Chapter 2: It's Not Much, But It's Home

For the first four years of Ben's academic career, Minerva McGonagall had been the headmistress; tall, stern, and rather world-weary by the time she'd been dealing with Ben and his friends, she had still nonetheless cut an imposing figure at the teacher's table. She had left at the end of his fourth year; the official reason had been that she was getting up in the years. However, Dumbledore had been older, and Dippet older even than Dumbledore. Ben had heard the rumor – which seemed to be backed by the drawn expression that had etched itself more and more deeply onto the Headmistress's face when he and Cameron were in her office (which had been often) – that it was the approaching ten-year anniversaries of Dumbledore's death and the Battle of Hogwarts that had more to do with it.

Her replacement, Maxwell Rove … to say he didn't cut the same figure would have been an understatement. A bald, heavyset man with completely average features who dressed like a colorblind mountebank to make up for the otherwise complete lack of remarkability, you could look right past him without seeing him … until you set your eyes upon his nearly neon blue robes with their embroidered stars enchanted to twinkle, his ever-present acid yellow cloaks, his darker – but still somehow offensive – blue boots worked with dragons and birds. Then you wished you could look past him.

Rove was talking to Professor Flitwick, the kind-as-he-was-tiny Charms professor, who – Ben had to admit – was actually more impressive than Rove and didn't make you blind to look at him. It had been surprising that Flitwick hadn't taken over as headmaster when McGonagall stepped down. He'd been deputy headmaster—still was—but maybe he didn't actually want to be responsible for being headmaster. He'd have had to step down as Charms professor – and head of Ravenclaw, which he seemed to be very proud of being. Plus he'd have to deal with Ben and Cameron more often, and Ben wouldn't have wished that on anyone.

"I wonder how much weight that chandelier is charmed to hold," Cameron mused as they made their way to their "usual" spot at Gryffindor table. It was basically the head of the table, by request of their own head of house. Not as a compliment; it just let him keep an eye on them. "The five of you get into trouble enough as it is," he had told them at the beginning of their second year. "And your housemates want to kill you enough as it is."

As if summoned by the thought, an irritable voice came from behind them. "Whatever you're thinking, Mr. de Falco, the answer is no."

Many of the older teachers still wore full, traditional wizarding robes rather than the open fronted ones, more like a jacket, that the students wore over their shirts, vests, ties and skirts-or-slacks, depending on gender. Not so with Leo Lipskit. He wore a Gryffindor scarlet polo shirt and khaki slacks under a simple charcoal open robe. His hair was completely white, though his face seemed to hold little identifiable age. He could have been anywhere from forty to ninety and looked more or less the same. He was scowling behind his close-cropped white beard, his blue eyes predatory as he worked his way past his Gryffindors on his way to the head table. He was accompanied by a metallic clank, clank, clank as he walked, for he carried a cane for a limp. Ben had heard so many crazy theories about how he'd acquired it, though Lipskit had never told the story and no one dared to ask.

But there were canes, and then there were canes. Lipskit's cane – under any other circumstance – would have been called a broadsword. The light glinted off the steel blade almost warningly, the fluted, gold-tone pommel also catching the light, but somehow less seriously.

The slight sway of Lipskit's braid – about the only possible frivolity in his entire appearance – seemed very like a finger waggling, warning them against whatever it was that they were thinking about. Lipskit continued to clank his way up before sitting next to another former Gryffindor, Neville Longbottom, who had returned a couple of years prior to teach at Hogwarts; he shared duty for Herbology classes with Professor Sprout.

Once the students had mostly settled, Professor Rove seemed ready to signal to Professor Flitwick, but the big doors at the end of the great hall banged open – and it wasn't the firsties. It was a tall woman with her dark hair twisted into a style that would have been more at home on a noblewoman done up for a Regency-era ball than an instructor.

Under her somber black (albeit chiffon) robes open at the neck to show off a statement necklace (it left Ben at least wondering what the statement was, though it seemed to be some sort of snake, so likely her Slytherin pride), she wore a vibrant green dress with a progressively sheer silk skirt. By the time it petered out somewhere mid-thigh, you could barely tell there was a skirt there and not just a slightly dragon-pox-y tan line.

