Troll: 11. Minerva, goddess of war and wisdom. (Patreon)

Chapter 11: Minerva, goddess of war and wisdom.

Blaise Zabini

Hogwarts, Great Britain

Our first potions class continued. We were asked to make a boil cure potion, one of the more basic potions in our textbook. It included a base of snake fangs, six per dose, crushed into powder and added to the cauldron to form a paste-like slurry. This was, according to our textbook, one of several standards bases for many forms of health tonics. The type and quality of the potion would vary based on the potency of the snake’s venom.

For our purposes, simple garter snake fangs would do.

Parvati and I worked well together. Despite common assumptions, she wasn’t a vapid fool. More to the point, she wasn’t at all grossed out by the fangs, or the dried out horned slugs, that we had to prepare.

“Mom’s pretty good at potions,” she said with a shrug, “made sure neither Padma nor I would get all precious about it. Why? Your mom didn’t teach you anything?”

I snorted at the thought of Valencia Zabini teaching. “Mother? No, of course not.”

“Shame, potions is one of the few subjects you can teach someone who doesn’t have a wand. I mean, I had a training wand and all, but you know what I mean.”

I thought about how stepdads three and four were found. “You know? I do think mother knows a thing or two about potions now that you mention it.”

“See? You should write to her. Maybe she wanted to teach you and was waiting for you to ask? She could be secretly super disappointed,” Parvati said with an innocent smile. It made me want to pinch her cheeks.

“You’re precious, Patil.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Take the cauldron off the fire for a few minutes before adding the quills.”

“Hmm? Sure, but I don’t think the fire’s that hot.” She wasn’t wrong necessarily. In a kitchen, this would be considered a low heat, barely enough to slowly scramble an egg. But this wasn’t a kitchen; this was a potions lab.

“Trust me, it matters.”

“What’s the wor-”

Then there was a sudden bang as Seamus and Nevile’s half-melted cauldron rolled off their stand and onto the floor. One moment, the room was silent save for hushed mutters and the simmering of cauldrons, and the next,  the Gryffindor side of the room descended into startled yelps.

Professor Snape was on them in seconds, swooping down like Batman chasing a cocaine shipment.

“That,” I drawled.

Parvati looked behind her, then at me with an accusing frown. “You knew that would happen.”

“I didn’t, actually.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you have an overinflated opinion of what it means to be a seer. Like looking around a foggy city, remember?”

“You helped Violet.”

“Some things are clearer than others. Potter’s like Big Ben, a huge, fat thing sticking out of the fog. Even when you turn around, she’ll remind you she’s there, every hour, on the hour.”

“So… I can tell her you said she’s fat?” She asked with a chuckle. “Didn’t you avoid the Weasley twins’ prank this morning?”

“Yes. I also noticed you tell them how. Thanks for making me a target, by the way.”

“That wasn’t-”

“I know, chirpy. I’m not actually mad. But to answer your question, their prank was easy to avoid because it was harmful to me. Think of the Sight like accidental magic. You know how those are triggered, right?”

She nodded. Like this, she really looked identical to her sister. “Most people awaken theirs as children when they either really want something or because magic needs to protect them from harm.”

“Perfect. Since the potion would be harmful to me, my Sight triggered without active prompting on my part.”

“And since we’re seated far from Nevile and Seamus, their blunder didn’t affect you so your magic ignored it.”

“Right.”

This was one of the minor details from canon that I’d forgotten. Other than fuel Nevile’s phobia of our potions professor, this incident had no bearing on the story whatsoever so I’d shelved it into a corner of my mind. I truly hadn’t remembered until we began dicing porcupine quills ourselves.

As it was, I decided to take this incident as proof that my memory wasn’t perfect. Unless I bothered looking, there was a chance I’d skip over more important details in the future, one more reason to refine my occlumency as soon as possible.

The boil cure announced its readiness with a trail of pink smoke rising from the cauldron. Parvati and I bottled a dose each to present it to Professor Snape.

X

“You wanted to see me, professor?” I asked politely. My head of house had called me to stay after class while the rest of the snakes went on to astronomy.

Severus Snape was not a handsome man. He might have been once, but years of slinking in the shadows left him with a pallor that reminded me of Gollum. Still, it did give him an intimidating glare.

“You assisted Miss Potter today,” he said, a statement rather than a question.

“I did,” I nodded easily. I never meant to hide it after all.

