A Table Turned (Part Three)

Spike glanced at her watch. Blatherskites!: She was going to miss the train unless she hurried up and got to the station. No time to go to the Lion’s Lair to see what last-minute goodies were being handed in.

Running through the station, she nearly collided with Begonia Hoddington, the Gryffindor prefect, who caught her by her shoulders. “Are you okay, Duntisbourne?” she asked. She looked at the firstie a little longer. Something’s not right here … “Why are you out of uniform?”

Spike looked down at the green–trimmed under robes peeking out from the regulation black. “I … uhm …”
“And your hair looks greenish. Have you been swimming in the lake again?”

“Well … it’s like this …” and then the last of the effects of the polyjuyice potion faded away. Spike saw the green of her hair fade slowly in, replacing Philandria’s noney-blonde ringlets. “Oh, blazing basilisk butt!” she snarled in frustration.

“That,” said Hoddington, “means detention.” She plucked a stalk of Queen Anne’s Lace from where it clung to Spike’s robes.



And the two walked slowly to Detention, where Dolores Umbridge waited.

A Table Turned (Part Two)

"Philadria Duntisbourne" dashed into the classroom, clutching a small bouquet of transfigured Queen Anne’s Lace with a green tassle. “I picked these especially for you, Professor,” she said, presenting the finished project . “Daucus Carota, an umbelliferous plant. This is the pink variation—quite uncommon.”



Professor Harkiss took the bouquet from the firstie and smiled. “I’d hear you wanted to learn to crochet,” she said, “and what a nice job you’ve done! Now, of course, if a Slytherin was to hand in such a little project …” she left the sentence menacingly unfinished.

Philandria curtseyed gracefully. “Thank you ever so much, Professor,” she said brightly, rising and turning to leave.

Harkiss waved to the firstie’s retreating back, wondering for a moment if being surrounded by all the greenery wasn’t affecting her eyes. She could have sworn for a moment that the Griffindor was wearing green-trimmed robes …

A Table Turned (Part One)

It was the first day of spring. The weather was warm and lovely, and it was hard to focus on classwork and OWLs when the balmy breezes beckoned. Spike had meant to take a break only for a moment, and gone wandering in the meadows near (and, ahem, in) the Forbidden Forest, gathering flowers for a nosegay.


She realized just how long she had been rambling when she noticed the sunburn on her arms. Oh, dear. Back to the dungeons she went, tying a green tassel to the small bouquet of Queen Anne’s Lace. A quick swish and flick later, and it Transfigured into a lovely bookmark. Saves the trouble of pressing them, eh? She looked at it again, and sighed, shoulders sagging.



It’s not much, but maybe I can turn it in for Herbology. It’s a specimen of flora, after all. She shook her head. No, Professor Harkiss would have me scrubbing the squid’s lair with a toothbrush for weeks if I turn in something this small for one of HER classes. But I need the points and the complete—even a GRUDGING complete—to be eligible for the trip to St. Mungo’s. There’s got to be a way.






In the Dungeon, several classmates were standing around a cauldron, giggling. Spike recognized a few faces from the St. Mungo’s train. “What’s up?” she asked Hecuba Entwhistle.



“It’s the best idea ever,” Hecuba replied. “We’re using polyjuice to turn into members of other Houses to … forcibly borrow ideas for last-minute projects. All the points are belong to us!”



“Cool! Can I have a shot?” The glass was passed, and Spike frowned at the murky liquid inside. “Looks like it’s settled a bit …” She stirred it with the stems of the Queen Anne’s Lace-- “Spike! Wait!”




But too late. She’d downed it in a gulp.




A moment later, Philandra Duntisbourne stood in the Slytherin dungeon. She looked at the nosegay in her hand, looked at her reflection in the mirror … and smiled a very Slytherin smile.




“Brilliant!” She handed the empty shot glass back to Hecuba, and headed for the door.



“Where are you going?” Drusilla sneered.



“To the Griffindor Common Room, of course!” replied Spike, murmuring under her breath, “After a little detour to Herbology, that is.” Professor Harkiss can’t get too mad at a Griffindor firstie turning in a bitty project—especially since it’s crochet, and Philadra doesn’t crochet. It’ll be stretching her skills, right? And I’ll still get the points because it’s tagged with my name! Brilliant, simply brilliant.