No one, not even Rove, made a comment from the head table, even though bursting in like that and hurrying on stiletto heels accompanied by a machine-gun staccato would have at least rendered a "So nice of you to join us," out of McGonagall.

"What are you thinking?" Cameron whispered.

"Imma missin' McGonagall, mostly," Ben drawled back, dragging his accent out as far as it could go.

Cameron grimaced but nodded as Professor Kilduff, the Ancient Runes instructor, waved at the latecomer – Professor Yaxley – and gestured at the open chair next to her. Yaxley looked at Kilduff's other seatmate, Professor Zanetti, and took the seat at the very end, next to Professor Trelawney.

Rove straightened and, with a flourish, signaled to Flitwick to bring the first-years in.

The room moderately buzzed during the sorting, interspersed with brief bits of cheering and applause from each house as a new member was added to the group. After the last kid slipped into place at the Ravenclaw table, Rove stood up.

"To our first-years, welcome. To our returning students, welcome back. For those who don't know, I am Headmaster Rove. I should like to start with a very interesting announcement before we get to our welcoming feast. Over the summer, a ruin – dating, we believe, back to post-Roman era – was discovered in the Forbidden Forest."

The buzzing picked back up, threatening to overwhelm Rove's careful, measured, inspiring-as-cold-lumpy-oatmeal voice entirely.

"As a joint project, in the spirit of cooperation and mutual benefit between the Ministry of Magic and Hogwarts, we will be offering a special class for our sixth and seventh year students. The students will help to investigate the ruins and catalog the artifacts contained therein."

At that point Rove might have still been talking – but nobody heard him, because the room exploded into conversation. The headmaster was obviously getting agitated, even despite his strong-arm attempt at wounded dignity. Even that, a moment later – when the students were showing no sign of settling – was becoming more wound, no dignity and then a heavy shot of petulance.

"Ahem." Somehow, despite all Rove's greatest "wise, genteel headmaster" hits, rendering him, in Ben's opinion, mere minutes away from jumping up and down like a two-year-old in want of some candy, all it took was a single cleared throat for the students to calm down into wary silence.

Rove glared down the table at the throat-clearer. Lipskit spun his hand to gesture for Rove to continue, unperturbed by Rove's glare.

As far as Rowan was concerned, Lipskit was quite possibly the most terrifying teacher on the faculty. (Professor Yaxley might terrorize her, but she didn't carry a broadsword for a cane. There really was no comparison.) Nonetheless, she was grateful when he got the rest of the school to quiet down. There was something to be said for the power of fear.

Rowan was leaning forward in her seat. Post-Roman ruins? In the Forest? And a special class?

"Ahem!" Professor Rove straightened his robes and transferred his glare to the offending students, which was pretty much all of them. "As I was saying …" The words "before I was so rudely interrupted" hung practically shimmering – albeit unsaid – in the air before them. "Certain carefully chosen sixth- and seventh-years will have the opportunity to visit these ruins this year. A dozen students from each of those years will be selected to represent Hogwarts in this fine endeavor. Now, because this will be a very challenging class and will involve walking through the Forbidden Forest on every class day, there will be some stringent academic criteria in place. Every student in the class must have achieved an OWL with a grade of E in either Care of Magical Creatures or Defense Against the Dark Arts. Students must have also achieved at least an A grade on their History of Magic OWL, and if they took Ancient Runes, they must have passed with at least an A.

"That being said!" Getting through a few sentences without interruption seemed to be enough to make Professor Rove start to perk up again. "No students will be penalized if they happened to have not taken Care of Magical Creatures or Ancient Runes – after all, you didn't know about this opportunity when you were making your elective selections! But we will be scrutinizing academic and disciplinary records very carefully. Still, if you have the grades, we do encourage you to apply.

"Furthermore, I would like to take this opportunity to thank the three teachers who have decided to lead the class. The first is Professor Kilduff of the Ancient Runes department."

Professor Kilduff smiled and waved. Rowan hadn't taken Ancient Runes, but she knew Professor Kilduff – everyone knew Professor Kilduff. There wasn't another teacher in the school who packed half as much enthusiasm and friendliness into such a spindly package.

"The second is Professor Zanetti of the Defense Against the Dark Arts department."

Professor Zanetti nodded when her name was called and smirked slightly. It was probably a good thing she was leading the class – she was known for keeping a cool head in a crisis.

