Eldritch Asylum

by obsidian-fox

Crossover: Harry Potter, Lovecraft Shadows in London run deeper than they ever did in Nerima. Ranma begins an epic tale of good, evil, and the vast twilight between them. Summary inside. DEAD

8. Here's Hogwarts

Eldritch Asylum

obsidian-fox and Xylix

(alpha)

Started: December 26, 2005

Last Update: May 12, 2007

Disclaimer: Many characters used in this story were not originally conceived by the author. Ranma ½, Harry Potter, and various other works of literature and art are used. This work is not for commercial use. I appeal to Copyright Fair Use in keeping this work legal; as such, I consider it fair use for you (whoever you are) to use any original characters or settings in derived works, should you choose to write one.

Eldritch Asylum may be archived.

Short story summary (only one sentence!):

Ranma was adopted out of an insane asylum by Elinore and Gareth Granger then made friends with two girls named Audrey and Kathryn and eventually met Hermione with whom she doesn't get along too well but does love dearly as a sister even though a spat between them ended up with Ranma leaving only to be followed by Kathryn who was injured by a blue-haired vampire that happens be subordinate to a cocaine lord vampire named Gabriel whom Ranma encountered when she later targeted the vampires who had hurt Kathryn with an assault that ultimately left several civilians dead and Ranma with injuries on the very morning the Hogwarts Express leaves for Hogwarts.

(BREATHE!)

Anyhow, it's been a while since our last posted chapter. I figured you could use a reminder.

Last Chapter:

The diagnosis for Kathryn was not pleasant – amputated left leg, missing left eye, broken back, and still in a coma more than a week after the incident. Ranma, Audrey, and Mr. Keynes were forced to deal with their angst and frustration at her condition, staying at her side as they could, hoping she would awaken.

Detectives Miles Long and Ken Brady of the Criminal Investigations Department (CID) visited the scene and investigated the assault. There, they discovered far more blood than belonged to Kathryn alone, and a pile of ash that still eludes Miles's analysis. Upon seeing the blue-eyed, redheaded Asian at the local police station, Miles remembered her description from investigating the wrongful death of a boy almost two years ago – an event from Chapter One. He began to interrogate Ranma, suspecting the child may have killed again. Fortunately for Ranma, the investigation was forcefully closed by an agent from MI5 named Hanz Schuart.

Ranma dealt with injustice inflicted by the trio of girls seen in Diagon Alley. They managed to leverage the Ministry's court system against the red-headed muggleborn, turning a non-violent shove into "misdemeanor assault." Ranma is now on official probation; any future displays of violence (or anything that can be vaguely interpreted as violence by a biased judge) might get Ranma suspended from Hogwarts. Ranma also had to write formal apologies and pay a meager fine. It is unlikely the girls will be satisfied with the apologies Ranma actually wrote.

Agent Hanz Schuart, during his investigation, acquired Kathryn's brass omnioculars and developed an interest in Ranma. Further, he proves to be no stranger to the supernormal, and he has connections to a secret organization called Hellsing. The MI5 agent tracked down the remaining vampires from the assault on Kathryn then told Ranma to be at a bar and dance-club called "The Bottleneck." His stated motivation was 'entertainment' – to watch another display of Ranma's abilities.

Ranma didn't quite understand, but fulfilled her role admirably. She staked one of the vampires, and tossed the other atop a live grenade. However, the conflict did not end well. It turns out that the club was merely a front for selling cocaine – a business in which a powerful vampire named Gabriel is involved, along with his companions Mary and Nathan, and his many-great grandnephew, Michael – a close friend of Ranma's targets. Guns were drawn, bullets were fired, and people were injured... including Ranma.

In the end, Alucard, who was present at Hanz's suggestion, prevented Ranma's situation from growing any worse.

Author Notes:

Many reviewers have expressed concerns. We not only left Kathryn in a sorry state; we introduced the high-power Hellsing vampires and plenty of firearms, making Ranma a much smaller fish in this story's pond. What can I say? We're writing a dark story; it helps to prove Ranma is hardly invincible.

Regarding Kathryn, I can only state that her injuries (broken back, amputated leg, and damaged eye) are important to future plot and character-development directions... some predictable, and others much less so. I do look forward to speculation regarding this.

Regarding firearms, many believe that their true power wasn't displayed adequately. However, ballistics simulations and physics models both indicate that anyone who can take a punch that Ranma can throw (without having the fist break the flesh) will only suffer a few inches penetration from a typical 9mm Luger – enough to cut into the flesh and be incredibly painful, but hardly deadly (unless a bullet hits a major artery). Ranma would have more reason to fear heavy pistols (.44 Magnum or .454 Casull) or military rifles. See the forum for greater detail.

Regarding the crossover with Kohta Hirano's 'Hellsing, I must inform those of you hoping for immediate involvement that, at the moment, it is more of a cameo role; its appearance here allows for greater involvement a few story-years down the line, when it becomes a real component of the story. As with the other crossovers, I don't expect or require you readers to know anything about Hellsing while reading this fiction. For those of you who are curious or unaware, Alucard is the only character appearing last chapter that is actually from Hirano's manga. I don't guarantee he'll show up again soon. Hellsing proper doesn't take place until 1999. If you have any questions, please visit my forum.

Anyhow, on with the story!

Chapter Seven: Here's Hogwarts!

Character is determined more by the lack of certain experiences than by those one has had.

– Friedrich Nietzsche

September 1993

-o0o-

Pound! Pound! Pound!

"Ranma! Get up! It's nine-thirty already!" Hermione's tones resonate through the door.

Pound! Pound! Pound! The door rattles on its hinges.

Ranma groans and pries open tired eyes. The digital clock by her bed proclaims the time in unreadable, red blurs. After rubbing her vision clear with her wrist, she confirms her sister's statement. It's nine-twenty-one, and she has less than an hour to prepare for her new school. At eleven, the Hogwarts Express leaves King's Cross.

"Fine! Be that way. But if you don't get up this time, then I'm just going to leave you there." The vexed voice is followed by footsteps quickly thumping down the stairs.

The worn redhead shifts, moving to rise. She swings her feet off the bed and sits up, wincing in acute agony as abdominals pull taut and feet touch the ground. Finally, she stands and wobbles; the damaged muscles in her left leg spasm, and her hand reaches out, bracing her body against her desk.

The world spins, guts roil, breath quickens, and the child chokes on a metallic, souring stench. Blood. Ranma's room reeks of it. Bright blue sheets are matted with the substance; dark splotches of red and brown lie where her belly and legs once rested. Her slacks and blouse are a rumpled, ruddy ruin after being torn and worn through the night. Her stomach surges, and she clutches at her mouth as the awful acids rise, burning her esophagus and biting her tongue. She swallows, forcing the foul, fetid fluids back down. Her insides rebel, and moments later she's making a limping, staggering rush to the bathroom.

"Bluuaagh!" spews Ranma, kneeling over the cramped room's commode. The sound of blood and acid splashing into scented waters is punctuated by a sharp clatter. As the pink clouds spread to translucency, they reveal a single, deformed and acid-decayed hunk of lead and flaky copper at the bottom of the basin. It's a bullet.

Ranma stares at it a second longer then flushes everything out of sight.

