a space with the upperclassmen. Next year, she would be back on the outside, looking in wistfully as her former friends used her as an example, wondering what she did to provoke that. Spike could have told her. It was just the law of the jungle, more pronounced here than the rest of the school.

She decided she’d had enough. And the worst of it is that this place is a teddy bears’ picnic compared to Durmstrang. She quietly closed her book, and started downstairs to the dormitory. The worst Sissy can think of is an inconvenience. What would they have made of the hazing that routinely took place in the Vkontakte, in front of the Heads and Headmaster? Instigated, sometimes, by these same people?

Narcissa and Drusilla fell quiet as Spike passed. They’d had an altercation or three, and the two older girls had learned better than to stir that cauldron. Hecuba, on the other hand, was determined to cement her place with the clever witches circle, the Coveted Coven.

“Where you go-oing, Ickle Firstie?” she cooed in a mocking sing-song. “We play too rough for you-ou? Going to go dry Puny Muni’s eyes for her? Wipe her ittle nosie? Maybe you could keep her company.” It was clear what she meant, for Spike to spend hours trimming away her own excess nails, banished to the dungeon for being out of uniform. Boots wouldn’t fit over the tangled exuberant growth of nail, and students couldn’t attend class barefoot. One had to rely on the kindness (or enlightened self-interest) of one’s Housemates to obtain the assignments missed. Making up hands-on work such as Potions or Care of Magical Creatures was difficult at best. Lowered grades and reduced points for the House were par for the course. She raised her wand, and Drusilla grabbed her arm. Hecuba’s watery blue eyes bulged in disbelief.

Drusilla shook her head, once. Spike gave her one quarter of a smile, and turned to leave. Later. She had a couple of curses up her sleeve for an opportune moment, and she had an inkling of one that would be entirely suitable, perfectly apt.

She passed the first dorm room on the left, paused and held her breath to hear better. Yes. That was Muni’s room, and she could hear soft sniffling behind the door, like someone who was trying hard not to cry and not to be heard crying at the same time.

She clapped softly. Pounding on the wood is disrespectful to the tree that grew it. Growing up bordered by wood and water, having spent time on the ground among the briars and pines, she had a great deal of respect for the wild woods. There had been nights where she was grateful that this respect seemed to be returned; nights when the path twisted under her feet and led her home in less time and fewer steps than setting out had taken. Muni stopped and in a watery voice called out “Who’s there?”

“Just me.”

She could hear scratching and scraping like a bear sharpening its claws as Muni made her way to the door. She managed to get it open past her toenails, carefully shuffling her feet. In her hands she held the sad tattered rags of a pair of . . . Spike winced. Socks. But not just any socks, Muni’s first successful socks that actually fit her feet and not her head.

Muni had pasted a smile on, but the glue was still wet from tears. The smile kept slipping sideways. Spike gently touched the ripped and raveling yarn. “You could try a sockulum reparao, you know.”

“I did. And now . . .” Munificent shrugged ruefully. “There’s nothing left to do but say ‘darn it, darn it, darn it.’ “ The yarn twitched in her hands, tendrils waving like insect legs, then fell limp again. “They’re gone, Spike.”

“Witch.” It wasn’t the compliment it usually was, nor even the bald statement of fact.

“She does mean stupid things sometimes . . .”

More like all the time. More like any time she thinks she can get away with it; when the person she’s playing with won’t inform on her, or won’t fight back. Munificent took a slow step backwards, and at first Spike thought the other girl was casting a wordless legilimens, then realized that her hair was twisting and floating as it often did when her grip on her temper was slipping. She tied her bun back in place, shoving her wand into it to keep it there. Gently. Think of a mouse. You wouldn’t hurt a mouse for being small and fearful.

It wasn’t hard to think of a mouse when facing Munificent. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, folding the other girl’s hands over the tangled mass of holes.

“Thank you,” sniffled Munificent, as Spike turned to go, and the door closed in her wake.

Spike made it to her room and the safety of her minions before her grip on her temper broke. Totenberg was able to help her focus it into a ball and cast it into the lake, which bubbled and steamed at the surface. “Nothing, nothing they teach here is good enough for Narcissa! Impediments and awkwardness, boils and bindings!”

“T’reefold Laws say hyu don’ vanna do dot, sveethott.” Totenberg answered, leaning against the wall now that the eruption was past. If she has words again, it’s safe. That had been his guideline for the past eight years, and he was still in one piece, so it must be true.

“There has to be a way to swing that around, like the story of the man who met a djinn,” Spike growled.

“De vun vhere his vorst hennemy get double vatever he veesh for? Hy love dot vun!” exclaimed Sascha.

“Yah, so he finally esk the djinn to beat him halfvay dead!” Dmitri smiled.

Spike stopped in the middle of her rant, swaying slightly as the thought hit her. “Halfway dead . . .” she mumbled. “Oh, now there’s an idea. And it’s only a couple of jinxes.” She smiled, slowly, her eyes lighting up and tendrils of her hair creeping out of the tight bun despite her anchoring wand.