"And the last …" Professor Rove sighed. "The last is Professor Lipskit of the Defense Against the Dark Arts and Care of Magical Creatures departments."

Lipskit just grinned. It was the kind of grin that a shark might show off just before biting into lunch – or at least, that was how it looked to Rowan.

"Now, for those students interested, please note that applications can be picked up from your head of house. We will ask that they be filled out and turned in by Wednesday. We intend to announce the composition of the classes by the end of the week and begin the class next week."

Professor Rove took a deep breath and straightened his robes. "Before the feast can commence, however, I do have a few more announcements to make …"

It was perhaps rude of her, but Rowan's mind went elsewhere as soon as that oatmeal-like voice started running again.

A class in the Forest! In post-Roman ruins! She bit her lip and stared at the table, excitement bubbling up. And I've got the grades for it … well, except Ancient Runes, but that's only because I never took that … should I?

Without warning, Rowan's vision filled with food – and the room became a lot louder, probably because Rove had finished talking. Rowan jumped.

"Earth to Rowan," Quill chuckled, taking a heaping helping of chicken from the serving plate nearest to him. "You all right there?"

"Y-y-yeah." Rowan felt her face heat up (what else was new?) as she started to fill her plate. "Just—just thinking about the c-c-class Professor R-Rove was talking about. Um. He didn't s-s-say anything important after, d-did he?"

"Depends on how you define 'important,'" Aubrey drawled, rolling his eyes. "According to him? Definitely. According to everyone else? Not a chance."

Blair nudged him. "Be nice, Aubrey."

"Love, I don't know that you noticed …" Aubrey turned to Blair with a wicked grin and eyes that sparked. "But while I'm a lot of things, nice isn't one of them."

"Oh, stop," she laughed, leaning her head on his shoulder.

"If you wish." Aubrey turned back to Rowan. "So, you're interested?"

She nodded. "It—it s-s-sounds really f-fascinating. I m-mean—my mum t-t-told me all kinds of s-s-stories about the F-Forest …"

"It wasn't Forbidden back then?" Candice asked, eyebrows arching curiously.

"Well, n-n-no," Rowan admitted, "but that n-never stopped M-Mum."

"Post-Roman," mused Jon. "Isn't that about the time of Arthur and the Round Table?"

Rowan scrunched down and bit her lip—because of course someone would figure that out, and they'd probably put the rest of the pieces together soon.

Aubrey was the one who replied. "Depends on who you ask." He shrugged. "I mean—well, obviously Arthur is post-Roman, because I don't think anyone has seriously suggested that he's pre-Roman. But when post-Roman—that's the question. Most of the wizarding records we have suggest that he would have lived shortly after the Romans left but before the Saxons completely took over. And while he wasn't a king of any kind, that's really the only period we can put him in that makes sense. Meanwhile, Muggle records are all over the map, and most wizards can't even get their facts straight." Aubrey rolled his eyes. "If I hear one more Slytherin claim that Merlin was in their house, I swear, somebody's getting hexed."

"Why?" Candice asked as she gathered her peas onto her fork. "I mean, from what we learned about Merlin—ambitious, clever, maybe a bit power-hungry—sounds like a textbook Slytherin to me."

"Though he never minded Muggles or Muggle-borns," Jon pointed out. "Old Salazar might have had an issue with that."

"Yeah, but that's not the problem," Aubrey waved his hand. "The problem is that he would have been dead four hundred years or more before the school was founded."

Candice's eyes went wide. "Oooh."

"Yes, oh," Aubrey echoed.

"M-m-maybe—" Rowan started, and stopped.

It was Jon who turned to her, eyebrows raised in silent encouragement. "Maybe?"

Rowan swallowed. "W-w-well—you know—n-n-names tend to get r-repeated, especially when they belong to f-f-famous people … m-m-maybe there was another g-great wizard named Merlin—who d-did go to Hogwarts—and his s-s-story got m-mixed in with the Merlin's. You know. It c-could happen." Rowan forced herself to shrug before she turned back to her plate.

Aubrey nodded. "Definitely possible, especially when you start adding legend into the mix. Because once you get enough legends muddying the waters, you're lucky if you can tell your arse from your elbow in the mess."

"Aubrey!" Blair almost dropped her fork. "Really?"

