Meet the Doctor, Part One

They didn't really sleep, not like the lowland grizzlies that would shut down into a torpid state to survive, but they slept more than usual, like huge lazy cats dreaming away twelve to fourteen hours of each day.  Spring would find them lean but not haggard, and ready for action

Past the stables but before the barracks was where the Scherblocken kept his offices.  They were always cold, even in the summer, built of stone that hoarded the frost and chill of winter in their bones.  "Easy to clean," he'd said, the one time Spike had mustered the courage to ask him a direct question.  His eyes had twinkled like icicles in the sun; no warmth and nothing thicker than water.  Certainly nothing as tangible as humor or even sharp as malice, just emptiness.

He was a round man, nearly as broad as he was tall, with a fringe of white hair thick around his ears and a matching handlebar mustache and tightly groomed beard where the point of his chin would be.  Small wire-rimmed spectacles gave him the same squinting down his nose aspect as the bears he tended. 

Spike wasn't looking forward to the interview; she'd had second thoughts in her room, and her ambivalence had only grown while they walked through the snow.  But, if I want to do Care of Magical Creatures next term, and I want to create my own hybrid, then who better to discuss the matter with than the man who gave us the Hounds?  Even though the Hounds had been a part of the family's retained beasts for generations, the Scherblocken had been the same man all along.  Perhaps he repaired his won body the same way that he fixed the Hounds when they were injured and cared for the bears, extending their lives and usefulness.  He'd be a Ravenclaw, thought Spike, but a dark sort of Ravenclaw, someone who doesn't think much about whether a thing that could be done ought to be done.  A Slytherclaw, maybe.  Brilliant and amoral.

They were at the door.  Spike took hold of the ring and knocked.

Awake at Last (Part Three)

They didn't really sleep, not like the lowland grizzlies that would shut down into a torpid state to survive, but they slept more than usual, like huge lazy cats dreaming away twelve to fourteen hours of each day.  Spring would find them lean but not haggard, and ready for action

Past the stables but before the barracks was where the Scherblocken kept his offices.  They were always cold, even in the summer, built of stone that hoarded the frost and chill of winter in their bones.  "Easy to clean," he'd said, the one time Spike had mustered the courage to ask him a direct question.  His eyes had twinkled like icicles in the sun; no warmth and nothing thicker than water.  Certainly nothing as tangible as humor or even sharp as malice, just emptiness.

He was a round man, nearly as broad as he was tall, with a fringe of white hair thick around his ears and a matching handlebar mustache and tightly groomed beard where the point of his chin would be.  Small wire-rimmed spectacles gave him the same squinting down his nose aspect as the bears he tended. 

Spike wasn't looking forward to the interview; she'd had second thoughts in her room, and her ambivalence had only grown while they walked through the snow.  But, if I want to do Care of Magical Creatures next term, and I want to create my own hybrid, then who better to discuss the matter with than the man who gave us the Hounds?  Even though the Hounds had been a part of the family's retained beasts for generations, the Scherblocken had been the same man all along.  Perhaps he repaired his won body the same way that he fixed the Hounds when they were injured and cared for the bears, extending their lives and usefulness.  He'd be a Ravenclaw, thought Spike, but a dark sort of Ravenclaw, someone who doesn't think much about whether a thing that could be done ought to be done.  A Slytherclaw, maybe.  Brilliant and amoral.

They were at the door.  Spike took hold of the ring and knocked.

Awake at Last (Part Two)

Spike dressed for the winter weather behind her screen next to the fire. It was still dark, even though it was well past eight o'clock in the morning.  She missed the summer, with the long lazy twilight hours that stretched around the clock.  Back for winter break, she thought.  Too bad it couldn't be summer holidays.  She was looking forward to returning to Hogwarts in the south, with its earlier dawn and later sunset. 

Two pairs of warm wool socks in her fur-lined boots (Always take care of you feet, she could hear Totenberg insisting as he dressed blisters on her heels one day.  She had forgotten to break in a new pair of boots gently, instead choosing to go running over the hills in spring, drunk on the season like a young rabbit.)  Fur-lined mittens over fingerless muffatees over half-fingered gloves.  Surplice over the gown over the alepine next to her skin.  A cloak over it all, and she was ready to go.

They walked quietly through the castle, the Hounds padding at her heels and sides in a watchful wedge.   Even in her own halls, careful watch was kept over the heir to the Throne of Skulls (Although they hadn't actually used that throne in generations, Spike mused as the passed the audience chamber, turning to the left, and going down the stairs that would lead them out through the kitchens. 

Once outside, the cold was a slap in the face, making Spike gasp for air, finding very little but the cold, dry, thinness, like breathing the stars themselves.  She pulled the cloak tighter around herself.  My blood's thinned, she thought, down in Scotland, down in the warmth and wet. 