Visiting Day Mishap

It was Visiting Day at Hogwarts, and the dungeons sparkled. The Not Quite First Years, whose names were on the list, but who had yet to go through the Sorting Ceremony, were being led on a tour of Hogwarts to visit each House in turn. "One of the many changes made after the Second Wizarding War," explained Heipzibah Gorre, the Head of Slytherin House. "Dumbledore himself remarked on it, but died too soon to really do more than vaguely and generally plant the seed. We grow, we change, we learn -- isn't that what this institution is for? Now we Sort every term, and we think we are the stronger for it. This term, you are Slytherin, but next term, you may be Hufflepuffs, or Gryffindors, even. Yesterday's rival is today's companion in arms."

Spike shook her head from behind the book she was ostensibly reading, lifting her feet out of the way of a house elf busily holystoning the floor. Hufflepuff? Sort Hufflepuff? Oh, loyalty and hard work were all well enough, she supposed, but those were traits for followers, for minions. She preferred to work smarter, not harder, and plot for the ways to maximize her point total. To go big and grand when it would be memorable, thank you, and not in terms of blisters raised and sweat broken.

The charm on the door chimed, indicating that someone had entered the long and winding stairway to the Snake Pit. Spike and the others quickly cleared away what they were doing, and formed receiving lines along the common room floor. The hotties were returned to their waiting room of requirement, or to their owners' rooms. Plenty of time for that later; you didn't want to give away all your secrets.

Gertie Randle and Tamsin Dukelow, staff mentors, led the gaping Not Quite First Years through the doors into the Dungeon. The students to be clustered together, holding hands and looking about in awe, touched with a bit of terror. They'd heard the stories about Slytherin House. Some had undoubtedly been treated to tales from parents who had Sorted otherwise, stories about the Snake Pit and the heartless people clustered and cloistered below the lake. A few others, though they stayed close to their year mates, were on the edge of the group, whispering about the soft light filtered through the Black Lake, speculating as to the Hotties' whereabouts, breaking off to explore briefly--fingering curtains, daring each other to sit on the green dragonhide couches with crushed velvet cushions.

Spike smiled. It might have been nice to have had the experience of being a NQFY; to have had a chance to get to see Hogwarts as an Unsorted Student. To have been welcome in all the Houses, to have been wooed as a new player. She shook her head. Or maybe not. She liked earning points for Slytherin, liked seeing the emeralds piling up in the hourglass by the Great Hall.

A handful of the prospectives broke off the group and headed for the door to the Potions lab. Future Gryffindors, too brave for their own good. Spike looked over at the mentors; who seemed more interested in keeping most of the herd together; ineffective sheepdogs who'd let a handful of adults go roaming. Drat. Spike closed her book and followed them. There'll be trouble --trouble past the Bear's claws-- if they drink something down there because "It's Slytherin House and they're good with Potions, everyone knows that." She thought quickly, ticking off points mentally.

I don't have anything brewing right now, they're all in the Resting Cabinet, which is locked and keyed to each witch or wizard, so no one else can get at my draughts. Which was one of the better charms the staff had created; she had to give them that. One cabinet for all the students meant more space in the laboratory. Having it keyed so you could only take out what you yourself had put in made tampering with another student's work -- or equally likely, just a simple error in identification -- next to impossible.

However, there were a few experiments out in the lab, and it would be a bad, bad thing for -- Spike heard a crash of breaking glass, rolled her eyes, and hurried down the stairs to see what they had gotten into this time.

The floor was a spreading puddle of purple, with a lacy froth of green dappling the top. The NQFYs had climbed to the top of the workbench, and were viewing the results with horror. Thick curved shards of green glass emerged from the puddle like archipelagos. Spike could smell the wine from the stairs, and any second now, the mentors would be hurrying in and demanding an explanation.

She folded her arms, raised one eyebrow high, and looked at the quivering children. "Well?" Think of Atyets, talking to the stableboy when he mis-saddled the riding bear. No reason to be loud. You have all the authority you can assume here.

One of the girls sniffed, looked down at the spreading mess. "Please, we didn't mean to-- it's just that Peter wanted to smell what was inside, because it was Slytherin and everybody knows--" Spike raised one hand, cutting off her words.

"So you went to draw the stopper, but the bottle was so big . . ."

The girl swallowed hard. "It was so big, I had to sit on Peter's shoulders to reach the top, and well, we kind of . . . that is, Peter sort of . . . and then . . ."

"And then the bottle fell over and shattered on the floor."

