Word Count: 3,275

Former Word Count: 2,600 ish

…

What Might Be Called Mischief

...

[September 3, 1994: Deputy Headmistress' Office, the Altair Institute of Magic]

" … Yes?" Azalea asked cautiously, staying seated as the rest of her fellow Hogwarts students filed out. Susan and Hannah sent concerned glances back at her, but left without protesting. The last person to leave — Varrick, one of the vampires — sent her a mildly mocking look as he pulled the door shut behind him. The Altair students in general had seemed rather peeved their whole time in Deputy Headmistress Mercuriel's office — which, speaking of: "Ma'am, is it Deputy Mercuriel, or Headmistress…" Azalea trailed off at the fae's smile.

"Most of my students call me Headmistress Mercuriel, if they're being polite." Headmistress Mercuriel offered, "There really isn't much of a distinction between Riveren and I in terms of how our students see it. Here, come; sit in front of me." She gestured with her hand, a chair appearing directly in front of her desk. Azalea took it, startling with a gasp as the raiju — Raiden — jumped up to curl up onto her lap, his form shifting into that of a small house cat.

"You might as well pet him," Headmistress Mercuriel advised, lips quirked upwards. "He'll just fuss otherwise. I have to say, Miss Potter, you are exceptionally talented at causing havoc far quicker than expected."

Azalea's face flushed pink and she tried to stammer out an apology, but the headmistress waved her hand dismissively.

"Don't be sorry, child. It's impressive, really. Besides, you couldn't even change some of the most interesting things. Not much of it was particularly surprising, but it still caused quite the murmur. I do have to say, Miss Potter, I was surprised to hear from Silaes that you were a Speaker, of all things," the weather fae laughed, far more warmly than she had when Azalea's classmates were there. "Silaes gets so delighted every time there's a new Speaker — a Parselmouth, dear — and he asked me to ensure you get placed into his Serpent Magic classes."

"I, uh—" Azalea stopped herself from apologizing, remembering the Healer's words from before, "What's Serpent Magic? I haven't heard of it before— well, I got the impression there was some kind of magic from Syrul, but—"

The headmistress rocked back in her chair, steepling her fingers under her chin thoughtfully. "You haven't heard of Serpent Magic before?" the fae mused, "Well, I'm not the one to ask about it — I never have and never will have the potential for that kind of magic. I do know that there aren't any other parselmouths here at Altair, though there were two a couple of years ago, and there are several at our sister schools. The one thing I know for certain about Speakers and Serpent Magic is that all Speakers have serpent forms — I've heard them described as effectively animagi forms, only somehow ingrained into the soul like a werefolk's form is."

"That sounds really interesting," Azalea admitted cautiously, "Uh, could you explain the different kinds of magic, though? I didn't think— well, how can someone not have potential for a certain type of magic?"

"No one has ever taught you about the different types of magic before?" the headmistress asked, tone somewhere between critical and annoyed. "My, I was aware the teaching at Hogwarts had declined over the years, but you were never even taught about predispositions for magic types? I suppose you're equally unaware of the European Purges and the following Exiles and Massacres?"

Azalea didn't even have to say anything, the bewildered expression on her face was more than enough. The headmistress scowled, visibly angry for the first time. Her magic reacted with it, filling the room with the aftertaste of ozone and the fuzzy pressure that came before storms. It left Azalea hyperaware, her own magic pulling itself over her as a second skin, deflecting the already-dissipating surge of magic. The weather fae took a moment to breathe deeply, exhaling audibly with a disgusted shake of her head.

She waved her hand again, the now telltale sign of her performing wandless magic, and a glass full of something — Azalea assumed alcohol, but she'd never gotten good at telling drinks apart — appearing on the desk next to her. Headmistress Mercuriel downed it without a second glance, and the next wave of her hand summoned a chair in the place next to her.