“Why?”

“Does it matter, professor?”

“Humor me, Mr. Zabini.”

I hummed and leaned against my desk, twirling my cane in one hand. I wanted his support, which meant I needed his approval. It was why I so insistently drew those heavy-handed parallels between him and myself after all.

“The Slytherin answer would be to say that she is a useful contact. The Girl Who Lived, woefully ignorant about our society, and heiress to the Potter fortune. And of course, an inside look at  the house of lions,” I said, looking into his eyes.

Staring down a known legilimens was dangerous, but I couldn’t afford to look away; anything else would be considered a lie. I knew my past life’s memories, including canon knowledge, were protected so that wasn’t an issue. I had some rudimentary occlumency, as did most purebloods, but I didn’t think I could keep him out if he tried.

By staring him down, I was all but inviting him to make the attempt. More importantly, I was indicating a lack of things to hide. It was a game of chicken played through body language. He could try, but I might notice. Or he could see in me the lovesick boy he’d once been.

“We don’t always behave according to our house colors, Mr. Zabini,” he spoke, his voice surprisingly soft.

“Nor should we, professor. It is said that our houses define us, and that’s true to a point, but I don’t think that’s always a good thing. Who knows what I might miss out on with such a narrow perspective.”

“Oh?”

“Slytherins are cunning and ambitious. It strikes me that I am more likely to succeed in my endeavors if I build bridges with the other houses.”

“Is that right? There are some in your house who would greatly disapprove,” he said carefully. Even without my knowledge, it was clear he spoke from experience. “Some might consider your fraternizing a form of betrayal.”

I shrugged helplessly. “I can’t please everyone; I refuse to try. You asked me why I helped Potter and I gave you the Slytherin answer. Now permit me to be candid, professor. Truth is, she’s grown on me. I can’t say she’s a friend, but she’s got a fire to her that appeals to me. As for anyone who cares to tell me what I can and cannot do, they will be rather disappointed.”

“Worthy convictions. We will see if they hold,” he said dismissively, but I could spy the ghost of a smile. How many times had he wished he’d said the same as a teenager? He then glanced at my cane. “Tell me, Mr. Zabini.”

“Yes, professor?”

“How are you finding your other classes? I understand you have been in a rather traumatic incident towards the end of summer.”

“The rumor mill is impressive,” I said sardonically. I’d planned to approach Professor Sinistra first, but since the opportunity presented itself… “The classwork itself is fine, but I’m not sure how taxing astronomy will be.”

“Astronomy? That is your next class, I believe, the last for the day.”

“The regular classes are fine, but I don’t think I’ll be able to remain awake for the midnight classes. The healers noted that I now require something around twelve hours of sleep per day to be fully functional.”

“And when did you sleep last night?”

“Seven, perhaps seven-thirty, professor. I had dinner and immediately went to bed so I could have an hour before class to myself.”

He nodded understandingly. He would, the man had eaten more than once crucio in his life, and from a wizard incomparably stronger than my dearly departed aunt. He pulled out a piece of parchment and began to write. “I can see how a midnight class might present an undue burden on your academic progress and recovery, presuming of course that you speak the truth.”

I frowned. I tapped my cane against the ground incredulously. “You think I’m lying about benig crucio’d so hard I need a third leg?”

“I am skeptical of all excuses made by students by default. I’ve heard every excuse you’d care to name for academic allowance. My students like to think of themselves as being especially cunning after all.”

“I… Yeah, fair point.”

“You do have a better excuse than others. However, I expect my students to excel, not rely on pity to scrape by.”

I took a deep breath. This fucker just… I refused to lose my cool. With a slow exhale, I said, “I am not looking for pity, professor. I fully intend to excel in all classes, especially astronomy. The subject is rather important for my innate gifts.”

He studied me for a moment before nodding in approval. A test then, probably to see if I was the type of impulsive “dunderhead” who’d fly off the handle. Fucking bullshit is what this was.

He handed me the parchment he’d been writing on. “You will visit Madam Pomfrey immediately after your classes today. You will comply with all tests and checkups she demands, for as long as she demands. You will obtain and maintain an exemplary academic record. If you do, I will exempt you from midnight classes.”

“Thank you, professor.”

“That note is for Professor Sinistra, both to explain your tardiness now and that she should see me after dinner to discuss your education.”

“Yes, sir.”

