Sending a Message

Spike was sitting in the back row, listening with half an ear to the teaching staff explain the homework for this month. *Divination! Bah! Even the teaching staff can’t stay awake for this subject.* She smirked, watching Professor Randall's head loll slowly, sinking onto her chest as Professor Gore droned on. *I can find out all I need to know with a black cockerel and a sharp … what’s that?*

“A great force came into the House, marking three walls alike and the fourth…”

*Crumbled into dust beneath its weight*, Spike thought, finishing the line automatically. *But how does Professor Handbasket know that?* She sat up straight in her chair, riveted to the proceedings.
“Just as the great Force manifested, a flock of birds swooped by overhead, wheeling and turning and forming a shape in the sky of…”

*Crosses that dissolved to noughts. She’s reciting the Book of Fuligin Oncethmus … in her sleep, no less-- but the sole surviving copy is in Grandpere’s library. Locked to the shelf, and gagged. How and where could Professor Randall have seen or heard its words?*

Later that night, Spike waited until well past midnight for the rest of the House to settle down, then slipped yarn and hook out of the basket by her bed. Quickly she worked up a square incorporating the colors of bleached and crumbled limestone and the shapes of crosses and noughts.

The next morning, she tied the square to one of the school's owls with a hastily scribbled note about how she was doing so well in her favorite class, Divination!  Requesting that they set this sample of excellence in the practical applications of prophecy aside for her hope chest, to be added to her other work completed during her studies.  *"Hope chest" was certainly appropriate here*, she hoped that anyone intercepting the bird would take it for nothing more than what the cover note indicated, and send it on its way.  *Can't let the absence of a communique from a filial student to her doting family raise alarurms and cause excursions, right?*

*Dark times indeed,* thought Spike, watching the owl take to the air with the textile clutched in its talons.  Just the fact that she was writing to Grandpere Murklins should be enough to raise the guard.

Papercuts and Sentiments

Mallory Chambers, Trevor Pike, and Spike were doing homework around the table. All three were giving in to a case of the mid-term homesick blues.

Mallory had just finished explaining the joys of a Muggle sweet, shortbread. “You just can’t get it here the way they make it back home,” he said. “It’s too sweet, or too dry, and sometimes its actively greasy.” He shivered. “I think it’s the butter.”

“I miss the ceviche--they never get it hot enough here. It’s supposed to be spicy,” grumbled Trevor. “All the nice fresh fish, the lovely shellfish--what a shame. And I don’t understand why they think it has to be cooked within an inch of its life.”

“I miss the papercuts of Schadelthron,” said Spike, thinking of the hanging on her bedroom wall at home. It had cheered her ever since she was a small girl, keeping her company in the dark hours of the night with its bright and cheerful grin.

“What were they like?” asked Mallory.

Spike picked up a piece of parchment and scissors from the table.

”I’m not very good at this, but basically, you fold the paper like so …”

The other Slytherin leaned in closer.

” … then you cut away everything you don’t want, being sure to leave support structures to hold it all together.”

Drusilla Wormwood came in. “Whatcha doin’?” Spike unfolded the parchment and displayed her work.

Drusilla  blanched. “Spike, I don’t know how to tell you this, but … that was a letter Hecuba Entwhistle  was writing to Philandra Duntisbourne  to convince her to pledge Slytherin next term. She’s been working on that all week.”

They all looked at the tattered illegible remains of the letter in Spike’s hands. “Uhm …” Thinking quickly, she tapped the parchment with her wand. ”Repairo! Pingo!”

Drusilla held up the square. “At least it’s pretty …”

An Assistant Created

Spike had spent the last few weeks poring over every History of Magic text she could lay hands on, chasing the wild footnotes, seeking in ever more obscure corners of the library.  Some of the references she really needed had been destroyed or permanently mislaid, and she had become very good at explaining to the Room of Requirement what she needed in order to continue her research.  "Could I possibly have the 1843 edition, please, the one that wasn't bowdlerized in the Subsequent Unpleasantness?"  and the text would swim and flow before her eyes.  So long as she left the books in place, the Room seemed to have no problems providing the required texts.

The one time she had tried to take a book with her (it was getting late, and she was going to barely make bed check) the Room had sealed the door, simply absorbing it into its walls.  No matter what Spike tried, until she set the book down in the middle of the room and walked to where the door should have been did the castle let her go.

She closed the heavy cover of the book, gave it a reluctant pat goodbye.  That's it, then.  I now know as much about making Horcruxes as any wizard ever has, maybe as much -- maybe more than! -- Riddle himself.  Nothing to it but to do it.

Down to the labs in the Snake Pit, where she had carefully laid by ingredients.  I'll start with an animate Horcrux, I think.  Something upon which I can lean and draw energy from, something I can use as an extra pair of eyes and ears.  She was reluctant to use a snake; something from the same phylum just seemed too awfully close to using another sentient being.  She could see that chain of reasoning from a snake to a rat to a monkey to a child.  Something like what the good Doctor Wolfgang would come up with.  Something like the Knights of Walpurgis would decide -- Muggles aren't wizards, animals are not wizards, Muggles are animals and thus it is right and proper to use them as you would . . . an animal.

But an invertebrate should be safe enough.  No brain to speak of, just handful of connected ganglia.  She had found a Flesh-Eating Slug in the garden, fed it on bits of steak and kidney swiped from dinner's pies to tame it, and had worked on training it to do simple commands.  Having something small and squishy that can fit into nearly any space should be a useful being to have as an assistant.

Using the magnetized chalk in its silver holder, she drew the diagram on the floor, laid the pinch of powdered unicorn horn to the north, the manticore venom to the south, the polished moonstone for the east, and the volcanic ash to the west.  Earth, air, fire, water.  She picked up the cage with the slug, stepped into the center.  And spirit.  She drew the final symbol to close the diagram and watched as it flared electric blue and faded, leaving only the dazzling purple after-image dancing before her eyes.

She sat carefully so as not to smear her work.  At best, she would have to start all over again . . . at worst -- she pushed the thought out of her mind.  Intent is everything.  Don't bring an intention of failure with you.