The shadows by the door in the corner coalesced, somehow — the shadows nearby flickered and vanished, being pulled back into the form of a man, and Azalea's breath caught. The very air in the room thickened and chilled, weighing heavily on Azalea's chest and suddenly she was very glad that her magic was buzzing just beneath her skin because she was digging her fingers into Raiden's lightning fur and the raiju was jumping off her lap with an irritated hiss and

It quieted, and beyond the ringing of her ears Azalea faintly heard the headmistress scold someone. Azalea breathed careful, deep breaths, remembering Remus' guiding voice as he walked her through how to calm her magic and herself down whenever she needed to.

"Riveren, really." Azalea heard Headmistress Mercuriel scold. The headmaster, then, Azalea realized faintly. She focused again on the room around her, flexing her fingers and rubbing cautiously at the new indents in her palms. The Altair headmaster was tall, with unnatural gold eyes and metallic blue-silver hair. He was a vampire, that much was obvious from the half-smile designed to expose a glinting fang.

Azalea really didn't need her magic's screamed warning about the danger he presented. It was more than obvious just by looking at him. Even with his magic repressed and curled beneath his skin, Azalea could taste the way it had bled into her skin — into her magic — it had tasted too-sweet and too much like berries and death and cold and too many things unquantifiable.

She avoided the Headmaster's gaze as it flickered between her and his deputy, expression impassive and relaxed. He looked at Azalea again, looked through her, and Azalea couldn't help but think that he knew something more about her and her magic. Something more than Azalea even knew herself, or even that she ever would.

"Hogwarts has turned out to be one of the more disappointing endeavors of my past," the vampire admitted, straightening his cuffs with a distracted movement. "Even so, the four I guided to found it were more than remarkable, and I will admit the school has churned out more than its fair share of exceptional wizards. Pity, I suppose, that it's become so second-rate today. I had hoped its revered quality would last more than a thousand years but," he sighed softly and shrugged one shoulder. "Not everywhere has the prestige of Altair," he said pointedly, eyeing Azalea once again.

She wished he wouldn't.

"The European schools do seem to have mostly fallen into disarray, haven't they?" Headmistress Mercuriel replied more warmly than Azalea thought was deserved. "I know, you'll tell me I should have asked telepathically, but I'd appreciate your opinion on who — if anyone, really — should put the effort into teaching them the histories and origins of magic, not to mention cultural histories and European magical history. It could, at least, knock a little bit of sense into them."

"Deputy dear," Headmaster Aizaguirre said, impeccably dry, "Do tell me I misheard you suggesting we teach the Hogwarts students history. History they should already know. It's hardly the purpose of Altair to guide students that aren't even our own the entirety of their lives! We will certainly not hold their hands through teaching them history. Besides, they've got far too little time in their day to squeeze in another required class."

"I was going to suggest combining it with the Theory of Magic class, actually." the fae replied, "But I was doubting Evan's ability to not turn it into a vent. I was merely thinking of adding a teacher to that class and having their mentors fill in the gaps."

"You're right in thinking Evandel would be a terrible history teacher, at least." the headmaster said, shaking his head. Azalea couldn't help but think, not for the first time, that they were only speaking aloud for her benefit. She was fairly certain they had some sort of lesson in mind, too, given the way they'd pointedly say some words. It was unfortunate — for her more than anything, probably — that she was too distracted by the near screamed desire of her magic to getawayrightnow.

Azalea kind of agreed with it.

…

[September 3, 1994: Number 12, Grimmauld Place]

"Sirius!" Remus shouted down the stairs for the fiftieth time that day. The werewolf bolted out of his room and took the stairs three at a time, coming to a wide-eyed stop behind his friend. "What if— what if we didn't prepare Azzie enough? What if she gets hurt! Surely she'd have time to call us by mirror by now— or owl us, or anything at all!"

"I don't know!" Sirius wailed back, despite the fact that Remus was now standing not a few feet from him. "You packed her lots of food and snacks, right? You made sure she had all the potions she could ever need and—"

"No, Padfoot!" Remus shouted, loud enough to make Sirius jump and whirl around with wide eyes. "She forgot them! They're right here! I can't believe she forgot her potions!"

"Shit, what if she forgets some of the spells we taught her?" Sirius panicked, "What if— what if the books we lent her aren't enough information? What if something happens—" the animagus had to stop, taking a deep breath of air to continue on with his rant.