The girl's hair hung in curtains around her face as she nodded, rubbing her nose. "I'm sorry -- we're sorry."

Spike sighed. Born to be a Hufflepuff, that one. She knew how to handle this. Get her thinking about the rules, and trouble, and getting others into a mess with her. She'll be putty in your hands.

"You'll be far sorrier if the mentor team catches you with this mess." She could hear footsteps outside the Potions laboratory door. Presumably one of the team. Good thing she had charmed the lock when she came in. No one but she or the Head of House would be able to dissolve the charm and open the door.

"What do we do?" The boy's gaze was level, and his voice was calm. Solving a problem. Spike smiled. Ravenclaw or Slytherin? Could go either way--watch this one.

"We? You clean up. I cover our tracks. Accio Final Solution -- er, the smaller one." The imperial gallon size container stopped rocking and the half-pint bottle flew to her hand. The NQFYs gasped. "Accio blank book." They kept cleaning supplies in the Potions lab because there were some spills even a House Elf wouldn't deal with. Or rather, they would--and they would be certain to inform the Head of House and the Headmistress who was brewing the Draught of Living Death, how far they had gotten, and any other information that came into their pointy little heads. Sometimes it was better to just suck it up and get your own hands dirty.

She ripped some pages from the half-empty book, Transfigured them into cleaning cloths, doused them liberally with Final Solution, then Charmed them. "Sitientero!" She tossed the cloths to the quartet huddled on the workbench. The boy -- Peter, presumably -- sniffed his, turned it over in his hands. The girl, on the other hand, climbed down and began sopping up the spilled wine.

"What does that do? I smell the dragon's blood in the cleaner; that must be why you call it the 'Final Solution.' I like that." He grinned. "But what does siti . . . sit . . ." He took a deep breath. "Sit i en ter o," he said slowly, sounding the unfamiliar word out slowly. "What does that charm do?" He climbed down to help the other three.

"Makes the cloth thirsty, so it drinks more." And they were. The four cloths were still dry to the touch when the puddle was gone, although they were streaked and filthy with the colors of what they had erased.

Just in time, too. The door thumped when it hit the wall, and three set of feet were running down the stairs Spike carefully stepped into the lab to clear the walkway, vanishing shards of glass as she went. She very carefully left one large curved piece on the floor, and with the tip of her wand, carefully engraved a large flamboyant capital N onto the belly.

"Is everyone all right?" "What happened?" The three adults gabbled, looking at the NQFYs, then to Spike, then at the last of the glass on the dry flagstones.

Spike shrugged. "I really don't know," she said, picking her words carefully. "I saw the NQFYs coming into the Potions laboratory, and I thought I'd show them around. Give them the cook's tour, as it were." Professor Gorre was nodding and smiling approvingly. "But before I quite made it downstairs, I heard something break." She gestured at the glass still in evidence. "They must have knocked over someone's Potions work." Now comes the tricky part.

Professor Dukelow peered over her half-moon pince nez at her, and Spike remembered that not only did she mentor the NQFYs but she taught Potions. I would get a Potions professor. And any moment now, she's going to turn to Professor Gorre and demand to know -- "Professor Gorre, could you please enlighten me as to just why a Slytherin student would be brewing wine in the Dungeon? I certainly do not recall issuing such for homework."

Professor Gorre cocked her head, looking at Spike with suddenly keen interest. "Why yes, I had been wondering that myself. Perhaps you could enlighten us, Miss von Schadelthron?"

Spike took a deep breath, very consciously holding her face quite still. "Well, I do believe I overheard Narcissa talking about her grave concern with Muggle Studies this term." Which was true as far as it went; she had heard Sissy twittering away about Muggle Studies in the common room. It was more a matter of tossing her hair and waving her hands as she giggled about the sheer idiocy and complete uselessness of such a study, but well. The subjects matched, at any rate.

"So she may have discussed doing some extra credit work in the Muggle science of preservation. It wouldn't surprise me to find that Sis--Narcissa had obtained some grape juice and was attempting to preserve it in true Muggle fashion. I'm guessing that it didn't work so well," she shrugged, "as it seems from the smell that the juice has quite spoiled." Professor Gorre had one hand on her chin by now, consideringly, while Professor Randall had picked up the large, engraved, piece of glass and was turning it over carefully. "I was helping the NQFYs clean up the mess when you all came in."

