9. Umbridge.

Morning dawned to a downpour of rain, a merciless lashing of water against the castle windows and walls. It was accompanied by a howling wind which raged through the trees and threw itself with reckless abandon at anything which was unfortunate enough to cross its path.

The Great Hall, in stark contrast, was a bustling warmth of activity, punctuated by the occasional surprised shout provoked by a rain sodden owl landing on the breakfast table. Another Hogwarts weekend had arrived, and the students were relieved at the chance for rest or, in Harry and Ron's case particularly, to catch up with homework.

The tables were not as packed as usual, since some students preferred to lie in on a Saturday morning, while others were out in the vicious onslaught, practising for Quidditch.

Sitting down to his usual bowl of Crackling Cereal, McCoy nudged a distracted Kirk in the arm. "Have you seen Spock this morning?"

"No. I thought he might have gone to the library early. He was saying yesterday that he had a lot of work to do."

"Jim," McCoy sighed, abandoning his food momentarily to roll his eyes in exasperation at his friend, "he's finished all his work. I saw him doing it."

"This is Spock we're talking about. He's probably doing something extracurricular."

"That sounds about right," McCoy admitted. "He'll probably be researching the Whomping Willow or something..."

"He's done that," Kirk replied absently, his attention seemingly grabbed by Angelina, who was walking towards him with an enigmatic expression on her face.

"I have good news, and bad news."

"Hello to you too," McCoy grumbled beneath his breath, poking his cereal.

"What is it?"

"You made the team."

"Oh Lord..." McCoy groaned miserably. "What's the good news?"

Angelina ignored him completely. "The bad news is that you're only a sub."

"I understand," Kirk assured her truthfully.

"I want you to know," she said sincerely, "that you have great potential, with the right amount of training...although your flying skills could use a little work..."

Kirk grinned despite himself. "I'll work on that."

She nodded, smiling back. "Glad to hear you're happy with the arrangements. Congratulations, Kirk."

"Jim," he said automatically, even as she walked away. "What do you think Bones?"

McCoy sighed and jabbed at the cereal viciously. "You know by now what I think."

"I give you permission for another rant..." Kirk offered.

"Tempting...but I know it won't do any good. Just promise me one thing."

"What?"

"Don't end your career with a crash on a broom. You'd never live it down."

Kirk laughed and slapped his friend on the shoulder. "I'll do my best to avoid that."

Harry, Ron and Hermione sat across from them, looking much more relaxed at the prospect of the days of freedom before them.

"I hear you made the team," Ron said through a mouthful of toast.

"News sure does travel fast here," McCoy muttered.

"Yeah, well done!" Harry added, helping himself to breakfast. "I was glad to see you got control of your broom back." McCoy's grip on his spoon tightened.

"That was the funniest thing I've seen since Neville's first attempt," Ron continued cheerfully. "He broke his wrist though..."

"What was so special about what Jim did?"

"He flew upside down and almost crashed headfirst into the grass," Ron explained, oblivious to Hermione's warning looks. "Lucky he sneezed, really, otherwise he would have fallen off..."

"Jim," McCoy said in a menacingly low voice, setting the spoon down with a clatter, "I've changed my mind."

Kirk sighed. "I thought you might. Can we take this into the corridor?"

As the two left the table, Ron sighed. "Oops..."

Outside, McCoy rounded on Kirk, the promised rant not long in coming. "Are you insane?"

"I will be if you don't start using some new vocabulary. A variety of insults couldn't hurt..."

"This isn't very damn funny," McCoy snapped. "Do you know what it was like; waiting to see what condition you would come back in?"

Kirk cast his mind back to the day before. "Some idea, yes, from what you told me afterwards."

"When are you ever going to stop pulling stunts like this?" McCoy demanded. "When are you going to realise that you don't have to prove yourself anymore?"

"I'm not trying to prove myself," Kirk bristled.

"Then what are you trying to do? I know you Jim; I've been with you from the very beginning. You're trying to prove that you can be trusted, that you're good enough for your position."

"How would almost getting myself killed help?" He retorted. "Whenever I get injured, it's in an attempt to save someone's life, not to satisfy my ego!"

"And how many times," McCoy persisted mercilessly, "was the help of the Captain necessary on those rescue missions?"

"I care about my crew!"