She drags herself over to the sink and flips on the faucet. After washing her hands with soap and a scrub, she cups a little water and brings it to her lips. The cool fluid is swished around her mouth then crudely spat down the drain, taking with it the abhorrent taste.

The fledgling witch gazes into the mirror above the sink. Gazing back is a child – weak, tired, and pale. Her bedraggled red hair is still in its braid and soggy with sweat; her bangs stick to her forehead, and her bloody blouse rests crinkled and lopsided across her shoulders. Her image carries none of her essence, none of her personality, none of the witch leaving for school this morning, and none of the ruthless warrior that fought last night. She wonders why she thought it might. Did she expect her sins to show on her skin? Does she want them to? But her image displays only a girl – a short, pretty, eleven-year old girl... who, somehow, can't bring herself to smile. Not now. Not yet.

She scowls angrily at her reflection. Her reflection scowls stormily in return. The two of them stand in stalemate, each looking deep into the other's cerulean orbs as though taking a measure, weighing a soul, and finding it wanting. But they are not two. Ranma averts her eyes and splashes her face with the chilly waters.

With one swift motion, Ranma sweeps her shirt over her head and tosses it aside. Her black iron amulet flops and sways, dangling on its silver chain against the pale, white flesh of her childish chest. Beneath, black bandages bind her belly, among the last remnants of her homemade ninja suit, the rest having been burned in a city trashcan last night. Caked and crusted flakes of crimson crack and crumble to the floor as the bindings peel away, stripping thick scabs from sore skin and revealing a trio of encrusted pits oozing vital fluids – souvenirs of the evening's events. With a wince, Ranma pokes and prods at the lesions, aggravating the bleeding and creating new waves of intense pain. There are three holes and one bullet accounted for. The prodding reveals a second bullet buried in her gut, near the surface of her abdomen... no deeper than the second knuckle of her little finger.

Ranma quickly cleans her hands under the faucet's rushing waters and begins rifling through drawers and doors, placing anything remotely useful on the counter, and wishing she had access to the medkit in the master bedroom. Among the items that she collects are a small pair of tweezers, a nail file, a small box of band aids, floss, and a bottle each of surgical spirit and hydrogen peroxide.

She stares at the supplies and sighs, "I guess a doctor would be too much to ask for."

Ranma knows this isn't true. A few comments would have Gareth and Elinore rushing to find a doctor... even a discrete one, if Ranma demanded it. However, it would raise more questions than Ranma is prepared to answer, make her miss the Hogwarts Express, and leave a trail for Detective Sergeant Long to follow like a bloodhound. She'll need to do the job herself.

Ranma's lips curl as she lifts the tiny tweezers between her fingers. The two prongs are neither long enough nor wide enough to remove a bullet from her body... not even the shallow bullet. However, her disgust is not directed at the tool but, rather, at her hands.

Last night, she really bodged the job.

It was simple, really – enter, grab, stake, stab, and escape. It wasn't much of a plan... especially for Ranma, whose solutions were oft-condemned as needlessly complicated during critical thinking lessons at Headwings. But it was her plan. At some level, she loathed contemplating the murder, so she had avoided the effort... and it showed. She hadn't entered with full knowledge of the situation. She didn't expect to face goons with guns, a girl with grenades, at least four vampires, and...whatever Gabriel and Alucard are. From all she had seen, The Bottleneck served primarily human clientèle. Ranma snorts. She should have trusted her tactless pun. Yet she entered the club woefully unprepared. Four wooden sticks? She should have brought a shotgun and a chainsaw. As it is, things went badly, innocents died, and her blood was left at the scene.

... blood – on the floor, on her hands, in her hair, everywhere

Ranma draws a deep, shuddering breath and splashes her face. Death... is not like the movies.

Her eyes fall away from her reflected image, and she once again takes action. There are two more bullets to remove from her gut plus those in her leg. She's wasted too much time already. Without more than a moment's hesitation, Ranma lifts the large bottle of surgical spirits between her small hands, takes a cursory glance at the long list of instructions, then twists off the cap, leans back, and spills the solution liberally over her wounds. The fluids flow from her belly, soaking her blood-stained slacks and splashing upon linoleum. She hisses softly as a sharp, stinging sensation first suffuses her torso then dissolves under the chemical rush of endorphins and alcohol.

Even before she starts to go numb, Ranma lifts the nail-file between nimble fingers, stretches the tweezers a little wider than they were engineered to go, and digs into her belly. Moments later, she is leveraging a mushroomed metal slug to the surface, stretching her abused skin to its limits. Plop! The second bullet pops free with a sanguine spray, and Ranma releases a breath she didn't know she was holding.

After a negligent toss, the misshapen bullet lands in the lavatory with a clatter. There, it rinses slowly under the faucet's falling waters. Thin trails of pink sweep across the sink, skirting the edge before swirling inevitably into the dark abyss of modern plumbing. Ranma follows this like something profound, a metaphor for life.

"Ranma, have you seen my watch? I've looked everywhere, and I can't find it," a fretful voice calls from beyond the bathroom door. "You didn't drag it into your room, did you?"

Ranma spins; the world swims; the room reels behind, lagging in time; numb nose, staggering close, stumble, bumble, blunder and bump – she strikes the wall with a resounding thump as dead senses havoc her head and kill her coordination. With some effort, fuzzy eyes focus upon the flimsy wooden barrier between herself and a long set of explanations Ranma would rather never give. Eventually, she manages to vocalize the sum-total of her incoherent thoughts: "Eh?"

"Ranma, what happened?" the voice inquires. "Are you okay?"

a warm voice, a kind smile... a wet redness

Ranma's hands twitch. They are bloody. Again.

"Ranma?"

"'m o-kay," Ranma slurs. Blinking, she musters the concentration to communicate clearly, raising her voice and carefully enunciating each word. "I- HAVE- BE-EE-N BUTTER, NA-A-AY-SAN. need shumthin'?"

"Butter?" Hermione asks, confused.

Ranma laughs. "Butter makesh it better!"

"... Ranma, what's going on in there?" Hermione demands.

"Um... jus' clean'n up a few shcrapes from lash' night. Nuffin' you need'a worry 'bout." Ranma furrows her brow before adding, "Don' tell kaasan, 'kay?"

"You're not getting rid of me that easily," Hermione declares. "What were you doing last night?"

look! look around us! you did this

"... Shtuff."

"If you won't tell me, then you can tell Mom," Hermione states sternly.

Ranma's eyes are downcast, fixated on the messy floor, the crusted rags, and the torn shirt. She grasps the latter between her toes and sweeps it across the pools of life and spirits that have fallen from her body. Then Ranma slumps against the door and slides to the ground with a thump. "Hey, neesan..."

Hermione's tone falls to match her sister's quiet question. "Yes, Ranma?"

"Is it wrong to murder vampires?"

"Well, it's-" the words grind to a halt. "Ranma, did you...?"

"I... Neesan, can we talk later? I need to shower."

"You haven't taken your shower yet?" Hermione asks, flipping from friendly to frantic. "What time is it? Where's my watch?!"

"It's in here, neesan," Ranma calls, voice edging on playful.

"What are you doing with my watch? Give it to me! No. Wait. Take your shower, then give it to me! It's nine-... oh- It's almost ten, already! Hurry up!"

