Carmabelle: Thanks heaps! The praise is much appreciated and I'm glad not to be labelled a Mary-Sue, especially by a writer such as yourself

Twisted Alyx: Ahh, Twisted Alyx. I've been looking forward to more of your work too. Although my version may be more exciting from chapter to chapter, this has no goal at the end. My mate Articunokel is writing the version with the plot we devised. This may be a collection of antics because so few OC's I've read have really exploited the full amount of the Harry Potter world, sticking to the romance and angst parts. I'm sorry about Flynn, I thought the bit at the start about turning his head 200 degree's would alert to the fact he was at least owl like. This chapter isn't as action packed but informative. Glad you enjoy it.

conquer the world using bunnie: This fiction takes place whilst Harry is Five, she's three years older than the Weasley twins. Hope to keep you along for the ride

Again, I'll advertise my mate, Articunokel's fic, Hogwarts: The Manticore's Sting. Same characters but with more drive. Another thing I'd like to advertise is my site. I love anything to do with otaku characters, and Harry Potter isn't any difference. Its called Hogwart Hopefuls and its at (remove the spaces)

www. geocities. com/ hogwarthopefuls

Come and have fun, submit bios and art and of course your Other Character Fictions!

Chapter 2

Knock Knock Knockturn

I'm sure foreign and transfer students are pretty normal in any school, but I always got the feeling that it didn't really happen at Hogwarts. I had never seen it, I had only heard of it a couple of times before receiving my invitation, all because of this so called Dragon's Gift. This was even though I was always reminding people that the Dragon would have scrabbled and clawed and clung to it with its dear life. In fact it probably did.

I was 'bestowed' this talent when I was so young that as far as I was concerned, everyone could hear that next door pet cockatoo telling its owner where it could stuff the cracker. Everyone was woken up at dawn with the clamouring cries of galahs screaming "Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" Everyone knew chickens had enough trouble trying to remember what they were doing 20 seconds before hand without coming up with reasons as to why they should cross a road.

Of course adults never believed me when I tugged their shirt and told them that the lorikeets were picking on me. If they were in a good mood they would chuckle and say to any other adult within earshot with pride that I had a remarkable imagination and would write fantasy novels one day. If they were in a bad mood they'd clip me upside the head and tell me not to tell tales. Because of this I was often ignored when I chatted to the local birdlife. Sick of being called a liar, even though I was a magnificent one, I didn't make a habit of talking to them. It wasn't as if they had anything interesting to say but it didn't stop me abus- I mean, using it when only absolutely necessary!

I guess it was like that when I was discovered.

I can only remember the more dramatic parts clearly but it started when my brother, some of our friends and I were playing 44 Home in one of Farmer Bucket's back paddocks. We braved the grumpy old man to play here because of the thick thorny brambles made hiding easy and chasing difficult, the perfect way to get dirty and scabby in the least amount of time which is the goal of any six year old.

I had been IT twice in a row for failing to tag another player before they all reached home and was on the verge of a hissy fit. Four players had already made it home and there was only one left for me to find. I wasn't concerned about cheating anymore and I asked a magpie I came to call Brutus over the years. He was an obnoxious bully that would take on a crow twice as big as he was. I always liked Brutus simply because we had so much in common.

I had no idea that we weren't the only ones exploring Farmer Bucket's thickly overgrown paddock. Scuffling through the bushes under the cover of invisibility was Professor Pedro Thistle. He too had the 'Dragon's Gift' (his was definitely a gift and would crow about it at the slightest excuse) and looked as like a tourist who insisted on living off the land, aka skinny, dehydrated and slightly sick. A fleecy brown beard attacked his face like an enraged animal and peppered hair was drawn back into fuzzy ponytail.

Like most adults he considered children acceptably insane and didn't think much of the little girl asking a plucked and glaring magpie where the last little boy was. What he didn't expect was for her to argue with it and than follow its instructions to the letter.