"I know, Jim... I know," McCoy conceded. "But you don't have to do it all the time. Especially here. You're not on the Enterprise, Jim."

"I know."

"Then let yourself step out of Captain Mode. Stop trying to take unnecessary risks."

"That's who I am, Bones." His mind cast back to the memory of almost driving a car off a cliff. "You know that."

"I'm only trying to stop you from getting killed."

"I understand, Bones," he said softly. "But I want to do this. I can't explain it...maybe it's just the exhilaration of the game, I don't know. But what I do know is that I will do it." He smiled ironically. "Carefully, of course."

McCoy sighed, shoulders sagging in defeat. "You better know what you're doing, Jim."

"I hope so too...but I've been in enough disasters to know how to take care of myself."

"Did any of them involve brooms?" McCoy asked wearily.

"...Almost."

McCoy snorted. "I'm so reassured."

"Just don't worry about me. It won't help."

McCoy shot him a look. "How can I not worry about you? You're Jim Kirk!"

"...Fair point, although a bit too insulting," Kirk conceded with a grin. "So you're ok with this?"

"I guess I have no choice."

"You could always come along, you know," he suggested slyly. "To keep an eye on me."

"I might come and watch. Someone with real medical knowledge has to be there. Hocus Pocus won't work as well as good old fashioned hyposprays."

"You don't have any," Kirk pointed out.

"I have ways of getting them," McCoy joked. "You always say I'm pulling them out of thin air."

"True. Are you sure you won't consider coming?"

"I just said I would."

"I meant flying," Kirk grinned, knowing what sort of reaction he'd get.

"I'd sooner get my head stuck in an Aldeboron Shell-Mouth," McCoy snorted. "And they only open up once every ten years."

Kirk laughed. "As long as you're sure..."

"Trust me Jim, I'm sure."

"You don't know what you're missing..."

"Don't push your luck."

The doors to the Great Hall swung open with a slight creak and Harry, Ron and Hermione stepped out, chatting amiably on their way to the stair case.

"We're going to the library!" Ron shouted to the two officers as they stopped halfway up the staircase, having caught sight of them. "Hermione's doing a revision session."

"Which subject?" Kirk asked in interest, despite the fact that he was keeping up with all of his subjects so far.

"All of them," Hermione answered in fond exasperation. "We're starting with the homework they haven't done yet," she shot the boys a look, who had the good grace to look slightly ashamed, "then if we have time we'll move on to something else."

"So what do you say?" Ron asked. "Are you up for it?"

Kirk shrugged. "Of course. How about you, Bones?"

"I still haven't finished Professor Sprout's essay."

"That was due in yesterday," Hermione reminded him.

"All the more reason for me to do it now..." McCoy muttered.

"He's always been hopeless with deadlines," Kirk said cheerfully as they caught up with the others on the stairs and carried on walking. "But he's improving. Last time I checked, his report was only a week late..."

"Sick Bay gets busy, Jim. It's not like other jobs where you can just stop working at the end of your shift; my patients need care."

"I've always wondered," Ron said suddenly, "what Muggle medicine is like. Only my Dad keeps getting mixed up with the different equipment and these two don't know much about it."

"We're not doctors, Ron," Harry joked.

"You should be," the other boy shot back, smiling.

"Do you want to hear about our medicine or the Muggle medicine in this era?" McCoy asked.

"The one now, I s'pose. Maybe I'll even be able to use it," he said, waggling his eyebrows jokingly.

Hermione shook her head in fond exasperation. "Unless you want to cut people up, that won't be likely."

Ron paled noticeably. "You people cut your patients up?"

"I don't," McCoy said slightly defensively. "My ancestors did. Modern...I mean, future, for you, medicine has progressed beyond that."

Ron wasn't listening. "Why, in the name of Merlin's baggy Y-fronts, would you cut people up?" Kirk snorted at that. "What?"

"Merlin's baggy Y-fronts?" McCoy repeated when Kirk seemed to have slight trouble formulating a reply. "People actually say that?"

"Of course they do!"

"It's wizard swearing," Harry explained.

"They're popular expressions," Ron continued. "What else would we say?"

"True," Kirk conceded with a grin. "We've just never heard that before."

"Mental," Ron muttered. "Cutting up people..."

"They have to operate somehow, Ron, if they can't use magic," Hermione pointed out.

"Yeah..." he crinkled his nose, "but you'd think it would do more harm than good."

