For Your Friendship, Concluded

He laughed, a bitter laugh that hinted at a snarl concealed.  A growl lightly coated with black humor.  “You gots de justifications in place.  Now all you needs is the speech that ends with ‘Fools!  I will crush you all!’ and you be ready, hey?”

Spike flinched.  She'd had enough family history to know that anything that started out that way presaged a very bad end indeed.  But she'd also sworn an oath, promised with her life's breath that she wouldn't tell about the newly hatched Order of the Phoenix Reborn.  And anyone who'd take one oath lightly, she thought, and in that, she had it.

"Sascha, I promise that if I were able to explain what I was doing, and why I was doing it, why I had to use the bird the way I did, that I would."  He raised an eyebrow, and she took his hand.  "But to do that, I would have to break another promise.  That would leave us in a bad way, because . . . because I think if you knew what I was doing, you'd feel compelled to stop me -- or at least to make me promise that I'd conscript my behavior to the safer paths -- and how could you trust my word after that?"  His ears laid back flat against his head for a second, then moved back to neutral.  "If you see another way, please help me find it."

"So . . . necessary, was it?"  She nodded, showed him the bandage on her finger where she'd drawn the drops of blood to finish giving it the right smell.  He looked at it closely, seeing the tiny red fleck that had come through the gauze.  The fire in his eye died, and his shoulders slumped. "Necessary like the monster you building for the OWL?"

She sighed, shook her head.  "The OWL . . . the OWL is because I can.  Yeah, hubris, I know, I know.  'Fools! I will crush you all!' and all that.  This . . . this really does have a higher purpose in mind, and there's a team counting on me.  Watching out for me.  I'm responsible to others who will help me stay on the straight and narrow.  I think . . . I think that if I could tell you all about it, you three would be proud of me."  Scared out of your minds for me, terrified of what Atyets would do if you slipped and I fell out of your hands like an egg on the flagstones,  but proud.

He leaned down, picked a flower, turning it over in his huge square hands, examining the tiny florets carefully.  Running one finger over the texture of the petaled bells.  "So.  Promise me one thing."

"If I can."

"When you can talk about this, do.  Tell all three of us.  We can watch you, guide you, but we gots to know where you going.  And right now, it looks like you going a very bad way indeed."

"Right off the cliff, where the villagers wait below with torches and pitchforks."  She stood up, brushing the leaves and mulch off her robes.  "I promise.  If and when I am free to tell you about  . . . what I'm doing and why, I will."

Later that night, as a token of her promise, she crafted a square out of purple. Purple for unity, purple for hyacinths, purple for a bruised heart, and hung it on the wall by the door to her rooms.  

For Your Friendship, Part Two

Outside the castle, at the end of the bridge over the lake, Spike took a deep shivering breath.  Where would Sascha go, to think things over?  To be alone for a time.  Where would I go?  And in that thought, she had it.  The hyacinth glade.

Some time ago, probably before the time of the Second Wizarding War, someone with a gift for wild Herbology had planted little grape hyacinths in a sheltering grove of oak trees.  Just enough sun to let the little flowers live, enchanted to keep them warm and blooming year-round.  Even in the deepest winter, the little glade was sweet smelling and warm, with no snow on the ground.  You had to know where it was; the track led you all around the Forbidden Forest to the side furthest from Hogwarts.  Sascha had picked up a boulder from the south field and carried it on one shoulder, "borrowed" some tools from a dusty broom closet, and carved himself a reasonable seat there where he could enjoy the flowers.

Spike herself found it restful and peaceful, the lovely purple and green, the filtered light gently coming through the trees, the candy scented air.  A good place to bring parchment and quill to chew on a particularly knotty problem, drafting and redrafting a solution to something that did not have an easy answers.  Like now, for instance.

She squared her shoulders.  Nothing to it, but to do it.  Easy to say, harder to live.  When she found a hatchling spider on the path, barely the size of her hand, she nodded and bade it an absent good day.  Thinking she would rather be confronting Aragog than going to have this conversation.

His back was to the path where it entered the clearing, his bright apricot blond ringlets bound with a bit of ribbon.  Black today, to match the piping on his charcoal grey livery.  Tomorrow, it might well be lime green, to go with the violet.  Sunset orange, with the blue, or cream with the hot pink.