After following me home he must have chosen his moment carefully, picking a time when it was only my parents and I home. My brother, Scotty was staying at a friend's.

I can remember the crisp knock at the door and my mother hurrying from the kitchen to answer with me dogging her heels. A moment later my father turned up to see who it was for. The instant both my parents were standing together Pedro whipped out his wand and an icy turquoise bolt lanced from the end and shrouded my parents in a translucent envelope.

I screamed! Darting from behind the coffee table where I watched wearily I lunged at his legs, beating him with clenched fists and even managed to bite his skinny calf through a forest of wiry leg hair. With little more than a wince he grinned at me and swept me to nestle on his hip, tapping the wound with his wand.

It was then that I noticed that my parent's eyes, rather than becoming cloudy or glassy were instead very, very alert. My mother took me from Pedro and led him into the lounge room. There, while slurping down two cups of coffee and a lot of biscuits, he explained to my parents about the world beyond the norm, the one that included him, the world of witchcraft and wizardry, of dragons and unicorns.

My parents looked at all in calmly and critically, not just soaking it up like a sponge and mindlessly believing it. In retrospect I think the spell he used rather than opening the mind, it opened the eyes to other possibilities.

Too young to follow the conversation, I just assumed he was a very confused Jehovah's Witness in a glittery cape.

One point he came back to again and again was just how I had receive the Gift. My parents exchanged questioning looks and Pedro went on. The Dragon's Gift was the ability to understand the language of the birds. It was called the Dragon's Gift because the only way to receive it was to eat a dragon's heart. It wouldn't have affected a muggle so I must have had some magic sneaking through my veins like a drunk driving home through the back alleys to avoid being fined.

Finally after much probing a possible answer was found.

While on holidays in South Australia when I was two, my parents had put me down and took their eyes off me for a split second and they had lost me amongst the tall red boulders scattered around the desert. Five minutes later they found me in the shade of a monolith with a scaly tail sliding behind my grinning lips and down my throat. When I didn't immediately turn blue and start convulsing they assumed it was a harmless lizard and a free source of protein.

Then, in a round about way he broached the subject of my education, or at least the magical aspect. There was a 'school' of magic in Australia, Goofadder Academy. The problem was that it was more of a correspondence course. My mother spent her childhood learning via correspondence and said it was very limiting. "Zukie is antisocial enough, thankyou very much," she sniffed with a rebuking glance at my father who considered that being able to burp the alphabet was a necessary part of every kid's education.

The Ministry of Magic wasn't stupid and knew that Australia had its own selection of wizards and witches just as clever as their over sea's counterparts, but the problem was Australia itself. It was an ancient country and its layers of magic had been eroded away over millennia like valuable topsoil. It didn't have the thaumatic energy to support a school of any magnitude without it being noticeable to muggles.

My dad was always a forward thinker. He took the proverb Live as if you'll die tomorrow, farm as if you'll live forever to heart. He immediately questioned him about suitable schools. Pedro beamed with pride and told him of his own schooling in the highly praised Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry that his own niece was attending. The only problem was that it was in England but if my parents agreed he was sure that he could weasel an invitation out of one of the councillors.

The promise was made and five years later on in early July I received a letter.

I waved goodbye to the girl I usually walked home with and grabbed the mail from the letterbox. Flipping through the junkmail and I fumbled with the key to get into the house I noticed a mopoke owl nestled high up in the gums but didn't pay it much attention.

Scott had soccer practice and my parent's worked. I looked forward to Friday's precisely for that reason, an arvie to myself to put my feet up on the lounge without being scolded and handle the remote without Scotty sitting on me to get it back. Scott may have been two years younger than me but he was as big for his age as I was short and it didn't matter how fiercely I resisted. It was just as well we didn't clash often.

Chucking the junk into the bin I was left with three envelopes, one an electricity bill that made me cringe, the next postcard from Uncle Lyle holidaying in New Zealand and the last a larger than average envelope made of thick card.