A Book Transfigured

Dearest Matya and Atyets:

School is going well. I am taking a Transfiguration class this term. I would like to respectfully comment that Hogwarts is nothing like Durmstrang; there seems to be some silly rule about not Transfiguring students. We are practicing on inanimate objects instead. This poses much less challenge, as they are unable to run away. I do not know if you would approve--what good is magic if you have to stop and think about it?

Well. We are Transfiguring books from the library (and yes, of course we Transfigure them back before re-shelving them. No one wants a library like Uncle Enoch's, with books that sigh and moan in the middle of the night. Except maybe Uncle Enoch. Hmm. Must devote more thought to that, but later. Later.)

Enclosed for your review (and dare I hope, delight) is my report on Transfiguring a Muggle book, The Lord of the Rings and the character who inspired my hand.

Hoping the snows are not too deep for Atyets to go riding. His bear tends to get grouchy when stabled too long--I remember the winter we simply could not keep a stable boy!

All my regard--
Nikolevnischka "Spike" von Schaedelthron


******************************************************************************
Spike
First-Year Student
House Slytherin

When I head Philandry Duntisbourne’s and Begonia Hoddington’s reports on The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien, I must admit I was intrigued by the mention of elves. What a clean and lovely place they must live in, with legions upon legions of elves doing the washing, ironing, dusting …

Well. “Rude shock” describes what I found in the books’ pages. Mr. Tolkien obviously lives in a world of complete fantasy, unlike the sane and sensible place we inhabit. He insists these elves are lithe and graceful, rather than modeled on the useful but ungainly potato. He also imbues them with a goblin’s sensibilities for creation, rather than the well-meant, but less than esthetic creations our dear little helpers so often wreak.

Nevertheless, I decided I would knit a pair of socks (we all know how fond of socks elves are) for one of the characters, a Mr. Elrond.

They are made of good, serviceable wool (which should afford him hours of pleasure in both the wearing and in the hand-washing) and have a pleasing pattern worked into the sock (assuming he would appreciate the same).


Thanking you very much for your time and consideration—
Very truly yours,
Spike

A Fun Fungus

The Herbology Teaching Team was a set of professors, each one from a different House. Spike had read in the assigned history books about the changes the school had undergone since the days of the Second Wizarding War. No more single professors handling one subject, the classes were handled by an inter-House team, to help eliminate the prejudices against one House or another. It was very different, and made it harder on the students by giving them multiple targets to please. It may be fairer but how was a girl supposed to plot when she didn't know what was most likely to lead to a high score?

Interestingly enough, this set seemed to match not only the Houses they were in, but the subject under discussion -- the mushroom kingdom. The Ravenclaw professor, Oona Wigworthy, was tall, lean and dark of hair and complexion. A morel. The Hufflepuff professor, Angua Dingle, was short and round, with bright orange hennaed hair in a halo. A candycap. Gryffindor's professor wore a red cap (fly agaric), while Slytherin was very tall and thin, with a ruffle around her neck and pale silver hair. A destroying angel.

The class prompt appeared on the board. A horrific pun--the students were to create something based on a mushroom, or something to turn them into a "fun guy." Well. What to do now?

The bell rang, and everyone filed into the Great Hall for lunch. Spike toyed with her stroganoff, picking out the braised mushrooms and shoving them to the side of her plate. She didn't want to think about the darn things any longer; her mind was full of fungus.

She was seated on the Hufflepuff side of Slytherin's table, and noticed some of the 'Puffs discussing the herbology class. What do they do for fun? They don't have hotties, so . . . She dropped an Extensible Ear, and listened in.

“Cupcakes!” one girl with brown hair in odango comet buns chirped. “We’ll have lots of cupcakes! Cupcakes make everything more fun!” The boy next to her nodded as he stood up … and then stepped on her Ear. She grimaced at the brief squeal of feedback, and reeled it back in, pondering.

Cupcakes? Well, why not cupcakes? And why not cupcakes that contained something interesting and fun themselves?




She'd have to arrange for an upperclassman to pick up some supplies at Honeydukes for her before Saturday night, but that was no hardship at all.

The Tracking Charm

The next morning, Spike squinted at her star chart. Funny, she remembered this as being a lot clearer and more orderly. Reviewed in the light of day, her notes were muddled, and the ink was blurred from where something had spilled on it. Something rather green, with a heavy scent of licorice. No matter, she would make a clean copy later and submit her proposal for an Astronomy OWL, but right now, she had to grab her bag and run, so as not to be late for Charms.

They settled in, where the professor explained about the uses of the Tracking Charm. Spike was interested to learn that the charm was used to keep tabs on the movements of the students at Hogwarts. She tapped her quill on her teeth thoughtfully. Not that she was planning anything nefarious, mind, but knowing a way to defeat that charm might come in handy sometime. She made a note in her personal log to follow up on that thought.

She explained the assignment in detail to her minions later that afternoon as she assembled the components she was going to need at her workbench. "So, see, we are to track a fellow first-year student and find a piece of homework they previously completed, then make the same item." Perhaps she was too enthusiastic, as Dmitri immediately volunteered to go and find a first-year, shake a project out of them, and then return to the dungeon with item in hand.

"If they won' give it up villingly, Hy sure we can find a way to makes dem cooperate." He grinned. "Pipple alvays happy to cooperate, hyu just asks de right vay."