He leaned forward, his beady, black eyes narrowed with scorn. “Do understand, Mr. Zabini, should Madam Pomfrey tell me your health is not as dire as you claim, you will wish it was.”

I wanted to punch the bastard. Who said that to a kid? As a teacher? Still, I grit my teeth and forced myself to bow respectfully. He’d given me everything I wanted after all. Being an acerbic douche-canoe was a part of him.

As I made my way out of the classroom, he gave me one final piece of advice. “You have a great gift, Mr. Zabini. Take care that you don’t attract the wrong sort of attention.”

X

Convincing Professor Sinistra to excuse me from my midnight classes was a lot simpler than it could have been thanks to Professor Snape. Unfortunately, she ended up being the serious sort, the kind of professor who was very passionate about her subject. She refused to just excuse me from the “important practical lessons” without me making up for it somehow.

And that was how I ended up with an extra lesson every Sunday after lunch. On one hand, as a former college librarian, I respected all professors who were dedicated to their craft. On the other hand, I was a student now and any kind of makeup class sucked.

So I found myself in the medical wing of the castle. It was located on the first floor, a quick hop from the great hall. It, like the hall, headmaster’s office, four house commons, and a few other locations, did not move. A surprising bit of common sense from wizards.

The medical wing contained eight beds placed side by side, with curtain dividers between. To one side, there was a smaller room that acted as the healer’s office. Another side of the wing was dedicated to a walk-in cabinet for potions, bandages, and other supplies.

I found Madam Pomfrey in her office, poring over a thick tome with letters that seemed to move as I read them. She was a matronly older woman with graying hair and a kind smile. I heard she’d begun working here sometime during the late sixties. I tapped a little bell placed next to her office door.

‘Hmm? Oh, hello, dear. Don’t tell me you’ve managed to hex yourself somehow. It’s only been two days!” she said, placing a bookmark onto the confusing pages. She got up and ushered me out of her doorway.

“Ah, I haven’t hexed myself, ma’am,” I said politely. I decided to be as succinct as possible. “My name is Blaise Zabini and a few weeks before school, someone kidnapped and tortured me with the crucio for several hours.”

Her mouth opened and closed dumbly. I could practically see her brain trying to discern whether or not I was lying. Finally, something seemed to click. “I-Ye-Yes, I do believe Professor Snape mentioned something of that nature.”

“You weren’t sure if he was kidding?”

“The man sent over his patronus and he has… a unique sense of humor,” she said apologetically.

“Understandable. In any case, I was told you could give me a checkup?”

“Yes, go lie down on the bed there.”

I kicked off my shoes and stretched myself out on one of the cots. When I got comfortable, Madam Pomfrey waved her wand in my general direction. She muttered several spells under her breath, chaining them together with the finesse of a master duelist. Her wandwork was so fluid that I couldn’t tell where one spell began and another ended.

Finally, after several minutes, she stopped and frowned. “This can’t be right.”

“You know, a healer telling me that never bodes well,” I tried joking.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Zabini. Do you have any magic artifacts on you?”

“I… Yes, actually. Does this affect your ability to read me somehow?” I asked curiously. I slipped the ring from my finger and placed it on the stand beside me.

She picked it up and examined it for a second before nodding with comprehension. “Not normally, no, but you have a very potent enchanted ring, and one specialized for the use of healing magic. Episkey, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. I use it occasionally when the shivers get to be too much. I know it’s not a cure, but it does take away the symptoms. Should I not have?”

“No, no, that’s perfect. That explains the strange readings I’ve been getting.”

“Do you mind explaining? I”d like to know just what’s happening with me.”

“Of course, dear. To start, you are aware that an episkey, while perfectly serviceable healing magic, will not purge dark magic residue from your body?”

“Yes. Healer Alvarez, the healer who treated me in Italy, told me that my body would purge itself in time.”

“He’s right. Our magic knows and works towards our benefit, even subconsciously. Of course, it helps to know actual healing spells, have good nutrition, and other factors, but there is a general tendency of magic to do good for its wielder. This is why wizards tend to live longer than muggles.”

It made sense. I wondered if this too was why Harry, despite being the posterboy of child abuse, grew up to be a perfectly healthy, downright athletic adult. His magic must have been working overtime to cope with the bullshit he went through on the yearly.