And it was addressed to me. I opened it, read it and threw it in with the rest of the junk.

Later when my parents returned they found the layers of paper filled with my invitation, booklist and instructions beneath a banana peal they did as they had been instructed ages ago. Dad gave me a sucker lollie and suddenly I felt accepting. In this state of suspended belief they coloured a vivid picture, even if it was sort of skewed. A world of witchcraft and wizardry, dragons and unicorns. And for the icing on the cake, Uncle Pedro wasn't my uncle, but a professor keeping an eye on me.

I didn't know what to think.

Okay, that wasn't true, I knew exactly what to think, I was going to zap Brendan Beal, the local brute, into oblivion piece by piece.

Slowly but surely the details were sorted out under the directions of Professor Thistle. His own niece, now in her seventh year, would help me buy my school supplies and help me settle in while in London. Even Scotty was in on the deal but his only contributions were bad witch and wizard jokes.

After a lot of begging and whining I was able to get at least one thing amongst my book and equipment lists, even if we did have to travel five hours to Brisbane's Chinatown.

A familiar.

We made the long trip to wizarding shop disguised as Zhuang Zi's Pet's Paradise at Pedro's direction in Brisbane's Chinatown. Four or five other kids were wandering amongst the cat's scratching posts and bird perches with their hands clapped over their ears. The moment the familiars saw me I was pummelled with cats yowling, little yellow cottonballs rumbling like plane propellers, strange marsupials with antlers, platypus's slapping cheerfully in the water and birds of every description screaming, "Oi! Oi! Me! Ove'reer! Oi!"

The list said I should choose an owl, cat or other small gentle creature which seemed appropriately witchy. Marching resolutely down the aisles amongst boobooks, mopokes, sooty owls, screech owls, barn owls, even a heavily moulting snowy owl but I was determined to have something distinctly Australian.

Finally I came across that perfect something. An ugly grey lump impersonating a tree stump. A Tawny Frogmouth. I was aware it wasn't exactly an owl, but the little bugger needed a fair go.

Within days I was flown, plane not broom, to London. To my surprise, Flynn's cage was sitting on the bedstand a gaudy gold thing that looked like Tweety Bird's as Aussie Customs would have had a field day with him. While he glared between the bars, he immediately demanded a cicada and told me the service was lousy.

A little more than a thousand dollars were converted by a bank with Chrys's help while she tried to explain the conversion rate. I wanted someone to point out the basics of the metric system to these people and wondered why they were considered more advanced than we poor non-magical folk. I mean really, what bright spark chose random prime numbers as a base?

It wasn't a lot, and I tried to pick up second hand where ever I could. When choosing robes it turned into a costume rather than the uniform of the world's most respected wizarding school. I had picked up four robes, all at least one size too big despite Madam Maulkin's best attempts. No matter how she tried she couldn't stop it looking baggy, a little frayed and in the end I just hitched it up with very unmagical but very effective nappy pins.

And that was it, I was ready for everything the magical world could throw at me…. most things…some….. a few….

After ticking off the last of my booklist and stuffing them in my room, Chrys begged leave to meet some of her friends we'd met while we were down town. I shrugged nonchalantly while inside I was begging for time to myself to explore, one nook in particular that Chrys had warned me away from. Why adults didn't realise the irresistible attraction of the forbidden was amazing but they learnt quickly when dealing with me.

"No worries," I assured coolly, letting my stunted legs swing up onto the bed and picked casually at a scab. "I'm tired anyway. I hate tow- I mean cities."

"Oh, that's too bad," she said with disappointment dripping off it. I didn't blame her, having to watch a little kid was no way to spend the last of your holidays and she had put up a brave front. After another halfarsed attempt to try and get me outside she smiled vapidly and hurried out the door leaving it wide open. "If you need us we'll be at the ice cream parlour."