"Sometimes," McCoy admitted, "because the methods weren't perfected until many years later there were some deaths, yes. But there were also many that were successful."

"What do you do now, then?" Hermione asked, clearly interested.

"I use a laser scalpel."

"A laser scalpel?" Ron sputtered. "Merlin's beard! This sounds like something out of that Muggle series..." he appeared to search for the name. "Bar Floors."

"Star Wars," Harry corrected with a grin.

"Oh yeah..." Ron said vaguely.

"How do they work?" Hermione asked, ignoring the science fiction references completely.

"Basically," McCoy explained, deftly dodging the trick step in the stairs, "it is a more precise and sterile scalpel. It heals more quickly as well, since the cuts it makes are thinner and can be patched up with a tissue regenerator."

"You have technology to grow back tissue?" Hermione continued in complete disbelief.

McCoy nodded. "It took decades of experimentation and many new models but we finally have one that works on most species."

"What about the other species?" Harry asked.

"They usually have their own technology. We have some aboard Federation Star Ships, but not many. The Admiralty is working on fixing that, since the crews of our ships are becoming more integrated."

"Blimey," Ron muttered. "Muggles are mental."

"We're not mental," Kirk said with a knowing grin. "Eccentric maybe..." He glanced at McCoy.

"I'm not helping you on this one, Jim. If you want to call yourself eccentric, I'm not disagreeing."

They arrived at the library, a large room filled to the brim with books on magic and magical creatures or plants. Through another door was a restricted section, but from the barely touched aura of it, it appeared as though not many students or even professors generally ventured into its depths. Even the books looked sinister, and they did not exactly want to guess what could be inside them.

Plonking their bags on the table nearest to them, the group settled down to what promised to be a long and infuriating homework session, with a cram revision lesson added onto the end for good measure. Hermione for her part appeared to be fairly calm, having already learned the majority of what they were going to cover.

"What do you want to start with?" She asked patiently when they'd finished their essays and she'd checked them.

"The basics?" McCoy suggested. "I don't know any of it..."

"Neither do we," Harry muttered glumly.

"You've been here for five years," Kirk pointed out.

Hermione shook her head. "They know more than they think they do."

"I really don't think so," Ron replied. "How about revising basic potions?"

"Which part?"

"All of it?" Ron asked hopefully.

Hermione sighed. "You have to start from somewhere, Ron."

Kirk, who had been flicking through his Potions book, looked up hopefully. "How about Polyjuice potion?"

"We know how to do that," Harry grumbled.

"But they don't," Hermione pointed out. "Maybe you could finish your other essays while I explain this to them, then I'll check them over for you?"

Ron opened his mouth to argue but seemed to think better of it. He soon joined Harry in reading silently through their textbooks, occasionally scribbling sentences onto ominously long pieces of parchment. Hermione gazed at them in fond exasperation for a moment before turning back to the two Star Fleet officers.

"Polyjuice potion," she began, "is used to assume the identity of someone else." She glanced from one man to the other. "Maybe you should make notes?" She suggested.

"I don't normally make notes," Kirk protested, "I usually remember it straight away..." he trailed off at her glare. "Alright..." Kirk muttered, hunting around in his bag for a quill. McCoy rolled his eyes and dipped his own quill into a bottle of ink, which sat patiently on the table in front of him.

"It's rather complicated," she continued once Kirk's fidgeting had died down and he sat in a reassuringly alert position, "but Harry, Ron and I have managed to brew it a few times."

Ron looked up from his parchment and snorted. "Hermione didn't enjoy her first go," he said, grinning at the memory.

"Ron," she hissed, blushing bright red.

"Why?" Kirk asked curiously. "What happened?"

"She got in touch with her inner cat," Harry explained in amusement.

"That wasn't funny," Hermione said emphatically, ears burning. "It was an accident, anyway. Which brings me to my second point," she said smoothly, interrupting what would have been a scathing comment from Ron, "which is that it can't be used for a human to take on animal form or vice versa."

"Harry just said you turned into a cat," McCoy pointed out. Hermione's frown deepened to worrying levels.

"Not all the way," she said sharply. "Now, I'm sure you'll want to know the ingredients..."

"What do you mean, 'not all the way'?" McCoy interrupted.

"How can you be part cat?" Kirk added, smile widening.

"I dunno," Ron butted in, "but she found a way."

