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Disclaimer: Harry Potter is Jo Rowlings'! I own nothing of hers. I do own Cara-Lena and La Escuela de Hechiceria. That means: the School of Witchcraft/the Witchcraft school. Let's see . . . I love Eliza Diawna Snape and SpamWarrior . . . Anyway, if you want to sue me, you get this nice stamp I have; that's all! It was Cara-Lena's first day there, at Hogwarts. She was trying to find her way to all her classes. Her schedule, which had seemed so exciting the night before, now seemed to be mocking her. "I know where these classrooms are, and you don't," the stiff parchment seemed to be saying. Cara-Lena was so preoccupied, she nearly ran into someone. "Who are you? The feast hasn't even started yet, so why are you here?" squeaked the short, gray-haired man. Cara-Lena silently went though her head until the list of teachers gave way to the man's name. Flitwick, Charms, she thought. "I'm Cara-Lena Anders, I'm the transfer student from California. I'm here early so I can find my classes -- my understanding was that the principal said it was okay." "Oh, yes, the headmaster did mention you. Very unfortunate about the dealings at La Escuela de Hechiceria," Flitwick spoke the words with an uncertain Spanish accent. "At Hogwarts, nothing of the sort will happen. Students will be more understanding about students different from themselves, I'm sure." Cara-Lena flinched. Oh, that's right, she thought, mention it on the day my new life begins. Aloud, she said, "Yeah, well, Mr. Flitwick, I'm just gonna keep my mouth shut and control things better." "It is Professor Flitwick. We are addressed here by the title of professor, " there was a slight hint of annoyance in Flitwick's voice. "Oh, I'm sorry," Cara grinned apologetically. "In 'merica, we just say 'Mr., Mrs., Ms., Miss," and such stuff. Suppose I'll have to train myself. Could you please point me to your classroom? I kind of don't know where it is . . ." That ought to get him busy enough to stop speaking about my transfer . . . "Sure, let me show you . . ." with that, they were down a corridor to the left. Professor Flitwick seemed charmed that Cara knew so much about Charms. Apparently, La Escuela had taught her about one month ahead in Charms. "It'll be review, Miss Anders, but I'm sure you wont mind. You'll be able to catch up in other classes which might have been more quickly paced than your previous classes." "Yeah, I'm probably way behind in . . . History of Magic. I tended to read and forget at La Escuela, ya know," Cara spoke of La Escuela de Hechiceria as if it were the only school of wizardry, something that she had been taught since she was a small child. Actually, the thing she had just spoken wasn't true. Cara-Lena loved school -- or at least the learning part -- and had always paid attention during classes. "Hey, you've got a neat room. But, there aren't that many desks." "Most classes have ten, maybe twelve, students. Of course, you'll have Double Potions and Double Care of Magical Creatures and such other hands on classes mixed with other houses," Flitwick picked up a book and peered intently into its pages. "Oh . . . umm . . ." Cara-Lena thought for a minute. "Oh! Dorm's at La Escuela had forty students to a grade," Cara-Lena had figured that the word for house and dorm were interchangeable. Sometimes, she was slow to get started. But I'm one heck of a party-girl once I start! she thought vehemently. "It was much large in that respect, though I do think that the castle was a good many times smaller. The size of the grounds seem to be about the same." "I think you'd better find Professor McGonagall. She deals with First Years," Flitwick ended the conversation easily, closing the book with a soft whoosh of air. "'Kay, thanks." I'm a fifth grader, or, year, silly . . . "You're welcome," Flitwick left the room with Cara-Lena at his heels. Cara turned and power-walked toward the Great Hall. Her quick dash through it gave her a fleeting impression of a vast, ceiling less room. When she entered it, she scanned the room until she found Professor McGonagall. Tall, strict looking, with weird glasses. Has to be her. Cara-Lena approached tentatively, unsure how the teacher would react to being tapped on the small of her back. I'll touch her arm, just to be safe. "Professor?" McGonagall turned around. Her face, which Cara had only been lucky to profile, was rather severe looking. However, Cara-Lena, who was a great believe in first impressions, saw something in the eyes. She smiled, involuntarily and slowly. "I'm the transfer, Cara-Lena Anders, or . . . Cara-Lena Meredith, whichever my parents," Cara grimaced at the mention of the two who had conceived