"I don't think that's what the professors had in mind, Dmitri." She drew the lines with magnetized chalk, concentrated, then performed the wand movements carefully. Vapor rose from the drawing, coalesced into a tiny figure of a Gryffindor, who looked around curiously. Spike groaned as she saw the sash of a second-year student, whipped her wand through the figure to dispel the charm. Drat! A misfire!

Spike gritted her teeth, looked over the diagram of wand movements again. Made a couple of rehersal movements in the air, disjointed parts of the more complicated gestures. She hated this part of magic, the careful, tiny flickers of one's hands and body. So much easier on paper. So much less likely to have a spell misfire due to an itchy nose, a mispronunciation.

She carefully oriented towards the Ravenclaw Tower -- if you're going to crib, crib from the best -- and the spell went off in a shower of sparks. It was working! She could see a quarter sized image there on her workbench, a first-year student dressed in blue and bronze, wearing a pair of . . . Spike waved the image in closer, zooming in on the tiny hands. Gloves. Fingerless gloves. What an awesome idea for the chilly dungeons! Another flick revealed the student's name, and Spike was ready.



She submitted her homework a few days later, beaming with pride. "This is going to be a cakewalk," she confided to her minions afterwards. Totenberg shook his head, thinking of all the excellent plans that never survived first contact with the enemy.

An OWL Selected

She was required to take at least one class per month, but she could fill her schedule with as many as six. More points for Slytherin. There was Quidditch, and a special train to Saint Mungo's. She earmarked that page. It would be nice to see her Arithmancy professor again. She had really enjoyed the class until that afternoon. He had been an unpleasant git, no lie to that, but no one deserved what had happened to him.

And Ordinary Wizarding Level examinations. She was eligible to sit for one OWL each year. She read and re-read the descriptions, trying to decide among the twelve. Charms--no, Defense Against the Dark Arts! No, Potions! No, Divination! So hard to choose just one. Hmm . . . Divination. That gave her an idea.

She laid the heavy tome on the bed, open to the description of the OWLs, picked up her quill in both hands. No aiming, this needed to be completely up to the laws of chance. She closed her eyes, and let it fall. Wherever it struck nearest would be the OWL she sat for.

Totenberg grinned as he saw what she was doing. Motioning the others to silence, he waited until she released the feather, and blew. The quill dabbed at Charms, skimmed past Defense Against the Dark Arts, and pointed at Astronomy.

Spike opened her eyes. Astronomy. She sighed. Long cold hours at night up in the Tower, and classes during the day. Very well. When you leave your destiny in the hands of the fates, after all . . .

"Why are you all smirking like that?"

A Slight Misunderstanding, Part Three

And was whirled through darkness, spinning, spinning until her feet touched down on welcome solid flagstones. She opened her eyes. Trevor was standing in front of her, grinning as he offered a butterbeer. "Welcome to the Chat Room to Greatness!"

She took the frosty glass, and sipped. Green light streamed through the ceiling, and as she watched, a merman drifted by overhead. The ceiling was made of glass, and looked out to the skies above from under the lake. "I thought this was the Slytherin Common Room?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, but since we started with the portkeys to the House, we decided it would be fun to move the Common Room around; make it so it was no longer strictly tied to Hogwarts. So this term, we give it a different name, next term we move it a little over here, then the next term, we move it over there . . ."

"Right. Like taming an animal; you let it get used to what you're doing slowly so it doesn't spook. And all of a sudden . . ."

"The rabbit's in the pot, the horse is bridled. Exactly."

"I think I'm going to like it--"

"Spike! Spike, where are you?" A curly haired witch was storming through the common room, glaring in every direction. Spike looked harder at her. No, I don't know you . . . why is she yelling like that?

"Over here, Dru," replied a familiar sardonic drawl. A lean blonde man in leather trousers stood slowly up from a green velvet fainting couch, stretched and yawned, displaying a set of oversized canines. Spike's jaw dropped. Him? Here? Impossible!

"Spike? Spike, is that you?" she asked. He turned, glanced over his shoulder.

"Spike!!! Nischka, what are you doing here? I heard you were at Durmstrang?" The curly haired witch looked form vampire to first year in confusion, finally crossing her arms and glaring hard as Spike and the vampire came together in a double handclasp. "You've grown--how many years has it been?"

"Not so very many. I suspect it's easy to lose track . . ."

"Spike? Who the hell is this?" demanded the other witch.

"She's my . . . ah, help me out here, Spike. You're my--"

"Great great great great," she counted on her fingers, nodded, "great great grand-niece on Matya's aunt's and on your second cousin's uncle's side. Oh, and you’re also my third cousin, forcibly removed. Is there anything . . . no, I’m thinking of Spike, the one we try to avoid mentioning. Yes. Yes, that's it."

"Forcibly removed? I've never heard of that . . ."

"Oh, it means he's an undead. Or, uh, 'vitally different,' as we're supposed to call them now." She gestured helplessly. "When you have . . . that sort . . . in the family tree, you need to find some way to explain the relationship. And there's been enough generations and enough of the ruling families have, well, a bat in the belfry--"

Spike cleared his throat. "That's rather vulgar, e'en it?"

Spike blushed. "Sorry. But anyway, the genealogists came up with a term so they could keep them all straight."