Hermione rounded on him. "Do you want me to check your homework?"

"Sorry..." Ron muttered, burying his head once more in his book.

"As I was saying," she continued, in what had by now become a flustered voice, "the ingredients will be useful to you. It's a rather complicated and lengthy process, though," she warned them.

"First of all," she continued when they did not object, "you need 12 lacewing flies that have been stewed for 21 days."

"Where, exactly," McCoy asked in resignation, "would we find them?"

"Magical Menagerie. You have to catch them yourself."

"Doesn't the shopkeeper do that?" The surgeon asked irritably.

"They can't. Now," she said swiftly, determined to actually finish her impromptu lesson, "you also need one ounce of crude Antimony, 4 leeches that..."

"Wait," Kirk interrupted, scribbling furiously, "what came after 'crude anatomy'?"

Hermione gaped and McCoy was barely stifling his amusement as he gently whacked Kirk over the head with a spare piece of parchment. "Not 'anatomy' Jim!"

"I was only joking..." Kirk's ears where beginning to turn a deep shade of red. At the other end of the table, the two boys were laughing hysterically.

"Antimony," Hermione repeated, stressing the word with a wide grin on her face, "is a chemical element; usually a white, crystalline solid."

"So not really your thing, Jim," McCoy smirked.

"Shut up, Bones."

"Anyway," Hermione added, ploughing on, "next you need 4 leeches which have been unsucculated..."

"Don't ask, Jim," McCoy drawled when Kirk looked up from his parchment.

"16 scruples of fluxweed which was picked at full moon..."

"Fluxweed?" McCoy repeated.

"Purple furry mint," Hermione explained briefly.

"And you guys actually drink this?" Kirk asked, incredulously.

"Of course. How else would we change our appearance?"

"A mask?"

"Don't be stupid, Jim," McCoy snorted. "This is magic; nothing is ever that simple."

"Do you want me to carry on?" Hermione's patience, though developed through years of helping Harry and Ron with their homework, seemed to be wearing thin.

"Go ahead..." Kirk murmured, looking faintly squeamish as she continued to describe the ingredients.

"...shredded dried skin of a Boomslang," Hermione was continuing, but broke off to peer at Kirk in concern. "Are you alright?"

"'m fine..." Kirk mumbled, looking anything but.

"Damn it Jim, you've heard worse than this!"

"Yeah...but I've never had to think about drinking it!"

McCoy rolled his eyes in exasperation. "You don't have to drink it!"

"Thankfully," Kirk quipped, his colour beginning to return slightly as he smiled weakly, "because if I did I'd probably be allergic to it, and you'd use the opportunity to go hypo-insane."

"It's not my fault you have the worst immune system in the solar system," McCoy shot back. "Maybe if you didn't, I wouldn't actually have to use my hypos on just you, and my other patients would get a look in!"

Kirk chuckled. "You'd never be able to give up attacking me, Bones. Face it."

"Well..." McCoy conceded, "it is funny..."

"There is one more ingredient," Hermione reminded them. "An Extract of The-Transfigured-Being-To-Be."

"Which is what, exactly?" Kirk asked.

"Usually, it's hair."

"Which is how Hermione ended up as a cat," Ron interjected helpfully.

"RON!"

"Sorry..." Ron muttered, obediently returning to his not much longer essay.

"You drink hair?" Kirk's voice was ominously level.

"Technically," Hermione began, "it dissolves into the potion-"

"You drink hair!" Kirk repeated, slightly louder. Everyone turned to stare at them.

"This is a library," an irate looking woman whispered frantically.

"Sorry," Kirk said back, giving everyone in the room a nod before leaning forwards again and transforming his voice to a whisper. "Why would you make yourself drink all of that? It sounds worse than what Bones tries to give me."

"Thanks a lot, Jim."

"We have no choice," Hermione explained patiently. "If the situation is desperate enough, you have to drink it."

"Yeah," Ron added. "We had to...and it tasted terrible."

"Ron, I don't think you're helping," Harry said gently when Kirk began turning a deeper shade of green.

"Oh...maybe you should get some air, mate?" Ron suggested, sympathy written across his face.

"Come on Jim," McCoy sighed, used to this type of reaction from all his numerous experiences of Kirk's allergies, "they won't like it if you throw up on their work..."

"Too late," Harry sighed as his essay was destroyed.