Ranma hears her sister scurry away.

Still leaning against the door, Ranma resumes her onerous chore. Working with shaky hands in the fading twilight of numbness, she inserts the instrument into the third aperture, just above and to the left of her navel, and slowly pushes upwards until it stops with a click against the buried bullet's hard metal casing... It's deep, tearing up into her liver and swallowing over half the long nail file. It's beyond her reach without better tools.

With a half-grimace, half-sigh, Ranma removes the tool and rises to her feet. She twists on the shower, kicks off her pants, and unwinds the final bandages, revealing two more wounds in her hip and thigh. Ranma steps under the warm water, file in hand. Then he begins to work the bullets free.

-o1o-

"So you're really bringing your violin?" Elinore asks. Impulsively, she tugs Ranma into a hug, pressing her child's head against her breasts. "I'm so proud of you."

Ranma blushes lightly, then disentangles herself.

"Be sure to practice a lot!" Elinore enthuses. "I'm sure you can master Dance of the Goblins and Devil's Trill by summer, and I'd love to hear them."

"I'll try, kaasan," Ranma utters in a subdued manner before trotting a bit faster to catch up with Gareth and Hermione.

The four Grangers walk as a group through the hustle and bustle that is King's Cross station in the morning. People stop and stare at the caged owl in Hermione's hand, only to be distracted by yet stranger groups rushing by in billowing robes, pushing rattling carts of cauldrons and exotic supplies.

Hermione doesn't notice the extra attention as she scrutinizes her sister. Ranma walks with a slight but well disguised limp and avoids her eyes while conversing reluctantly with Elinore. After her adopted sister came down from the shower, Ranma was unusually quiet, banishing breakfast with a grimace and a gesture. While Mom and Dad were more than a little concerned, they eventually dismissed it as anxiety and apprehension then packed a larger lunch. But Hermione knows better. Whatever plagues Ranma is beyond butterflies. Is it wrong to murder a vampire? What did her sister mean? Did she kill a vampire? If so, when? Is that what she was doing last night? Is that how she earned a limp and 'a few scrapes'? ... Maybe she's making too much of this. Ranma's leaving Kathryn behind; perhaps she just worked herself extra hard last night. Deciding that speculation is getting her nowhere, she glances at her watch and bemoans, "... ten-forty-four. Come on! Let's hurry." She picks up the pace.

Soon, they stand before the pillar between platforms nine and ten that marks an entrance to the wizarding world. Fluttering robes fade into folds of illusion as the final straggler of a wizarding family vanishes into the apparent wall of brick, yet the busy Muggles, who paid so much attention earlier, hardly seem to notice.

"Well, this is where we say goodbye," Elinore sniffles, wiping a tear from her eye. She grabs each of her daughters, pulling Hermione, then Ranma, into a powerful hug. "You'll be back for Christmas, right?" Her question seems more insistent than curious.

"I'll be home," Ranma promises, pulling out of the lingering embrace.

"Well," Hermione putters, avoiding her mother's eyes "- I might be awfully busy."

"Oh," Elinore utters, deflating. "I forgot about your schedule. ... Good luck with that."

Gareth claps a meaty hand on Hermione's shoulder. "If necessary, your studies come first," he says, eyeing Ranma meaningfully. He gives his daughter an affectionate squeeze. "I want you to know that both of you make us very proud. I can never tell my patients enough about my two intelligent, strong-willed, and beautiful daughters."

The man grins at Hermione's abashed blush and Ranma's indomitable smirk, then his expression hardens into something more serious. "However, while I know that each of you, in your own fashion, is capable of looking after yourself, I'll feel far more assured knowing that you are also watching after each other. My experiences over the last two weeks leave me apprehensive about your safety in the wizarding world. At best, their laws are out of date, and their justice system is corrupt. At worst, they are dangerously prejudiced..." his eyes darken "- even their toys. I want both of you to take a moment and ponder what your history books say on the subject." Gareth focuses on his youngest child, ignoring the increasingly antsy motions of Hermione. "Be careful around those girls, Ranma. They've already proven themselves ruthless, and they'll have an upper hand in any encounter. It will be best if you just avoid them."

"I love you too, Dad, but we'll have to take our moment to ponder later," Hermione cuts in as her father formulates where to next take his speech. "We'll be careful. I love you. We'll write." Hermione jerks Ranma through the wall as she finishes her last words.

Their mother yelling "Write often!" is the last thing they hear before they burst onto Platform 9¾.

Hermione drags Ranma through a sea of milling students, occasionally standing on her toes, searching about, while trying to hold her caged owl steady. Behind her, Ranma's eyes dart in every direction, and she cringes, pulling closer to her sister. They pass pairs of parents prattling politely as their children crowd into the crimson cars of the Hogwarts Express. Then Hermione lurches to an abrupt halt and gasps in pain as Ranma's hand tightens around her own and ceases to follow.

"Owww..." Hermione complains, stabilizing her disgruntled owl and turning to face her sister. "What now, Ranma?" She pauses as she marks the direction of Ranma's gaze. "Oh, that," she utters, exasperated. "Get over it, Ranma. They're just cats. Honestly, they should be scared of you, not the other way around."

Ranma tears her eyes away from their current target and scowls at her sister.

Hermione shakes her hand free of her sister's then stands on her toes once again, vainly attempting to see over the heads of older students. "Where are they?" she frets.

"Where's who?" Ranma asks. A sly smile stretches slowly across her face. "You aren't looking for your boyfriends, are you?"

"Stop that!" Hermione wheels on her sister. "You're going to start rumors."

"Did you hear that, brother mine?" a new voice asks as a tall, lightly freckled redhead appears from the congestion near the train.

A second redhead, identical to the first, joins him. "Indeed, I did. 'Boyfriends', with a plural."

"How interesting," the other ponders. "I wonder, who might they be?"

As an embarrassed Hermione musters a response, both boys turn simultaneously in time to see Harry, accompanied by another scrawny redhead, pushing through the jam-packed platform.

"Ickle Ronniekins, you never told us!" one of the twins exclaims.

The other winks. "... and Harry, you sly dog. To think you'd be the type to share..."

Ron frowns at his older brothers. "What are you gits blathering about?"

"Don't worry. Your secret's safe with us."

"That's quite enough from you," Hermione chides, glaring at each of the twins in turn and not sparing her smirking sister. She then addresses Harry and Ron. "When did you arrive? I've been looking all over for you."

"Not long ago," Ron answers. "The Ministry lent us some cars... Hey, is that an owl?"

"Of course it is." Hermione lifts the caged chestnut owl ahead of her, and gazes at it fondly. "His name is Awelon. Isn't he gorgeous?" she says, glowing.

Ron looks thoroughly disgusted. "You named your owl Owl'n?"

Ranma snickers.

"Au-ell-on, Awelon," Hermione corrects, flashing fierce eyes at her sister.

Ron looks at Hermione as if she's crazy. "That's what I said."

"It's Welsh! It means breeze!" Hermione exclaims, feeling supremely frustrated.

"Whatever," Ron dismisses. Then his eyes brighten considerably. "Hey! You'll never guess what Harry bought at Diagon Alley."

"A wicked-cool trunk, a Firebolt, and a secret?" Ranma quips, interjecting herself into the conversation.