Totenberg took point to break the path, with Sascha behind him to trample it smoother.  Spike in the middle where she could walk in their steps, and Dmitri behind her if she started to fall.  They made their way over the grounds, through the gardens wreathed in ice, branches black and spare in the eerie half-light reflecting from the snow. 

She knew where the stables were, of course, even though she didn't ride the bears, not yet. She was still too young and small to control them, Matya said, and Atyets agreed, although each year, he was slower and slower to come to Matya's point of view.  One day, maybe even next year, she would be allowed up on one of the older, mellower steeds who had been allowed to age out of his teeth for just such training purposes.  Claws blunted, saddled and bridled, tamed as much as anything with a wild heart could be. 

They passed through the gate that separated the stables from the grounds, close but not too close.  The stables were quiet under their icing of snow; she could almost hear ursine snoring as they slept for the winter. 

Awake at Last (Part One)

Spike sat straight up in her bed, shaking off the dregs of the dream.  Sorting.  Sorted every term.  She shuddered.  It made sense, of a kind; hadn't Dumbledore himself expressed doubts about the system, said they Sorted too soon?  Perhaps unearthing other drives produced a more well-rounded witch or wizard in the end.   But to lose my place in Slytherin . . .

She could still smell bacon and coffee.  Sascha stirred at her feet, where he usually spent the night, curled up like a dog.  Totenberg opened the door from his usual post, and Dmitri came in with a pot and platter.  Spike put on a robe and fuzzy slippers, sitting at the small table by the window where she always had breakfast at home, from the time when her feet didn't quite reach the floor.  We're not morning people, that's for sure. The custom had been established generations before, when one of her ancestors had realized it was easier to keep staff if you didn't have to interact with them before your first cup of coffee. 

Totenberg let the first cup sink in, and then asked, "Gots plan for the day?"

Spike thought about her OWL, and the rest of the disastrous term, and her vow to earn a thousand points for Slytherin.  "I think I'll plan for the upcoming term," she said slowly.  "I think I have an idea for next term's OWL."

"What you gonna do?"

"Care of Magical Creatures."

"Don' have a gamekeeper, not as such . . ."  Any wildlife on the estate was expected to fend for itself, frankly, and most of it could, evolving toxins, fangs, and opposable thumbs at a healthy clip. 

"Nooooo  . . .  but we do have someone I could talk to.  And you could introduce me."  She pointed at him with half a strip of bacon, chewing slowly.

"You mean -- de bonecutter?"  Totenberg paled a little under his fur.  None of the Hounds had anything but unflinching respect for the man who kept putting them back together when they were hurt, but it didn't mean they loved him.

"The very one."

A Prophetic Dream?

It was the smells that woke her that morning, waffles and coffee and bacon and strawberries.  Spike sniffed, eyes still half-welded shut with sleep, Nutella.  Nutella and whipped cream, too.  First day  breakfast.  Totenberg insisted that a good breakfast was essential to a good start, and Spike had gradually convinced him that a few extra minutes of sleep before the first day was a good idea as well.  They'd compromised on breakfast in bed on the first day of each month during term. 

She rolled over in bed . . . and kept rolling until she hit the edge.  That was odd; usually one of her guards was there keeping watch like a living teddy bear.  The near-fall woke her up enough to open her eyes all the way, and she squinted against the bright light, so unlike the usual green-shaded gloom of the Pit.  Did they have to drain the Lake again? she wondered.   The squid can't be happy about that.

Something else was wrong with her room, too, and she struggled muzzily to put a finger on it.  So much light . . .  But before she could quite place it, the door swung open, and Totenberg, Dmitri, and Sacha appeared, carrying a plate of waffles piled high with strawberries, whipped cream and the food of the gods, chocolate hazelnut butter, a platter of bacon, and an enormous mug of coffee.  Spike stretched out her hands, and the coffee mug was promptly deposited into them.  She took a long pull gratefully, feeling the cobwebs melt away.  She opened her eyes again after finishing half the cup . . . and nearly spit out the half a mouthful.  Yellow.  The room was yellow, a bright sunshiny cheerful yellow, trimmed with shiny black. 

She closed her eyes tightly.  Still half asleep.  Still half-dreaming.  Must be.  Going to finish dreaming I'm drinking the coffee, then I'll dream I'm awake, so I'll actually be awake then, and then I can see what's going on.  She drained it to the bitter dregs, then opened her eyes again.  Still yellow.  Still black. Not a trace of green or silver.  Muffins, not skulls.  Badgers, not snakes.  I'm in  . . . HUFFLEPUFF???

There has to be an explanation.  She handed the empty mug back to Totenberg, suppressing a double-take.  "What are you wearing?  You're out of uniform!"

It was true.  Instead of their usual livery of mix and mismatch ("Wearing uniforms is lazy -- you stop looking at faces.  Anyone can find a uniform that will more or less fit," Totenberg had explained one day, and Spike had agreed, seeing some wisdom in that.  At the same time, she always harbored a sneaking suspicion that the Hounds just liked uniforms, and refused to commit to one particular standard.) the trio was wearing -- "You look like house elves," Spike blurted out.  "Explain."