"Just because you deny yourself the pleasures of swearing doesn't mean the rest of us have to." Aubrey batted his long lashes at her. "So—can I count on you to put in your application with me?"

Blair stared at him. "Are you joking?"

"Would I joke with you, Blair?" Aubrey asked, resting his chin on his hand and watching Blair carefully.

Blair looked away and shook her head. "It—I couldn't. I mean—tramping through the Forest twice a day—it's hardly … ladylike."

Now it was Candice's turn to almost drop her fork. "Ladylike? Jiminy Cricket, Blair! The nineteenth century called, they want their hang-ups back!"

"… Eh?" asked Blair.

"Candice is saying that you're acting anywhere from a hundred to two hundred years out of date," Quill translated. "Although, Candice, that's really not fair—mentioning a phone call and then using a completely different sense of 'hang up' in the same sentence. You'll confuse the wizards."

"I'm just trying to figure out who Jiminy Cricket is," Blair murmured.

"Let your c-c-conscience be your g-guide," Rowan giggled. When all that got her was more confused looks, she said, "Um—character from a m-movie. And um—same initials as J-Jesus Christ. So—marginally m-m-more acceptable to s-swear using his name."

"Like saying sugar snaps instead of shit." Aubrey nodded.

"Aubrey!"

Jon rolled his eyes and turned to Rowan. "So … you looked awfully interested when Rove was talking—which is a sentence I thought I'd never have reason to say. Are you thinking you'll go for the class?"

"Um …" Rowan swallowed and tried not to blush. "I t-thought—well—yeah. I mean—why not?" She leaned back to look around the table. "Y-you?"

"Definitely," Aubrey was the first to reply. "D'you think they'll take us all out at once? That would be nice."

"It w-would be. If I g-g-get in," Rowan added.

Quill gently elbowed her side. "You got O's on all the OWLs you took—"

"Except Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," Rowan admitted.

"And you got an E on that. You'll get in." Quill nodded.

She wished she could feel so sanguine. "M-m-maybe. You?" she asked Quill.

Quill raised an eyebrow. "Me?"

"Yeah—are you … I know H-H-History of M-Magic was n-n-never your f-favorite, but …"

Quill kept his eyebrow raised.

"… Y-y-you'd rather stick a w-wand in your eye, wouldn't you?" Rowan muttered.

"Pretty much," Quill agreed. "What about you, Jonny boy?"

"Doubt I'll have room in the schedule," Jon shrugged.

"Because you're taking eight classes." Quill shook his head. "Do you think Flitwick will even let you go for that many?"

"Can't hurt to try!" Jon shrugged. "But if Flitwick doesn't let me take eight, maybe I'll try out. It sounds like it could be fun."

Rowan grinned.

"Maybe for you," Blair said, sitting up unnaturally straight and comporting herself into a posture that was painfully ladylike even for her, "but—I don't think so. I mean—tramping through the Forest twice a day—and climbing all over those ruins …" She swallowed, but she shook her head firmly – maybe even more firmly than was strictly necessary. "No."

"And I'm a year too young," Candice replied. "Although I doubt I'd have time for it, either. My laptop isn't going to make itself run."

"So it looks like it's you and me, Rowan," Aubrey replied. "Hopefully we'll both get in."

"H-hopefully," Rowan replied, smiling.

And hopefully they'll let the sixth and seventh years be in the same class, because if they don't … unless Zach signs up, my chances of having any good friends in the class are pretty close to zero.

"So why do you suppose Rove hedged?" Spencer asked, pushing his glasses up his nose before filling his glass with pumpkin juice.

"Hedged?" Juliette asked, an already arched eyebrow curving up even further.

"'Post-Roman'? Anybody who didn't sleep through History of Magic knows that the only thing of any magical note to happen between the fall of the Roman wizards and the rise of the Saxon ones in Britain was Arthur. Why hedge and say 'Post-Roman'?" Spencer asked.

"For the vast majority of students who do sleep through History of Magic?" Juliette's tone was sardonic.

"Arthur?" one of the first-years studded in near them asked shyly. "Like King Arthur? Like the Once and Future King? And Le Morte d'Arthur?" Obviously the first year didn't speak French, because she pronounced it "Lee Morty."