The witch looked at both of them, hard. "So he's Spike. And you're Spike. And then there’s the Spike who should not be named. What's with the name?"

"Old family nickname. You should see what happens at a reunion. Someone calls for 'Spike' and heads everywhere swivel."

"Only until you get used to the accent," Spike argued. "It's all in how you say it, and who's talking."

"Mmm. Just keep in mind that this--" the witch took hold of the blonde's arm possessively, "--this Spike is my Spike. Mess with him and you're messing with me, little Firstie."

Ewww. "He is my uncle, after all." Spike dropped an insultingly graceful, fluid curtsey to Spike, who returned the gesture by smirking. "I'll drop Matya and Atyets a note later and let them know you're fine--we were worried when you didn't come to the picnic last summer." And with that, Spike and her minions left to find her dorm room so she could unpack her trunk, listening to the other witch snarling at the vampire. Spike shook her head. One mystery solved, though, that was some good work for the night.

Late that evening, with everything finally unpacked and the next morning’s necessities laid out, Spike pulled out the curriculum and began reading. So much to do!

A Slight Misunderstanding, Part Two

"Yes, Professor." She heard a whisper of leather on stone as her bodyguards shifted closer to their charge. Professor Gorre was scary.


In silence, they stood up and proceeded through the halls to a huge door embossed with snakes. Professor Gorre hissed something unintelligible at the door, placed her hand into one of the snake's gaping jaws. It closed slowly over her wrist; opened again with aching slowness. "You will need to learn the password; it changes periodically. First years, place your right hand in the snake's mouth as you pass so it can learn you."

"What if someone who doesn't belong tries to get in?" wondered Spike. Trevor grinned and snapped his teeth together with a loud clack.

"They can only try twice."

Then, of course, it was her turn. The snake’s metal head was cool and damp, but not as cold as she would have expected. As if it were alive, and kept itself warm somehow, as snakes do. She started to put her hand in its mouth, and Totenberg stopped her. “Me first,” he growled. The guardian’s lidless eyes widened as its mouth shut, and it spit the Hound’s hand back out, hissing and recoiling. It wound to the lintel to wrap itself along the highest point, glaring back down at the four of them.

“Told you to vash you hands,” muttered Sascha. Another snake was coaxed into performing its duty, and Spike was learned by the guardians.

The corridor beyond was dark, illuminated by a handful of sparsely placed staves that burned with a cool greenish tinted light. The stairs were both steep in pitch and deep. It was a stretch for Spike to reach each step, groping downwards with her toes in the eerie dimness. She felt as if she were going to fall forward at each step, tumbling to the bottom.

She made it to the final landing without incident, and stood in the dead end of the corridor. The final landing swelled out to accommodate the first years, but there was no door in sight. Someone's wand lit up at the head of the line, and everyone looked at Professor Gorre, standing under the light.

"Pay attention, now. We call our common room the Dungeon or the Snake Pit because we are actually under the lake, down in the deeps of Hogwarts. But the common room is actually located elsewhere and you portkey to it. Always, always, always have these with you when you leave the common room--" Narcissa was circulating among the first years, passing out green ribbons with a tiny silver charm. "Or you may not be able to get back in. Many students use these as bookmarks." When Narcissa held out the ribbon to Spike, Dmitri reached over her shoulder to accept the key for her. He looked it over carefully for concealed edges, sniffed for poison before handing it back to her.

"Touch your key here, to this chipped brick. The brick will move around, but it's always the one with the chip in the lower right corner, see?" The ranks had thinned appreciably as all the upperclassmen had already portkeyed through to the common room. When Spike and her minions came to the fore, she paused.

Gorre looked at them, and said, "We aren't allowed to issue keys to the hotties, I'm afraid. They were . . . rather a distraction last term when they broke loose and wandered about the school." Was that just the light, or was there a tiny smile in the corner of Gorre's mouth, as of a fond memory?

“But, Professor. They’ve been with me since, well, since forever. They’re very well behaved . . .” Spike crossed her fingers and mentally spit three times to divert the bad karma from telling the lie. “Well, most of the time. Reasonably well behaved.”

“Ve ken exhibit behavior,” added Totenberg, with an attempt at a winsome smile. Professor Gorre blinked at the torchlight glittering off the array of fangs, and frowned, the skin between her eyebrows creasing. It was clear she frowned a lot, and had a store of disapproving scowls.

“No keys,” she added firmly.

"Yes, ma'am," said Spike, wondering if one could duplicate a portkey. She had managed to wrangle the steward's keys at home, and had made several sets of every one she could find. She still had a ring tucked into a corner of her trunk so she'd always know where to obtain another. Sascha and Dmitri each took an arm, and Totenberg held on to the collar of her robes as she touched the portkey to the brick . . .

A Slight Misunderstanding, Part One

Dinner passed in a daze. Spike had never before been grateful for the etiquette tutors of her youth, but now understood where they had been coming from when they drilled manners into her young head. It was easy to use the correct fork for the salad, the shrimp, the oysters, and dessert without having to think about it. She noticed some of the other firsties staring at the vast array of flatware, then sneaking glances at the upperclassnakes to see what went with what.