Totenberg bowed, then scrambled to keep the tea towel around his waist as one knot came undone.  Those tea towels are really . . . scanty, thought Spike.  "Is simple, meestress.  I em you minion--I mean, house elf.  Hotty."

"And I'm Naughty," added Sascha, who was wearing a long, pointed, and patently false nose to go with his ear hat.  They did look a little like house-elf ears, thought Spike, or would have if the hat wasn't precariously tipped on Sascha's head like a batwinged fascinator.

"I'm Loverboi," finished Dmitri sourly.  The three were clearly striving for the distinctive squeaky voices of the house elves, but only managing a light baritone growl.  Dmitri had at least managed to find a king-sized pillowcase, which rode him like a minidress. 

"How . . . what?  when?"

"Was the Het.  The Het done it.  Decide you needs to be--"

"To be round."  Sascha beamed.  "Tol' you de gym vas bad idea."

"To be vell-rounded," corrected Totenberg, adjusting the ear hat, and only managing to switch it from starboard to port.  "You needs to spend zum time in anodder House, he said."

Spike had her face in her hands as they explained, by the time they reached the end, she had made up her mind.  She lowered her hands, feeling an old familiar grin spreading on her lips.  A rattlesnake grin, with a dark light in her eyes.  Well-rounded, eh?  Spend some time in another House?  She'd show them what she was made of.  She threw back the coverlet, reaching for her robes trimmed in yellow.  "Well," she said, emerging from the sleeves and hood, "badgers have fangs, too."

One Thousand Points

In the Dungeon that night all was quiet, though no one was sleeping.   The students packed their robes, books, and personal effects in silence, with only an occasional hushed aside to a hottie or fellow Slytherin.  On the mantle, where the House Cup had rested so proudly each term, was a vacant space.  Spike, her arms full of parchments gathered from the House Potions lab, stopped and stared at the spot.  The Cup had not Apparated from the Ravenclaw Aerie back to the Snake Pit.  It was gone.

Back in her room, she began sorting and folding the parchment neatly.  One stack to keep, one stack to erase--waste not, want not.  Totenberg came by and silently took the "keep" stack, stowing it tidily in her trunk.  Looking over her notes from the classes, her draft charts of her OWL, Spike's eyes itched, then a tear fell onto the parchment she was reviewing.  She Vanished it savagely, nearly blasting a hole in the scroll.

Totenberg took her wand wrist in one hand.  "Wanna talk 'bout it?"

Yes, and no.  It was still bitter and painful.  I tried so hard.  We all tried so hard. Even though second place is just first in a pack of losers, it wouldn't have been so bad.  She took a deep breath and began to explain.

"We were all assembled in the Great Hall, and the banners had just changed from green to purple, for Hogwarts."  And then the Headmistress had begun to announce the final scores for the Houses, starting with the lowest total first.

"In fourth place, with thirty-five thousand, nine hundred and forty-two points, I give you . . . the noble House of Salazar Slytherin!"  Everyone had clapped, but Spike sat with her hands in her lap.  Fourth place?  Fourth place? She couldn't have heard that right.  There had to be a mistake somehow. 

"In third place, with thirty-seven thousand, two hundred and eighty-six points, the charming and gracious House of Helga Hufflepuff!"  A few of the Puffs stood up and hugged each other, waving to the rest of the Hall.  Behind Hufflepuff?  Slytheirn had lost to Hufflepuff?  That couldn't be.  Wroxton must be planning something special, something like what Dumbledore had done for Gryffindor during the years of the Second Wizarding War, where, by the powers vested in him as Headmaster, he had whipped a deus ex machina out of his hip pocket and pulled out a win for the House of the Boy Who Lived.  "That must be it; that has to be it."  She clenched her fists in her lap.  Please let that be it -- I don't even have to be one of the golden ones who receives bonus points for her hard work, just so long as we win.

Gryffindor was third, with thirty-eight thousand, six hundred and eighty-four points, which left  . . . "Ravenclaw has won the House Cup!" as the banners all turned indigo, then blue, with the screaming eagle picked out in bronze.  Blue hoods took flight on voiceless wingardium leviosa charms, hovering above the Ravenclaw table as they cheered, then turned and toasted their Head of House with iced goblets of pumpkin juice.  The House Cup was taken from the Head Table and ceremoniously handed over to the winning House, and the feast began.

Now.  Surely now, Wroxton would hold up her hands for silence, and distribute those vital points that would make a world of difference.  But the food merely appeared on the tables, the upperclassmen shrugged and tucked into their dinner as if nothing had changed.  As if the world hadn't come crashing down. 

Spike ate mechanically, picking out bits of whatever looked nourishing.  Favorites didn't enter into it, not now.  She was eating because being hungry and wretched was far worse than just being wretched.  Chicken, vegetables, salad -- a small helping of each; it all tasted like sand anyway.