Par-lour, I snorted sarcastically. What kind of word was that? I waited nonchalantly for a few more minutes, thumbing through the slightly foxed second-hand volume of The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1). After what happened in the wand shop I wasn't game to try any, or at least in an enclosed place where I couldn't make a decent getaway, but my devious mind was already cooking up delicious possibilities. I chuckled as I dog-eared a page over that would make the saying 'to swear blue thunder' so much more interesting.

Through the open door another patron strolled past and down the stairs to the main bit of the pub. Customers which trickled in and out at various times of the day but the universal deluge started after five o'clock. The Leaky Cauldron wasn't just for wizards but if you didn't know it was there you found your eyes kind of slipping off it, like a greased shed roof to the record or book shops on either side.

Sauntering down the stairs I now considered the difficult part. Tom. He was a nice enough bloke, knobbly and skinny like a red gum without good water. He squinted cheerfully over his crooked nose and pestered warmly to try wizard food. He had a nostalgic grin as he said so, fair enough as he was quite a few teeth short of a full set.

He also watched me like a cat, partly because of the warm paternal concern he radiated and partly because Pedro slipped him a twenty, or the equivalent of. The way to Diagon Alley from the backstreets of London was through a strangled courtyard hidden behind the pub. The entrance thus was behind the bar as Tom shuttled back and forth with frothing mugs and a crusty eye vigilant for trouble makers, ie, anyone under the age of 30.

Sitting on the bottom step with my chin resting on my knuckles, resting on my knees I was camouflaged by the forest of legs and the height of the bar. The plan was to squirm through into the courtyard when Tom ushered in the next boisterous crowd from Diagon Alley. I crawled closer and pressed against the bar so Tom wouldn't see unless he leaned right over. Impatient cries and rapping on the door meant more were about to pour in, now I only had to have a distraction so he wouldn't notice the little brown head bobbing in the opposite direction.

Gingerly I withdrew my wand, a snug weight reaching out of my pocket and looked for an opening in the legs milling around. I stared at it knowing full well I was going to make an arse of myself. I didn't know how but I always did. It was a stick, there wasn't much to it then giving it a wave and making sure your incantation rhymed, right? That's how cartoons did it.

Great Zuks, you're taking advice from what? Cinderella? It would explain the pumpkins….

"Shut up," I muttered and screwed my eyes shut with the wand pointed at the gap next to the jukebox. "Uh. Fuzzy wuzzy was a bear, make a really good distraction over there!"

When there was no hush or excited cries, I opened one eye and then the other. Nothing, the Brits just wandered around amiably, probably mistaking me for another person's bratty kid with a stick playing make believe. "Work damnit! Wor-!" In mid-sentence and mid-flick the wand bucked from my hand and something exploded across the room just as Tom opened the door.

"What the blazes!" he yelped, scrambling from behind the counter with a dripping towel. "Ow of der way! Ow of der way!"

I took my chance and squirmed between the mob coming in from the courtyard pushing forward to see what all the fuss was about. Just as I got through I peered through the gap to see what kind of mischief I'd made and stifled a snigger as Tom and a not so jolly fat man were stamping out the remains of a flaming pumpkin.

"Awright," he panted just as the door closed. "Which ever of yous didn't use their safety spell is lucky I'm outta veggies!"

I strolled easily amongst the winding streets of Diagon Alley as the lamps, actual kerosene lamps, ignited and cast a glow in the twilight. One leg swung lazily in front of the other over the cobbles without worrying if I was going to be crushed or stepped on or butted into the gutter. Most of the rush was gone and the crowds travelled at a more languid pace, pausing for window shopping or chatting with a mate they happened to meet.

I smiled, stuffing my hands in my pockets with my wand. I was more then a little anxious that it might go off accidentally and turn my legs into a fruit at any moment but the new term started in only two days so I was optimistic. Why, who knew. Maybe my subconscious was taking talleys that I could do it in two days and it was an odd's on bet.

After a little while I stumbled on the little offshoot from the main street. The sign pointing to it was smudged and had the same sight-sliding quality as the Cauldron, the paint seemed to peal purposefully away from the sign making it difficult to read in the twilight. The only light from shining down the squalid alley were the rectangular patches seeping through grimy unwashed windows.