Totenberg, Dmitri, and Sascha stood quietly behind her, keeping a watchful eye on the food and on the others. None of the other students seemed to notice. One had a large polar bear lying at his feet, and another had a phoenix perched on her shoulder, accepting bites from her fork. Seeing this, Spike relaxed a little. If the others could have animals (pets? familiars?) present at all times, then surely some two legged companions who would obey (er, most of the time, sort of completely) shouldn't be a problem.

One of the other students nudged her. "Hotties need to stay in the dungeons, you know. Can't be giving a free show to the rest of the school."

"They aren't 'hotties', whatever those are. They're my . . ." what had the Hat called them? "My minions. They go with me everywhere."

He frowned. "Are you allowed minions here? I mean, you can have a cat, or an owl, or a toad, that's okay. And they opened it up to allow other familiars." He waved a fork at the other students and their menageries around them. "Hotties are okay, but they're confined to the dungeons." He looked carefully at Sascha, taking in the pressed tunic with its high collar, the ribbons on the left breast standing in for medals, the leather straps of his kit. Sascha looked back for a moment, assessing and dismissing the other as a threat, then scanning the hall again. "Although the hotties aren't generally so . . . overdressed."

The boy extended a hand to Spike. Totenberg bridled for an instant, hands coming out from behind his back. Almost as quickly, he sank back into parade rest. "Trevor. Trevor Pike. And you are?"

Spike sighed. Here was the moment she'd been anticipating. "Nikolevnischka von Schaedelthron." She paused as Trevor goggled over the confusion of syllables. Right. "But you can call me Spike. Everybody does."

Trevor smirked, then quickly wiped it away. "That's going to make things . . . interesting," he said, but refused to clarify any further, even when the meal had concluded and the dishes vanished.

One of the older girls, with a Head Girl badge pinned to her robes stood up and clapped her hands for their attention. "All right, you lot, most of you know the drill and the way by now, but shut it for a second so the ickle firsties can hear." The muttering died down a bit, and the Head Girl stuck both little fingers in her mouth, creating a blasting whistle through them. The Hounds flinched, and Spike could feel it in her teeth. The table fell quiet.

"Thank you ever so," Head Girl drawled. "Makes things so much easier when I don't have to shout. Well, welcome to Hogwarts and the most noble house of Salazar Slytherin. We're not much for the long-winded flowery speeches like Ravenclaw." She nodded over one shoulder to the blue table, where an earnest looking bespectacled witch was holding forth, and had apparently been doing so since dinner, as there were still plates with food on the table, and students surreptitiously sneaking morsels from them.

"We don't do a lot of 'woo-woo, we're a team' like--" A roar from the red and gold table rose, filling the hall. "Hang on, they come in --" Rooooooaaaaarrrr. "Threes." And one more time, fists pumping, one or two students leaping to their feet. "Right. And we're not so touchy-feely as the Hufflepuffs, who any minute now will . . ." The chairs at the yellow-draped table scraped in unison as all the students stood up and exchanged hugs, then left the Great Hall in clumps of four and five. Head Girl sneered, and shook her head. "It's a wonder they do anything separately."

"No," she continued, "We are Slytherin. And most of you know what that means." Nods around the table. "For the ickle firsties, I'll spell it out. That means we win. We do it better, faster, and more cleverly than all the rest put together. We are ambitious, focused, and driven. When we succeed, we crush the competition."

"What about when . . ." The words slipped out before she could stop them. Head Girl arched one eyebrow coolly, staring her down.

"What about what, Ickle Firstie?"

"If you crush the competition when you succeed, then does it follow that when you fail, you fail spectacularly?" Head Girl's cheeks colored briefly, and her eyes narrowed.

"What's your name?" she spat, clipping off the words.

Spike lifted her chin, meeting the older girl's stare with equal venom. I was only asking a question. "Von Schadelthron. Nikolevnischka von Schaedelthron."

"Well, Nicky --"

"Spike." She hated 'Nicky' with a passion. 'Nicky' was for a girly girl in silly short skirts with layers of ruffled petticoats, who spoke in whispers and giggles, whose hair formed perfect ringlets and whose hands were always clean. "And you are?"

An older witch laid a hand lightly on Head Girl's shoulder. She was slender and fragile looking, white blonde with nearly colorless eyes, and robes that came close to puddling on the floor. Her hat looked nearly as tall as she was, climbing to a thin spire like a blade of black grass. "What's this, Narcissa?" The other girl quickly pasted on a smile, widening her eyes as she looked up at the other.

"Just getting the Ickle -- I mean, the firsties sorted out a bit, Professor Gorre. Rules of the moving stairways, that sort of thing."

Gorre arched one eyebrow. "Really." That one word encompassed a world of emotion, mostly doubt laced with sarcasm. Then she cocked her head and considered Spike for a long moment. "You're the Durmstrang transfer."

"Yes, Professor." I guess we'll be Nicky and Sissy to each other, now, Spike thought, with a mental sigh.

"I do not know what they may have taught you there, Miss von Schadelthrone, but here, failure is simply not an option. Slytherin does."