"Who are you?" Ron questions, suddenly staring suspiciously at the short, blue-eyed, redheaded, Asian girl. "Go away, firstie!"

Hermione drops her head into her free hand as though nursing a headache.

"So, Harry, am I right?" Ranma asks. "Did that broom steal your wallet, too?"

The lanky, black-haired boy looks uncomfortable at the attention, especially as several parents in the crowd turn to face him, eyes locking on to his jagged scar.

"Do you know this girl?" Ron demands of Harry.

"She's my sister," Hermione states. Her hand drops away from her face.

"No way!" Ron exclaims. "She doesn't look like you at all!"

"She's adopted," Harry offers. "And Hermione did tell us about her."

"I know that," Ron mumbles, his ears turning pink. Then he throws an accusatory glare at Hermione. "I thought you said she was a Muggle."

"I said she wasn't a witch."

"Are you daft?" Ron asks, staring in disbelief. "If she's not a Muggle, she's a witch. What else could she possibly be?"

"A goddess," Ranma proposes. She bestows upon him a beneficent smile. "You may start groveling now."

Hermione scowls at her sister and is searching for an appropriate reply when three more redheads break through the crowd – a tall, balding man in glasses accompanied by his short, plump wife and young daughter.

"Hey, there. Have you seen the twins?" the man asks.

Hermione glances about, but neither of the twins is in sight.

"They took off a few minutes ago," Harry answers, pointing in a vague direction.

"Those boys will be the death of me, yet," the mother of many redheads sighs. Donning a stern visage, she gathers her skirt and marches in the direction denoted by Harry.

The man remains with his daughter as he watches his wife thrust through the throng. Then he turns to the children. His eyes widen as they meet Ranma's. "Ah, you must be Red Granger! I haven't seen you since the asylum. I see you qualified as a witch... not that I had any doubt. It takes a lot of power to haunt a whole ward enough to vacate it!" He pauses, not noticing Ranma's intense glare. "Oh, where are my manners? I haven't introduced myself yet. I'm Arthur Weasley, and this is my daughter, Ginny. I see you've already met Ron. Are you looking forward to your first year at Hogwarts?"

"I was," Ranma answers sourly, folding her arms across her chest and still staring at the man as though he's a bug to be squashed. "And my name is Ranma Granger."

"I... see," Arthur responds, drawing back. He stares at her a second, wetting his lips and searching nervously for a response. "Sorry about that." He turns away. "Say, Harry, would you come with me for a minute?" he asks, jerking his head towards a pillar.

Harry and Arthur shuffle away, conversing in low tones; after a final, quick glance back at Ranma, they disappear into the crowd.

The four children left behind share an awkward moment in which Ranma's hard, steel-blue eyes scrutinize Ron and Ginny, whose bodies and expressions reveal disquiet.

"I'm leaving," Ranma declares abruptly before spinning on her heel and heading for the train.

Hermione watches her leave with a pensive expression.

"You never told us your sister is crazy," Ron says the moment Ranma is out of view.

"She isn't crazy," Hermione responds, subdued.

Ron snorts. "She isn't a witch either, right?" he replies, sarcastically. "You heard my dad. They wouldn't even put crazy people next to her. And did you see the way she stared at him? It's not natural." He pauses, then adds, "Could she be possessed by You-Know-Who? It happened to my sister in her first- Owww!"

"Hey!" Ginny objects, withdrawing her toes from her brother's shin. "Why do you always have to be such a git, Ron?"

"What's your problem?" Ron demands, glaring at her.

Ginny's response is blasted away by the ear-splitting tones of the train's powerful whistle. Huge, billowing clouds of steam rise from the scarlet engine, and frenzied guards begin rushing about, calling for everyone to board.

"We need to go!" Hermione shouts, making herself heard over the rising noise on the platform.

"What about Harry?" Ginny protests.

"He'll make it," Ron replies, grabbing his sister roughly.

The group scrambles to the nearest car, ignoring the indignant squawks of Awelon. They press up into a narrow stairwell, and a guard promptly slams the door shut behind them. Thump. Thump. The train begins to move.

"Ron!" Ginny protests as her brother shoves her further inside.

"Give me room," Ron roars back with a final shove. He throws the portal open anew and dangles dangerously from the train's interior, stretching an arm towards Harry.

Outside, Harry is rushing to catch up, dodging between parents and shoving past the platform guards. Right as he reaches the end of the platform, he catches Ron's hand and throws himself towards the car. With a great heave Ron hauls Harry inside.

Finally aboard, Harry half collapses and wheezes as he catches his breath.

"Cutting it rather close there, Harry," Ron laughs, jovially thumping Harry on the back.

Harry gives his friend a wry grin.

Hermione purses her lips slightly, then asks, "So, what did Mr. Weasley find so urgent that he made it his responsibility to hold you until the train was moving?"

"I'll tell you later," Harry states, standing upright, breath recovered.

"Hurry up," Ron commands, cutting short any possible conversation. "All the good compartments are already taken, and I don't want to be stuck with a bunch of firsties." Words spoken, Ron shoves past Hermione and into the main corridor, paying no attention as he bumps Awelon's cage.

Squawk! Squawk! Squawk! Awelon's incensed cries become a raucous tumult as it flaps and recovers balance in its rattled cage. As it settles on its perch, it turns its head over one-hundred-twenty degrees, following Ron with a half-lidded, black-eyed gaze.

"Watch where you're going," Hermione snaps. Then she turns her attention to her owl, cooing, "Don't worry, Awelon. I won't let the bad man hurt you."

"Merlin, Ron, don't you pay attention to anything?" Ginny asks.

"Whatever. There might be compartments left in the back." Ron immediately steps into the next car.

The others follow.

The corridor is narrow, and they are forced to shove past the occasional students who are loitering about or searching for friends. Boisterous laughter and the occasional yell spill from the compartments. Old windows set high in sliding doors reveal a group of Ravenclaws studying diligently, awkward first-year introductions, Slytherins scheming, and sixth-years snogging. Hermione gazes briefly through each, hoping to catch sight of her sister's smug grin.

She doesn't find it. Instead, as they step into the sixth carriage, she hears a familiar, supercilious voice censuring some students through an open door.

"- you'll find the consequences of such disrespect far more inconvenient, this year." A sharp-featured boy with white-blond hair glares into an open compartment, framed on either side by boys that best resemble burly bookends. A quiet tap on the shoulder gains the blond's attention, and he turns towards Harry. "Ah, Potty... just the person I wanted to see," he sneers while closing the door.

"Get out of the way, Malfoy!" Harry growls.

The boy ignores him, strolling to the center of the corridor. "I hear you are finally putting your dead father's fortune to good use," the boy drawls. As he speaks, he critically eyes Harry's attire, making theatre of his disgust. "But I see you cannot just purchase a sense of fashion. I can only think that you're wearing those rags because you like them."

"At least Harry doesn't spend all his time flipping through witches weekly and talking to a magic mirror," Ginny retorts.

Malfoy's gray eyes flare slightly, then he adjusts the collar of his silver-trimmed school robes. "I'll have you know that these robes were tailored by Twillfit himself. Where did you get your robes, Miss Weasel? ... a second-hand robe shop, perhaps?" He smirks as Ginny fumes, savoring her answering silence before turning back towards Harry. "So, is it true what they're saying, Potter? That you bought a Firebolt because you're scared that you cannot win without a superior broom?"