"Evanesco," Hermione said immediately, and the sickly looking pool of liquid vanished.

"Looks like you'll have to miss your dinner, Jim."

"Great," Kirk groaned.

"Dinner?" Harry asked, looking slightly alarmed. "What time is it?"

"Ten past seven," McCoy answered.

"Harry!" Hermione's voice was so urgent that it rang clearly through the room.

"You're in a library!" The irate woman repeated fiercely, jabbing a quill violently in the direction of a sign.

"You're late for Umbridge!"

"Merlin's beard," Ron whispered in empathy, "she's going to kill you!"

"And Spock," Kirk added quietly, still looking unsteady.

"He hasn't been around all day..." McCoy said, glancing around the room as though he suddenly expected the Vulcan to appear.

Coincidentally, he did. McCoy's mouth gaped. "Speak of the devil...what happened to you?"

The Vulcan in question came to a halt in front of the table, folding his hands behind his back naturally and raising an eyebrow, looking completely at ease despite the fact that he was soaked to the bone and causing a rather large puddle to form beneath him. A snail-like trail of liquid marked his progress into the room, and the librarian was eying it furiously.

Spock's eyes, from within a soaked, angular face and beneath a mane of what was now damp, sticking up hair, twinkled in faint amusement at McCoy's reaction. His skin was paler than usual due to what was probably, for a Vulcan at least, the sub- zero temperatures outside.

Yet, when he finally replied, his voice was as even as always. "That is none of your concern, Doctor."

McCoy bristled. "Then what are you doing here?"

"I am meeting you in the library, Doctor."

"Why?" Ron asked bluntly.

"You're soaking wet," Kirk added, his nausea now almost completely forgotten.

Spock looked down at himself briefly. "Yes, it would appear so," he said with slight sarcasm. "My compliments on your insight, Captain."

"A wet and sarcastic Vulcan..." McCoy drawled. "Not exactly normal behaviour for you, is it? What's going on?"

"Doctor, I hardly have time to discuss my activities at this moment."

"Then why did you come here? You're already ten minutes late for Umbridge!"

"Eleven point five, Doctor," Spock corrected.

McCoy spluttered for a moment. "Don't change the subject!"

"I came here," Spock explained after a brief sigh, "because Mr Potter is late for his detention. As I too am not punctual, I believed it prudent to retrieve him."

"How did you know I was late?" Harry asked.

Spock stiffened for a moment. "I saw you." Before anyone could even think to respond, he had glided out of the room, leaving a trail of water and very angry librarian in his wake.

Harry offered his friends a brief apologetic smile before hurrying after the swift Vulcan. "How did you see me?"

"That is none of your concern," Spock said simply as they arrived outside Umbridge's room.

"Why not?" Harry demanded angrily. "I'm involved."

Spock simply raised an eyebrow and strode into the room, standing to attention in front of Umbridge's desk. Harry, by contrast, stalked in angrily, taking in the appearance of the pink, frill covered room with distaste. There was one too many cats for his liking. It reminded him of Mrs Figg's house.

"You're both late," Umbridge said with ominous sweetness, glancing up from her parchment and then looking straight back down. She paused, her hand hovering over the ink bottle. She slowly lifted her eyes upwards again, her stare lingering on Spock's obviously disheveled appearance.

"Sorry," Harry said, not sounding at all sorry. He was too busy watching this exchange in morbid fascination.

"Hem hem..." Umbridge cleared her throat nervously, mouth going slightly mushy around the edges as she struggled to look away from Spock. Astonishingly, she began to blush. "Take a seat please."

Dubiously, they each sat behind a desk, next to each other. Umbridge shook her head and gestured to Spock. "Oh no, dear. You sit here." She pointed at a sole table which was slightly closer to the teacher's desk. "So that I can keep an eye on you." She smiled sweetly as Spock warily sat down, wondering why she had suddenly gone back to acting mushy around him after their last argument.

Clearing her throat once more, she sashayed over to her desk and opened a drawer, handing Harry a quill but for the moment ignoring Spock. "You may write with this. Mr Potter, I want you to write 'I must not tell lies'."

"How many times?" The boy asked in annoyance, getting out a sheet of parchment.

"As long as it takes to sink in," the Professor replied, showing her teeth.

Harry obediently lowered his quill to the parchment, but stopped at the last second. "You haven't given me any ink, Professor."