The longer I stared down it, I grew increasingly unsure I became of actually going down for a squiz. The sign creaking in a draught just inside selling poison candles made my mouth dry up. What else was in there? Probably one of those mysterious Arabian stores, there one day, gone the next…. Maybe they could sell me a monkey paw?

The prospect of three wishes sealed the deal and I swaggered inside, feeling a little more comfortable then I did in the open. I patted my pocket making the few coins inside jangle and I wondered if it would be enough. The silence sucked the sound right up and nervousness was rising in my throat, making me jumpy. I was an edgy person by nature and anyone who tapped me on the shoulder found out quick as a panicky fist swung round to greet them.

My eyes growing accustomed to the lack of light I was able to make out more signs, strange weaponry, a library with a grungy look to it and a second hand shop bearing the unmistakable symbol of the gnarled Hand of Glory. I hesitated and cast a longing look back down the narrow passage were a street lamp beckoned warmly. The Hand of Glory was the hand of an innocent man hanged and if a candle was made by the fat of the hanged man was placed inside its death grip it would light the world only for them.

Don't be a wuss, what could happen? These people are wizards! For some reason my mind tried to make believe there was a connection between wizard and safety to urge me on. As I approached the door it swung open, a thick splintery grey covered with heavy rusty red bolts that screeched as it turned on tortured hinges. It was your usual squeaky hinge, someone had worked hard to get it sounding like a cat with its tail in a toaster.

What it revealed was another dingy and dimly lit store that was no different from any other knickknack store. Items sat on rickety tables laid over with unbelievably white tablecloths impossible for all the dust that had accumulated around the base of the table legs and across the knotted wooden floor like a carpet. It couldn't be swept, only distributed more evenly. There was more furniture, instruments and even a grand piano shrouded under another ghostly white sheet. Heavy shelves possibly made of polished rosewood lined the walls filled with books. Although these looked second hand too, they were also in impeccable condition. As I strolled in I rolled my head onto my shoulder to try and read the spines only to have them in strange languages, some even scrawled in Aramaic characters or hieroglyphs! Behind a grimy cabinet set and tantalus I spotted the counter, unmanned which also housed lots and lots of glittery jewellery.

"May I help you?"

"Gahh!" I jumped back, jimmying a table and, prepared to hurl the crookedly carved statue resembling a potbellied man. Without a sound this man had appeared behind me, who could have been an animated skeleton for all I knew. The flesh of his cheeks was pitted and pockmarked, sunken against the highly prominent cheek bones. His eyes were more like marbles, balancing on the rim of his sockets giving him an expression of permanent surprise. Carefully setting down the statue I realized this fella was the owner. "Geeze mate! Don't sneak up on a chick like that!"

His features shuffled a little to become distaste. It was like watching a Mr Potatohead. "Were you interested in the Idol of Tarukamún? Give it as a gift to your enemy and their life will enter a gentle downward spiral they will never suspect!" His sallow expression rearranged into mirth.

"Uh, that's nice," I said uneasily, shambling away and putting the table between myself and Ol'mate.

"Perhaps a nice girl such as yourself would like to view a few of these items?" He hobbled over to counter, weaving around an object on a pedestal. Cutting wide of it myself, I glanced and inhaled sharply. "That's the Hand of Glory!"

"A Hand of Glory," he said smugly, positioning himself behind the counter. "We have a variety of sizes in the store room if you care to look? Candles are extra."

"Eww, gawd no!" I leaned closer, its waxy pallor made me sure it was no more than plastic, but in the dirty yellow light I was astonished to find the nails were slightly chewed and something gross oozing from the hessian tied around the base. I poked it, and I recoiled with a gasp as the fingers, splayed rictuses, quickly clenched tightly closed like anemone tentacles. Watching by the glass counter, they slowly unfurled again. "Whoa."