A Turning Point, Part Two

Hogwarts proved to be a moving mass of people in black robes trimmed with different colors, staircases that swung through the air as students climbed or descended, and an enormous hall with four great long tables laid out. The first years were lined up down the center path, which ended at the legendary Sorting Hat of Hogwarts.

It was as grimy and tattered as reputed, with a large rip near the brim, and a pointy tip that was as bent and crooked as an old tomcat's tail. She watched as one student after another was helped up onto the high stool, the Hat was laid on their brow, and seconds later, the name of a House was shouted into the hush, followed by an explosion from one table or another.

Spike remembered Durmstrang's Chalice, and shuddered. At least I don't have to drink from the Hat. Though Totenberg, Dmitri, and Sascha had amused themselves one night by breaking into the Headmaster's Quarters, stealing the Chalice, and drinking cheap wine from it. I wonder how Durmstrang's next Severing is going to go? The Chalice had been joining in the fun by the end, she had heard, singing bawdy songs, and as a drinking mug, it had an enormous repertoire. I wonder if it will be sober by then . . .

Suddenly they were calling her name, or at least a garbled version of it. She decided on the spot that she would use her old family nickname--there shouldn't be any other Spikes to get confused. Not like the reunion picnics, where it was often simpler to use birthplaces or residences to refer to someone. A prickly bunch, us. And then the Hat was over her eyes.

It chuckled gleefully to Itself. "This job hasn't been so easy and obvious since that Malfoy brat--wait. What did you say?"

Spike hadn't said anything, knotted with her worries that something would go wrong and this second chance would be taken away from her after all. The goblet at Durmstrang had hesitated like this, the steam rising turning from silver to green to red to black and then back again, wavering in the air. Looking for something. She felt a wrenching cold in her stomach. "Not again."

"What again?" Images flashed through her mind like cards being shuffled. "Interesting. I see why the Chalice had issues. Well. Mad scientist, or evil genius? Which path are you going to walk, Spike?"

"I'm sorry--"

"You have minions, indeed you do. Good start! And ambition. Plenty of that. You seem to know how to handle that; you'll do well wherever you're Sorted. But it’s a fine line where you walk between the green and the blue. Cunning and clever.” She had the creepy feeling that the toothless, fingerless Hat was tapping its fingers on its front teeth the way the head chef would when agonizing over a menu. Hibiscus or Royal Tokaj for the postprandial, she thought, and bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“Well!” the Hat remarked at last. “It’s a good thing we sort more than once, now. I told Dumbledore that the one and done was a mistake, I told him that people could change from what they were as children, even old children. Got to be . . . Slytherin!!!” Dimly, as the Hat was lifted off her head, Spike could hear cheering from one of the tables.

The Hat winked as she climbed off the stool. “Do me proud, girlie,” it said.

A Turning Point, Part One

Back up in her rooms, Totenberg was holding his small mistress's hands, trying to warm them. She had gone through the full crash after the immense relief of opening the letter of acceptance to Hogwarts; the stoic mask shattering like porcelain when they returned upstairs to find her trunks deposited on the floor, her writing desk restocked with ink and papers.

He'd stopped her from diving into the trunks and pulling everything back out into it usual magpie's nest by reminding her that everything was packed and ready to travel. "Just a couple of days till term starts. Don' want to pull it all out just to have to put it away again, yah?" Reluctantly, she'd agreed to the wisdom of his proposal, and left most of it put away, although she'd pulled out her wand and slept with it in her hands that first night. He'd watched her breathe from his post by the door, remembering when she'd held a toy that way. Remembering her father and his first wand.

The next three days simultaneously dragged by and went far too quickly. When she woke up in the morning, Spike wondered how she was going to fill the long empty hours of the day, and when it was over and she was finally able to drop into bed, she had no idea where the time had gone. At last, the footmen were loading the last of her trunks onto the carriage of horn, and they were off to England.

The trip was uneventful--people took one look at her sideboys and got out of the way, but they did that everywhere. They had a compartment on the train to themselves, and she noticed some of the students, particularly those with green trim on their robes, seemed to be accompanied by escorts as well. Spike breathed a small sigh of relief. She had heard that Hogwarts wasn't like Durmstang, and had been concerned that she might be utterly separated from her batsmen, told to send them home for the duration, only to see them during term breaks.

When they left the train and found the famous horseless carriages, all three of her body servants stopped and looked long and hard at the front, where the empty harnesses and traces hung.

"That what I t'ink they is?"

"T'ink so. Closer look?"

"Yah." Totenberg stayed behind, at her side, while Sascha and Dmitri slowly approached from the side. Sascha took a lump of sugar out of his pocket -- he was fond of the stuff, and would hoard it given half a chance-- placed it on his open palm, and offered it to the nothing at the head of the carriage. Spike gaped as it suddenly vanished from his hand as if plucked up by soft mobile lips. There's no there there, she thought. How did --

But it was time to board the carriage and ride to the school, with the rest of the first years.

A Turning Point, Part One

Back up in her rooms, Totenberg was holding his small mistress's hands, trying to warm them. She had gone through the full crash after the immense relief of opening the letter of acceptance to Hogwarts; the stoic mask shattering like porcelain when they returned upstairs to find her trunks deposited on the floor, her writing desk restocked with ink and papers.