He'd heard her coming, she could see it in the way he was sitting, tensed and alert.  Probably smelled me, too.  The gentle breeze had been at her back for the past several minutes, prying gently at the cardigan she'd pulled over her robes.  She took two steps to her left, to approach from the good side, and called, "Sascha?"

He turned his head, and she could see tear tracks down that cheek.  "Little mistress.  Beg pardon if I don't get up."

She came closer, walking slowly.  "Sascha, I'm . . . I'm sorry."  He turned away, staring off into the middle distance, and she crouched next to his stone chair.  She looked up into his face, which seemed barely less cold and hard than the rock he perched on.

"What for?"  His voice was hoarser than usual, gruff with emotion.  "Just a bird, yah?  A thing to be used and thrown away."

She put a hand on his knee, and a moment later, leaned her head against his leg.  "I'm sorry because of what I didn't know; sorry because of the things I can't tell you. I hurt you in ways I don't really understand; I betrayed some of what you thought of me."

"Thought mebbe you would help.  Doing work late at night all alone in the labs below the Pit with the other animals, thought mebbe . . .  ah, don't matter what I thought, do it?  Just big stupid lump of muscle, a brick.  Useful tool, to be used and  . . ."

Spike felt hot all over for a moment, the world skidding into redness.  Did he really think-- and then she recalled the history lesson she'd just learned.  Yes.  A thing to be used.  Like a brick being used to fortify a wall, to keep a door open, to open a window.  Didn't Atyets often mutter "That's what the Hounds are for?" when a minister would advise of some peacekeeping that needed to be attended to in one corner or another of the dukedom?

But and but and but . . .  These were her Hounds, these three whose faces were more familiar than her parents', certainly than her own.  "Ah, by all the gods, Sascha, I wish there was something I could say, some way I could explain that the bird wasn't just useful.  That its end had a higher purpose -- but isn't that what they all say?"  She looked up at him, and now he had turned to look back down at her.  The metal embedded in the scars not covered by the eyepatch gleamed dully in the light.  "That the end justifies the means?"

For Your Friendship, Part One

Spike took a long deep breath, let it out slowly, looking at Totenberg in a new light.  A not entirely flattering light.  Their calm firmness that she'd always counted on suddenly seemed dark and grim, foreboding and dangerous.  A cave can be a safe hiding place, or lead to endless darkness where no one can hear you screaming.  She had relied on them for shelter and protection all these years, never considering the other side of what protection meant.  "So what do I do now?"  Her  voice felt very small in her mouth.

A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.  "Depends.  You gots loyal servant in Sascha.  He don't got a choice in that matter.  Can leave it at that; he be back by nightfall.  His turn outside the door, after all."  Even when they were home in Schadelthron, the trio always arranged themselves the same way.  One outside the door, one inside against the wall, and one at the foot of her bed.  It was just the way things had always been, and now Spike could see the genesis of the plan.  Always know what was on the other side of the closed door.

"Or," he continued, "you could go tell him you and I, we talk, and you understand better now.  Tell him you wish you could have fixed -- is true, yah?"  Spike nodded, slowly.  She would have fixed it if she could have.  A broken wing?  Sure, just a matter of coaxing bones back to the right place, binding muscle around them, clean up the bleeding.  A broken neck, with the light slowly fading?  The little she had learned and been able to piece together would have had a thing that flapped and screamed endlessly, but never flew or sang again. "Be his friend as well as his mistress.  Tell him why.  Or at least as much as you willing to tell of why."  He raised an eyebrow, looking at her long and hard.  "Cause there more than you saying, I thinks."

Spike flinched, trying to keep it off her face.  When she was little it seemed as if the Hounds could read her mind.  She'd learned since that it was more a matter of attention to details, such as the incriminating smears of chocolate on her apron, but even now it was spooky how they picked up on what was unsaid.  "There is more," she said slowly, "but I can't really tell you about it now."

"Would Hogwarts approve?  Or you doing some wild work on you own again?"

Hogwarts the staff would almost certainly not approve, Spike thought, with a chill down her spine, imagining trying to explain to Headmistress Wroxton about the false Horcruxes and the Order of the Phoenix Reborn.  Hogwarts the castle on the other hand . . . that certainly seemed to approve of the work being done.  Perhaps its years standing and observations of the students was more acute than the long-lived, but mortal witches and wizards administrating the education.  Or perhaps it was simply ignorant of the failings of flesh.  She chose the safer answer.

"It's not wild work, per se, and it's not on my own," she hedged.  "But at the same time, I'm not exactly free to talk about it just yet."