her, "felt like putting. I answer to both readily." She saw recognition on the professor's face and suddenly Cara was having her hand shaken. Oddly enough, it didn't feel quite as stupid as she always thought it had felt. "How d'you do, Miss Anders. I'm Professor McGonagall. I'm in the Transfiguration department," McGonagall replied. Seeing the blank look on Cara-Lena's face, she added, "I think you know transfiguring as transforming." "Oh, duh," Cara-Lena said, smacking herself on the forehead with the palm of her hand. Professor McGonagall looked shocked, and Cara-Lena started having prickling in her stomach. She decided to play it off by smacking herself again a couple of times more, adding, "Stupid." She stopped, smiled, and said, "That brain of mine ought to wake up, ya know." "Well, yes," the professor still looked uncomfortable, but Cara decided to ignore it. "You're wandles are very realistic-looking. One would suppose they were actual candles! Did you do the tranfor-iguring?" she asked, looking at the flickering objects above the table. "Actually, those are candles held up with a simple Levitational Charm," Professor McGonagall said, smiling. Cara-Lena leapt back, craning her neck upward. "Fire?" she asked, craning her neck up. "Oh, lemme have a look! Candles are way cooler than wandles, plus they are real fire. I," finished Cara, "love fire." McGonagall seemed to choose her words carefully. "I know you like fire, but now isn't really time for it . . ." she worded this last party slowly, letting her voice trail off at the end. It wasn't me! Cara-Lena thought violently. Smiling, she replied, "You're right. So, what should I be doing at this moment?" Skillful change of conversation, Cara, she thought. "Maybe you should go into the Entry Hall and wait for the first years. We'll sort you into your Fifth Year house after the first years are all done. Now, we'll merely explain that you're school has been close down," -- McGonagall's accent was so thick that Cara could barely contain her smile -- "and you'll be attending here for the rest of your education. Is that all right with you, Miss Anders?" Cara-Lena looked at the ceiling, remember the hurried voice of her mother. Bewitched, she thought, to reflect the sky above. "Sounds splendid, dah-ling," Cara cried dramatically, waving her arm about her as if she were a windmill. "I'll wait for the runts in the hall!" Cara marched through the door into the main corridor. When she entered, her breath seemed to freeze in her body. A poltergeist! her brain screamed. No, no . . . I can't play . . . play . . . Suddenly, the noise level rose several decibels at the poltergeist let out a rude sound. Talk to him, her brain urged. Tentatively, she reached forward and let out a barely audible, "What's you're name?" The little man floating cross-leggedly in the air just laughed, casing his bright orange ruff to bounce merrily up and down. Instictinctively, Car brought her hands up to her face, palms toward the little man. He, in the act of tying several branches of palm tree to the handle of a closed door, stopped short and stared at her as he floated toward her. Smiling breathlessly, she stopped him a foot from her body and asked with a small grin: "Just what did you say your name was, again?" "Peeves, your loveliness, ma'am," a greasy tone was adopted by him. Cara-Lena knew a facade when she saw one. "I'm going to ignore your . . . " Cara stopped mid-sentence. What was she doing? She had let it take over; the part of her that wanted to play. Angry at herself, she spat out at the still frozen poltergeist, "Speak of this to no one!" and put her hands down. Immediately, Peeves was up and away, zipping down the hall. Luck was for Cara that she had let him go, for not two seconds after his departure the main door banged open. An immense man stood in front of a group of maybe forty, forty-five students. An intake of breath and a soft side of "half-giant," on Cara's part completed the picture of shock that met with this man. Cara smiled. Ruddy face, covered in a breath, beetle black eyes, it has to be Professor Hagrid. "Professor Hagrid?" Cara-Lena began, taking an inadvertent step forward. "Jus' call me Hagrid, I'm no profes'or," Hagrid gave her what Cara assumed was a cheery smile -- she wasn't able to see much behind his wild tangle of a beard. "Sure. McGonagall . . . umm, Professor McGonagall said I was to watch the younger ones," Cara-Lena was aware of a slight humming from the Great Hall. "Go on, then, get a good seat." "Certain yeh can handle 'em?" Hagrid asked. "Sure I can! I'm fifteen, aren't I?" Cara stood, almost indignantly, with her hands on her hips. Grinning his beard into a half-moon, Hagrid