"You weren't so hot on your Nimbus 2001!" Ron counters loudly, stepping forward. "Harry could beat you on a Shooting Star."

Malfoy looks at Ron as though noticing him for the first time. "You'd know all about Shooting Stars, wouldn't you, Weasley? They're the best your family can afford. Maybe if your father hadn't frittered away all his winnings on a wasted trip to Egypt, you could get something better." He smirks as Ron's ears turn red. "It's no surprise that you Weasels are so poor when you so eagerly throw away what little money you manage to acquire."

"Mucuscorusca!" A brilliant lance of yellow flashes over Malfoy as Ginny shoves past Harry. Ron also surges forward, but finds himself checked from behind. In an instant, wands are raised on both sides.

Harry gently grips Ginny's wand arm, preventing the furious girl from throwing another spell, while a surprised Hermione releases Ron from a two-point wrist lock.

"I warned you, Malfoy," Harry says.

"Let me go," Ginny shouts, wrenching her hand free.

"What's the matter, Potter? Can't keep your coterie under control?" Malfoy jeers. With a swagger, he makes a show of returning his wand to his robes. "Go ahead and do it, Potter. I've heard some interesting stories this summer regarding you, your aunt, your mudblood girlfriend, and her sister." The blond boy's lip curls, his icy-gray eyes flit to Hermione, then he once again focuses on Harry. He sneers profoundly. "I can take you to court. We aren't even at school yet. You do know what the penalty for underage sorcery is, don't you?" he laughs. "How could you not? You're already on thin ice, Potter. If I'm lucky, you'll be expelled. ... But I'll settle for merely delivering a massive fine to you Weasels."

Ron and Ginny glower, but make no further motions to attack.

"No takers?" Malfoy smirks. "More's the pity."

"You know..." Hermione posits, stroking her chin and making a show of being thoughtful, "The Hogwarts Express is part of Hogwarts property, thus actions within its confines could be considered performed within the bounds of the school, and, therefore, subject to the Headmaster's authority. Hence, we'd likely get off with no more than a few detentions."

Ron's face adopts a huge, gleeful expression. "Good enough for me," he declares, pulling out his wand.

Malfoy briefly appears panicked, then he schools his features and turns a contemptuous expression on Hermione. "Don't be ridiculous, Granger," he scoffs. "This train hardly qualifies as a supervised learning environment."

"... More's the pity," Hermione replies, sounding slightly disappointed. Saying no more, she steps past him, disdainfully directing a gorilla-goon aside with a single, feminine finger.

The others file behind.

"That was brilliant, Hermione!" Ron laughs the moment they enter the next car. "Did you see the expression on his face? I think he nearly wet himself! And the way you pushed Goyle away, afterwards..." He halts abruptly, closes his eyes, and grins at the ceiling.

"What are you doing, Ron?" Ginny inquires wryly.

Ron opens one eye. "I'm committing it to memory," he chuckles, closing his eye again. "I'll cherish it forever."

Ginny laughs lightly, then sees that Harry and Hermione have continued down the corridor. She frowns as, together, the two enter the next car. "Come on," she grunts, grabbing her brother's wrist and pulling him behind her.

The procession continues until the end of the train brings them to an abrupt halt.

"This is probably the best we'll find," Harry says, opening the door to the very last compartment.

Inside is a single occupant – a sickly man in shabby robes, fast asleep by the window. The four children stare at him for a few seconds before entering.

"Who d'you reckon he is?" Ron asks, flopping into the seat furthest from the stranger.

"Professor R. J. Lupin," Hermione answers softly, waving at a battered suitcase on the luggage rack as she places Awelon's cage beside it. "We should keep our voices down."

"A replacement DADA teacher?" Harry quips. "I wonder how this one will try killing me."

"Harry!" Hermione hisses. "Not all our professors are that bad."

"Nope," Ron chuckles quietly. "Just the DADA teachers and Snape. We should check his head while we have the chance."

Hermione glowers. "Don't even think about it."

Ron waves his hands in front of him. "Just joking, Hermione." Then he bends his wrist and twists his arm experimentally. "So, how did you do that arm grab thing, anyway?"

Hermione sighs, taking a seat. "I don't know," she answers honestly. "Ranma used it on me whenever she got tired of an exhibit. I must have picked it up."

Harry nods knowingly. "Sounds familiar."

"You have no idea." Hermione cringes. "The whole summer was one long nightmare."

Ginny leans forward, looking curious. "Tell us about it."

"Where should I even begin?" Hermione sighs. "I suppose the nightmare started the moment I stepped off the platform. My sister was there, eager to tell me that she took her GCSEs and remind me that I'd never earn mine – that I'd always have a hole in my education. And she wouldn't let me forget it... all summer. She even brought it up over dinner a few times, just so my parents could heap praises upon her in front of me." Hermione is growling towards the end.

Harry's eyes widen. "She already took her GCSEs?!"

"Just in math and science," Hermione grumbles.

"What are GCSEs?" Ginny asks, eyes dancing from one to the other.

Harry glances at Hermione expectantly, but finds her looking disgruntled and irritable. When it becomes obvious she is unwilling to elaborate, he fields the explanation instead. "The GCSEs are the General Certificates of Secondary Education," he says. He glances from one blank stare to another, then tries again. "They are sort of like... Muggle OWLs. A first year having GCSEs in math and science is like having OWLs in potions and transfiguration... before entering Hogwarts."

"You're kidding!" Ron shouts, bouncing out of his seat. He grimaces and holds his breath, then sits back down when the professor doesn't stir. Finally, he stares incredulously at Hermione before whispering, "And you want to take them?"

Hermione huffs. "A simple-minded man like you would never understand."

"You got that right," Ron snorts. "So what happened next?"

"Well, my parents had planned for a couple years now that we would vacation in France for their 15th anniversary. So, I took it upon myself to brush up on my French, which I hadn't practiced since Muggle primary school. It took me a week of vocabulary review before I reached my old level. Ranma, however, spent the whole time goofing off with her friends, and refused to even try practicing with the rest of us... and she's never even taken a French class.

"Then, when we arrived at France, in addition to being an obnoxious brat, Ranma was suddenly able to speak perfect French, right down to the accent!" Hermione scowls at the memory. "I'm sure it's some form of tongues, like your parseltongue ability, Harry. And while I admit to being more than a little envious, what really annoyed me is that she refused to translate for us!"

"Tongues?", Ron asks. "You mean like that freaky, African guy with all those weird piercings we met in Egypt?"

"That's rude, Ron," Ginny says, looking cross. "Can't you be more respectful of other people's cultures? And he was from South America, not Africa."

"Same difference," Ron rolls his eyes. "And what are you going on about now? You were the one telling me how you were creeped out by all those needles and- Owww!"

Ginny lifts her heel off Ron's foot.

"Will you stop doing that!" Ron shouts.

"Quiet!" Hermione hisses, glancing at the professor. The man twitches a little, and Hermione waits until he's breathing regularly again. "So what do you know about tongues? I was going to research it when I got back to school."