Hell, Healer Alvarez said that magic cores were like muscles. I could expect to become a stronger than average wizard because of the way I strained myself.

“But if that’s true, how does episkey work? Shouldn’t the healing spell bolster the natural healing provided by our magic?”

“Not as such. To explain in detail, I’d have to get into the arithmancy of the spell itself and what it can and cannot do,” she said, somewhat apologetically. She looked excited to be talking about the subject. “I’m afraid you lack the background to understand the explanation, Mr. Zabini. The short of it is that though your ring cannot purge dark magic for you, it takes care of the symptoms, allowing your own magic to reroute itself towards the cause and thus speeding up your recovery.”

“That makes sense. So I’m recovering fine?”

“Better than fine. Under normal circumstances, it would take you half a year, maybe longer. Thanks to that ring, you can expect to forgo this cane by the end of the month.”

“Huh…” That was wonderful news. I’d given up on things like the dueling club because though I could see the spells coming, it would do no good if I lacked the physical ability to dodge. I’d have to reconsider my options now.

“Indeed. Congratulations, Mr. Zabini, you have quite the heirloom.”

“Yeah, I’m really lucky. So how does my narcolepsy play into this?” I asked. I knew of course that Somnolent was a drawback, something imposed before I even entered this world. But if there was even the slightest chance of getting rid of it, I had to try.

She frowned at that. “Your magic core refuels itself over time. Most of this refueling is done while you are asleep. And since you are expending more of your magic daily to heal yourself, and this expenditure is a constant process that occurs even when you are asleep…”

“I need more sleep to offset the way my magic core is working overtime,” I finished for her. “Does that mean I’ll return to a more sustainable sleep schedule after I’ve fully recovered?”

“Perhaps, but not by the end of the month. Now, I said you would be able to go without your cane by then, but that is not to say that you are fully recovered, merely that you will have your mobility back. Beyond that, I cannot say. You truly are a unique medical specimen; victims of sustained crucio are seldom your age and the effects of so much dark magic on a developing magic core is… unexplored, to say the least.”

“I’m thrilled you find my condition fascinating, Madam Pomfrey,” I drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Apologies, Mr. Zabini, that did sound rather insensitive, didn’t it?”

“It’s alright. I understand what you meant. Honestly, this is interesting to hear.”

“Are you interested in healing magic?”

“Honestly? I wasn’t until this conversation. It does sound interesting and it strikes me that learning how my ring works, and maybe a few diagnostic spells to supplement it, would be a good thing.”

“Unfortunately, healing is a NEWT-level course I teach a select few students. Only those with an Exceeds Expectations or better on both their charms and potions OWLs are permitted into my class. I do hope to see you here in a few years, Mr. Zabini.”

“Any chance you can recommend some preparatory reading?”

“Not as a first year, no. Third, fourth year, perhaps. Now, I believe I’ve seen all I need for today. You will see me on Saturday morning after breakfast so that I can check to see if you are well enough to attend your first flying lesson.”

“I understand, Madam Pomfrey.”

“Good, run along then. I’ll inform your head of house that you are to be dismissed from your midnight classes.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Do you mind if I have a note to show my housemates? I’d like to deal with any questions about why I get to skip class as soon as possible.”

“Of course, dear. One moment.”

After receiving the note, I bid her goodbye and headed for the kitchens. Dinner had already begun and I wanted to grab something light before going to bed. All told, I came away with more commitments but an uninterrupted sleep schedule on Wednesdays, which I considered more than worth the trade.

X

“Oh, this is so unfair,” Heath said as we sat around the dinner table on Wednesday. “Why do you get to skip the midnight classes?”

I cut up a portion of the toad in the hole and served myself. It was sausage baked in Yorkshire pudding, served with a side of onion gravy. Not what I considered good food, but it was archetypal British fare, proof positive that Brits lacked color in their lives. I made a show of languidly cutting a sausage before speaking, “Because I have a healer’s note.”

“Still not fair,” Gregory muttered from a mouth full of food. He swallowed and continued, “That was months ago.”

“Weeks. Madam Pomfrey says I’ll recover by the end of this month though.”

The boys grumbled with dissatisfaction. In a way, I understood. They reminded me of a time when I was their age. A classmate tore his ACL and got out of PE for three months. Rather than show sympathy, I had been jealous of his “good fortune,” not realizing the suffering that was his physical therapy.