"I say, would this belong to anyone?" Professor Randall was showing the florid N. "Because I seem to recall this sort of signature from a student's homework . . ." She should, thought Spike, Narcissa slaps that 'N' on anything that doesn't move . . . and some things that do. You could tell Narcissa's belongings from across the room--books, robes, Hotties. Professor Gorre took the glass in one glvoed hand.

"Thank you for handling this Miss -- Spike." Spike didn't quite sigh with relief. Don't give it away now that you're almost there. "I'll be certain to have a word with the student responsible. Spike, close the laboratory up behind us, please."

"NQFYs, with us now." Professor Dukelow headed up the line. Peter arranged things so he was the last studentm and as he passed her, he whispered, "That sigil wasn't on the bottle before. I would have seen it."

Spike nodded. Peter winked. "Well played," he said, then Professor Randall shooed him into the line, folllowed by Professor Gorre. Spike took her place at the tail end. He'd make a good Slytherin, she thought. Perhaps I'll see him around next term.

At the head of the stairs, she turned around, looking at the silent lab. "Nox!"

A Divine Dream

Narcissa was holding forth about that day's Divination lessons in the Dungeon. Spike was attempting to find absorption in an Arithmancy text, but the material was so familiar that her attention tended to wander. She'd get three or four phrases in, then hear an interesting tidbit, and lose her train of thought in the briar patch. Divination. Waste of time. Suitable for little fluff-heads like Sissy, who's only here because hopefully someone will keep her out of too much trouble until she gets old enough to marry off. She re-read the same page for the third time, and sighed. I should just go upstairs to the library, assuming I can find an empty seat. Finals are a few weeks out; House Ravenclaw would probably save a bunch of time by just moving their beds there.

She yawned, ears popping like firecrackers. Or maybe I should just go to bed. Closing the book, she heard Narcissa giggle.

"Here's a good one," she said, pointing at a page in the Divination book. "It's a subset of scarpomancy--using shoes to predict the future. Instead, you use socks. You wrap one around your neck before you go to bed, and then you'll dream of future spouses!" They fell to mad giggling, and some speculation as to which of the Seventh Year boys each would dream about, if she wore a pair of socks that way.

"Are you going to try it?" The words were out before she could stop herself. Creeping Snail of Eternal Hope, I must be tired if I didn't see that one coming. Usually she thought things through several times before saying anything, turning the words and the possible reactions over and over in her head before putting them forth. This earned her a reputation among the others, evenly split between stuck up and brilliant, depending on the audience.

Narcissa simpered back. "I'm sure I wouldn't catch a wink of beauty sleep for all the dreams I'd have of my future beaux. You on the other hand, Spike, you should sleep the dreamless sleep of the angels."

Spike smiled coolly from the cheekbones down. "I wouldn't know about that, sweetheart." The last word was very nearly sveethott; her accent thickening. "I don't need to dream about a beau, or catch one on my own. Didn't your parents provide for you? Or has your reputation spread like a doxy's legs on Saturday night, so no one would think of taking you to wife?"

Spots of color like an inexpertly cast beautification spell appeared on Narcissa's face. "Tell you what, Spike. Since you're too good to take Divination like the rest of us, why don't you and me try it tonight? You're so smart, you won't have any trouble using nothing but your 'natural talents.' I'm sure you'll have a very interesting bit of parchment to write tomorrow -- not that you'd need any extra credit in divination, right?"

It was Spike's turn to color, now. She did well with Professor Wildsmythe in Astronomy, but she was hopeless with the same teacher in Divination. Wildsmythe would shake her head sadly watching her pull a daisy to pieces for anthromancy, or rooting helplessly in a frog's belly hunting for the liver. "Perhaps when we get to Astrology, dear. The stars are really your guide." A few extra points might turn an Acceptable to Exceeds Expectations (or more likely, prevent an Acceptable from falling into a Poor).

"Challenge accepted." The smile reached her eyes without warming her expression, and, making a gesture reminiscent of a duelling salute, Spike turned and went to bed.

But before retiring, in among the more mundane chores of brushing her teeth and hair, Spike pulled out a clean pair of socks from her steamer trunk, tied the cuffs together, and slung them around her neck like a peculiar scarf.

The socks were warm and comforting against the Dungeon's ever-present chill and damp. They quelled the persistent tickle. Maybe I should consider a sleeping cowl . . . in cashmere and silk, perhaps? Or would that be silly, like a slinky nightgown with feet? Pondering that, she drifted off to sleep . . .