Totenberg frowned as she wound down at last.  “So.  You lost.”

How simple he made that sound.  As if losing wasn’t something that happened to other, worthless people, as if losing was just what happened when you didn’t win.  She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat, the weight on her chest.

"You didn't like it."  Wry understatement with a twist of a grin playing around the corners of his mouth, fangs glinting for a second.

"No.  And Atyets is going to be so mad."

He took her hand.  "What, that you learn what he sent you away for?"

She stared at him.  Has he been sipping mercury again?  It was hard keeping the Hounds out of anything that might be intoxicating, and their theory seemed to be that anything was worth a try -- or two, if it didn't kill you the first time.  The Potions storeroom had needed several additional locks over this last term.

"Look-- you lost.  Is a bad thing, not what you wanted but . . . anybody die?"

"No . . ."

"Anybody hurt real bad?  Castle blow up?"

"No . . . not exactly."

"Then you learn.  You learn that it hurt to lose.  Gonna do that again?"

"Not by choice!"

"Gonna make other choices, then, yes?  Gonna work harder, maybe smarter, maybe plan a leetle better for next term?  See about maximizing the work you do, make different priorities.  Change strategy."

"Yes . . . I can sit for an OWL again, and if I  . . ."  she trailed off, pondering how she would make next term work, how she could leverage her efforts for Slytherin.  Her fingers twitched in Totenberg's hand, and he quickly slid a piece of parchment and a quill into her hand as she began planning next term.

Next term, and a thousand points for Slytherin.

A Feast Begins

Spike left the castle in a glowing daze, passing by students excitedly recounting their own adventures with the OWL examinations, some gleefully punching the air, eyes flashing; some quietly reciting, shoulder hunched, surrounded by friends who suggested things like "There's always next term, you'll do it next term."  She touched the badge pinned to her left shoulder over and over; each time for the first time.  I did it.  I took my first OWL -- and I passed it!  Slytherin's going to win the house cup during my first term here, and we will celebrate in the dungeons all night tonight.  In the morning, we'll board the train, trunks haphazardly packed, green sparkles in our hair, and every student will know that we've won.

She was through the Western gates, wandering through the grounds behind the castle.  The Forest loomed to her left, dense and impenetrable looking, but she knew it to be a deep glowing green place once you found your way inside. A dark place, to be sure, but it had its glades of light among the twists and gnarls of the old trees that jealously clutched at the sun and choked out any saplings that dared raise their heads.  It should be the bald knoll past the oak, she thought, with the wide path cut through the trees to where you can see the sun go down.  She picked one of the season's first bluebells sprouting, placed it in her hair.  The way grew steep, and she leaned into the hill,

When she reached the top, she looked around.  There was the solitary pine she remembered, a sole softwood in a forest of hard.  Some Herbology student, maybe.  Or professor Snape or whoever taught Potions before him, planning ahead for the rare occasion when they'd need a few needles, or some sap.  But this was indeed the place, and the first stars were twinkling low in the sky.

She held the corner of her chart in front of her, used it to start to orient herself to the sky.  So many hours staring into the heavens, I think I know all the stars by the names they sing to one another by now.  She was watching them come out as the sun faded, when an hand fell on her shoulder.

"Been looking for you," growled Dmitri.  "Whole House gone in to dinner.  Sent me to go find you.  End of Term Feast starting, you gonna wanna be there."

Spike gasped.  The Feast!  When they announced Slytherin's victory, and the House Cup changed hands, and the party afterwards!  She had forgotten, flushed with victory over winning her first OWL.  She ran back down the hills with only a brief parting glance at the sky. 

She was just barely in time to slip into a place at the table before Headmistress Wroxton took the podium.  She peered over half-moon spectacles at the shifting students at Slytheirn, narrow mouth folded tightly, but the tiniest glimmer of a smile pleated into the severe corners.  Wroxton had sorted Slytherin herself, Spike suddenly remembered.  Surely she'll do what she can to ensure the right House wins.

"Before we begin dinner, I would like to thank all of you for a most excellent term.  The scores between the Houses were close, very close indeed.  All of you should give yourselves a most hearty round of applause."  She paused, and when the students continued to wait, she began slowly clapping herself.  Gradually, Hufflepuff joined in, and soon the rafters of the Hall rang.  A few whistled or cheered, and the smile finally slipped its reins and Wroxton beamed down at her charges, finally motioning for silence.

“As I said, well played, all of you.  And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for.”  The green hangings from last term’s Slytherin victory shimmered, then turned violet, the color of Hogwarts unity.  All the staff’s robes were trimmed in purple, with the heads of house having their crest on the right breast.  Spike shifted uneasily at the loss of the familiar emerald and silver banners, but they’ll be back soon enough, she consoled herself.