He steepled his fingers, resting his chin on his thumbs, fingers across his lips as if to urge silence.  "Maybe later, then.  Right now, though, I think you need to talk with Sascha.  Is what you Atyets would do."

Spike nodded, pushing her chair back.  "Thanks.  For the advice, the history lesson, and for your trust."  Halfway to the door, she stopped, turned back, and hugged him tightly where he sat, her head on a level with his.  "Most of all, for your friendship."

A History Lesson, Concluded

He decided.  Time she knows.  "Not quite.  You know how many gets lost in the process?  Either don't survive the Draught, or don't complete the Change?"  She shook her head.  "Nine in ten.  Of the ones who breathe at the end, nine of those have to be put down -- can't remaster the body, or don't have a mind left."  He took a deep shuddering breathe, remembering the agony as bone melted and flesh flowed, the vivid hallucinatory qualities that smell and sound took on during brief flickers that slowly flowed together.  The first timeless time where his limbs were too long, the lights too bright, everything crashing in on him and crushing him beneath the weight of the world.

His voice was gentle as he finished, "So.  Think.  One in one hundred is still useful at the end.  Terrible waste, yes?"

Spike sat for a moment, then looked up at him. "It's a death sentence."  Her voice and eyes were flat.

"With a slim chance of beating the hangman, yah."

Her brows knit together.  "But -- you still serve the family."

He spread his arms.  "How we run?  How we hide?"  With a wry smirk, he continued, "Can hide brands, peel off tattoos, cut collars.  But this -- this pretty damn obvious."

"That's slavery!"

"Nah, has a choice.  Can drink the Hundsbrau and take your chances, or can climb the scaffold.  Isn't a bad life.  We all has cages, even you."

"Cages?"  But thinking a little further, she could see the point.  She was at school, free to do as she would -- within the confines of doing well at her lessons, learning the skills she would need.  Would need in order to get into a cage of bigger expectations, she realized, where she would be free to do as she pleased so long as she bore an heir and a spare, and did whatever other work she was called to do.  "Cages."

"When you Atyets decided that his infant daughter would have an honor guard, he also determined that we would be bonded to you as tightly as we was already bonded to him.  So he had the Doktor help out with some conditioning to protect Little Mistress."  He closed his eyes for a moment, turned his head away.  "Ensured we'd be safe to watch over you, never be turned from our duty." His claws scratched the wood of the table as the hairs at the nape of his neck prickled.

"Took longer for Sascha.  Bit harder for him than for me and Dimcha."  He shrugged, quickly, as is warding off a blow from behind.  "We had childer, way back in the beyond, before we were changed.  Already knew what it was to have piece of our hearts walking around outside our bodies.  Made a channel there, all that needed to happen was to clean the detritus of time out and let if flow again."

"So Sascha . . ."

"Took broader and deeper -- anything small and helpless and hurt."  He looked back at her, nodded gravely.  "He believe in you, Little Mistress.  Maybe have more faith in you than you do, at this point.  You grow into the magicker he think you are, you be powerful indeed.

"Which is why he ask you to fix, to make it all be all right again, when he find something small and hurt."

The penny dropped for Spike. "Oh, by all the absent gods."

"Take it you didn't fix, just now."

"Oh, Totenberg.  I couldn't fix; no one could have fixed. I had to . . . end.  You know.  Sometimes . . ."

He nodded.  He'd had to end more than once himself.

"But I thought -- I thought he was just gentle.  Like a child himself.  So I didn't want to confuse or hurt him be explaining that --"  she closed her teeth on the last words.  The Order of the Phoenix was supposed to be secret.  Her secret.  Something she couldn't -- didn't -- share with anyone.  "--That it was already dead and just didn't know it yet.  That it was dying by inches -- by miles! -- All I did was make the hard part stop."  For a bigger purpose.  She put one hand on the table between them, begging him to understand.

He looked at it for a long moment, finally laid his hand atop hers, completely engulfing it.  "I know you mean good.  Just watch that meaning and action remain in tandem, yah?  Too easy to stand in the ashes after, saying 'But I meant well, why can't you see that?' as the survivors come marching with pitchforks and torches."

"But -- "

"But Uncle Vasily meant well, didn't he?  Wanted the throne to pass to a successor who was powerful and could not only keep it, but expand.  Wanted to keep the family strong."