And woke at a party, on the arm of a man she didn't know. None of her bodyguards were in sight--but somehow, it was all right. He was dressed like the sun, if the sun were a vision in white and cream with lashings of gold and silver. He had long dark hair bound behind him in a queue, and a coronet in cunningly woven metal sat on his high brow as if he were born to wear it. He turned to her smiling.

His eyes were dark in his pale skin, like a certain Potions Master's, but instead of being black and forbidding, they sparkled with a sense of play. An otter, not a bat. He smiled at her, and she looked in the same direction he was, to see Totenberg accepting a flute of sparkling wine from a footman carrying a silver tray. We're at a party -- and he's drinking? He's not on duty then . . . Totenberg caught her eye and saluted her with the wineglass, mouthed the word "Congratulations." On what?

They walked through a lush garden, brushed by soft breezes in the warm air. Olive trees threw patterns of lace on the velvety grass, and Spike realized she was wearing a gown in soft greys that shimmered with lilac and blues in the shadows. The train dragged behind her, whispering on the grass as the crowd made way for the couple to ascend to a wooden platform in the middle of the garden.

He led her to the foot of the stairs, then picked her up in his arms and carried her up to the floor. She laughed and swung her feet. The hem of her gown fell back, and she noticed she was wearing socks with fine and dainty slippers. Those are beautiful--I've never seen anything like them! The colors pooled and dipped like stained glass, wandering in all directions like light on an oil spill, graceful and organic.

The otter man set her gently on her feet on the polished oak boards. "Ready?" He had a lovely baritone that made her feel warm all over. Ready? For what? Then the harpist struck a chord, the flutes joined in, weaving a melody that spoke to the heart of long joyful days, cool easy nights, and all troubles overcome.

He offered his hand, Spike stepped into his arms, and they began to dance, to the scattered applause of the crowd. Sometimes, as she whirled, she caught glimpses of her bodyguards in the crowd, now laughing, now somber.

Spike woke up and lunged for her dream journal. Finally, something I didn't have to make up! She sketched the lines of the man's face, although in the dream the bones had been vague beneath the skin. But I got the eyes right. And the socks. I wonder what it means to dream of socks? "Probably that I should knit more," she sighed, taking the sock scarf off and going down to breakfast.

An Expedition Made

"Why are all those Muggles standing and staring in the window like that?" wondered Spike. The group of Hogwarts students clustered tightly together in the middle of the great hallway, looking all around them at the clumps of Muggles hurrying here and there. "They can't be talking via floo. They're Muggles!"

The teaching team had announced a special treat for the class--a field trip! Everyone had excitedly began to chatter about the last trip to Hogsmeade, about their experiences in Diagon Alley, and the professors let it go for several minutes before waving the class to silence again.

"It's a special trip," beamed Professor Poole, his fine strands of grey hair waving as he nodded. He had bright blue eyes, an old man's near-tonsure, and a fascination with tweed that extended even to his peaked hat. "We'll be going to a Muggle village. Imagine! A world without any magic."

"You'll be undercover, of course, and you all know the restrictions regarding underage magic, as well as the rules of secrecy." Professor Ethelbard flicked her wand, and the student's robes transfigured into charcoal grey jackets with gold and silver Hogwarts crests and piping in the House colors. "There. The Muggles are accustomed to seeing students in school uniforms out and about, so you'll fit right in with their perceptions. That which is not seen is not, and all that."

"We'll be observing a modern Muggle market--a shopping mall. Muggles in their native habitat." Professor Grinderford smiled dreamily, as if contemplating frolicking forest creatures with large eyes and high foreheads.

They took turns side-along Apparating, standing in a clump at a bus station, where the teachers told them a gorup of miling students would look right at home to the Muggles. Apparently they did, because no one seemed to pay any heed to the kids in school uniforms, not even the tough-looking Muggle teens who swaggered past, ostentatiously smoking cigarettes. At last the class was gathered together, and they approached the squat concrete set of cubical buildings together.

I had expected it to be more festive, thought Spike. More full of nooks and crannies and a sense of wonder and enticement. This just looks like a bunch of grey giant's blocks set in a jumble when junior was called off for lunch. Perhaps it's more fun inside.

But inside, it was racks of things set out for perusal. Some of them had bright colors, and a few had interesting things in the windows, but when she stopped in front of one, Professor Grinderford took her arm. "Not now, Spike."