An OWL, Finally (Conclusion)

The waiting was nearly physically painful as the four staff members put their heads together, whispering.  Spike studied the skies overhead, trying to determine just how many silver stars there were among the green.  Some of the greens were brighter -- was that green, or silver?  Some were dimmer -- was that green, or just imagination?  How many points off for each one?  How many to failure?  She wished she knew more about the process.  Maybe I shouldn't have left my first OWL to chance.  I should have studied the requirements more thoroughly, made an informed and thoughtful choice based on my strengths.  I should have planned better.  She resolved to think it through in the future, not heedlessly rushing into an OWL with too many variables. 

The professors resumed their places in the semicircle.  Spike looked at their faces, but everyone had fixed their features in masks of firm neutrality.  Professor Gorre bent, and handed Spike back her star chart.  "We are pleased to announce," she paused, flicked her wand.  A table, resting on four impressively clawed feet appeared near the door.  On it rested a velvet cushion, and something that sparkled in the dim light, growing brighter as the scene vanished and the empty classroom surrounded them once more.  "That you have passed your OWL, Spike.  Well played.  Your first OWL, and we know the trouble you ran in to at mid-term.  But you found a way around it, and your chart is acceptable.  Please pick up your badge on the way out."  Gorre extended her wandless hand, and after a moment, Spike shook hands with her Head of House. 

The Gryffindor professor gave her a firm nod of approval with his handshake, Professor Randall swept her into an enveloping hug.  Professor Wildsmythe put her other hand on Spike's shoulder, giving it a squeeze.  "Nicely researched," she said.  "And you really do know how to throw a party."

"Thank you, Professors," she said, voice shaking a little.  One hundred and fifty points for Slytherin!  All my doing!  She could see the end of term feast, the pride in Gorre's eyes as she accepted the House Cup, Spike applauding her teammates, knowing that she had a hand in their victory, the envious glances of the rest of the Houses as Slytherin carried the Cup into the Pit to drink mojitos and Midori margueritas, and other green-tinted, exotic Muggle beverages from the Cup until dawn lit the waters of the lake above. 

She pinned the new badge to her robes (diamonds and emeralds, she noted, spinning slowly widdershins) and walked out of the hall, the doors opening easily to the touch now that the Examination was over. Treading her way back through the crowds, she made her way back to the Dungeon.

Totenberg looked up from the game of arima'a he was playing against Dmitri.  "Zo?"

She jumped into his lap, careful not to disturb the pieces.  "I did it!  I did it I did it I did it!!  I got my OWL!!"  She sat back just far enough to display the new brooch on her left shoulder.  "I got my OWL, and we're going to win for sure, and I can hardly wait for the feast to be called!  And to tell Atyets and Matya all about it, and I can hardly wait to come back and do it all over again! Next term!"

Totenberg laid a finger across her lips.  "Think you need to take a nice long walk," he suggested in his thick accent.  Spike blushed as she heard the echo of her words.  That was a longer speech than she'd heard Atyets make in meetings of state, where there was certainly more at stake than a trophy and a party. 

"You're right."  She got up, wrapped the star chart around her shoulders for a little extra warmth, and went out for a long walk on the moors to see if she could find the exact hilltop she had just spent a lifetime on a few minutes before. 

An OWL, Finally (Part Four)

The doors slammed shut behind Spike, and she looked around the empty hall.  It looked just like any anonymous classroom -- wood floors, stone walls -- but utterly, utterly bare.  No desks, not even a lectern for the professor.  Nothing on the walls, it could have been History of Magic, or Charms, or Muggle Studies -- anything at all.  And there was no OWL board of Examiners waiting, either.  A big empty box.

"Hello?  Is there anyone there?"  Her voice echoed slightly from the naked walls. I must be in the wrong room, somehow.  She turned back to the doors, pulled on the handle, but they were locked tight.  "Hey!!"  She pounded on the door.  "Hey!  I'm stuck in here!"  If the assistant was on the other side, she couldn't or didn't hear, because no one opened the door.

"I'm supposed to be defending my OWL!  How can I defend it if there's no board?  Let me out, or send them in, or . . ."  She stamped her foot, vexed,  Tendrils of hair began snaking their way out of her bun, and she shoved them back in place, even more irritated.  The wood in front of her began turning reddish, and she stopped in her tracks.  Touched it.  Oh, not fire, not this time.  Her temper, she really had to get a hold on it.  Ahtyets had been telling her that for ages, and she knew it, but still.  So not fire, then . . .  She turned around.

At the front of the hall, the light was changing, shifting to sunset, through pink and red and orange and the other mixtures of colors that had no real equivalents in language.  It wasn't like the ceiling of the Great Hall, which showed the actual sky above, she could still see the walls quite clearly.  But as she watched, and the lights above flickered into violet, they became insubstantial, misty, and then dissolving as darkness began eating the room.  Overhead, the ceiling vanished into might, and in the dying twilight, she saw four professors appear as if they were walking up one of the hills behind Hogwarts to meet her there. 