She set the cage across from her, pulling a candle out of one pocket, lighting it wordlessly and setting it between them.  The slug's eyestalks retracted, and it hissed its displeasure at the bright light.  A moment passed, and it extended them once more.  At the same time, Spike pricked her finger with a sharp needle, let a drop of blood fall on the slug, then pithed it expertly as she muttered the closing charm.

One heartbeat, two, three, a dozen.  Her heart sank.  It hadn't worked.  All of this for nothing . . . Then the slug's eyes opened again and it blinked up at her.  Silver streaks raced down its flanks and its mouth gaped open as it smelled the blood on her finger.

Spike let it lick the pinprick; its saliva numbed the sting.  "I did it.  I made a  . . . well, not a real one, but well, close enough.  Close enough to do what I need it to do."  In that moment, she understood Dr. Wolfgang, understood him very well indeed.

Sparkly and Fireproof

The class was assembled on the beach, sand between their toes. Slytherin House was crowded under a green silk shade, blinking in the tropical sunlight and marinating in sunblock.

“It’s nice to be out of the dungeon,” said Hecuba Entwhistle, gesturing with her empty pina colada glass. “Although the scenery isn’t that much different.” She grinned wickedly in the general direction of a group of young Muggle men in swim trunks.

“These are pretty, though,” cooed Munificent Bulstrode, looking at the firecrab where it sat, huddled in its shell. “Not all that exciting, though. All it’s done is sit there and glitter. I don’t know how I’m going to get eighteen inches on ‘Sat on the beach. Drank pina coladas. Watched firecrab sparkle.’ ”

“Write really big?” Mallory Chambers, who had been pressed into service as the cabana boy, topped off glasses as Hecuba made her suggestion.

Spike looked around at the beach. Promimently posted were a number of signs, red on white, warning sternly “Do not taunt the Firecrab.” How exactly would one taunt a firecrab?  Munificent was right, this was going to be a very short and fairly dull essay.

Spike picked up the square she’d been working with for her practical and flipped it idly in her hands.

“Hey!” Munificent shouted. “Look at this!”

The firecrab had poked its head out of the shell, and was staring raptly at Spike, head bobbing and weaving.

“Something has its attention. Finally.” Hecuba crept closer as the crab extended its legs and began to trundle over the sands. Spike held the square to one side, giggling as the firecrab turned to follow it … and kept turning … until its back was turned to the trio …

“Hey! Look out!” The firecrab blasted the center of the square with a jet of flame, and Spike performed a quick veronica to get out of the way. The crab surveyed the glowing red center with distinct satisfaction, then folded back into its smoking shell.

Spike examined the glowing red-hot center of the square.

“Good thing I used the flame-retardant yarn,” she said.

The Vituperative Vipers

Mallory Chambers and Drusilla Wormwood were sitting outside, comparing Herbology projects. Mallory proudly displayed her work.

“A chapstick cozy?” Drusilla wrinked her nose duboiusly. “I mean, it’s in the shape of a Dirigible Plum, and I love the little winglike leaves at the top, but how exactly does that defy gravity?”




“Watch!” Mallory waved her wand languidly, then tossed the container in the air, where it hovered, leaves beating in a blur of motion. “See? It’s like that Muggle trick of applying your lipstick without using your hands.” She made a moue, and the Plum darted in to swipe lip balm on her mouth. Drusilla laughed.




“That’s great!” But then she frowned. “I don’t know … isn’t Professor Undine Harkiss leading  that team this term?”






“Yeah. So?”




“So she’s supposed to be kind of … well, harsh. As a teacher, I mean.”




“Oh, as opposed to the marshmallow she is in the Snake Pit?” Mallory shivered, even in the warm sun. “The marshmallow with the stainless steel coating and venom-dripping spikes.”




“It’s just … a chapstick cosy. You know. It’s awful small. Disrespectful. Has she ever forgiven Spike for turning in that bookmark last term?”




“She must have. Isn’t that Professor Harkiss and Spike over there, by the greenhouse?”




“I think so. It looks like they’re talking about class. She’s helping Spike get into position on the scaffolding so she can craft upside down. Harkiss really does have a softer side!”

Mallory grew pale, and the Dirigible Plum cozy fell at her feet. “Oh no. That’s the scaffolding Hagrid was putting up over the …"




Drusilla’s eyes grew wide. “Over the pit of Vituperative Vipers the seventh-years are working with next week.”

The students looked at each other.




“So …” said Mallory, with a weak tremulous smile, ”Vivian, then?”




“I was thinking Blackberry Cabled Cardigan myself. Worked from the top down. I’ll need to re-chart the whole thing, of course.” They winced when Spike dropped her crochet hook, and dropped out of sight to fetch it. “But I think the end result will be worth it.”

The next morning, Spike limped into class, clutching a blanket square with an interestingly reptilian color scheme.

Professor Harkiss smiled and nodded as she accepted the square.  "Was it a challenge to create defying gravity?"  she asked, with a knowing twinkle in her eye.


Spike shrugged, and the sleeves of her robe fell back from her bandaged hands.  "Defying gravity was the  . . . least challenging aspect of this assignment, Professor."
 

Truth and Courage

Spike stared glumly at her parchment for Defense Against the Dark Arts.  At the top, as instructed, she had written the phrase describing the assignment:  “Only the difference between truth and lies, courage and cowardice.”  She squirmed uncomfortably on her chair, just re-reading the words.  Courage, sure, but truth?  That was hard to own.

Below she had scratched out several beginnings that had proved fruitless:  "I like yarn."  "Green is my favorite color."  "I think I could be an Auror when I grow up."  All of them true enough, as far as that went, but not really true to the assignment.

"In order to truly, truly defend against the dark arts, one must comprehend one's own darkness." Epona Lutterworth, the Hufflepuff professor on the team had beamed genially at the class as she expounded.  Easy for her to say, though Spike sourly, her darkest secret probably has to do with the time she ran out of chocolate for muffins and substituted cocoa and oil in its place -- and didn't tell anyone!  Oh, the shame.  Oh, the horror.