"But--" She pointed to the aptly named store, Fascinations, with its flowing script. "But perfume, and shoes! Boots!! Really cool boots!!" Green snakeskin, shiny as if they were wet, with heels as high as a handspan and poinard sharp.

Grinderford sighed. "Not for a Muggle girl of your age, Spike. You'd be escorted out of the store. Besides, you don't have any Muggle money, do you?" Spike sighed, glumly conceding defeat. Maybe I could sketch them, ask for them as a Winterfest gift. They'd look so splendid under my dress robes.

"We're here to observe, not to shop." Grinderford pushed her hair out of her eyes, and smiled wanly. Poole had stopped to pry a quartet of Hufflepuffs away from the windows of a candy store. "So. What do you see?"

Spike looked around. Most of the people looked either dazed or grim, laden with bags. Meandering from pillar to post, or striding along with a purpose. "No one looks very happy, do they? It's as if they've been Imperiused to do this, and they take no joy in performing the task." She frowned as an idea took root. "Do you think . . . this would be a great way to separate Muggles from their galleons. It would keep you at one remove, too. Even better, they'd be doing this of what the Muggle authorities would say was their own free will, that no one was forcing them to come to the mall and spend money they didn't really have on things that would lose their luster shortly after being packed home!"

Grinderford took firm hold of Spike's sleeve. "We are here to observe," she hissed. "Not to save them from themselves."

Spike looked at her, bewildered. "Who said anything about saving them from themselves?" Thinking quickly, she added, "The mere act of observation changes the behavior we're here to observe, right? So actively doing anything about it would . . . muck it up even worse. No, I'll just watch." Grinderford considered this, nodded, and let her go.

Besides, maybe I can learn something about . . . hmmm, crowd control this way.

Several Muggles were gathered in front of a great glass wall, watching attentively. Behind the wall were many boxes, each filled with an identical scene. Like seeing through an insect's eye. The fascination wasn't apparently with the novelty of seeing the world many times over, because the Muggles cheered and groaned in response to something happening on the screen. Spike edged into the crowd to get a better look.

Oh, it's like Quidditch, then. She had heard of the game and seen pictures in the paper growing up, although her father had little use for sports, and there was no one of her age to play it with, unless she went down to the village. But even then, the other children only knew her as the lord's daughter, and were swept up by grinning, scraping parents, who curtsied or bowed, hat in hand. No one would play with her or her bodyguards.

No, she'd only seen Quidditch played a time or two during her short time at Durmstrang. Practice games, mostly, where the team would divide and play against itself. As a first-year, she wasn't allowed to join in, but it had looked like such fun. The Chaser stalking the Snitch, waiting until just the right time to swoop in and steal victory. The Beaters whacking the Bludger . . . it hadn't looked all that hard, until she finally tried it herself. This was apparently a Muggle version of the game, played on a flat green field, with only one ball that was Bludger and Snitch rolled together, and four Keepers -- no more than that, because one of the men ran in the field, getting himself directly under it! She put her hands over her face, watching through her fingers as the white ball came down, down, hard and fast directly at the man's face. Oh, this is going to hurt . . . and then he held up a big leather glove and caught the ball deftly. Threw it back to the man standing in the ring, and all the Muggles groaned.

The Bludger currently holding the bat dropped it to the ground, and the two teams swapped sides in a neatly choreographed set of maneuvers as tidy as if they had been on a big green ballroom floor. Spike was charmed. "What is this?" she whispered, unaware that she was speaking out loud.

"Baseball," said a man beside her. "And the Braves are winning."

Must have been a Gryffindor ... no, Muggles don't have Houses, do they? No matter, she knew what to say. "Victory is almost always to the brave," she replied. She saw Grinderford scanning the crowd, realized that most of the class had been herded together, and hurried to catch up.

Later, she turned in a parchment detailing the game of baseball, with the green field, the white ball, the blue sky and sun shining down on it all.

A Charming Color

Charms class was meeting on the Quidditch pitch. Spike was beside herself. It was a lovely balmy spring day, just cool enough to keep things interesting, but plenty warm for basic school dress without gloves, jumpers or vests.

"We're studying the charms placed on the balls for Quidditch," she breathlessly informed her minons as she braided her hair to keep it under control on the broom. "They're going to divide us by Houses, and we'll actually get to play a pickup match!"

"Dot's nice," murmured Totenberg, absorbed in maintaining his kit.