She recognized Professors Wildsmythe, Gorre, and Randall.  Professor Wildsmythe winked at her from behind her colleagues’ backs.  Spike’s hand went cold and damp.  Right, the party.  Oh, boy, I hope that doesn’t lead her to expect more from me than I can provide. 

Professor Gorre gave her a dry sort of nod, and a lump grew in Spike’s throat. The Head of my House?  Oh, no.  She’ll have to be really tough in order to preserve the whole “fair” approach and avoid showing favoritism.

Professor Randall smiled sunnily, but she’s a Hufflepuff, she’d smile sunnily to someone climbing the gallows, and wish them a nice day, completely without irony.  Oh, it’s bad when your best hope is the Gryffindor professor, whom you’ve never met before.

The four took their places in a semi circle in front of her, and Professor Gorre handed Spike her star chart, neatly folded.  “Show us what you can do,” she said, waving her wand, and the skies above swirled into glowing ribbons of stars above, completely disordered.

Spike laid her chart out on the ground between them, looking carefully at the beads showing her direction, giving her grounding and landmarks in the sky.  “Okay.  This one here belongs there,” she said, tapping the bead with her wand, slowly picking order out of the chaos the stars had been cast into. 

One at a time, the stars took their places as ordained by her chart, one tiny glowing light at a time.  It could have been hours, it could have been weeks until finally he thought she had them all back in their proper places.  “That’s it,” she said, looking up at the sky and the portion she had charted. “They’re all where they ought to be.”

“Are you sure, then?” asked Professor Wildsmythe, in her cool and slightly distant way.  “Everything is where it belongs?  All the celestial bodies back in their proper places?”

Spike thought it over.  Were they?  The stars matched her chart, but how accurate was that chart?  Had she gotten it right?  Had she maybe rushed too fast in her efforts to get it done my the end of the term, had she missed something vital?  “I think so . . . yes.  Yes, I’m sure.”

“Revelatio celestii!” The Gryffindor professor cast the spell, and most of the stars stayed where they were, turning slowly emerald green. A few, but only a few, changed places, winking silver.  Randall frowned up at the sky, tapping her wand on her chin, counting under her breath.

She’s counting the silver ones, Spike realized.  The ones I got wrong.  Were there too many?  She held her breath.

An OWL, Finally (Part Three)

She followed the moving staircases carefully to the third floor, down the halls, walking past crowds of students each anxiously peering at lists posted in front of huge iron banded doors.  Arithmancy, Divination, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions--a sudden clap sounded and the doors actually shuddered in their frames, opening to let a whiff of evil-smelling smoke drift into the hallway.  Some of the upper-classmen snickered and fanned their hands elaborately.  "Told Stibbins he'd never be able to recreate that one," a Ravenclaw announced smugly to a brace of his friends.

"He'd been going on and on about how he was some kind of natural Potions genius," another agreed, pushing her glasses up further on her nose.  "He'd have to sort Slytherin next term in order to get all the Potions help he really needs."

"Maybe even Hufflepuff -- kitchen chemistry.  You have to start where you really are, right?"  They all laughed, whistling past the gallows while their own examinations were pending. 

"So . . . you really do sort fresh each term?" Spike said, standing near the edge.  The others looked down at her, taking in the green trim on her robes.

"Yeah.  We each sit down with the Hat every term and get Sorted again.  Some students tour the Houses, spending a term in Ravenclaw, a term in Gryffindor. I think your Head of House spent some time in Hufflepuff, learning management skills."  He smirked.  "Coals to Newcastle there, I would think.  I don’t believe Slytherin's heirs distinguish between management and manipulation."

Spike smiled, just half a smile, looking carefully at the faces of the older students as they snickered.  One day, not so very long from now, one day we will meet and have a discussion about management, manipulation, and coals.  "Thank you for your insight," she said, coolly, dropping a precise curtsey, and continuing down the hall.

Care of Magic Creatures, Herbology, Ancient Runes, Charms . . . Sorting every term?  She shivered a little, pulled the collar of her robes a little higher around her neck.  How was this accomplished; did they all file into the hall ahead of the firsties and sit under the Hat once more?  Did they decide who went where by how well they did?  What if she failed her OWL at the last minute, would she be Sorted to Hufflepuff?  One last chance before being shown the door?  Had she taken enough classes, won enough points to get her a seat in Slytherin?  Should have taken Divination this term, she thought ruefully, squeezing through the crowd.  It would be nice to know for sure.

The crowds were getting thinner, clustered around the last few doors.  History of Magic, Muggle Studies, Transfiguration--here it is, Astronomy.  She found her name on the list and informed the assistant that she was here, waiting. 

The doors swung open, and a dazedly grinning Hufflepuff came out,  Spike tried to peek inside, but all she saw was a large, empty hall with wooden floors, just like any of the classrooms with the desks taken out.  There's not even a chair for the Examiner to sit on, she thought.  How am I supposed to--  The other student grabbed her, whirling giddily.