"And one's light, as well," added the Slytherin professor, looking from under hooded eyes down a knife-bladed nose at the class.  "A dark wizard will not scruple to pull any aspect you strive to conceal and cast it against you.  That may be telling you that you are a worthless wretch who does not deserve to draw breath --"  his expression made it clear that most of the class fell firmly in this category "--or that you have nigh godlike capabilities.  That you can fly, for example."  Several students near the back tittered.  Spike didn't need Legilimency to see that they thought they would never fall for such an old trick, akin to the one about being so powerful that surely you could turn into anything -- including, say, a fly.  He fixed the sniggering set with his gaze, pinning them in their seats as he added,  "That you can cast spellwork far more advanced than is actually possible for you, leading you to do yourself in by channeling a flow greater than you can hold.  Leaving you a burned out husk, less than a Squib."  The temperature dropped several degrees as that thought sank in.

"Knowledge, including knowledge of self, is our most powerful weapon against those who would subvert us,"  concluded Professor Dukelow with a half smile.  "Knowledge of the truth and the courage to share it with the world through our words and deeds."  She flicked her wand, and words of fire traced themselves in the air above the professors' heads.  "We want a foot of parchment, and a practical that reveals something of your character.  Tell us who you really are, when it comes down to your heart; to where you truly live."

Spike sighed, scratching out "I don't like this assignment," "I love chocolate," and "Coffee is God."  Who and what was she, when it all came down to it?  What was the essence of Spike? 

Maybe it would be easier to start with the practical this time.  She pulled out her wand and some white thread, began working the same spell that her grandmother had taught her many years ago.  The white changed as it was pulled through her fingers, darkening slowly, and finally turning emerald green at the end.

Spike made a moue as she looked at it.  Pretty enough, but what does this reveal about me?

She looked around her worktable, hunting for inspiration.  Under a pile of paper, she found a Divination text that she had checked out on cledonomancy.  As good as any other source, she supposed.  Closing her eyes, she tossed her quill in the air, determined to walk in the direction it pointed, and find her idea at the end of the walk. 

When she opened her eyes, it was lying on the bookshelf, atop a text they had been reviewing in Muggle Studies.  The study of ordinary beasts, that life science thingy.  She pulled the text off the shelf, resigned to coming up with something like "turtles" or "spleen." 

The first word on the page was "enzyme."  She read further . . . and further still, finally finishing the chapter, then sitting with the book closed on one finger and pondering.  An enzyme.  I could be . . . no, I am an enzyme.

Returning to her paper, she quickly wrote:  "I am an enzyme.  I am powerful, dark, variable, and can change many things at my whim…even when they’re not supposed to be changed. Muhwahahahahahahaaaa!!! I can be dangerous or wonderful; it’s my choice."

A Long Night

Spike sat at the workbench, reviewing her blueprints.  The weren't the clean and perfect things she had envisioned when she began this project, rather, they were full of ink, blotted and crossed out and scribbled on, notes about paths tried (and failed) trailing through the margins and marked with daggers and stars and swirls according to her personal proofreader's marks; guiding her to corners of the document, to the obverse side, to other sheets of parchment entirely, pinned to the walls like butterflies. 

She took another deep drink of her coffee, frowned when she discovered her cup was empty and cold.  One hand over her eyes, she sighed.  This was much harder than it looked.  She'd thought it would be a far more straightforward process to take the elements she was looking for to create her perfected owl and meld them together in a crucible, then pour them into a shell to hatch underneath one of the chickens kept as living incubators.  The doctor had suggested that that the creation of a new form was fraught with certain special difficulties, but Spike hadn't counted on this particular level of trouble.

Size was proving to be difficult.  Something about coding for the Chinese Fireball's ability to create flame without the evil temperament of the Hungarian Horntail also caused the resulting owl to be nearly the size of the dragon.  And that won't work.  It wouldn't fit through the halls.  Or rather, it would, but there wouldn't be room for anything else.  Including students. Or furniture.  She pictured the first time the owl made a delivery, or came to pick something up, and shuddered. 

The psyche was also going to be a challenge. Owl, bat, dragon.  Remembering the stories of Errol and Pidgewidgeon, adding echolocation to an owl's bag of tricks sounded like a good idea.  And keeping to animals with the ability to fly had seemed sensible as well.  She had considered the mammals of the sea, whales and dolphins navigating the boundless deeps guided by clicks and moans . . . and had thought better of it once she thought about it further.  While the air wouldn't be a terrifying drowning experience, gasping in the void, at the same time, wouldn't the lack of anything around you forever and ever be equally horrible?  Maybe they don't fear falling the same way we do, since they have no arboreal experience, but for them, falling means going back into the embrace of the sea.  What if you fell and fell, endlessly waiting for the water to close back over you, safe in the wet -- but there was never any?

No, it had to be a bat.  But the sole mammal brain was often overruled by the two flying reptiles, with their own odd way of seeing the world.  It needs to pass, more or less, for a normal owl.  I want it to be able to defend against predators and enemies, not to suddenly turn on its handler.  "Food source" is one thing, "food" is quite another.

She reached for her mug again, having forgotten its coffeeless state, and was pleased to find the perfect mix of hot brew and cream waiting for her.  She turned back to her blueprints again, made a small tweak to her plans, then waved her wand to reveal what would come this time.

Totenberg watched from the shadows, carafe in his hand, as a wispy image arose from the papers, coalescing into a smoky mass.  Looks like an owl, he thought, approvingly, until the bat's wings unfolded from under the avian pair, and the scaly tail flicked out, lashing angrily.  Horns and pointed ears popped out of the smooth, round feathered head, the beak elongated into a snout, and fire spouted from the nostrils.  Spike waved her hands through the image, and it vanished, broken up by the motion.

Gonna be a long night.  He weighed the remains of the pot in his hand, finished off the dregs.  Best brew some more.

A Phoenix Reborn, Part Five

At dinner that night, Spike carefully maneuvered to get a spot in line near Hecuba, but she needn’t have bothered.  Hecuba saved a spot next to her on the bench, beaming at Spike as if they were bosom companions joining up after a long separation.  Spike took the offered seat, toying with her Yorkshire pudding and wondering where to start.

“It was a very interesting and  . . . challenging class in Potions this afternoon,” she started. 