Ginny glances at Ron, who shrugs. "Well...," Ginny begins, sounding unsure. "It's extremely rare, and almost unheard of in Europe. Gringotts hires people with tongues to help with difficult translations. Bill told me there are some texts that only people with tongues can read."

"It can let you talk, too," Ron cuts in. "That guy spoke perfect English, with no accent."

"No, Ron. He spoke our accent."

Ron ignores his sister. "Fred and George started making up languages. He could understand them, but he replied in English. They did manage to fool him up before Mum put a stop to it: they asked him over dinner if he'd liked to eat Ginny's brains, and he said 'yes'."

Ginny shudders. "I'm not sure he was kidding, Ron. He looked right at me when he said that."

Ron grins. "Fred and George say he doesn't know a word of English. To him, it supposedly sounded like, 'Do you enjoy this meal that our brainy sister helped make?'"

"They never told me that!"

"Of course not. That was the whole point."

Ginny fumes.

For a moment the compartment is steeped in silence broken only by a light cough from the sleeping professor.

"I rather expected that tongues grants the ability to speak and understand other languages," Hermione says carefully. "Can you tell me anything else? maybe how your brothers-"

"Since when have my brothers told me how they do anything?" Ron gruffs.

Ginny smirks at her brother.

Ron rolls his eyes. "Oh, like you know anything."

"Actually, I do," Ginny states proudly. "Bill came to my room and told me a story while you were asleep."

Ron snorts. "I'll bet that's because you couldn't sleep."

Hermione glares at Ron, then inquires of Ginny, "What do you know?"

"Well, I can't remember the whole thing..."

"That's okay. Just tell me what you know."

Ginny glances at Harry, who simply gazes at her in return.

"Well, I suppose, but it might sound a bit silly," Ginny demurs. She takes a deep breath. "Thousands of years ago, things were different than they are today. Reading and writing were uncommon except among scholars and wizards. To study anything at all you needed to learn seven languages -- books were rare, and translations were rarer. Even the written languages were primitive and crude, lacking punctuation, spaces, and other such niceties... and they often varied from city to city. All of this made tongues highly coveted. Muggleborns with the ability were sought, apprenticed, and married into powerful wizarding families. Eventually, tongues became a definitive trait of high-class wizards.

"In fact, it became common for high-class families to hide their secrets in part by writing in a manner that requires tongues to read. You see, tongues allows one to understand or communicate meaning, whether it be through speech or scrawl. So long as the meaning was imbued, no matter how obscure or nonsensical the babble, it can be understood by a person with tongues." She casts a victorious grin towards Ron, then glances again at Harry.

"So that's how you believe your brothers did it?" Hermione asks.

"Well, Bill did go on talk about how double-blind scribes, certain potions, and other stuff can defeat tongues." She pauses in realization then scowls into her own lap.

"It sounds like Bill is a very good brother," Hermione says.

"He should have been more direct," Ginny grumbles.

Ron cracks up. "You mean-" he crows through convulsive fits of laughter. "You mean he told you that night and you didn't get it until just now?"

"Shut up, Ron!" Ginny snaps.

"So, do you think she'd understand parseltongue?" Harry ventures.

Ginny frowns at Harry, curiously. "Well, Bill believes that parseltongue was created to hide secrets from people with tongues."

"Please don't tell me you're planning on having a conversation with her in parseltongue," Ron says, sounding thoroughly disgusted.

"Well, I think that would be fascinating," Hermione retorts. "But I'm not yet confident that my sister has tongues. I know she speaks native Japanese, and that she spoke perfect French. However, it's entirely possible that she's multi-lingual. She did struggle with literacy in English, but almost everything in the Muggle world is written by machine. And Ranma really doesn't remember much from before..." she trails off.

"The accident?" Harry prompts.

Hermione presses her lips together, refusing to answer.

"In Diagon Alley, you mentioned a 'freakish accident'," Harry reminds her. "What happened?"

Hermione glowers at Harry for a minute, then sighs. "If you want to know the whole story, you'll probably have to become an unspeakable for the Department of Mysteries. But I suppose I can tell you if you promise to not tell anyone, especially Ranma."

Ginny frowns. "Hasn't she been told?" she asks.

"Of course she has," Hermione snorts. "But she'd kill me if she ever learns I told you about it. So, do I have your word?"

She awaits their nods of agreement and checks the dormant professor before continuing.

"Four years ago, a battle collapsed the London Underground. The Muggle newspapers reported it as a massive gas explosion, but a report from the Ministry indicated there was powerful dark magic involved. I don't know much else except that forty-one people died, many of wounds unidentifiable by either Muggle or Ministry doctors, and that whatever happened was sufficient to grant a Muggle some magical abilities."

"So she's a witch because of dark magic," Ron deadpans. "Isn't that heartwarming. Please tell me she won't be in Gryffindor."

"I can't believe you'd hold that against her, Ron!" Ginny protests. "She's hardly the only one of us exposed to dark magic. Take Harry!"

"Well, excuse me if I don't want to share my house with a crazy girl," Ron rebuffs. "And no offense, mate, but that parselmouth stuff disturbs me."

"None taken," Harry replies. "So which house do you think she'll be in?"

"Well, she must be really smart if she already took those GCSEs," Ginny opines. "So she'll probably end up in Ravenclaw."

Harry nods at the notion, and Ron settles back, complacent.

Hermione scowls at all three of them. "Smart people end up in other houses too, you know."

"Then what do you think?" Ginny asks.

"Slytherin."

Hermione utters the word with complete certainty.

Ron's aspect twists into an visage of horror. "That's even worse! They'll turn her into a Death Eater for sure, if she doesn't become the next Dark Lady."

Harry looks doubtful. "Isn't she Muggle-born? Literally?"

"She speaks tongues," Ron pronounces. "I'm sure they'll make an exception."

"Would you stop talking about my sister as though she's some sort of monster?" Hermione demands, glaring daggers at Ron. "And not all Slytherins are evil."

"Maybe not when they're first sorted," Ron grants generously. "But House Slytherin is evil-training camp for wizards. She won't last a week."

"My sister is not going to end up a Death Eater!" Hermione yells. "And she isn't going to become a Dark...-" she blushes momentarily, then scowls furiously. "This entire discussion is absurd!"

"Hermione," Harry hisses, nodding at the reposed professor.

The children watch, not daring to breathe, as Lupin groans and stirs then continues to lie still.

"He sleeps deeper than you do, Ron," observes Ginny.

"He looks sick," Hermione whispers, surveying the man with her benevolent brown eyes. "I hope he's alright."

"I just hope he's not contagious," Ron grunts, earning a sharp glare from Hermione.

"Quiet," Harry commands, instantly capturing the attention of his friends. "There's something I need to tell you." He frowns thoughtfully at Ginny and glances once more at the inert professor. Then he continues, "It's about Sirius Black. I think he's after me..."

-o2o-

Schruff! A tiny white hand opens the sliding door, and a petite redhead steps through. Her eyes dart about the compartment before finally settling on the only occupant – a girl with straggly, waist length, dirty-blond hair, hidden behind a magazine.

"You don't have a cat, do you?" Ranma demands.

The girl lowers the magazine and gazes over the top of it with protuberant eyes. After a minute, she shakes her head. "I had a cat once, but I believe it was eaten by garden gnomes. You have to be careful around those gnomes. They pretend to be herbivores, but they are really quite vicious."