I’d been such a douchebag then. I couldn’t find it in me to begrudge my housemates their envy because I’d been the same.

“So you really do need a full twelve hours, huh?” Theo muttered.

I frowned. I could see the gears turning in his head. “No. Try to intentionally disturb my sleep and I’ll stop pulling punches. A contest for the suite is fine, but I’m warning you now, Nott, I’m very protective of my sleep.”

“I’m sure you are. But hey, if we happen to make a bit more noise than we thought, well…”

Theo wasn’t ready for this. The drawback seriously hampered my abilities. The effects of insomnia seemed to set in faster and heavier with me than with others. Poor judgment. Scattered attention. Reduced memory. Risky and dangerous decision-making.

The first night was manageable. The second and third too, but if he continued to hamper my sleep, there would quickly come a time when I’d quite literally be willing to maim him for five extra minutes.

I leveled Theo with as serious a glower as I could manage. “You’re escalating and this is a mistake. I guarantee you I’m willing to do worse to you for five minutes of sleep than you are to keep me awake.”

“Do your worst, Zabini,” he scoffed. His voice was filled with the undeserved bravado of a cocksure teenager. He saw an easy way to inhibit my progress and saw no reason to keep things quiet. He thought himself cunning, and he was, for a child.

It was a trait I’d noticed about Slytherins: In some ways, we were even more bombastic than Gryffindors. The hallmark of a cunning plan was that no one knew you had completed it. However, Slytherins jockeyed for position based on said cunning, so how else would others know of your brilliance unless you strutted like a peacock? It left most of my house in a humorous dichotomy between quietly rubbing their palms like cartoon supervillains and… shouting about how brilliant they were, also like cartoon supervillains.

The latter was what Theo was doing, telling everyone he had a cunning plan to win the private suite. Trouble was, he hadn’t succeeded yet. He thought I couldn’t stop him anyway and so felt confident in telling me upfront. I’d just have to burst his bubble then.

I’d have to tweak a few plans, plans I had regarding the twins, plans I’d worked on since my arrival in this world. Then again, it wouldn’t be bad to establish a rapport early. They were ingenious, resourceful, and strong wizards.

“Fine, remember, you started this,” I said nonchalantly.

“You’re an idiot, Nott,” Lyra jeered from a few seats over. “Why in Merlin’s beard would you tell him what you’re up to?”

Theo shot her a dirty look. “Because he’s a seer, Malfoy. He’ll know what I’m up to anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean he knows everything, but congratulations, you’ve thoroughly ruined yourself.”

I wondered. Had that really been why Theo felt he should brag about disturbing my sleep? Had he overestimated my abilities and then ended up playing himself?

I couldn’t help it. I laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. Teenagers, even pureblood teenagers raised to live and breathe politics since we were children, really weren’t all that bright yet.

X

I got my twelve hours of sleep after all and joined the rest of the student body for breakfast. Colloportus, the locking charm, was not a difficult spell to learn. It was in fact part of the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 that Professor Flitwick taught from and the direct opposite of alohomora. As a first year spell, it didn’t require too much effort to learn and I managed to pick it up in an hour or so by practicing on my bookbag.

Me locking my bookbag also proved that despite the name, “collo” from the Latin “to bind together,” and “portus” meaning “door, it could be used more flexibly. A “door” was “an opening to pass through” and by that token, my privacy curtains formed a “door” I could “bind together.” Magic was neat like that, I’d found.

Thanks to that, Theo didn’t manage to get into my bed to bug me. Any noise he made outside was drowned out by Madam Pomfrey’s sleeping draught. Wonderful stuff, that. I made a note to learn a stronger locking charm. Theo wasn’t stupid; he’d soon figure out the counterspell.

I couldn’t believe it. My first magical arms race and it was over keeping my privacy curtains shut. Magic school was fucking stupid…

I consoled myself with the fact that they’d be useful spells in the future anyway and began to load up my plate with breakfast items. Eggs, toast, and roasted tomatoes weren’t bad, but I found that my body tended to crave sweeter things for breakfast.

We were halfway through breakfast when the mail owls swept through the hall. They airdropped packages like they were German pilots flying over London. Missiles rained down from the sky onto bowls of scrambled eggs. One was deflected by an ablative armor of toast, stacked high in the middle of the table. Truly, wizards knew how to make breakfast interesting.