“Really?”  Hecuba seemed a little too interested and chipper, but it was probably nothing noticeable.

“Yes.  We covered a lot of new material; some things that were very obscure.  Things I’d never heard of before.  I’m not really sure where to start; some of the directions are . . .” she shrugged, looking at Hecuba sidelong from under lowered eyelashes.  “Confusing.  Indirect, even.”

“I just sat my Potions OWL last term. Very successfully, I might add.  Perhaps we could meet in the Dungeon lab later, and you could bring your textbook.  We could sit and do some, ah, practical work, yes?”

“Oh, would you?”  Spike chirped.  “I would really appreciate that.”

“Oh, anything for Slytherin.”  Hecuba waved one purple-gloved hand, and nothing more was said about Potions at dinner.

Down in the laboratory, it was a different matter entirely.  Hecuba started with the presence of the strangers on campus, all searching through the school.  “You’ve seen them, right?  Philandra told us some more after you left this afternoon.  The Knights of Walpurgis, they’re calling themselves.  Dedicated to the purifying of the remaining wizarding houses, weeding out the Muggle-born, plotting to come out of the shadow world we inhabit and taking control from the Muggles.”

“Starting where the Death Eaters left off, then.”

“Then following through to the logical conclusion.”  Hecuba nodded, slowly.  “Can you imagine a world with them in charge, though?”

Spike could.  It was a cold and frightening vision, with no room for deviation from a tightly drawn norm. 

“So . . . we’re fighting them.  We’re little folk, we students, but ask the Romans what the little folk can do, eh?”

“So what are you doing to be ‘the rot at the root, the thorn in the foot, the worm in the wood, the taint in the blood’?”

Hecuba looked at Spike, long and hard.  Considering her next words carefully.  “Horcruxes.”  Flatly.  Casually, almost as if it were nothing more than a matter of sneaking off to Hogsmeade.

“Murder?” Spike asked, horrified.  Draconian in the extreme, no matter who was doing the dying.  At least the creation of the Hounds served a larger purpose.

“Not exactly . . .  if nothing else, people would certainly notice.  We’re making false Horcruxes, to distract and divide their forces.”

“Won’t they be able to tell the fake ones, though?”

“Not with a casual examination.  If they feel right, then they’ll take them – better safe than sorry – and since the only way to find out for sure if they’re fake or real is to try and destroy them . . .”  Hecuba grinned, a hard reptilian light in her eyes.

“They’re hardly likely to agree on that.”  Spike nodded.  “Schism in the offing.  Got it.  But how do we make them, ah, taste like the real thing?”

“With a little death.  A drop or two of human blood –use your own if you’re squicky about hurting someone.  Just a quick poke with a needle in your finger, nothing we don’t do nearly every day, right?  And then a rat, or a lizard.  Wham boom, horcrux.  Or at least close enough for the casual observer.  You in?”

What an unprecedented opportunity for mischief.  Spike grinned back at Hecuba, a rattlesnake grin, full of fangs.  “Oh, my, yes.  I am so in.”

Hecuba took off one of her fingerless gloves.  “Duplicis geminio!” and then handed Spike one original and one copy, keeping the other pair for herself.  “Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix Reborn.”

A Phoenix Reborn, Part Four

Spike felt time slow and become viscous around her, the way it always did when something bad was about to happen.  She had time to notice that each student was from a different House, and each of them was wearing something purple.  Philandra had a lovely amethyst brooch right above the Gryffindor crest.  Hecuba Entwhistle of Slytherin was wearing purple fingerless gloves.  Belvino Pascoe from Ravenclaw had a lace scarf; Appoline Hopkins of Hufflepuff had a beret tipped rakishly to one side.  The House Unity color, and someone from every house. Come to think of it, there had been a positive rash of purple accessories around campus lately; Spike had chalked it up to just another passing fad.  Or perhaps a means of gathering bonus points in one class or another; History of Magic, perhaps.

She held up Philandra’s textbook, part shield, part explanation.  “I seem to have--”

“Clodere!” hissed Belvina, and the door slammed shut behind Spike.  She stalked over to Spike.  Tall, gangling, and slim as hope, she resembled nothing more than a crane intent on a frog.  “What are you really doing here?  How did you find us?  Who sent you?”

“Easy, Belvina.”  Hecuba joined them, smirking.  Her eyes twinkled with amusement.  “She’s just a second year; she’s harmless.”

“Everyone was a second year once,” countered Belvina.  “Even Tom Riddle was a second year, and he hardly turned out harmless.”  She paused for a moment, thinking. “Wasn’t this the one who was given the boot from Durmstrang?”

“That wasn’t my fault--” Spike started, but a hard look from Hecuba shut her up.

“That hardly makes her a Death Eater, does it?  She was accepted at Hogwarts; she’s one of us now.”  She nodded at Spike.  “What really happened?  How did you find us here?”

Spike explained about the man and the house elf, about the collision in front of the bulletin board, holding up the textbook.  “So really, I just wanted to get my Potions homework back and go on to class.  I wasn’t going to . . . well, anything but that, really.”

“Just following orders?  A lot of that was heard during the last war, wasn’t it?”  Belvina didn’t seem willing to let it go.  Once she got an idea in her head, it was hard to make her change her mind.  The saying about confusing one with the facts could have been written just for her. 

“She doesn’t have any orders,” said Philandra with a half smile, handing Spike back her Potions textbook.  “She undertook this on her own initiative, in order to get what she wanted.  She showed great determination and resourcefulness in the face of some adversity.”  She winked at Spike, who blinked in confusion.  Why is she being playful like this, all of a sudden? She had the feeling something a little deeper than she could see was going on.  House unity colors, masked strangers on campus, students from different houses all meeting in secret.  This isn’t intramural Quidditch, I don’t think.

“No, she doesn’t have any orders – yet.” added Hecuba.  “But just as help will always be given to those who ask for it, orders can be  . . . mmmm, provided.  Provided you know where to look, eh, Spike?”  She stared pointedly at Spike’s Potions textbook.  “I’m pretty good in Potions, myself.  Perhaps we could meet in the Slytherin lab later tonight if you have any  . . . questions about today’s material, eh?”