He'd stopped her from diving into the trunks and pulling everything back out into it usual magpie's nest by reminding her that everything was packed and ready to travel. "Just a couple of days till term starts. Don' want to pull it all out just to have to put it away again, yah?" Reluctantly, she'd agreed to the wisdom of his proposal, and left most of it put away, although she'd pulled out her wand and slept with it in her hands that first night. He'd watched her breathe from his post by the door, remembering when she'd held a toy that way. Remembering her father and his first wand.

The next three days simultaneously dragged by and went far too quickly. When she woke up in the morning, Spike wondered how she was going to fill the long empty hours of the day, and when it was over and she was finally able to drop into bed, she had no idea where the time had gone. At last, the footmen were loading the last of her trunks onto the carriage of horn, and they were off to England.

The trip was uneventful--people took one look at her sideboys and got out of the way, but they did that everywhere. They had a compartment on the train to themselves, and she noticed some of the students, particularly those with green trim on their robes, seemed to be accompanied by escorts as well. Spike breathed a small sigh of relief. She had heard that Hogwarts wasn't like Durmstang, and had been concerned that she might be utterly separated from her batsmen, told to send them home for the duration, only to see them during term breaks.

When they left the train and found the famous horseless carriages, all three of her body servants stopped and looked long and hard at the front, where the empty harnesses and traces hung.

"That what I t'ink they is?"

"T'ink so. Closer look?"

"Yah." Totenberg stayed behind, at her side, while Sascha and Dmitri slowly approached from the side. Sascha took a lump of sugar out of his pocket -- he was fond of the stuff, and would hoard it given half a chance-- placed it on his open palm, and offered it to the nothing at the head of the carriage. Spike gaped as it suddenly vanished from his hand as if plucked up by soft mobile lips. There's no there there, she thought. How did --

But it was time to board the carriage and ride to the school, with the rest of the first years.

A Reluctant Conversation, Part Four

Finally, Spike’s father put a finger under her chin, lifting her face so her eyes met his. Was that a softening? A memory of when he was just learning his way around? "Nischka. Spike. You're a talented witch, and you have the potential to go far with this, even to join the ranks of the great ones someday. Maybe. But you have to be trained, like the hawks have to be trained, like the Hounds have to be trained. Otherwise, you are simply too dangerous--to yourself and to others." He had turned from anger to sorrow, and somehow his sadness was harder to bear than his fury. "And you know what happens when a dog runs mad, when a bear comes down from the woods to forage in the town."

She knew. Was she a mad dog then, slavering at the mouth; a bear grown lazy with the easy pickings on the outskirts? First a dog, then a pig, then a child, they said. Was it first a wall, then a door, then a professor? This was bigger than her father being angry with her, bigger than the punishment he might mete out for disobedience. This was big enough to encompass the whole world. Tears formed in her eyes. "Papa?"

He took her hands in his then, crouching so their heads were even. "I can only protect you so far as my reach extends, my Hounds a little further, maybe. But the job of keeping you safe is going to pass, first and foremost, to you. You must learn how to get a hand on your wild magic, to bring it to heel. To hood and jess it, so when the time is right--and at no other!-- you can set it on its rightful prey, confident that it will return to your glove."

"I understand." And she did; she had liked Durmstrang. The people were challenging, but the work all flowed and made sense. She could feel the movements of the wand in her fingers, and all that she needed was someone to show her the patterns and channels for her magic to follow. Learning to dig ditches, she had called it once, and of course someone had misunderstood, thinking that she meant it was simple manual work, fit for Muggles and peasants. She'd set them straight, of course. Fortunately Durmstrang turned a blind eye to most students' escapades.

“So, with that in mind,” he handed her an envelope sealed with red wax, embossed with a florid capital H, “I think you should open this.”

A Reluctant Conversation, Part Three

He began to pace in the narrow chamber, back and forth down the long length of it. “You’re a lucky little witch,” he said, spinning and pointing at her as if cracking a whip. “Lucky that the damages could be restricted to only a few, lucky that Totenberg is insubordinate enough to have been there to help put the fire out. No, don’t start,” he said, as she opened her mouth to explain.

She nodded and hung her head. If he's scolding, then it's not so bad. No one ever died from a tongue-lashing. She braced for him to go on the way he did, pausing to probe for more, coming back to spit acid.

"Haven't you been taught better? Haven't you learned from the Hounds? When a door is shut, you have no way of knowing who's on the other side. That goes for all doors, physical and magical. Make sure you have an ally waiting. But no, the first chance you get, you fling openings to the bottom of the Mandelbrot set wide and shout 'Is there anybody out there?' " He stopped short of yelling the last sentence, but he had raised his voice for the third time in her memory. He stopped, grasping the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache.

"I didn't--"

"Quiet." They listened to the heavy brocaded silence in the chamber for a moment.

Outside in the hallway, Totenberg fished in the breast pocket of his tunic, finally coming out with his tobacco pouch and a sheaf of leathery leaves. He proceeded to roll a cigarillo there in the hallway, fingers surprisingly nimble at their task. The younger of the human guards stepped forward as if to stop him, but the other caught his sleeve and shook his head. Totenberg grinned as he caught a light off the torch in the hallway. Being a Hound had a few privileges.