left. Children, Cara-Lena thought suddenly, play with them. Thinking quickly, she said, "Okay, I want all the Muggle borns to go here," -- Cara-Lena pointed to her left -- "all half-and-half to go here," -- this time, her finger jabbed in front of her -- "and all complete wizards here," -- to the right -- "anything else, look, oh, seventy-five percent or whatever, to the back of me." Obediently, the children went as directed. Cara-Lena stood in front of the group. "Now everybody mix up, quick!" Cara cried. Watching the mad scramble, she slowly and methodically counted to twenty. "Stop! Now," Cara-Lena began pacing, "before this day, you were divided. You came from different backgrounds. The family you have is totally diverse from who is standing next to you's family. One thing ties you together -- forever! You are all wizards. Let it be a bond for life. If you stand together, you will never be divided by those who call themselves warlocks," a few people shifted in their shoes, but Cara ignored it. In fact, Cara clapped her hands together. She had remembered the speech her principal had given every year to the incoming first graders perfectly. "There, now that I have those words of wisdom of my chest, how many sickles says I can jump one hundred twenty times in a row without stopping?" Cara-Lena noticed no one had spoken. She hoped to stop the other from fretting, with wit and cheerfulness, as a friend had once described her way of life. "Oh, don't mind my sudden change of moods -- that speech wasn't off the top of my head, it was from my old school. Now, how many sickles, Newbies?" "Three says you can't," said a cheeky looking boy, rather impishly. "You're on!" Cara started. "One, two, three, four . . ." All of the first years' eyes were on her. She was just finishing ( " . . . one ::gasp:: twenty-six, there, you owe me three sickles!") when the door opened and Professor McGonagall came into the hallway. "You may all follow me. Cara-Lena Meredith," -- so her parents had written Meredith -- "take the back, if you would," she said in her steely voice. "Okie dokie, artichokie," Cara said cheerfully, waltzing to the back with an invisible partner. Several of the aforementioned 'Newbies' giggled, in reply to which Cara-Lena stopped and gave them all a good-natured grin, before continuing on her way, saying in a melodramatic whisper, "One, two, three, four, twirl. One, two, three, four, twirl. One, two, three, four, twirl . . ." "Cara-Lena, please control yourself," Professor McGonagall said; though Cara saw a smile playing at the edges. "This is a school." "Sorry, Professor. I was just trying to ease the tension. These kids are seriously wired. I mean, look at their faces. We'd have some terrible Mas 'n' Pas here if these kids died from shock," Cara-Lena was at the back of the line, sticking her head out to speak and look at Professor McGonagall. "Mazenpause?" the professor asked curiously. "Mas and Pas is an expression. Its . . . shocked parents. I guess I should stop it with my other continent slang, huh?" Cara glanced regretfully around at the stone walls, remembering the wooden walls that had been La Escuela's Entry Hall's surroundings. "Naw," came the voice of the cheeky boy who had bet three sickles earlier, "you give us old worlders a breath of fresh air!" "Ha ha ha," Cara said sarcastically. "You, mister, owe me three sickles. But, we'll leave that until after you wrestle the troll that's in there. Boy, is he an uuggllyy thing . . ." "Miss Anders, stop it!" Professor McGonagall's eyes were flashing dangerously. Cara-Lena took one look, opened her eyes to two perfect 'o's and let her mouth drop, saying a quick yes'm in the process. Before the professor turned away, Cara gave her a big wink. Professor McGonagall smiled -- for real this time -- a rather toothy smile that surprised everyone. Cara-Lena gave her a flashy grin before crossed her arms on her chest like an American Indian, her eyes straight ahead and her features looking as if she'd never smiled before in her life and would be shocked if you would suggest such a thing. Turning, the professor lead the class through the door in the hall. Cara-Lena could hear murmurs of "It's been five minutes!" Professor McGonagall walked up to the front, where a frayed, patched, and dirty hat was laying on a stool. The infamous sorting hat, Cara thought before the brim opened wide and started to sing. And now I must tell once more Nice song, but rather dull . . . Cara thought absently. Not at all like La Escuela. Writing out our names on the paper, having the paper flying toward the book of the dormitory that you were to be living in . . . all these children have to do is put the hat on their fuzzy little heads. |