“You really should be on your way,” added Appolina kindly.  “If the professors give you any trouble, just let them know you saw me in the hall, and I stopped you for a moment.  They’ll understand, I think.”

Spike knew an exit line when she heard one, and rushed off to class.  When she handed in her scroll on sweet clover and moonstone, she found another piece of parchment wedged in the pages. She opened the folds carefully.  All that was on the parchment was a large purple number one, edged with gold.

Frowning, she tucked it back in the book.  She was definitely going to corner Hecuba in the laboratory after dinner and ask about the ‘new material’ in the Potions textbook.

A Phoenix Reborn, Part Three

Down the hall, up the moving staircase as it spun, jumping the last ten feet from case to case, hoping that she was on the right track.  Pushing her way through the throngs of students hurrying to their next class, a salmon swimming upstream.  The gong chimed, and she groaned.  I’m going to be late, on top of it all.  No homework, lame story to support why I don’t have it with me, lamer promise to have it in later . . . I should have joined in the exploding strip snap tournament last night.  At least I would have been able to show off my new green stockings.

The halls emptied around her.  She had no idea which classroom she’d find Philandra in; she hadn’t even finished the basic Transfiguration courses, much less sat for her OWL to move on to the advanced studies.  “Carp!!!”  It was one of the Forgiveable Curses, and a current favorite in the Dungeon.  “Carp, carp, carp!”  She stamped her foot.  “I need to find Philandra Duntisborn right now,” she announced to the air at large, pacing the hall.  You never know, there might be a house elf zooming around in a flowered chair who’d point the way; a flaming arrow might appear labeled “This way to Advanced Transfiguration; or maybe . . . A door appeared in the blank hallway where a door had most certainly not been before.  Spike stood and stared at it.

A plain and ordinary door.  Not bound in brass bands, not three times a person’s height, not carved with grinning demons’ faces.  Just a door, of good serviceable oak, gleaming with oil but hardly polished, with a plain brushed brass knob.  If you looked for a picture of an ordinary door, this would be right there in the top ten.  Spike was instantly suspicious of it. 

She approached softly, as if it were an ill-tempered griffin, warily reaching out to touch the knob.  No showers of sparks, no fanged mouth opening, no pit yawning beneath her feet.  Cool and round in her hand, turning easily and soundlessly.  Unlocked, even.  Now comes the trap, right?

She pushed the door open, and was immediately facing not only Philandra but three other students, along with their wands, drawn and ready.  Pointed directly at her.

A Phoenix Reborn, Part Two

"Accio Philandra's parchment!"  The scattered scrolls rolled up and flew at Spike, who made a special twisting flick to make them stop politely and hover in the air, rather than pelting her like spitballs.  Philandra retrieved the textbooks and set about sorting them out.

"I'm really sorry; I didn't see you there."

The other shrugged. "I should have been more careful; it's easy to get engrossed in . . ."  She stopped, realizing that the board was almost completely empty.  " . . . your thoughts."   They heard the squeaking voice of a house elf, and a low rumble in response, and turned to look.  That's not one of ours, thought Spike.  Even the proud old guard of house elves wears sparkling white teatowel togas, with a bright embroidered crest.  That raggedy thing looks like . . . well, like it's been used to mop up tea, and then left to dry stained.  Tea, and less pleasant substances.

The man accompanying it carried a walking stick, though he hardly needed something to lean on.  A half-mask cowl covered his face from the bridge of his nose to his shoulders, and while it moved like cloth when he turned his head, there was something metallic in its nature, as if it flowed soft when needed, but could harden in a second.  His hair was cornsilk fine, silver blond pale, and pin straight.  One of the Malfoy clan, then.  He wore it cropped close about his right ear, which was slightly pointed, with a shingle swinging on that side, and then long and flowing down the left.  A pair of silver beads above and below his right eyebrow caught the light and shimmered.

The house elf stopped at a cross-corridor, just beyond earshot.  They watched as it bowed and scraped, cringing a little, then the man swatted it out of the way with his walking stick.  Spike and Philandra stared at each other in shock.  No one would dare treat a house elf like that at Hogwarts.

"That's the way to the Headmistress's office," murmured Philandra.  "Do you think -- maybe we should --"

Spike frowned.  "She's hardly a house elf, though."  Serena Wroxton had a temper that belied her given name.  While she seldom lost control, she could reduce a student to a whimpering pile of jelly with a display of how hard she was working to keep her cool.  "I hardly believe she'd thank us for putting ourselves in jeopardy for no good purpose."

"But what if . . ." Philandra broke off.  "I have to run, or I'll be late.  Advanced Transfiguration studies."  And she was off down the corridor, heading for the staircases against the flow of traffic. 

Potions next, thought Spike, looking down at her textbooks.  She had spent hours preparing eighteen inches on the uses of moonstone and sweet clover in combination, and wanted to be certain it hadn't gotten wrinkled in the collision.  The title of the text in her arms read "Transfiguration and Transmogrification:  Case Studies for the Advanced Practitioner."

"Oh, no!  Philandra!   Philandra!!"  And Spike was running down the hall after the other student, waving her free arm and calling her name.

A Phoenix Reborn, Part One

Spike stopped and looked over her shoulder for a moment at the adult who had just hurried by.  Head down and hood up, on his?  Her? She couldn't tell, not under the heavy cloak and half-mask -- way to the Headmistress's office, swift scissoring strides making it clear that the was not a social call, and was not likely to be a pleasant visit, either.  Glad I'm not their kid, she thought, with a little shiver. 

Come to think of it though . . .  Hadn't she been seeing more and more strangers around campus lately?  Adults with hard eyes and carefully blank faces.  Some in masks of metal, some wearing masks of flesh.  They all seemed to know their way around, not a map or House elf among them to provide guidance.  Surely I would have heard about alumni festivities--  Spike turned around and headed for the walls just outside the Great Hall, where the announcements were posted.  She hated to miss a party.