Juliette drew in a breath, either for a scoff or a cutting remark about the French; her father was a full-blooded Frenchman and her French was flawless. Alas for her, Zach and Trevor both elbowed her in the ribs before she could trample all over the firstie.

"The real story of Arthur is a shade more complicated," Spencer said as Juliette rubbed her ribcage with a look toward her friends that spoke of retribution later. "At least what we know of it—some of it's lost in time."

"He was more like Robin Hood—all things considered—than King Arthur of those stories. It's a pretty interesting story, nonetheless," Zach told the first year.

"Oh." The firstie glanced down at her plate. "My brother, Henry, used to read stories about Arthur to me—he was in the RAF."

"Was?" Juliette asked before they could shush her.

"He died—this summer." She turned her head, thick blonde hair falling over her face, though it didn't entirely cover her swipe at her nose with the back of her hand. "He was stationed in Iraq. There was—a suicide bomber when he was on leave."

"Oh, I am so sorry—er—uh, kid?" Juliette rubbed the back of her neck.

"Miri—well, Miranda, but only my mum calls me that." Miri offered half a smile. "My gramma only uses it with Hollie for when I'm really in trouble." She poked at her chicken before quite obviously forcing herself to take a bite. "So—if Arthur wasn't a king, what was he?"

"A wealthy landowner at the start," Spencer said. "A lord; there wasn't a real formal title system then."

Miri nodded and took another bite. "So why's he king in the story then?"

"Same reason they added Lancelot and made him sleep with his sister and have a son with her who kills him." Spencer shrugged.

"That's seriously in the Arthurian legend?" When Spencer nodded, Juliette looked at Miri. "And your brother thought this was a good bedtime story?"

"Um, well, I—uh—it was a good story," Miri said defensively to her chicken.

"Juliette." The three boys hissed at her, glaring to a man.

"It is a good story," Spencer said to Miri. "Even stuff that's a little questionable can add to the story if it's done well."

"My gramma says the same thing about her soaps. Usually when she's telling me how much better Coronation Street used to be than it is now," Miri offered, though her fork was still hesitating on her plate near her potatoes, stirring them a little.

"Soaps?" Juliette asked. "What does soap have to do with streets?"

"It's a term for—uh—soap operas, I think," Zach said. "Really convoluted stories on Muggle telly—clones and crashed weddings and faked deaths and car crashes."

"You watch trashy Muggle telly now?" Juliette asked.

"No—Rowan likes to tell her dad stuff like it's not like she's gonna have an affair with his boss then fake a pregnancy and when they all fall for it, she'll fake her death in car crash and run off to be a groupie for a Muggle band. Usually when he's being too strict." Zach smiled faintly. "Jon asked her where she gets this stuff from—she said from Muggle soap operas and romance novels. It's almost gotten to be a joke between them."

"If that's what happens in these soap things, nobody with a brain would watch that," Juliette said.

"My gramma has a brain," Miri interrupted before Juliette could get off on a rant. "She's all I've got now—after Henry died, Mum's never home; she's at work or the pub all the time." The blonde girl shoved her plate toward the center of the table, it was obviously just picked at—and nobody picked at a Welcoming Feast plate.

"Juliette—if you open your mouth one more time, I'll hex you," Spencer growled. "Leave. The. Kid. Alone."

"You know, I really ought to go—um—over there," the prefect said after looking at the expression on Spencer's face. And no wonder. Miri bore more than a small resemblance to Marty, Spencer's little sister, and if this had been Marty, his wand would have been out already. "And um—catch-catch up with uh—her." She pointed to Niamh, the seventh-year Hufflepuff prefect, and left.

"You—you should eat, Miri. The house-elves always make awesome food, but they really outdo themselves for the Welcoming Feast," Trevor said, nudging her plate back toward her with his best puppy dog expression.

"Juliette doesn't always—think in—in tandem with talking," Zach offered as she pulled her plate back toward her but stirred her veg, rather than eating anything. "She kinda talks now and thinks—oh—next week or so. If it's not too inconvenient."

That at least got a little huff that might have been a chuckle or a snort, but it was accompanied by a forkful heading toward the first-year's mouth.

"So—are you gonna try for the class? You sound interested, Spence," Trevor asked a moment later.