"It's just a little introduction to the way it's played--Firsties aren't allowed on the team, except under some very special circumstances. But if we play well, maybe we can try out next year! I'd love to be the Keeper," she mused, tying a green ribbon on one of the strands, "they're the ones who keep the red Quaffle from going through the goals to allow the other House to score a point."

"Uhmmm-hmmm." He took out the oil and polishing rag. The continual damp under the lake worried him--metal corroded, leather rotted, it was all a constant scramble against the forces of entropy and decay.

"Or the Seeker! That would be so cool, watching for the Snitch and planning when to catch it to end the match. There's strategy involved in that--a bad Seeker can get the Snitch and lose the match for his team if the score isn't right!" She tied the ends of the ribbon in a cheery bow. "I'll probably just be a Chaser, though." She looked over her shoulder. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"

"Wonderful!"

"I thought so." Head held high, Spike left for class.

Playing Quidditch was everything Spike had thought it would be. She didn't have the opportunity to play back home; there were no wizarding families nearby with children of an age to play. It could be lonely at the top. It wasn't as easy as it had seemed on the occasions where she had watched the game. Controlling the broom while you had nothing else to focus on was easy; handling the thing while watching for the Quaffle or the Bludger turned out to be something else entirely. Fortunately, no one had to be sent to the Infirmary for repair.

Later that evening, Spike worked on a project to demonstrate her understanding of the Quidditch equipment. Looking over her shoulder, Sascha frowned.

"S'posed to be two of the balls, isn' it?"

"It is."

"Hy see de red Quaffle, front und center, but where de other?"

"The Bludger's in there."

"But is no black for de pig iron . . ."

Spike held up her work. "It's represented by the purple and green."

"How so?"

She lifted the hem of her robes up over her thigh, where the welts were coloring nicely. "For the bruises it leaves behind," she said ruefully.

A Feather Transformed

The racket in the mews that morning was simply deafening. Most of the students had their hands over their ears as they waited for Care of Magical Creatures class to begin. Brilliantly feathered birds with three foot tails swooped and dove overhead, shrieking.

Professor Latisha Jorkins entered and made her way quickly to the front of the room, where she performed a swift and silent charm. With a final flick of her wand delineating the tail of the final rune, silence fell through the entire classroom. She let the eerie stillness rest for a moment before she smiled and said, "Good morning, students."

They mumbled their response, watching as the birds fluttered from perch to perch, beaks open, and nothing but silence.

“These birds surrounding you are the Fwoopers. Do not let the charming colors fool you--these birds are dangerous!

"Just as there are certain colors that cannot be perceived by the human eye, and sounds that cannot be heard, there are sounds that cannot be processed, even by the highly trained minds of wizards. The Fwoopers make such a sound.

"We have cast a Silencing Charm on these eggs, so the baby Fwoopers will be quiet for the first few weeks of their lives, until they fledge out. Your assignment is to incubate these eggs until they hatch, and then return the live Fwoopers for grading. You may, if you wish, create an object to commemorate your care of these birds." And with that, Professor Jorkins handed out the oval eggs.

Spike handled hers gingerly. They were vibrantly colored and warm in her hands. She cast a manere charm to keep them warm and whole as she tucked them into her bag. Thank the Great Bear I have time to drop by the Pit before next class. I'll wrap them in a shawl on my pillow, where they'll be safe.

The bright colors were especially so in the Dungeon's cool gloom, and the warming charm on the shawl made caring for the eggs easy. Spike would roll them around in the mornings when she woke up, at break times between classes, and at night before bed. "The chicks may come out dizzy, but they should develop normally," she told Totenberg, who grinned. He had always been fond of little helpless things, although mothers tended to snatch their children away from the Hound.

One morning, Spike woke to a tiny sound, like a house elf cracking its knuckles. The eggs! "They're hatching!" she cried, and all four gathered around to watch the fragile pink creatures with their enormous heads peck their way out of the shells. Soon they were staggering around on the coverlet, making tiny hops, wings held out for balance.

The house elves brought fruit peels to feed the birds. They seemed to grow at a visible rate. Soon the pink skin was covered with rainbow down, which began to shed as full flight feathers came in.

That was the problem. Fwoopers apparently were magic in a number of respects, including the ability to moult . . . and moult . . . and moult. The house elves gave up on trying to keep the feathers swept up, and settled for replacing the newspapers under the tree Spike grew for them to perch on. "Shouldn't these things be BALD by now?" grumbled Totenberg, kicking his way through the brilliant viridian, ruby, and aubergine feathers.