"I did it, I did it, I did it!"  she was chanting.  "Oh, I didn't think I could, but I made it!  I got my OWL!!"  In one hand she held a chart, and on her robes was an elaborate pin of diamonds in a galaxy, spinning slowly, winking between topaz and brilliant white.

"Well played," Spike said automatically, trying to gracefully disentangle herself from the Badger. 

"Hufflehugs!!  Hufflehugs for everyone!!"

"Have we, er, met?"

The other peered at her closely.  She had sandy blonde hair, a round moon face, and a gap in her front teeth when she grinned.  Her grin was infectious, Spike found herself smiling back.  Really smiling, not baring her teeth with another layer beyond it.  "Appolline Hopkins," she said, letting go enough to pull one arm loose and proffer her hand between them.  "Pleased to meet you--"

"Nikolevnischka von Schaedelthron.  But everyone calls me Spike," she added as the other's eyes widened at the string of syllables. 

"I see why they would!  Oh, it's a great day!  I passed my OWL, and I made a new friend!"  She squeezed Spike one last time before letting go.  "I can tell we're going to have lots of fun together!  But right now, I have to get back to the Den to let everyone else know the good news!"  And down the hall she went, robes askew, boots clattering.

Spike watched her, re-arranging her garments and hair, picking up her book bag.  Friends with a Hufflepuff.  Well, maybe.  They were always talking about House Unity, after all.  "Perhaps," she said, fiddling with the hairstick holding her bun in place.  "Perhaps this sorting thing . . ."

But the assistant was calling her in now, and it was her turn to step up and defend her work of the term.  Spike took a deep breath, and walked into the empty hall. 

An OWL, Finally (Part Two)

Spike was playing a game of exploding snap in the Common Room, but her heart wasn't in it. She was waiting to find out if her OWL had been approved. Every time an owl flew in, everyone would watch out of the corner of their eyes to see if it carried a purple-bordered message from an Examiner, informing the student that their OWL did not meet the required qualifications.

Was it really kinder this way, to cull the herd first, to clear out anyone whose work didn't measure up privately, and then to invite the remaining students in for the oral part, where they would defend their OWLs to the board of Examiners? She wasn't sure.

On the one hand, how awful would it be to go in, thinking you might just squeak past with a brilliant defense, only to be rejected at the eleventh hour and sent right back out to face the gauntlet, with everyone knowing you hadn't even had a chance to start. On the other -- a barn owl flew uncomfortably close, executing a barrel roll on silent wings -- on the other, the tension was driving her absolutely mad. "Every owl a harbinger," she muttered, as three cards in her hand blew into confetti.  This deck was over-used, the explosions were hardly more than poofs; the hearts were shading from crimson into black, while the clubs had taken on a reddish tint.  The cards reassembled slowly, like an old man getting out of bed in the morning to face a long and empty day.

Munificent took three cards from the pot. "No news is good news, think of it that way."

"I wish I could be so complacent."

"But by midnight tomorrow, if you haven't got notification that you failed your OWL outright, then you get to go to the Hall and defend your work."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Spike explained about the parchment that she'd been working diligently on, that suddenly bore no relation to what was in the skies. How she'd had to start from scratch just before mid-terms, picking a whole other swath of stars to plot from the very beginning. "I'm not sure I'd know where to begin explaining my work, never mind defending it."

The game ended when the deck disintegrated one last time, leaving shred of confetti swirling in the air.  Spike looked at them in dismay.  “That was the last deck!  And it’s lights-out; there’s no way to leave the dungeon to fetch a fresh pack.  The game ended when the deck disintegrated one last time, leaving shred of confetti swirling in the air.  Spike looked at them in dismay.  “That was the last deck!  And it’s lights-out; there’s no way to leave the dungeon to fetch a fresh pack. How are we going to kill the hours until--"  The chiming of the clock cut her off, and Munificent stood up and stretched.  

"It's midnight.  There's no more time to kill; we've neither of us failed outright.  So I am going to bed, where I can finally sleep, and that's how I'm going to pass the hours until dawn.  I suggest you do the same."  She turned at the head of the stairs that led down into the bedrooms.  "You'll need it, what with that OWL of yours."

Spike occupied herself for a little while levitating and vanishing the shreds of playing card, but when the house elves' night shift came in, the sidelong dirty looks put her off her game, and so she went to bed.  Lying there, wide awake in the dark, she was certain that she would spend the entire time tossing and turning . . . until she was awakened by the tapping on the ceiling that was the giant squid alerting the house that it was time to get up and make ready to face the day.

She grimaced at the mirror as she brushed her hair and fought to contain it in its customary bun.  Her green-tinted mane was sensitive to magic, attempting to climb the currents like a morning glory vine climbing strings.  At home it wasn't so bad, but in a school devoted to learning magic, the temptation was apparently too much for the locks.  And this being OWL day, there was more in the air than usual.