Umbridge, who had been standing behind Harry and gazing at the front of the room where Spock was currently waiting for instructions, started out of her reverie. "I beg your pardon?"

"You haven't given me any ink, Professor." He repeated his statement, trying not to sound horrified or amused.

"Oh, so silly of me," she simpered. "I forgot to explain that you don't need ink, dear."

"I can't write without ink."

Her eyes flashed suddenly, but her grin remained firmly in place. "Are you a professor at this school, Mr Potter?"

"No, but-"

"Then you do not tell me how to do my job," she said sweetly. "Carry on. 'I must not tell lies'."

Harry reluctantly lowered his hand to the parchment, wondering how he could possibly write his lines when clearly he had nothing to write with. Not that Umbridge seemed concerned about that, however. She seemed content just to loom over him as much as she was able with her limited height, a shark grin glittering beneath her nose.

He sighed and grudgingly began to write; noticing as he did that the words began to form on the parchment in ominously clear red liquid. Frowning as he felt a slight prickle in his other hand, he once again lowered his quill onto the parchment, writing another line in his messy scrawl.

This time, the stab of pain was considerably bigger and he just about managed to stifle his gasp. In front of him, Spock looked around curiously, but for the moment did not say anything. Umbridge continued to smile toadishly at them both. He glanced briefly at his hand, his brow furrowed as he noticed signs of injury there. Umbridge silently urged him to carry on and, feeling a brief flicker of despair, he lowered his quill to the parchment.

The next line forced a small cry of pain from Harry's lips and Umbridge finally moved, leaning forward to pick up his hand and examine it with a curious smile. "You're well on your way to learning your lesson, Mr Potter." She released the aching hand and stepped back. "Continue."

Spock was contemplating Harry's hand from his position at the front of the classroom. "Professor, may I ask why you are forcing him to write with apparatus which carves words into his hand?"

"It has more effect on the students."

Spock watched her with an unfathomable look deep in his eyes. "Surely such a method of punishment is illegal in this establishment."

"What Dumbledore doesn't know can't hurt him; can it now, Mr Spock?"

"It's sadistic!" Harry blurted out suddenly. "If he found out about this-"

Umbridge tittered. "He won't, Mr Potter."

"But-"

"So silly of me, but it sounds as though you're questioning my authority." Her eyes glittered. "Hmm?"

"I believe that his concern is justified," Spock butted in. "Perhaps you would care to explain how such an instrument works?"

She seemed to consider for a moment, apparently trying to decide whether or not she wished to enjoy taunting them with the secret of the quills, or to see their disgusted expressions. She seemed to decide on the latter. "I suppose that understanding your lesson will help you learn it," she conceded at last. "This quill writes, as Mr Potter has recently discovered, in the blood of the person holding it. The words appear on their hand, to remind them of the lesson."

Spock raised his eyebrows. "That is a needless infliction of pain."

"Yet how else can we learn?" She simpered. "When a child burns himself, he learns not to put his hand in the fire."

"The situations are hardly similar," the Vulcan pointed out.

"Well, I hardly expect you to understand, dear." Her voice was girlish and high, but she looked down her nose at him.

"Indeed?"

"Yes. You see... creatures of almost human intelligence can't possibly hope to understand the way of wizards."

Harry's head, from his position behind Spock, snapped up, but he was largely ignored as Spock stared at Umbridge in slight disbelief. "I assure you that my levels of intelligence are likely higher than yours."

She recoiled as though slapped, all previous humour gone from her expression. "How dare you insult me?"

"It was not an insult," Spock said simply, "merely a statement of fact."

"You are a half breed, a creature of lower intelligence," Umbridge said dismissively. Behind Spock, Harry's eyes widened. "Oh don't look so surprised, Potter," she snapped. "It's there for anyone to see. He is too tall to be an elf, yet he has their ears."

"That is correct, I am a hybrid. I am not however, an elf as I have previously informed you."

"But," Harry suddenly interrupted, "you said you were Vulcan. You never mentioned being half of anything else."

"I did not believe that information to be relevant, as I was educated in a Vulcan environment. I therefore consider myself to be Vulcan."

Umbridge chuckled derisively. "He didn't want to reveal himself," she told Harry. "Half breeds are notorious for their deception." She glared at Spock in contempt. "And he is a Slytherin half breed, no less."