"What if she's hurt?" Remus worried, "What if one of her friends is hurt?"

They shot back increasingly morbid suggestions for what went wrong for far too long, each repeating and backtracking to concerns they'd mentioned before. By the end of it, they'd somehow packed a box full of all the 'essentials' Azalea could ever need sooner or later. It ranged from the helpful potions Remus had made, to a surplus of clothing — half of which wasn't even Azalea's in the first place — two Firebolt racing brooms, one portrait of an incensed Arcturus Black, two spare wands, a veritable feast under preservation charms, seven miscellaneous cursed artefacts, and a surplus of other, less notable things.

"I don't think she'd appreciate this." Remus admitted after a moment, staring down into the overflowing box with mild horror. "She might appreciate the Firebolt, but I really don't think she'd like a portrait of the late Arcturus Black."

"Too morbid?" Sirius mused, "I guess he'd probably be more likely to call her a blood traitor than actually help her."

"Wait, can't we send her anything?" Sirius whined, adopting a rather effective kicked-puppy look. There was something about his animagus form that made it work a little too well. "You were the one who suggested so many changes of clothes! The massive feast of food? You cooked that! The two spare wands?"

"That was you," Remus pointed out.

"That was me! See, I suggest useful things—"

"And also the portrait of your grandfather."

"—and also the portrait of my grandfather. The rest of it was useful!"

"Maybe we just send her one wand and some food?" Remus suggested finally, "And half the potions?"

The two Marauders shared a look, debating with each other for a moment, and looked back at the box that was overflowing with slightly-useless gifts. They nodded in unison and started to pull things out of the box, throwing new things in all the while. Remus added more and more food only for Sirius to pull it out a moment later, Sirius dumping in a snitch and Quidditch gloves just for Remus to throw them against the wall.

They didn't get anywhere.

"What about this:" Remus suggested, "We write her a very long, very concerned letter asking her if she wants any of this — what she wants out of all of this — and then we get all of her friends here to also write very long concerned letters. That way she knows for certain we care about her and she can't escape it."

"Good idea," Sirius nodded somewhat frantically under Remus' rather threatening gaze, "Maybe we can send her one of the spare wands and a few potions too? Just in case!

…

[September 3, 1994: Gryffindor Common Room, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry]

The Gryffindor Common Room — usually painted brilliant crimson with shining gold accents — was painted green. Not Slytherin green, either. Bright, neon, green. Eyesore highlighter green. And it hadn't been the Weasley twins who did it.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Gred?" one whispered to the other.

"There's someone challenging us for the spot of chief pranksters?" the other whispered back.

"Well of course, Forge, dearest twin of mine," the first said mischievously. The two shared a conspiratory look before grinning in unison. The game was on. After Ronniekins had gotten to go to the absolutely awesome school that was Altair Institute of Magic, they'd lost their favorite pranking target. After abandoning ickle Azalea during the Triwizard Tournament, they'd had a little bit too much fun targeting him with their pranks.

Of course… little Ginny hadn't been very nice, either, but she was their little sister. Weasleys looked out for little sisters.

Just because they didn't have their favorite target didn't mean they'd slowed down the pranking, though. Fred and George had been in frequent (too-frequent, according to ickle Azalea) contact with the Messrs Moony and Padfoot after finding out they were Azalea's family. She hadn't told them, of course, they'd had to find out by reading a letter she'd addressed to Moony over her shoulder. They hadn't let her get away with saying it was a different Moony, because of course it wasn't a different Moony.

Eventually ickle Azalea had given in and helped them get in contact, which led to a little too much fun learning from the Marauders themselves (mostly Padfoot, though) about all the different ways to prank and break rules.

Moony and Padfoot had far too much fun leading the twins all over Hogwarts to try and find out their identities, all the while helping Azalea prank the twins her entire fourth year. Fred and George would forever say they went easy on her, given the whole Triwizard Tournament thing going on.

Hogwarts was a little less fun without ickle Azalea, who always retaliated with increasingly creative and complex pranks — though that only started halfway through third year. Before, she'd just flinch and shrink in on herself. Their prank war was well known throughout the school, despite Azalea's insistence on only ever pranking them and refusing to let people get caught in the crossfire. They'd only taken a brief break to help Azalea during the tournament by researching sixth-year spells.