Ranma blinks, briefly imagining several small, ceramic men in tall, pointy hats chewing viciously at a dead cat. "Heh," she expels a half-laugh, her lips curving into a smile. "Good for them." She closes the door behind her.

The blond girl stares hard at Ranma for a few seconds before responding. "It wasn't, really. The cat was quite ill when I found it. I'm sure many of the gnomes sickened and died."

Ranma ignores the girl and begins the arduous effort of removing Hermione's trunk from her pocket. When she finishes, she hoists the massive chest into the luggage rack overhead.

As she settles back into her seat, her leg throbs an agonizing beat.

Hungry, grumpy, and in pain -- Ranma hadn't been able to nibble more than a bit for breakfast, and even that had threatened to come back up. Hermione's scrutiny hadn't helped her nerves; while her sister hadn't told tousan or kaasan anything, she had seen through Ranma's disguise and treated her with troubled eyes all morning. Is it wrong to murder vampires? Ranma isn't looking forward to sorting out that slip-up. It's far too late for such questions, anyway.

She turns her eyes to the almost-acquaintance sitting across from her. From this angle, Ranma can see the blond more clearly – wand tucked behind one ear; a complete set of earrings, necklace, and bracelets crafted of colored tabs from canned soda; and wide, unblinking eyes again utterly focused on an article. The cover of The Quibbler is cluttered with headlines straight from a Muggle tabloid: "Hostile Action by Underground Goblin Ninjas! – what Gringotts is doing with our money", "Legendary Lost Boy Strikes Again! – a dragon sanctuary in ruins", "Garden Gnome Conspiracy! – Are our children safe?" ...-

Ranma's attention is drawn from the magazine when the compartment door slides open.

Standing in the corridor, dressed in black – knee-high platform boots exposing an expanse of smooth, ivory legs that run under a flared velvet skirt laced into a fashionable, satin corset that both shapes an otherwise flat figure and emphasizes a fair face framed by dangling locks of indigo hair and a black Latin cross dangling reversed from each ear – is a young goth. The girl scrutinizes the pair through mascara-laden eyes. "Is this compartment taken, too?" she asks wryly.

"I certainly hope not," the blithe blond answers, peeking over the top of The Quibbler. "It would tedious to find a new one."

The goth pulls her trolley into the room. With a precarious, tottering heave, she tosses her luggage into the rack above. "Name's Jacey," she announces, folding the trolley into a corner.

"I'm Luna Lovegood," the blond replies with a friendly smile. "Are you a fan of Saint Peter?"

Jacey raises an eyebrow. "Huh?" She slumps into a seat near the window and lifts her purse into her lap; she fishes into the pouch with purple-painted nails.

"The reversed cross is a sign of Saint Peter," Luna states matter-of-factly. "I read he hung himself upside down to cure hiccups."

"Heh," Jacey snorts, pulling a pack of Lambert & Butlers from her purse. "Tell me another." She hangs a cigarette between her lips, lights it efficiently, then takes a deep drag. "You mind?" she exhales.

"Kehe! Kehe!" Luna coughs and clambers away, fleeing the smoke. "I hear those things will turn your lungs black!"

"Good. Black is my favorite color." Jacey stands and yanks open the window, then turns her attention to the drooping redhead. "So, who's the shrimp?"

Ranma emits a smoldering, half-lidded glare.

"She hasn't told me her name," the blond answers. "But I think she doesn't like cats."

Jacey's eyes linger on Ranma for a moment, then she turns away, blowing a stream of carcinogenic smoke into the clean, Hertfordshire air as the train rumbles northward. "I love the necklace," the goth girl remarks, glancing back at Luna.

"Really?" Luna absently fingers her soda-tab necklace. "This summer my father took me to a Muggle park and I found these lying everywhere. It's the first time I've seen an outbreak of ferrous worms. My father wrote a long article about the ministry's failure at keeping them contained."

"Ferrous worms?" Jacey raises a brow.

"Yes," Luna answers with a nod. Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handful of uncolored, gray soda-tabs, displaying them to Jacey. "Ferrous worms are made out of living metal. When they die, they always curl up into a figure-eight. You'd be surprised how many people don't believe they exist."

"Uh... yeah," Jacey drawls. "So, you have enough there to make a choker?"

Luna readily agrees. The two girls continue to chat, their idle banter becoming an inane drone. Ranma, left well alone, sinks further into her seat. Her eyes side closed, her heavy head lolls, and the red car rolls over jointed track. Ranma listens languidly. Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.

Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.

Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.

Blurry fluorescent lights shine overhead as Ranma is pushed down the dim corridor. Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack. Wheels clatter across tiled floor. She stirs sickly, her breath fogging the mask that covers her nose and mouth. She attempts to tear it away, but she cannot; her limbs are bound, and her arms only twitch weakly.

"Ack! She just bloody moved!"

"The catalepsy is lifting. She must be catabolizing the sedative."

Ranma panics, strains, and turns her head to either side, somehow knowing what she'll see. She's on a moving platform, a gurney, surrounded by three cats in white lab-coats, each standing tall as a man. Brown, purple, and white, they stare down at her with faces hidden behind surgical masks and instruments of pain in their hands.

Her breath quickens, becoming shallow.

"Better up the bloody dose," the brown cat says. "If she wakes up now, it'll be an effin' catastrophe." He twists a small, hissing dial and brackish, fetid wisps fill the mask then invade her mouth and nostrils.

"Careful!" the purple cat warns, halting the other's hand. "Too much and she might get cataracts."

The brown cat scowls. "I don't bloody care as long as she's catatonic."

"Catlin!" the white cat demands suddenly, holding out a clawed paw.

The purple cat quickly procures and delivers a long, thin, double-edged knife.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Using a double-handed, overhead grip, the white cat quickly pounds three holes into the left side of Ranma's gut. Long jets of blood spew forth from the wounds, fanning out in an artistic fountain.

"Catheter!" the white cat snaps, embedding the catlin into Ranma's hip and leaving it there. It once again stretches a paw out expectantly.

The purple cat places a long, plastic tube into the clawed fingers of the albino.

The brown cat waves an open hamburger under the cascading blood. After the red substance collects thick on the burger, he plops a bun on top and takes a hearty bite. He nods in appreciation. "This shit is categorically the best bloody catsup I've ever had!"

"Shut it," hisses the purple cat. "You'll interrupt his cathexis."

"That'd be a catachresis. You must mean concentration," the white cat comments, roughly shoving great lengths of plastic into Ranma's belly. The tube twists and rolls, poking out of another catlin-inflicted wound, usurping the geyser of blood; it flops about like a hose under pressure, spraying everyone. Calmly, the sanguine albino grabs the tube and thrusts it into the third hole. Continuing to push even greater lengths of plastic into her body, he asks, "What's next?"

The purple cat thumbs through a thick document. "According to the catalog," he announces, "we do the CAT scan."

"Well, let's get that old piece of shit bloody running, then," the brown cat commands around a mouthful of hamburger.

The three cats converge on a large machine best characterized by its sharp blades, jagged spikes, and an enormous cat's eye mounted upon a jointed arm.