"I thought I might. I know why Professor Sprout talked me out of taking NEWT-level Astronomy, but my schedule just feels a little empty without it. You two?" Spencer said, before attending to his own plate with a sidelong glance at Miri.

"An archaeology class? Are you kidding? I want to go into archaeology after school." Trevor shook his head. "Why wouldn't I apply for a class in it? You, Zach?"

Zach was quiet for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at the Ravenclaw table, eyes seeking out the familiar chiffon blonde hair sandwiched between two much taller, dark-haired boys. He knew that Rowan would apply for the class, her interest in things related to Arthur – or rather Arthur's sister Morgan le Fay – was so ingrained it was a near obsession. The Gorlois family claimed to be descended from Morgan, that Morgan. And Rowan was the granddaughter of the clan matriarch, but she was not a Gorlois, despite being the daughter of a daughter. When pureblooded Elaine had married Muggle Robert, Rowan had explained to him and Jon one late night during a visit, her grandmother, Igraine, had disowned Elaine. That meant Rowan wasn't a Gorlois either.

The schism was bitter and contentious on both sides. Elaine had even taken Robert's last name when they married, something Rowan said was almost unheard of amongst the Gorlois family, and kept it after the divorce – though Rowan said that had more to do with the fact that the Ministry wouldn't let Elaine use her father's last name. She'd never been Elaine McDowell according to her records, so she couldn't "go back" to it post-divorce.

Jon probably wouldn't take the class; he had a full slate of classes already. More –according to him – than even Flitwick, a man who'd been head of house to scholastically driven Ravenclaw for years, thought he should be taking. If Rowan, Spencer, and Trevor were going to try out for the class … it was worth a shot, even without Jon.

"I think I might," Zach finally disclosed. "It does sound interesting."

"I don't understand," Cornelia pronounced. She was on the side of the table that looked out at the other three house tables, and as usual, she was staring at the tables opposite them with barely concealed contempt. "Why is everyone so excited about going out to the Forest and crawling over a bunch of rocks?"

Vivianne didn't answer, preferring to at least pretend to pay attention to her vegetables. Someone else would answer – and it would be best to see which way the wind was blowing before she opened her mouth.

Trish did not disappoint. "Well," she gushed. She'd somehow managed to snag the seat next to Cornelia, the one Belle hadn't grabbed, and she was going to wring every last bit of advantage she could from the opportunity. "I can see why the Gryffindorks are so interested. Going through the Forbidden Forest twice a day, without even risking detention for it? I'll be surprised if the whole year doesn't sign up."

"Maybe some of the more annoying ones will get eaten by something," Frida smirked.

From the corner of her eye, Vivianne saw a flash of movement. But when she turned to look, all she could see was Claudia Churchill, head ducked down and apparently concentrating on her plate.

Vivianne's eyes narrowed. Nice try, Claudia … nice try.

But on the other hand … "Don't say that, Frida," Vivianne gently admonished. "After all, the annoying ones are the ones who make sure that Gryffindor always stays in last place in the race for house cup. If they got eaten, Gryffindor might actually have a chance."

"To say nothing about the pity points they'd be likely to get from all the teachers if someone did get eaten," Sybilla pointed out. "And I don't see why it's so surprising that people are interested in the class. I'm interested in the class. In fact, I think I'll apply."

Vivianne patted her lips with a napkin, a trick she'd picked up years ago. As long as no one was looking at her too closely, no one would see her smirk.

As it was, Trish's eyes were very wide as she stared at Sybilla, and even Frida had a carefully frozen expression of the sort that was meant to mask all emotion, but which, to the trained eye, gave away nearly as much as it hid.

Cornelia, however, merely rolled her eyes and looked bored. "Well, of course you would, Sybilla. You're … you."

"And I'm sure you've got the grades for it," Belle put in, smiling.

Sybilla's only answer was a smile. "As it happens," she replied, "I do."

Vivianne dropped her napkin back on her lap and unconcernedly took another bite of chicken. How many hours had Cornelia and Belle between them spent trying to get Sybilla to talk about her exam results on the journey up? Yet Sybilla had refused to say a word – even when Cornelia eagerly ran down her list of results and Belle had admitted all the exams she'd flunked.

Of course, Vivianne already knew Sybilla's results – and for that matter, Sybilla knew hers. Their results had come in shortly before Vivianne and her family left for France, so she and Sybilla had met in Diagon Alley for one last shopping trip and swapped scores.