She was too close to 'family' to have done anything else. Not to mention her perfect ability to tell them apart and treat them like separate people — something she'd managed within an hour of meeting them. The only other student who had really managed that was Lee Jordan, and it had taken him months.

But now Azalea wasn't here and there was someone else pranking the Weasley twins. They were alarmingly good at it, too. It wasn't any of the other seventh years — their pranks were a little more vicious and retaliatory — and it certainly wasn't Azalea. They'd thought it was a one-time prank when they found itching powder in their clothes. Two-time when someone charmed their quills to write backwards. They hadn't even given the third time much thought at all — having their book covers swap to cheesy romances honestly wasn't that bad of a prank.

But whoever was pranking them kept on pranking them.

There was hardly anyone brave enough to take on the Weasley twins in a prank war. They were in their seventh years, now, and everyone knew they were experimenting with new things. It left everyone a little bit scared of what they could do, something Fred and George weren't quite happy with. Pranks were for laughter and fun, not fear and distress.

Maybe they'd have to work on their methods.

One method hadn't changed, though: the Marauder's Map. Azalea had returned it as soon as she'd realized she would be attending a different school, suggesting they find someone who could use it better than her. It hadn't helped whatsoever in figuring out who was pranking it. They'd been watching it the entire time the Gryffindor Common Room had been painted eyesore green, and no one had entered or exited.

They'd challenged the entire Gryffindor House to see if any of them were doing it, and only turned up dead ends. Their closest friend, Lee Jordan, had no idea who it could have been. And the twins knew it wasn't Lee, given how newly focused he was on schoolwork after being screamed at by his mother about failing his O.W.L.s two years ago. Lee wasn't about to ruin his chance at Ministry employment by starting a prank war, especially not in N.E.W.T. year.

Lee had laughed his arse off when their hair turned Hufflepuff-yellow halfway through an impassioned speech on joining forces with their invisible prankster, though. The ensuing chaos had made the Weasley twins more than a little glad they'd decided not to go the employment route and rather focus on inventing impractical (and some practical) things.

Which was (definitely) why they'd set up a whole lot of traps in the Gryffindor Common Room.

"Hey, Gred…" one of the twins whispered to the other as they peered down at the Marauder's Map, spread across one of their beds. "You sure these traps will help us catch our dear prankster?"

"What prankster doesn't like candy, Forge?" His accomplice retorted, "We very clearly left a bowl of sweets with the incredibly obvious label 'To Our Dearest Pranking Rival, Love Fred and George.' There isn't a chance of them not seeing it.

"Yeah, but do you really think they'd be dumb enough to eat one of the candies"

"The Fainting Fancies don't set off alarm bells with any detection spells, Gred. You know that. Whoever eats them will go right to sleep."

"What if someone else eats the candies?" Gred asked carefully. They hadn't fully tested them yet.

The twin shot his other a slightly worried look, "You know, I think we better—"

"Misters Weasleys!" a certain Deputy Headmistress shouted from the Common Room, her heavy steps echoing up the stairs. The Weasley twins rushed to shove all incriminating evidence away. "This has gone on long enough! Making poor students pass out is one thing, but turning them into animals?! Detention! For a week!"

"Turning them into animals?" Forge asked, confused, looking up at the Professor with wide eyes as she slammed open the door, breathing heavily with lips pursed the most the twins had ever seen (and how was that even possible they didn't know).

"Why didn't we think of that?" Gred answered, grinning at Professor McGonagall's glare.

"Headmaster's office, now!"

…

Far away in the kitchens, a certain free-elf who went by the name Dobby cackled as he flattened out the list of things the Great Mistress Azalea Potter had given him to do. He hadn't even gotten past the tenth thing on the list! And there were so many things to do in her absence!

...

a/n: If you're interested, I've got a really short Halloween drabble series - focused on minor characters! It's kinda sad though ngl. Also, trying for chapters every other week (let's see how it goes)! And thanks to the couple of you who send me messages/reviewed - I really enjoy reading all of your feedback 3