Nothing, just the term's Quidditch schedule, and the usual warnings to the Muggle-born First Years not to purchase passes for the elevators or the shuttle bus to Hogsmeade.  Spike stared at the board as if she could will the information into appearing. Something's going on.  Something isn't right here, I can feel it.  She shook her head.  If I'm going to start setting store by glimmerings and fantods, I should chuck everything and declare a Divination major right now.  She stepped back to turn away from the board and slammed into Philandra Duntisbourne, an upperclass Gryffindor.  Rolls of parchment and schoolbooks went flying.

A Fascinating Hat

Spike looked over her parchment.  Short and sweet, she thought, fingering the Highest of Merit badge she had earned in History of Magic with her study of a wizarding fashion icon, and the fetching hat she had produced for the practical part of the homework.  But not too shabby, for all that.

Spike

Slytherin House

Inspired by a Wizarding Style Icon

Ulric the Oddball’s jellyfish was deemed passe by the Mannerists, especially those influenced by the Durmstrang school of Wizardry (the Ill Mannerists, as they were styled). One of them, a Zen monk as well as an artist, Rinpoche Kumi Himo, was said to have found enlightenment while swimming in the ocean and encountering a violent, orange cephalopod.

He was able to reason with the beast, and ever after they were found in communion, with the octopus riding the monk. I have created this fascinating hat in Rinpoche Himo’s memory.

In the immortal words of the master, “I have an octopus on my head. Your argument is irrelevant.”

She folded the parchment and pictures of herself into a small package to send home for Matya and Atyets.  They'll be so proud of me. The award would hang on the wall of her dormitory, and go home with her later, at break. 

A Treasured Object

At least Care of Magical Creatures should be fun,  Spike thought as she entered the stables.  I'm hoping to pick up some pointers for the creature I'm working to design for my OWL this term-- and she stopped dead when she saw what was waiting in the corral out back. 

The griffin's fierce, proud eyes met hers and seemed to see into her very soul, weighing her and finding her wanting.  It clawed at the ground with its lion's talons, tail lashing.  "So glad you could join us, Spike," drawled Professor Harkiss sardonically.  "Since you must know everything about the griffs, since you seem to feel free to skip the first five minutes of my carefully planned introduction, perhaps you can show us how to handle one." 

Spike started to explain that she was only late because  . . . and then realized it was hopeless.  Professor Harkiss was known to blow hot and cold towards those of her own House, perhaps to avoid accusations of favorites, or because she wanted to keep the Slytherins guessing where her allegiance lay at a given moment.  Spike rather suspected the latter, leavened with a heavy dose of particular pets within the House itself.  Harkiss never seemed to single out Pimpernelle for special attention.

She struggled to recall what she had read of the beasts, recall what she knew about handling large animals.  Perhaps if I start like I would one of the riding bears . . .  no direct eye contact, don't get too close at first . . .  She watched it sidelong as she approached, and when it started to bridle, she stopped where she was, bowed her head.  It spread its wings, bringing its head up and back, so she dropped a curtsey to hide the weakness in her knees, and not coincidentally, make herself a smaller target.   She saw its approach, slow and measured, lion's paws coming closer, then the top of its head as it bowed before her.

They appreciate treasure, she remembered.  Do I have anything special with me?  She reached into her book bag and pulled out a square that she had spent hours laboring over, working to get ti to come out just right.  Treasure and a combination of colors and textures -- perhaps this will speak to it somehow.  She offered it on an open palm.



The griffin sniffed at it, tipping its head to look carefully at her, its eye the size of her thumb, its hooked predator's beak inches from her hand.  Spike nodded to it.  Take it, if you want it.  Its wings flared out and then wrapped around the tow of them for an instant.  Spike sneezed from the dust that was stirred up and shaken loose.  The animal nipped up the square in its beak, then backed away, tucking it under one wing. 

Spike stayed where she was for a long moment, then stood and returned to the ring of students.  Professor Wigworthy had joined the class, and when she saw Spike she broke off a hissed conference with Harkness.  One of the Squib animal handlers came to lead the griffin away, and another, a tawny creature with mild blue eyes, took its place.  Wigworthy put one hand on Spike's shoulder.  "Walk with me," the Ravenclaw said sharply, and Spike meekly followed.  Now what?  The flobberworm tanks?  I wasn't all that late . . .

When they were out of earshot, the professor spun Spike around to look at here carefully.  "Hands," she demanded, and Spike obediently showed her, palms up.  "You're all right then?"

"Yes . . ."

"I don't know what they were thinking, bringing out a broody griffin for a class of Second Years.  That's Master's level work, that is.  You're sure you're . . ."

Broody?  "Is she . . . with  . . ."  Do they lay eggs?  Do they have live young?  Some of both, heaven help us?

"Yes."  All concern for the student vanished in the joy of a teaching opportunity.  "One of the first to actually mate in captivity.  We have such high hopes for the possibility of being able to replenish the world's shrinking population, but we have to get a breeding program started after all . . .  Did she take something from you?  I thought I saw something when the two of you were communing."

Spike explained about the blanket square.  "So I thought -- did I do something wrong?"

Wigworthy thought it over. "I don't see how that could hurt," she said, tapping her front teeth with one fingernail.  "Tell you what -- and I probably shouldn't even offer to do this -- but if you're willing to cut your lunch hour short by just a bit -- we could stop by the griffin's aerie and see what she's made of your . . . offering."

The remainder of class seemed to drag by, and not just because the new griffin seemed placid by comparison.  Wigworthy waited next to the gate, and Spike maneuvered to be the last student out. Not too difficult; most of them were more interested in what had been laid out in the Great Hall than they were in sticking around after class. 

It wasn't quite what Spike had expected --they looked into a ball on a plinth, rather than making the climb to the aerie, but Spike supposed that made sense, in order not to disturb the animals.  Wigworthy hummed a little aimless tune under her breath as she focused in, something that went around and around like a lullaby.  Spike found herself breathing to its soothing rhythm, drifting peacefully.

"Ah, here she is.  And look!"  The griffin was lying down, head on her front paws, wings folded, somewhere between cat and dragon as she slept wrapped around an egg bigger than Spike's head.  Laid carefully and neatly over the egg was the blanket square. 

"A treasured object to protect her greatest treasure."  Wigworthy held up a fist, and Spike fought to keep from ducking away.  She said I hadn't . . . oh.  Ravenclaw thing.  Tentatively, Spike made a fist and tapped knuckles with the professor. 