Including the hearing. The old man had almost lost it for a moment there, but seemed to be regaining control. That's a good thing, he thought. He had served Spike's father, and his father before that, and his father before that, and confidently expected to serve Spike's children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren before he retired. Spike was . . . interesting, though. Interesting in a way that might cut his plans short. We never know, do we?

Sascha watched the operation closely. “You ain’t done that since . . . that night at Durmstrang.”

“Yah.”

“Think it gonna be that bad?”

Totenberg blew a long blue breath at the ceiling, ignoring the pointed glares of the guards nearby. “Dunno. We—“ he motioned to himself and Dmitri, “We can always go back to the hussars. You?” He tapped under his left eye, two quick pecks on the cheekbone. “On horseback? With a projectile or a ray? You almost as dangerous to our side as you are to the enemy.”

Sascha pulled himself up straight, out of the typical Hound’s crouch dictated by anatomy. “Can still fight!”

“Didn’t say you couldn’. Just said you couldn’ ride with us no more.”

Sascha had angled himself to be able to keep watch on both the door and his captain. Now he turned his full attention to the door. Totenberg put a hand on his shoulder.

“We wait.”

A Reluctant Conversation, Part Two

Outside the door to the audience chamber, Spike stood with one hand on the handle. It was harder to be fierce here, with the doors that towered over her and not knowing what was waiting on the other side. The guardsmen had frowned at the Hounds, lowering their polearms. She’d wanted to hug them goodbye, but they’d stepped well back and saluted her. Totenberg nodded once, briskly, as his hand dropped back to his side.

The throne of bones was empty. That could be a good sign, that maybe she’d beaten him here somehow. Or it could be bad, that he’d become impatient with waiting for her and was now pacing the room. She closed the door behind her with a hollow thud.

When she turned around, he was waiting for her there in the gloom. A tall, lean man, dressed all in tightly fitted black from his doublet to hose and boots, with a sleeveless robe trimmed in bearskin that glinted with silver. His head was shaved. He was a man of all or nothing; no half-measures. When his hair had begun to fade and fall, he has simply gotten rid of it all. Even though he was her father, he was mostly a stranger to Spike, like a dour god.

He looked down at Spike with eyes as hard and grey as February. "Nikolevnischka von Schaedelthron," he started, and Spike winced. It was never good when they used your full name. His voice was soft and his cadence slow, like water dripping from an icicle.

"Atyets--Papa! I can explain . . ." She trailed off as he shook his head.

"I'm sure you can. And I'm sure it's a good explanation, and it wasn't your fault." She nodded, mouth dry. "But there comes a time when explanations must end." He held up a slender, pointed hand to stop her from going on in the pause. "And that time, Nischka, is now."

A Reluctant Conversation, Part One

She walked down the halls and through the corridors flanked by her batmen -- Dmitri to the left, Sascha to the right, and Totenberg behind her. Always, always this arrangement when they walk together so Sascha could keep his blind side to Spike. She could see the melted flesh where it twisted around the silver, mostly hidden by the eyepatch. Hounds were notoriously difficult to kill, so much so that outsiders—those not of the family -- mistook them for werewolves or demons. Sascha had been captured once, years before she was born—before Great-Grandfather was born—and after taking his left eye, they had cauterized the wound with molten silver. It hadn’t worked. Sascha was still walking the earth, and the dagger in his boot had handles of yellowed bone, smooth and cool.

She didn't really see the corridors and the doorways as they walked past. Her mind was utterly consumed by thoughts of the upcoming meeting with her father. Would the headsman be waiting there in the audience chamber, to take her back up the stairs to Nyebaveeshka, the great tower set with the sky? Where she'd be interred in one of the open cells, with three walls and no ceiling, open to the elements on two sides, with a sheer drop across from a barred door. Where she'd have the choice of flying lessons or waiting on her father's pleasure.

When they reached the third floor, Spike glanced out over the balustrade into the small conservatory. The glass ceiling was misty with warmth and humidity from the hot springs. It would smell of roses and summer—it was always summer in there. The glass inner doors were closed to keep the heat in. She stopped for a moment near them, started to reach for the handle.

Sascha stopped her. “No,” was all he said.

“Just for a moment.”

“No. Your atyets, he expect us.”

“But--"

Sascha cocked his head, looking down at her, the silver in his scars winking in the torchlight. "Need to be carried?" They'd done that before, when she was younger and had done something or another to make trouble. Trouble had a way of finding her, no matter how well she tried to hide from it.

"No, but--wait a minute!" Sascha was reaching for her, but he stopped and listened. "Please. Just one minute. Atyets can wait just one minute for us." Her eyes itched with tears, but she swallowed hard to keep them down. "I may never see the gardens again."

Sascha tilted his head towards his captain, standing behind their charge. One minute?

Totenberg frowned, then shrugged. "One minute." He'd take whatever fall came.

Sascha held the door for Spike. "Go--and breathe deep."

She did, head swimming with the perfumes. A hummingbird had found its way inside the gardens at some point that summer, and it flew about her head, scolding, an indignant jewel. She watched it flashing in emerald and ruby as it wheeled around, dive-bombing her. So little and fierce. She squared her shoulders. I can be fierce, too.