"All our stoke is genuine, Miss, now," he delicately relieved a very life like dummy's head of a sparkling diamond studded necklace, touching it as little as possible and swept his had along the counter at the merchandise below, mostly gaudy and gem encrusted. "The jewellery is deadly."

I pressed my hands against the glass, leaning over it with my nose smeared over the surface to get away from the reflection. "You're telling me! Like this one time I came back from this stupid christening, and the Cumberling's invited me over to play, 'cept I didn't take off this stupid necklace mum made me wear. So I was climbing and as I jumped to get to another branch the necklace snagged a stupid branch. Matty said my eyes bulged like this and my face was going all blue!" I looked up from my lively pantomime. "Lucky thing it broke, huh?"

"Yes. Lucky you." The features shuffled to irony. He sighed a little, putting the necklace back and said as impolitely as he dared, "So, Miss, what is your price range?"

I stuffed my hand in my pocket and dumped the lot on the counter. "This!"

The owner retrieved a gnawed pencil from behind his ear and shifted the pile of copper, silver and gold coins with it like they carried something contagious. His eyes searched the room with the faintest of desperation showing on his stretched cheeks. I turned indignant. If he didn't want a customer, he could go right on being rude! He stalked to one of the shelves and returned with a tiny black book like one of those pocket bibles they give out for free. Zolar's Almanac wasinscribed on the front in curly gold leaf.

"This is the exact right amount for this," he said tartly. He used the pencil to sweep the coins into a tray. "Look at the time, closing is upon us already."

He ushered me out the big heavy door and shut it quickly behind me.

"Fine!" I muttered, nose turned up huffily and stuffed the midget book into my pocket. "Be that way! Your stupid hand was mouldy!"

I had taken no more then three steps when a hand gripped my shoulder.

I let out a strangled yell! Pivoting on one foot with the fist already in motion aimed for cheek height! The shadowy form was prepared for it and stepped back, shoving hard on the passing shoulder and helping me into a wild revolution into the crumbling brick wall, nose first. I grunted, feeling the first blood trickle from a cut over the bridge and tried to face the culprit.

"Dead!" I gulped angrily trying to overcome the shock.

"Who?" a male voice sniggered pressing a huge hand into the hollow of my back to prevent me from twisting out beneath him. "Us or you? Does she look like a pureblood to you?"

"Nup, but would a mudblood be stupid enough to come down Knockturn Alley all on his little lonesome?" said another with the inquiring tone I knew all to well. It always began the sentence "What do you think will happen if I do this?" usually when it came to insects and the necessity of wings. More feet shuffled and chuckled. There were more. How many? It was not like I was figuring out if I could take them, like all short people I had already made the choice that I could and I would, regardless of the fact they could sit on me and use me as a Frisbee. I stopped struggling against the hand and wisely stayed still, letting the anger smoulder so I could think, an uncommon trait amongst the vertically retarded.

"What deya want?" I growled, turning my head to make out the heads of teenagers, maybe four years older than me.

"He has an accent," squeaked one from the back, bouncing to see over the heads.

"Very observant! I'm a girl you morons!" An open palm smacked upwards at the nape of the neck, the point of least resistance and drove my forehead into the wall. Small reddish chunks embedded in it but luckily the fringe saved me from most hurt. As the blood from my nose beaded and ran down my nose I realised with worry that I was dealing with scholars in pain. My breath coming out in loud wheezes, restricted by the wall was relieved as they yanked me into the middle of the circle. Six, including the first speaker and the little one heads loomed around me, bits of their face highlighted by the window light of the second hand store

With the light on it occurred to me that I could yell for help, but stubbornness forbade me. I knew I couldn't handle it all on my own but against my own better judgement I lived by the saying that if you couldn't stand on your own two feet, you may as well lie down.

The first voice, spoke again, this time cautiously. Tallish with hair cropped about his ears, dark and slicked against his skull. A sharp pointed nose leant a foxy appearance to his features. He hadn't bet on me being a girl and there wasn't a lot of glory in kicking the crap out of her. "You're tiny, are you really a Hogwart's student?"