I wondered what would happen if I purposely infected one owl with bird flu… I could probably shut down the entire school for a solid week or two. Or maybe a few days, Madam Pomfrey was rather competent…

‘And that, Blaise, is called an intrusive thought,’ I mused with a quiet chuckle.

My Sight flared and I tossed a bowl of fruit behind me, emptying it of its contents just in time for a mud-brown owl to crash headlong into it. The owl filled the bowl like oatmeal and slid across the table, coming to a stop in front of me.

I then heard a croaking screech, too quiet to be intimidating but not quite a hoot either. The table was enveloped in shadow as Minerva, my fuck-massive eagle owl, glided down below. The smaller owl that currently decorated my fruit bowl let out a squawk of terror before thrusting a crumpled piece of parchment towards me.

I sighed and held out a hand to stop my owl. At the same time, I slid the fruit bowl across the table, out of MInerva’s reach. Quickly, I distracted her with a thick slice of bacon.

“Are you bullying the other mail owls, Minerva?” I cooed.

“Bwap,” she chirped, doing her best to look innocent. Impossible, considering she was at least twice the size of most other owls, but still adorable anyway.

“You can’t beat up every owl that gives me a letter,” I chided. I tossed a few more pieces of bacon after the fruit bowl as an apology to the haggard mail owl.

“Bwap.” Her eyes promised she could and would.

Despite the promise of violence in her eyes, she sat still and allowed me to groom her plumage. She nuzzled her head into my hand and stole a few more things off the breakfast table before hopping onto my shoulder. At almost seven pounds of fluff and pointy talons, it wasn’t a weight I could ignore. She reminded me of a Tibetan mastiff that didn’t quite know how big it was.

She’d taken a liking to my wavy locks and ran her beak through my hair in a vain attempt to straighten them. While she did that, I unrolled the piece of parchment to find a cryptic letter. “Thowl art cordially invited to meet with the Mistress of Snowl, should thowl prove thyself capable of discerning this letter’s secrets. Can’t be too hard. It’s not owl-gebra.”

I held it transfixed. The puns physically hurt. I could feel a sudden urge to rinse my eyes in lemon juice to cleanse them of that travesty. “What the fuck?”

“Huh, I think that means the owlery,” Heath said informatively. He was looking over my shoulder at the letter, the awful, awful letter.

“Thank you for that observation, Parkinson. Kindly avoid reading my correspondence.”

“Then get a politer owl,” Theo laughed, “not one that’s a bloody bandit.”

“Bwap!”

“Aah! Fucking hell! Get it off!”

“Her name is Minerva,” I replied smugly. “She will forgive you in exchange for half your breakfast in tribute.”

“There’s bacon over there!”

“Bwap!”

“She says it tastes better when it’s stolen from sniveling cowards.”

“Gah! Fuck you, Zabini!”

A few minutes later, I smiled around a spoonful of scrambled eggs as Minerva gorged herself on a plate made up of half of Theo’s breakfast. Yes, meals were laid out buffet-style. Yes, Theo could get another plate. But it was the principle of the matter. If he wanted to pick a fight with seven pounds of fluff and talons, that wasn’t my problem.

The boy in question sulked quietly, doing his best to pretend like he hadn’t just been mugged by my mailman.

I thought more about the letter. As painful as it was to consider, the message wasn’t complicated: Meet me at the owlery. Even Heath could figure it out and he wasn’t exactly Einstein. Question was, who sent it?

No, that wasn’t difficult either. There was only one “snowl” in the castle, a snowy owl by the name of Hedwig. At this point in the timeline, there ought to be only a handful of people who knew Violet owned a snowy owl, which meant she was relying on my knowledge to piece things together. Assuming Violet sent the note, I was glad she’d used a Hogwarts mail owl rather than her personal familiar.

Now then, what did she want with me?

Author’s Note

Commission! Done!

Not gonna lie, that conversation with Snape kicked my ass. I mean, it had to happen, of course the head of house is going to be interested in this weird, crippled seer. But I’m not a big fan of bashing fics so I tried to make him both reasonably competent-sounding and decently understandable. I don’t think I succeeded.

I am once again pulling shit from my ass to justify CYOA choices via in-story lore. I consider it a plus that I get to flush out some of that magic core trope.

Eagle owls don’t make hooting sounds. They also don’t make eagle screeches either. It’s a weird mix that’s hard to describe, so “bwap” it is.