"I don't know, I never actually met him.  Just cousin Rezno, once."  She frowned.  "If Vasily thought a girl was too weak to hold Scahdelthron, how would he have expected someone in leg braces and a cane to --" She stopped in midthought, staring at Totenberg over one hand covering her face.

He read the message in her wide eyes and pale skin.  "Just so.  Just as Sascha meant well when he stopped the plotting.  Be careful what you do if you can't undo it once done."

A History Lesson, Part One

Spike left the Horcrux on the bench and hurried up the stairs.  Maybe I can catch him and explain.  Behind her, the slug picked it up and carried it away to hide it somewhere in the castle.

Totenberg was in the main room, seated at the table in the sturdiest chair.  He'd broken one of the spindly Heppelwhites during her first term there. He'd permanently collected a chair from Hagrid's cabin, and used that when he needed a place that wasn't on the green velvet chaise lounge.

"Have you seen Sascha?"

"Went out for walk.  More like 'stomp', actually."  He had been sharpening his boot knife with a strap and oil, honing the already keen edge.  He put it back in its sheath, pushed the paraphernalia aside.  "Something happen."  He leaned back in his chair, one arm over the back, opposite hand resting on his wrist, head cocked as he regarded her silently.

Spike took the seat next to him, toying with the leather, fiddling with the bottle of oil, string at her hands as if they were little scurrying animals acting on their own.  She turned the problem over and over in her head, toying with it the same way she toyed with the sharpening kit.

A long moment passed.  Totenberg took pity on his mistress.  "Funny thing," he said, eyes fixed on the middle distance, "that someone with such a tender heart should be set to guard the sole heir, yah?  The sole female heir, at that."

Spike nodded.  She couldn't look him in the eye; ashamed of what she had done.  And that was part of being like the Doctor, wasn't it?  Part and parcel; knowing what you were going to do would cause hurt in the name of helping.  The ends justifying the means.  She shivered.  No wonder he lived apart, with only his loyal creations for company.  Surrounded by mirrors; he never sees himself reflected in someone else's eyes.

"Caused some problems in the extended family, you being born a girl, being born later in life to you parents.  Not that you could help that, especially.  But the line of succession, the endless calculations and machinations, and you was so small.  Wasn't a strong baby. Was just a girl child, at that, a weak little girl child, too frail to hold power, never mind keep it, never mind grow it, yah?   Some talk of . . . ah, trying again, of erasing the past, you follow?"  Spike blanched, and he nodded.  "Just so.  You Uncle Vasily and coz Rezno, they louder than most.  Rezno had been first in line behind you Atyets, had had that lucky place for ten years.  Big boy, Rezno, strong like bull.  And Vasily smart.  Clever man.  Cunning man.  Full of plots and plans, that one was.

"You Atyets, though, he keep what is his close.  And you was certainly his.  His magicker daughter.  So he thought about it, when he heard the thunder in the distance, thought about it long and hard.  How to protect this wee chick?  And he thought of us, of his Hounds.

"You know how we made, right?'  Spike blinked at the sudden change in subject, but tried to follow.

"It's potion based," she said, slowly. "You drink the potion, and the transformation begins."

"Mmm. Try again, you know how we selected to be made, right?"

Spike brightened.  Everyone knows that.  "You're chosen from among the best and brightest of the warriors.  The strongest, cleverest, bravest.  When age or damage sets in, and you can no longer serve, you're given the option to retire, or to drink the Hound's Draft.  A second life, as it were, an opportunity to continue doing what you're best at.  A second life, full of vitality, power, and purpose."

Totenberg kept his face still.  He'd had a lot of practice at that, first from playing cards when he was enlisted, then after the Change while he worked to re-learn the unfamiliar muscles, where nothing was exactly as it should have been.  What a pretty fairy tale.  Do I have the right to dispel that?  To tell her the whole and honest truth?

Feathers and Betrayal

Spike twisted the bronze chain through her fingers, idly weaving cat's cradles with it.  A diadem, she thought.  Leave it to the Ravenclaws to have to use a fancy and particular name for a thing -- not a coronet, not a crown, not a tiara, no.  A diadem.  "What's the bloody difference, anyway?"  she muttered.