"I understand you're sitting Care of Magical Creatures this term."  Spike nodded, and Wigworthy continued, "Please consider our library open and available to you, and my office door open any time.  I think you may have a special aptitude for this, and I'd like to see it developed further."

Spike thought about her OWL, the flasks and vats down in the semi-abandoned Potions lab where she did most of her work.  The tubes, the incubators; the scalpels, forceps, retractors.  The ingredients she had had to concoct out of raw materials, the equipment she had had to obtain at the glassblowers in Knockturn Alley, that she had to order from Durmstrang.  "I'll . . . do that, Professor Wigworthy."  Well, this was what she had come for.  Might as well make the most of it.

Lumpy, Bumpy, Irregular

The asteroid belt.  Spike sighed, crossed out yet another opening line on the parchment.  It, like so many others, looked so good, and ultimately led nowhere.  After sitting for her Astronomy OWL last term, with all of the commensurate excitement of nearly failing it at midterms, only to pull off a nigh miracle at the last possible minute, astronomy the class was proving to be somewhat less . . . interesting.  Perhaps I should have sat for History of Magic first . . . then she reconsidered her plans for the next term, assuming her OWL passed muster this term.  No, there are no boring OWLs.  "Too bad the same cannot be said for classes," she grumbled. 

Sascha looked up from the game he was playing in the corner with a rubber ball and mouse skulls.  Spike had seen him at it before, a game of speed and dexterity.  Plus it helped to have enormous hands.  "What the problem is?" he asked, scooping up the full dozen in one grab and pocketing them.

"Oh, it's just hard to get inspired over a bunch of lumpy rocks floating around in space."  Spike picked up her quill, spun it in lazy circles, then dropped it again.  "They're  . . . lumpy, bumpy, and irregular.  They fly around like rocks, tumbling over and over.  They're BORING."

"Huh.  So make something lumpy, bumpy and irregular, yah?  Crumple up de page so --" he demonstrated with the parchment and its struck-through lines, disregarding Spike's squeal of outrage, "--mebbe tear it some around de edges --"

"Sascha!"  She grabbed for it, but he held it up out of reach.

"--and add a leetle color." He splashed it with wine, mustard, and balsamic vinaigrette from the dinner tray the elves hadn't whisked away yet.  "Now.  Lumpy, bumpy, irregular.  Do you essay on dis."  And he walked away, humming something under his breath. 

Spike looked at the stained, ragged, crumpled parchment in despair. I can't write on that.  I can't turn something in on that!  I can't . . . but this is also a school of magic.  What do I have a wand for, after all?  She squared her shoulders.  I can use this idea.

At class the next day, the professor was forced to concede that Spike's submission did indeed exhibit all the characteristics of the asteroid belt. "That is, lumpy, bumpy, and irregular.  Nicely played."  Spike smiled, thinking about how after class, she would show Sascha how it also flew, much like the stones of the asteroids.  Best work on your ducking speed, Sascha.

A Charmed Memory

It was a glorious spring morning -- the heather was beginning to blossom, the bees were waking up, and the gardens beckoned.  Spike picked up a cherrywood single wand and her Charms homework, going outside to work al fresco.  A parchment on a much loved person, to keep them close to you no matter the distance between you.

Sitting under a tree in the dappled shade, she thought back to an earlier time back home, sitting with her father's mother in the little gazebo she favored, under the vines in the back garden.  The area had been charmed with warmth, to keep it clear from snow even in the deepest winters.  It was always spring in Babushka's garden, she mused, the soft living heart of Schadelthron, tucked deep in the ribs of stone.

She had been a renowned witch of the single wand school of magic, turning her skills from enormous coverlets that stayed warm in the draftiest, drabbest seasons to cunning dolls and toys that tumbled and bounced in Spike's hands.  That was a wonderful day, when I was able to show her that I had learned a little of the single wand magic myself.  We sat together in the gazebo, casting together.  She was working a complex Transfiguration, changing and vanishing it piece by piece, and I  . . . I was doing Charms, wasn't I?  A simple charm, but with lightness to it.

Spike peered at the fiery heart that burned in the center of the parchment, with its Slytherin green surround.  Much like this one.  Her hands worked automatically, surrounding the center with a lattice that recalled the boards of the gazebo.



I inherited her parchments and notes when she went beyond the veil, along with many of her tools. She held up the wand, squinting at it.  In fact, this was one . . .  For a moment, she could feel the older woman's soft, wrinkled, tissue-paper hand in hers.

A Pair of Socks

Dmitri opened the door to the lab, peered cautiously inside.  The usual warning sign on the door not to look in with the remaining eye wasn't posted, but Little Mistress was known to be somewhat absent minded when the muse was on her.  The lab smelled faintly of butterbeer, bone marrow, yarrow, and red clover.  *Safe enough.  Nothing flammable, nothing explosive.*  "Leedle Mees?  You has company."  He gently nudged his knee-high companion in through the gap.

Spike swiveled on the high stool to see a young house-elf creeping across the floor.  He wore a tattered faded Hogwarts t-shirt clearly cast off from a student's winnowings, and a stocking cap . . . no, an actual stocking on his head, the leg and foot wrapped around his neck like a liripipe.  She put three fingers to her mouth to hide her smile, coughed as a pretext. 

"That's a bad cough you have, Miss Spike.  I could get you . . ."  It's voice was high and piping, not broken yet.  *A young house-elf, then.  That explains the clothing.  Rebelling and shocking with its willingness to actually wear the real article; still within the pale by wearing them not quite right.*

"No, no, just a momentary tickle from the dust and damp."  She cleared her throat to prove it.  "No matter how you try, entropy will have its way," she added, as the elf's ears began to droop at the implied criticism.  "So!  You didn't come down to discuss housekeeping, you would have just apparated in, if that were the case.  What do you want?"

The elf stared at its bare, knobby feet, like calloused, chilblained potatoes, and mumbled something.

"Excuse me?"

He stared up at her earnestly.  "Socks, Missy.  Wibble wants socks."

"But -- Doesn't the SPEW Crew leave plenty lying about the castle . . ."  She pointed at Wibble's head.  He sighed. 