"That does not logically dictate a deceitful nature," Spock countered. "Vulcan upbringing does not permit lying."

Umbridge waved her hand dismissively. "So silly of me, but it sounds as though you are arguing with me."

"How astute," Spock remarked. Harry tried to hide a grin.

Obviously, he had failed because Umbridge rounded on him, shaking like an enraged bowlful of pudding. "Back to work, Mr Potter." She snapped her attention back to Spock. "I will make a deal with you, Mr Spock," she all but spat in an atypical show of anger, "do your lines, and you will avoid further punishment."

"Very well," Spock conceded. "However, I would advise you to refrain from derogatory remarks on my heritage."

"As you are not a professor at this school, or even someone of respectable status, I don't see how threatening me will help your case," she said slowly, as if talking to a child.

Spock ignored that comment, his ever logical side allowing him to rise above the insult. "Perhaps you would explain what you expect me to do?"

"I expect you to write 'I must keep my place' with this quill," she said softly, handing him the quill, "for impertinently challenging me in front of the class."

"I will not."

Her eyes glittered. "Why?" She demanded ominously, all facade of tittering girlishness long since gone.

"My challenge was justified. Refusing to acknowledge the return of Voldemort is highly illogical."

"You will not speak his name!"

"It's just a name," Harry said in exasperation. "It won't kill you."

"Back to your lines, Mr Potter," Umbridge all but hissed. She turned back to Spock with an air of triumph. "You have earned yourself detention for the rest of the week, Mr Spock, for failing to recognise superior authority."

Spock, if he were human, would have smirked at this moment. "Highly irrational."

Umbridge reddened, and Harry, from his position at the back of the classroom, was suddenly glad that he was sharing his detention with such an interesting Slytherin.

"Back to work," she finally snarled at them both. "There will be no further need to talk."

It was with a sense of anger that Harry resumed writing his lines, trying his very best to ignore the sharp stabbing pain which was now developing in the back of his other hand. Red ink continued to flow across the page, the words glittering maliciously in the light of the room.

From behind her desk, Umbridge had looked up to check on her students' progress, and stopped dead. Slowly levering herself, with some difficulty, Harry noticed with a smirk, into a standing position, she moved over to Spock's desk.

"What is this?"

"That," Spock replied with just a hint too much of sarcasm for a Vulcan, "would appear to be a collection of parchment, magical quill, and blood."

"Blood?"

Spock's eyebrows rose. "You have stated that the quill is designed to cause the user to write in their own blood?"

"Yes."

"Then would it not be logical to assume that this is in fact my blood?"

"It shouldn't be..." Umbridge, muttered, staring at it, transfixed. Harry craned his neck to look at Spock's parchment, and was astonished to see green writing there.

"I believe that I recognise my own blood, Professor," Spock said coolly.

Umbridge looked at him with disdain. "It's green."

"Obviously."

She sneered at him. "You fit your house in every way." She leaned forwards. "You're green to the very core."

His eyebrows shot up wryly at the mention of the word 'core'. "I see no reason to liken me to a fruit."

Harry snorted at this and Umbridge rounded on him. "Back to work, Mr Potter!" She turned back to Spock quickly. "The same for you," she said in a loud, slow voice.

"I assure you that I have no difficulty in hearing."

Umbridge smirked. "I suppose not, with oversized ears like that." There was an ominous silence. "Carry on," she simpered in triumph.

oOo

The detention passed much quicker than expected, in Harry's opinion. Every now and then, he would hear Umbridge make a scathing remark to Spock as she bent over his parchment to supervise. Harry would then desperately hide a grin as the sharp Vulcan deflected her comments, sending even worse insults back in her direction. All with a dispassionate expression and logical vocabulary, of course.

By the time that they were freed from her unbearably pink room, Umbridge was seething visibly, her hair coming out of its impeccable style. Her smile was gone and apparently not likely to return soon, which was quite a feat considering the fact that it usually seemed to be permanently in place. Her voice was low and weary as she verbally kicked them out of the door, a sharp and satisfying contrast to her habitual high pitched squeals.

As they hurried through the corridors on their way back to their respective common rooms, Harry could not help but consider the man beside him. He was no ordinary Slytherin; that much was certain, since he was actually willing to defend students and their cause when he deemed it necessary. He'd also forced Malfoy to stop what would have rapidly deteriorated into a sparring match between Harry, Ron and Malfoy, although Harry was uncertain how much of this was due to McGongall's unmistakeable presence on the scene.