It had seemed like a good idea when she joined the gang in purple, the Order of the Phoenix Reborn.  A chance for mischief, an opportunity to foment some chaos.  To be the wrench in the wheel of the Knights of Walpurgis, safe behind the shield of youth and inexperience.  Making false Horcruxes to bring a schism into the unified Knights, to break them into factions that would trust that someone was strong enough to take the place of Voldemort and seek the banner to gather under, and to create another faction distrusting their own magical senses.  Meanwhile, this keeps their energies diverted and has the group acting at cross-purposes.  She sighed, looking at the clutter of unfinished practicals awaiting her attention.  Trouble is, it's diverting my energies, too.

She laid the chain down, twisting it into a series of loops.  It looks almost like a crown from this angle . . . if I could get it to hold steady . . .  Sascha broke into the room, something cradled in his hands.  "It flew into a window," he said. "Sorry to be disturbing, but, can fix?"  He held out the bluebird, beak open as it gasped for air.

Spike looked it over, from the splayed wings as it lay on its back, toes grasping an imaginary branch.  Its eyes still had a little light, but they weren't seeing anything. Its heart shook under the white feathers of its breast.  Its head lolled in his palm.

She shook her head.  I hate to do this in front of him . . . but I need it to complete the Horcrux.  "Give it here."

He handed it over, and she placed it gently on top of the looped chain.  "I'm sorry," she whispered, and it was over.  She pricked her finger and dabbed the blood, watching as the blue and bronze Horcrux formed.

"It had no chance, Sascha," she explained.  To him, and to the remaining feather that had fallen from the bird.  "It was gone in essence when it fell from the window; it was dead but didn't know it yet.  There wasn't any fixing, just ending.  You understand, don't you?"  Silence.

"Don't you?"  She turned, pleading, but saw only the empty room, the door left standing open.

One More Ring

Spike stared at her notes.  Hopeless.  It’s all hopeless. They might as well be written in Gibberish for all the good they were doing.  The slug crept up onto the table, took a deep swig of her beer.  Its lips moved as it read over what she was working on.

Spike swatted at it absently.  “Get off there.”  A horcrux that would fool the casual Death Eater into believing it was the Ring Horcrux.  Just for long enough to send them on a wild goose chase after the thing, track it down in the belief that their dark master – or his equivalent – had arisen to carry on the purge of the Second Wizarding War.  “No, of course that’s not too much to ask of yourself,” she grumbled.  “Surely you could have that completed by teatime, and a cure for the nargles by bed.”

Rings  . . . what did she know about rings? The slug crept across the table, oozed down the leg, and out the door.  “I made you to help me,” she accused at its retreating back over her shoulder, and then returned to her parchment.  Behind her, unseen, it rolled its eyestalks, and continued on its errand. 

Off to eat the daisies, no doubt.  “They’re round.  They go on fingers.  They can turn you invisible, three for the elves, seven for the dwarves, nine for men.  Uhm.”  She drummed her fingers on the table.  “Gaunt had a ring that was treasured and important to him, which was why Riddle chose it to house a piece of his soul.  So it has to be something . . . special.  Something unusual.”  She poked at her supplies with a wand.

“I suppose I could go shopping at Borgin and Burkes . . . but I’d still need to get a pass to leave campus, as an underclassman.  This would be so much easier if I were a Third Year.”

Something clattered on the table, and Spike turned to see the slug goggling hopefully up at her.  It nudged a pale plastic ring a little closer to her, and she picked it up, smiling a little. 

“I haven’t thought about this in ages.  I found it in a box of treats back when I was little.  I used to pretend it was  . . . special.  Magical.”  She peered through the center hole, tossed it and caught it in one hand.  “I wonder if enough pretense could have invested it with just a little –“ Yes.  It tingled a little, there in her palm.  Well.

“Worth a shot.”  She cast a geminio and had four rings, all with the same little tickle of magic.  “That should be enough, if I bind them together.  Enough to feel substantial, right?”

With a little wand work, the rings were twisted and intertwined, and she and the slug examined them, lying on the table.

“Now all I need is a little death to give it the right flavor.”  She sighed, and the slug flinched.  “I don’t suppose you could –“ and the slug ran, squeezing into a small crack in the wall.  “Wait!  I didn’t mean you!”  She heard a squealing shriek from within the walls, and the gastropod reappeared, clutching a rat by the scruff of the neck.  In a moment, Spike had it by the tail, and the deed was done. 

She added a drop of her own blood to the joined rings; wiped her hands on a rag, shivering.  I don’t know that I could ever take the Dark Mark.  I can’t see ever being comfortable with taking the light out of a person, if doing a rat in is like this. 

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.