"Wibble wants  . . . Wibble . . ." he swallowed hard.  Spike wondered at how difficult it must be for a slave race to express desire for anything, any wish that would imply an ego that was capable of things like desire.  *I am not a thing that makes decisions,* she thought, and shivered.  "Wibble wants crocheted socks," he finished, a flash of defiance creeping into his eyes, then quickly extinguished.  "If that's all right," he finished, looking back at the floor.

Spike looked at the retort.  *It was going to have to simmer for an hour undisturbed, and having something to do with her hands would keep her from poking at it.  Plus, having a house elf owe her a favor  . . . yes, this could be useful on several fronts.*  "Dobby style, right?"  Wibble's eyes glittered tearfully for a second, and he nodded.

A scant hour later, the socks were complete, Wibble was sitting on the bench admiring his newly clad feet, and Spike was diligently stirring her potion, twelve deosil, fifteen widdershins, and thirteen figure of eight, reversing the center cross each time.

Wibble started to say farewell, then thought better of it.  He simply stood, turned on one heel -- *Warm!  Finally warm!* -- and vanished.

Animal, Vegetable, Mineral

Spike dug through her stash, hunting for just the right ingredients to bring with her to Potions.  The assignment was to bring something that was less than satisfactory and re-work it into a more pleasing configuration.  "Sometimes," Professor Halliwell had drawled from beneath the black-draped portrait of Severus Snape, "One simply must work with what fate has handed one.  It is not always possible to obtain the freshest possible wolfsbane harvested under the exact moment of the zenith of the full moon at the time of the plant's most auspicious potency.  Sometimes, one simply takes what the market offers, and then it is the skill of the witch or wizard that determines the ultimate success of the spell."

She knew she had something perfect in her pile, the only issue was finding it . . . ah-ha.  She pulled out three amalgamations, making a face as she did so. 

The balls of annoyance.  She had been delighted with the colors when she beheld them in the shop window, the yellow of the citrine, the auburn of the fox's fur, the brown of the oak gall.  She had attempted spellwork with them several times, and each time, the battle between the organic and mineral (not to mention the wrestling match between the plant and animal) had torn the spell apart.  "I need to create harmony between these divergent components," she sighed, as she began dismantling their current form and preparing them for Potions.  

 In the laboratory, Spike pondered the materials available. 

A very basic Potions kit, she noted, with an irritated acceptance.  You're not an ickle Firstie any more, she reminded herself.  You need to be up for more challenging work.  If you can't get the finest, best-quality ingredients to start with, then why would you expect to have a complete catalog at your fingertips?  What can you do with what's in your hand, Schadelthron?

She sighed, picked up the chunk of resin.  This will resonate with the citrine, and bring the oak gall some brightness.  Into the cauldron.  Next, the dove's blood, for warmth, and a drop of the lake water.  Water brings harmony to disparate elements, as the universal solvent, and the element of patience.  She tested her mixture on a scrap of parchment.

 Yes.  Yes, that should work. 

She added acid to the mix, then carefully lowered her disparate ingredients into the potion, holding her breath.  Nothing to do but to wait while it simmers. 

Once the wandwork was complete -- the stirrings carefully timed, sunwise so many times, doesil so many more, figure eights, infinities, with the carefully counted paused between -- Spike removed her ingredients from the vat and hung them to dry in the sunlight.

She had to admit, once she returned to collect her property, that they had come out well.  The amber and blood had warmed the oak gall, smoothed the citrine's edges, and the water had calmed the fox's fur.  The new ingredients shone brightly together, chiming softly when she stroked it with one fingertip.  She didn't know what she would create with the new ingredients, but they would be magnificent.  

A "Better" Owl

After the welcoming feast and sorting whirl had died down, and the Pit was settling in for their first night back at Hogwarts, Spike was occupied and occupying one of the larger tables in the laboratory, burning the midnight oil with plans for the term.  Dmitri found her there after lights-out, scribbling away, with her head propped on one ink-stained hand.

"Five more minutes," she grumbled when she heard the door creak open.  He pried the quill out of her cramped hand, massaging the fingers to get her to let go. 

"Bedtime," he growled firmly, sweeping her papers into a stack and rolling them up.  "Gonna be breakfast in a couple hours, then classes.  You don' wanna be sleeping through classes, do you?  Like ickle firstie who don' know when 'nough's 'nough."

"But I'm not -- " A jawbreaking yawn swallowed whatever Spike was not.  "Besides, I have that OWL to propose.  Just another five minute would let me . . ."

"Nother five minutes have you sleeping here in de chair.  Tell me 'bout it on de way up; be de same as making more notes to youself."

"It's that multipart OWL," she said, allowing herself to be taken by the arm and helped out of the chair.  "See, regular owls are always getting in trouble, especially the smaller ones.  They fight with hawks when they have to fly in the day, they're prey for cats.  We need tougher owls, owls that can see in the light as well as the dark; stronger, bigger owls that can carry more without getting tired."

"Hmmm."  The light had been turned out, the door closed behind them, and now they were starting up the stairs.  Hopefully, explaining her project would keep her distracted enough to keep from noticing that she was being chivvied off to sleep until her head hit the pillow.  Monologuing, the key to keeping a master happy.

"So I want to . . ." she stopped on the stairs, suddenly bone-weary.  Dmitri picked her up, barely breaking stride.  "Want to build a better owl," she mumbled into his shoulder. 

"How you gonna do dat?"

"I'll build an owl out of at least three different beasts.  Like when Dr. Wolfgang built you Hounds.  That's what I was talking with him about, back home, how he put you together using the one template.  Start with a man, make him stronger, faster, give him enhanced hearing and smell.  Like that.  But with an owl."

For a moment, the steps dropped out from under his feet as he listened to Spike sleepily outlining her plans.  The stairs in the dungeon seemed to be playing tricks along the lines of the great staircases above, swinging slowly around, gaping holes opening suddenly, risers going flat and slick under his boots.  As the shadowed world finally solidified around him again, he found himself asking the unspeakable question.  The one that no good minion would ever dream of giving voice to.

"But mistress -- why would you do such a thing?"