She finally got it all tied down out of her face, and followed at the tail of the line as they trooped up to the Great Hall for breakfast.  Oatmeal, toast, and fruit, a mellow bland breakfast for nervous stomachs.  Spike toyed with her bowl of porridge gloomily, then deigned to nibble some toast and fruit.  She'd celebrate or drown her sorrows at lunch. 

An OWL, Finally (Part One)

It was nearing midnight on the last day of the term, and Spike was in the Common Room frantically working on her OWL.  The heads of house turned the traditional blind eye to the need for bed check during the last week of the term to allow students the maximum time to complete their homework.  As long as they're in the dorm rooms, we know where they are, and have a pretty good guess what they're doing.  After all, they had all been students once. 

Her star chart seemed to be taking forever.  It grew larger and larger under her hands, each row representing the vastness of space itself.  The beads sparkled like stars, slipped and hopped with evil minds of their own as she worked to charm them into the web of spaces and places.  Finally, the last bead, the last stitch, all was in place.  She pulled it taught for display, and whistled for Gwenhyfar to come and carry her work to her Examiner. 

The owl carefully wrapped her claws in the lace, delicately holding it up and peering at the shiny bits in the soft fiber. 

"Don't tear it,  Spike chided softly, opening the owl-sized door in the wall.  It opened up into a shaft, as if for a dumbwaiter.  Hogwarts was honeycombed with these shafts, too small for a student, but just about the right size for an owl.  They had to be pulled open from the outside, but were balanced to be easily nudged open from the inside.  She watched as Gwenhyvar vanished into the darkness, carrying three month's of hard work in her claws. 

"Not'ink for eet now," said Totenberg from behind her.  She jumped.  I should be used to how quietly they move by now.  I should know to expect them when I least expect them.  But that would become the time I most expect them, and then I'd be expecting them and   . . .  "Bother,"  she finished under her breath.

"Time for bed," he advised.  "Hyu done all hyu can."

Spike spent a long night tossing and turning.  When she woke, Gwenhwyfar was perched at the foot of her bed.  She searched the owl thoroughly, checking her legs twice and under each wing until the bird nipped at her fingers.  No note.  Nothing.  Hopefully the owl hadn’t decided to drop her work somewhere in the mazed tunnels before reaching the Examiner. 

The days at the end of term, between the last class and the final feast before leave-taking, Spike found, were absolutely nerve-wracking.  She found herself taking the long way around in order to walk through the hall of hourglasses, counting and re-counting the emeralds.  Comparing them with the sapphires and rubies of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor.  Was it enough?  I should have found a way to cram in one more class.  I should have started an essay and handed it in for partial points. Too late now.

At lunch, she overheard a couple of students discussing someone who’d received a Troll on their OWL – had actually failed to meet the OWL standards, and she had sat, soup growing cold in the spoon halfway to her lips, ears pricked attentively, hoping for more information.  She hadn’t even considered the possibility that one could finish all that work and still be judged unworthy.  And a hundred points for the House!  That’s six classes and a Detention, she thought.  You could catch up with that kind of loss early in the term, but now the points were gone forever. 

She couldn’t settle down and turn hand or mind to anything useful.  Nothing held her interest for more than a moment, she was floating aimlessly.  Waiting for her letter from the Examiner.  Waiting to see if she’d passed her OWL.

A Table Turned (Conclusion)

Professor Umbridge had just finished teaching her class and was settling down to begin grading when the door burst open and Spike marched briskly in, followed by Begonia Hoddington. Professor Umbridge smiled widely. “Why, Spike,” she purred sardonically, “It’s always such a pleasure to see you here. Are you trying for an OWL in Detention? You’re certainly leaning that way.” To Prefect Hoddington, she asked, “And what has our naughty little snake done this time, hmm?”

“She was impersonating a Griffindor. Philandria Duntisbourne, actually. We suspect she used polyjuice potion.”

“Indeed? One could almost commend such studiousness if it were only applied to books, and safe forms of learning. Theory, Miss Spike, not the more … practical aspects you seem so fond of.”

“Yes, Professor,” Spike mumbled. “I’ll just take my customary seat, shall I?”

“Yes, dear. I believe you know where the special quills are?”

Spike nodded, slouching over and selecting one. Better to get a sharp one if you could, it hurt less and carved deeper.

Later that night in the Dungeon, Mallory Chambers spotted Spike. “Hey, I heard you got Detention for playing that polyjuice potion trick on Griffindor. How come you’re out so early?”

Spike smiled. “I just happened to have a little goodie for Professor Umbridge—a lovely pair of complex socks in her favorite color.”




Chambers thought for a moment. “Wasn’t that the pink yarn we used to mop up the Amortentia spill last month?”

Spike grinned. “Yup. Professor Umbridge—or ‘Lolly’ as I am now to call her—apparently has a new class pet.” She sipped her absinthe, admiring the opal over emerald. “Of course, until she’s WASHED those socks a few times.”

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!"