"They'll be gone soon," sighed Spike, crossing off another day on the calendar. She had written the glyph for freedom in bright red ink on the date they were to be returned to the Care of Magical Creatures staff. "At least they're still . . . what was that?"

"I didn't hear--wait. That?" They looked at each other. It wasn't a sound so much as a feeling, or a taste. A taste that sounded like garlic being scraped down a blackboard, slowly. A sound that tasted like sauteed chalk in licorice. Spike lunged for her wand.

"Silencio!" The noisefeeling grew more intense for a moment, then blessedly died away again.

It seemed to take an eternity for the days to wind down to the freedom glyph, and the best silencing charms Spike could produce lasted for shorted and shorter periods of time. Her minions stuffed their ears with cotton, and spent as much time as possible lurking anywhere but the dorm room. Finally, the day came when she could cage them and hand them back to the care of the Hogwarts staff.

She returned to a room still packed with Fwooper feathers. She picked one up and twirled it in her fingers. Hmmm. Socks. These would make some awesome socks.

A little wandwork later, and she had brilliant rainbow-colored warm wooly socks on her feet.

"Miss the birdies?" asked Totenberg, seeing her examining her feet pensively.

"Not really. They're pretty . . . but overall, I'd rather baby-sit a Hungarian Horntail."

A Polarity Reversed

The Potions class had observed the Feast of Saint Valentine with an in-depth study of the Amortencia Solution, which naturally lead to an introduction to all sorts of attracting potions. The lead professor, Thaddeus Halliwell, explained that being able to craft an attractant had its uses.

A bee had crept into the classroom through the open window, and was circling the glowing orbs intently. Several of the students had watchful eyes on the insect, and more than one would cringe as it took wing and dove from light to light. Professor Halliwell waved it off a couple of times before he stopped.

"An object lesson," he said, taking a tiny bottle from a pocket in his robes. "Observe." He walked to the window and unstoppered it. The bee whirled in midair, heading directly for the professor. He put a cotton ball over the mouth of the vial, and the bee returned to buzzing around the light globes. He then tossed the bit of cotton out the window, and the bee followed it. He slammed the window shut. "Now. Turn to page 988 in your text, and create Wigworthy's Attractant."

Spike began preparing her ingredients, grinding the moonstone to a fine powder, adding the crushed vervain, and stirring it to a paste with distilled water. Socks. I will use this to create a pair of socks, and they will all worship at my feet!
It was working well. The potion coagulated nicely, forming strands when she lifted her wand over the potion. Lush concupiscent purple shot through with contentedly glowing gold flecks, swirls of giddy pink. Yes, just as it should be. She carefully adjusted the flame under the cauldron. Don't want this to overheat. Stir one last time. Almost there . . . And then everything went wrong.

The golds tarnished into bitter anxiety; the pink and purple dissolved into despair and jealousy. Spike struggled to correct the potion, adding chocolate and flower petals, but no use. Stirring faster only caused the potion to split and the colors to shatter.



Halliwell looked over her shoulder. "That," he pronounced, "was certainly not the effect we were after, Spike."

She slumped, despondent. "No. No, it was not, professor." It was hard for her to stand next to her cauldron of failed solution, and not just because of the Repelling Potion she had brewed.

"I'll see you in Detention, then, while you prepare three feet of parchment on exactly how this went wrong." Waving a hand in front of his nose, the professor left quickly.

Spike studied the contents. Socks. Socks that would keep someone away. Socks that would make someone not want to notice you, not want to . . . She brightened. Well. This solves some of the problems with Filch, now doesn't it. I should be able to mule anything I want into Hogwarts--as long as I'm careful which socks I'm wearing.

A Timely Celebration, Part Two

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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



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

A Timely Celebration, Part One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This idea was too good to waste.

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

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

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

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

Best Friends Forever

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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



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

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



Eventually, they stopped screaming.

A Flight Diverted

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Jinx Deflected, Part Two

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

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

“You can’t--! Wait!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

A Jinx Deflected, Part One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just me.”

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

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

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

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

“She does mean stupid things sometimes . . .”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Book Transfigured

Dearest Matya and Atyets:

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

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

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

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

All my regard--
Nikolevnischka "Spike" von Schaedelthron


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

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

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

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

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


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

A Fun Fungus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

The Tracking Charm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

An OWL Selected

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

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

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

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

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

"Why are you all smirking like that?"

A Slight Misunderstanding, Part Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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