And Sybilla certainly had the grades for the class. Vivianne's jaw had fallen when she'd counted just how many O's were on her friend's results sheet.

"What about you, Vivianne?" Sybilla asked.

"Hmm?" Vivianne replied.

"The class," Sybilla clarified. "Are you interested? I wouldn't mind having a friend along."

"Oh …" Vivianne glanced at her plate and pretended to think. "Well—it could be interesting, I suppose …"

"Could be?" That was Isolde Macnair, the fifth girl in the dorm with Vivianne, Sybilla, Cornelia, and Belle. "If you didn't sign up, all of the great-aunts would explode! The future Gorlois matriarch, not taking a class that would allow her to investigate a post-Roman ruin?"

"I see you've been talking to your grandmother," was all Vivianne would reply to that.

"More like she's been talking to me," Isolde rolled her eyes. "She keeps telling me I should take an interest in the family history. 'You may not be a Gorlois, Isolde,'" Isolde went on in an almost eerily accurate imitation of her grandmother, Vivianne's Great-Aunt Isolde, "'but you are nonetheless descended from a line of witches that stretches back to the days of Arthur of Britain himself. It is a line that has attracted its share of intrigue, scandal and calumny through the ages, but that has nonetheless managed to always escape disaster. Take heed, and live up to their example!'" Isolde shook her head. "I think she's still upset with Grandfather for being related to Walden Macnair."

Vivianne snorted. "She's just as related to Brutus Yaxley."

"Try telling her that," Isolde muttered.

"… I don't get it," Belle murmured. "I mean, not the Macnair/Yaxley thing—I get that, I mean—" She stopped with a slightly guilty glance at Frida, who was attempting not to notice it. "Er—that is, that I get. But … why would Vivianne's relations be upset with her for not signing up for this class?"

Sybilla's mouth had opened, but James – sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Belle as always – was the first to answer. "Oh, Belle. I can see why you're not signing up," he chuckled. "'Post-Roman' is almost always code for 'Arthurian.'"

"Arth—oh, you mean like Morgan le Fay? Vivianne's ancestress?" Belle gasped.

"Well, that is what—" James started, before he caught Vivianne's expression. "… Is true," he finished.

Vivianne shot him a feline smirk before turning back to Belle. "Indeed she is," she said. "So you can see why my relations would want me to take the class."

"But have you got the grades for it?" asked Cornelia, one eyebrow raised.

In answer, Vivianne took out her fir wand and spun it from finger to finger. "Of course," she replied. "I've always been very good in Defense Against the Dark Arts … and as for History of Magic and Ancient Runes …" She chuckled. "I daresay my grandmother would disown me if I hadn't performed well on my exams in those subjects."

"Oh, come now, Vivianne, I don't see why you have to make your exam results a big secret, like Sybilla," Belle pouted. "You all know how I managed to get a T on my History of Magic exam. And I know I spelled my name right and everything!"

"Who said it was a secret?" Vivianne shrugged. "You two were so busy badgering Sybilla, you never bothered to ask me."

Cornelia's eyes went wide and Belle's jaw fell. Vivianne thought she heard Isolde snicker.

"Well then—" Cornelia started, but Sybilla was too fast for her.

"Will you take the class with me, then, Vivianne?" Sybilla raised one eyebrow, though the expression in her silver eyes was rather earnest for all of that. "Who knows who else from our house will bother—and I really don't want to be left to the tender mercies of the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors."

Vivianne dabbed at her mouth with the napkin again. "One condition," Vivianne said.

Sybilla lifted her brows.

"You'll be doing all of the difficult homework."

Sybilla smirked – and probably not just because she had won. Vivianne had said the same thing when she agreed to take Ancient Runes with her back when they picked out electives in second year. And that … had not gone according to plan. "Of course, Vivianne," Sybilla replied smoothly. "I certainly wouldn't have assumed anything else."

"Very well then," Vivianne replied. "We'll get our applications from Professor Yaxley first thing tomorrow."

Whaaaaat? It's Tuesday and there's an update? Well, our beta has been making spectacular progress, so now we're updating twice a week! Look for updates on Tuesdays and Fridays.

Thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing. Let us know what you think!