"Yeah! And whatcha you gonna do about it?" This caught me entirely by surprise, going straight to the lips without any advice from the brain. This commonly used sentence rated right up there with 'it can't possibly get any worse.' A death wish if ever there was one.

"They're letting foreign muck into our schools now!" hissed a girl from behind me, kicking above the calf into the knee and the leg crumpled leaving me unsteady. Another from the other side shoved me and I landed on my knees, hard. Trying not to look directly into the light to keep my night vision I wiped away the blood that had dribbled over my lips and under my eyelid. "First those Europeans, then those American's, now this thing. What are you?"

"I think she's a house elf," guffawed one. "A real ugly one!"

"I'm an Aussie, the ones with the better beer then yours." Okay, not the comeback of the century but it earned another kick aimed at my ribs.

I let out an animalistic snarl! Shoving upwards I caught my footing and lashed out with a foot splayed in front. The boy thinking it was aimed for the knackers knocked his knees together and hands went down to protect them. Just as he did my foot turned outwards and smashed down on his bent knee. He screamed and I ducked beneath his arms flailing for me. I let out my own terrified screech and ran, deeper into the alley!

Swears and curses chased my heels but small legs meant greater nimbleness in the dark. Even in the magical world Diagon Alley was had unwanted furniture piled against the sides, the difference was that these would jab a wooden leg or wheel into my path. I jumped and smashed my over or through them, their rusting squeals like agonised animals.

An old trolley wheeled in front of me! Broken and twisted bars like busted teeth grinned as my leg kicked off the wall just in time to avoid being impaled on the spokes. They jabbed and caught in the thick denim of my shorts.

I staggered, luckily avoiding an arm lunging over the trolley and combed through my fanned out hair but dragged the trolley snarled in the frayed ends with me. I screamed again in fear, spinning hysterically to loose the mesh of twisted metal. It bashed the wall and screeched. Sparks spurted beneath the rubberless wheels locking into place!

"She's a mudblood too!" yelled the Shorty past my ear. I spun again aiming for him but my legs tripped. The trolley flung into the wall and dust showered around its crumpled figure. A wheel spun to a lazy stop.

Just as I struggled upright using a wall for balance, Shorty grabbed a fistful of my shirt and shoved me beside the trolley. Panting with wide eyed fear I didn't resist. Even for a short person he was taller than me. I shoved him back and hunched using the wall to protect my back. As a veteran of rural soccer, I knew there wasn't a lot worse than a kick in the kidneys. A moment later the taller kids caught up and clustered around the mouth of the dead end, little more than shadows amongst the shadows.

"Alright!" I hissed in outrage between raspy drags of breath. Blood snaked down either side of my nose leaving the metallic taste of blood washing over my lips. I fished my wand, the comforting weight of my wand, into my balled fist. "Alright! You wanna go! I, will, smeeear you across the pavement!"

Six wands levelled at my chest and amused smirks were exchanged.

A bright auburn nimbus appeared behind the teenager's heads. "Zukie! No!"

Too late!

I slashed my wand through the air and fireworks exploded in front of my eyes with the agonised scream of a kettle on the boil!

The world was engulfed in orange.

"Ow, ow OW!" I whimpered as Chrys pressed a piece of ice onto my nose. I had only just returned to consciousness, but for some reason that word felt wrong. "What happened?"

"You were holding your wand backwards," she chirped cheerfully. I blinked, looking around. I was back in my room at the Cauldron.

"And?"

"You turned yourself into a pumpkin!"

I mulled this over. So it was return to sentience, rather than consciousness. "Why pumpkins?"

"I don't know, but it will probably wear off once you learn how to use it. Uncle Pedro said something about it being a safety precaution, but he didn't sound too sure."

I lay down, feeling sore and realised I couldn't see over my own swelled nose. Bugger it.