Although he frequently insulted McCoy, the Doctor never seemed to get truly angry, although Harry was certain that this was largely due to the fact that they were both used to such discussions...or maybe they both hated each other. It was hard to tell. Kirk, on the other hand, never stepped in unless absolutely necessary and he was the only one that seemed to be immune to the stinging effect of the Vulcan's remarks. The relationship between the three was a complete mystery to Harry, who did not understand how three people with such different personalities could stand to be in the same room for more than a few minutes, let alone on the same space ship for an even longer amount of time. Maybe, with time, he would be able to discover the secret behind it.

"Mr Potter," the subject of his thoughts was suddenly saying, "may I ask why you are currently accompanying me to the Slytherin common room?"

Harry blinked and peered around him. Sure enough, the unmistakable door loomed before him, and he felt his ears burning in slight embarrassment. "I must have been lost in thought..."

"Indeed."

As the Vulcan turned to open the door, Harry could not help himself from blurting; "you spoke his name."

"Whose name, Mr Potter?"

"Voldemort's."

Spock nodded. "Affirmative." He peered at Harry for a moment. "Is there some significance to this action?"

"People generally don't want to say it," he explained ruefully. "They're afraid."

"Fear of a name is not logical."

Harry stared at the man for a brief moment. "Spock, can I ask you something?" At the brief nod, he continued, curiosity shining through his eyes, "why do you always mention logic?"

"Has this not yet been explained to you?"

"I don't think so," Harry said.

Spock nodded slightly. "It is the Vulcan way," he explained. "After superfluous violence in Vulcan's past, a scholar named Surak suggested that we adopt a more logical view of life, in order to avoid the emotional destruction of our world."

"It was that bad?" Harry asked disbelievingly, for a moment forgetting the hatred that he had previously felt towards the Vulcan. This topic was clearly a difficult one, especially after the death of his home world. Looking into Spock's bleak eyes, he suddenly realised that perhaps the man before him had more emotion and understanding than he let on.

Spock nodded. "We were violent, unreasonable. Vulcan emotions are much stronger than those of humans and much more destructive. If they had remained, we would have surely caused our own extinction. Surak provided a way to control ourselves and to preserve our race." His eyes took on a haunted quality as he was momentarily transported back to his home world. "The thesis has proven successful, and has become an integrated part of our culture, our way of life. We know no other way." He blinked slightly and seemed to return to the present.

Harry, meanwhile, was struggling to understand how this could be possible. "How do you do it? How do you keep all of your emotions under control like that?"

"It requires a lifetime of training. Children are instructed in this practice from a very early age."

"You've always had to act like this?"

"Affirmative."

He still could not believe that people could actually do that to themselves, that they could shut themselves away like that. "Don't you ever want to...explode?"

"That would be extremely detrimental to my health."

Harry grinned slightly, beginning to realise why Kirk seemed so amused in this Vulcan's company. "Don't you ever want to spew?" He floundered for a moment as the man before him gained a confused air. "Let out your emotions?" He suggested finally.

"I cannot."

"What if you can't help it?" Harry continued, not satisfied with this answer. "Don't you ever...lose control?"

The haunted look returned to Spock's eyes and he nodded, suddenly looking uncomfortable at the personal turn in this conversation. "Occasionally. Unfortunately, as a half human, I find it more difficult to maintain control."

"I find it hard to believe that," Harry said gently. He was unsure if this would actually help to reassure the Vulcan or not. Truth be told, he wasn't sure why he was trying to reassure him. They weren't even remotely close.

The Vulcan mask had once again hidden all previous signs of emotion. His eyes flickered briefly to the dormitory door. "Surely, Mr Potter, you must return to your own common room?"

"Yeah..." He'd completely forgotten about that, and the revelation surprised him.

Spock nodded politely in Harry's direction. "In that case, I believe that 'good evening' is the customary farewell."

"Yeah..." he said distractedly, "see you tomorrow."

It was only when he was climbing up the stairs towards the Gryffindor common room that he realised what he had just done. Shaking his head, he ignored the pulsing ache in his hand and gave the password, stepping through the portrait when it swung forwards.

He had just chatted with a Slytherin, he thought ruefully, wondering what the world was coming to.