Ranma panics, struggling to escape the growing nightmare. Desperate fingers find a hidden lever. She grabs at it like a life line. Whoof! The gurney bucks, catapulting her through the ceiling and into a sea of black.

Whump! Ranma's back impacts concrete floor, driving the air from her lungs. Around her are chairs, tables, and booths. Colored lights mounted overhead are unable to drive back the darkness.

After Ranma scrambles to her feet, a warm hand settles on her shoulder. She turns.

It's Kathryn – Kathryn, with her short, sandy-blond hair, her gentle, blue eyes, and her wide, genuine smile.

"Are you okay?" Kathryn asks.

Her tone is soft, concerned, compassionate.

Ranma's mouth dries. She is unable to answer. Her body freezes. She is unable to move. Dread fills her. She knows. She knows what happens next.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz! Flying metal death tears through a wooden table and into the girl with sandy-blond hair and gentle, blue eyes. Kathryn slumps forward, into Ranma.

Ranma's hands tremble, then, slowly, she embraces the girl.

blood... is on your hands

Thick blood drips, crimson and sticky, from her fingers. She feels its warmth – the warmth of something living. She smells its odor – a souring, metallic scent to which she had become unfortunately accustomed. As she watches blood drip from her palms, her gorge rises, her throat clenches, and her stomach twists in revulsion.

her blood... is on your hands

Kathryn lies in a pool of blood and broken glass, half illuminated by a flickering street lamp. Her left leg is shorn above the knee and tossed aside as refuse. Her left eye dangles on stretched nerves, torn from the socket.

Watching cruelly from the rooftops above is an echo of herself, savoring a golden apple.

She stares, frozen and horrified.

our blood... is on your hands

A man clasping at his own neck glares up at her accusingly as blood pours between his fingers. The burly vampire blinks at her stupidly, paying no attention to the wooden stake in his chest. The pierced boy lies in a pile of his broken bones, glowering at her with glowing red eyes. A chubby child is sprawled across the asphalt, his jaw shattered and neck bent at an impossible angle. The montage of death is joined by several more unidentifiable bodies, scattered about the street.

you did this! you did this! isn't it magnificent?

Ranma totters, falters, feeling faint. She stumbles, knees buckle, and she collapses onto a wooden bench. In front of her lies a single set of railroad tracks, stretching into the darkness on either side. A glowing London Underground roundel looms above her, casting everything in shades of red and blue. Screee - Thung! Thung! - eee-eech! Thung! A torn, gashed, dented and decrepit train slides to a stop. With a shrill, metal scream, doors slide open. Forty-one decomposing corpses flop from the apertures and fall from shattered windows and torn metal portals like maggots from rotting meat.

"Is this who you are?" a scornful, baritone voice laughs from the shadows. "Is this the reality you choose?"

Forty-one faceless corpses twitch as one; each cranes its neck to stare at her with milky eyes in ungainly disarray. And, as one, they creep, crawl, and clamber towards her. She tries to stand but clammy hands grab her ankles. She looks down and sees the burly boy and the pierced boy prostrate in supplication with hands on each of her legs. Icy metal presses on her brow, and she sees the chubby boy placing a tiara. A ponderous weight settles on her shoulders – a cloak fit for a queen, placed by a handsome man with a bleeding neck and bloody hand. It drags her like an anchor into her seat – a throne of desiccated bone. Finally, the forty-one faceless corpses reach her. They lift the chair into the air, a growing tower of gangrenous flesh.

The unliving mound twists and rotates, allowing Ranma to survey the city. Blood flows like rivers through the streets. Gunshots, screams, and shouts occasionally penetrate the relative silence. Fires blaze over shattered buildings, an inferno casting the night alight and burning the very stars from the sky. Shadows writhe as though alive at the edge of her domain. And, as she gazes upon the London holocaust from her elevated position, she hears a low, groaning chant from the corpses below her: you did this you did this you did this...

"No. No, I didn't..." Ranma half-whispers.

"Blind denial is unbecoming of you, Andhera."

Ranma gasps and jolts, escaping the chair. Abruptly, she tears off the tiara and casts it aside. Then she sheds the cloak and rips off the jewelry – rings, bracelets, and precious stones, the full decadence of privileged class. When she stops, all that is left are her Hogwarts robes and a familiar, cold iron amulet.

run. run, little girl. you wouldn't want to be late for school

Ranma runs. She runs through frosty snow and amongst the evergreens. She hurtles past stacked boulders and leaps a half-frozen stream. She dashes between beautiful formations of crystal, and darts under dangling ropes of ivy. She shreds through a thicket of shrubs, and explodes into an open meadow.

Her headlong rush comes to a halt as she lands on soft, green grass. The urge to run evanesces like a warm breath to a cold breeze. She feels calm, safe... serene.

The meadow is a moonlit garden in eternal spring, denying the icy winter that besieges its borders. A great stone circle marks the boundary -- twenty-seven precisely cut, waist-high stelae, each bearing vague inscriptions that blur under Ranma's scrutiny. The clearing itself is vast, almost thirty meters in diameter, covered mostly in grass and clover. Dominating the garden, a trio of ash twines together, forming one monolithic tree – thick, gnarled, and rising above the surrounding forest. Dew is cast in silver hue by the half-moon overhead, shining from the leaves and branches. At the base of the ash, a wide, stone terrace wreathes the trunk – nine sides and sigil-inscribed much like the surrounding stelae.

Ranma begins to approach for a closer look.

Suddenly, an icy gust blasts through the meadow, carrying a cold, wet spray across her face.

Ranma tightens her robes and rubs her arms against a growing chill, to no avail; falling, frigid drizzle nips at her skin, and howling, gelid winds cut through her garments.

... And a window rattles.

"Effin' thing is stuck!" a surly voice grunts.

Ranma groans, opening her eyes.

Wind and water hammer the train furiously, and Jacey stands by the compartment window, struggling valiantly to close it. She mutters frustrations under her breath, and what little Ranma hears over the howling isn't fit for repeating anywhere near her parents. The girl's efforts are stalled by a stubborn latch and the occasional sputtering blast from the irate climate. "Blasted thing, guddammit, close already!"

Wordlessly, Ranma rolls forward and shuts the portal. Yawning, she falls back to her seat and gazes at the girls.

Soda-tabs are scattered across the seats and floor. Short, colored chains crafted of the aluminum tabs wind across Luna's lap and a hard-cover textbook she's utilizing as a makeshift workbench. The blond taps them with her wand and causing two ends of a glossy, violet chain to clasp about her wrist, forming tacky yet passable jewelry. Tucking her wand behind her ear, Luna returns Ranma's vacant stare with one of her own, prompting the smaller girl to look away.

Jacey finally settles shakily back into her seat. "Thanks," she grunts, her shadowed eyes settling briefly on the girl who helped her. Her neck cranes to stare through sheets of rain running down the window and into the roiling darkness beyond. Dew drips from wet tresses, rolling down her ivory neck and over a pearlescent black soda-tab choker. She rubs her arms, attempting to instill into them the warmth that the cold spray has stolen. Her calves tense with each bump or blast.

For a few minutes, there's an eerie stillness, somehow unbroken by the howling winds, the rattling lamp, violent rain or creaking train. Ranma wonders if she's still dreaming.

"The snack lady came while you were asleep," Luna says suddenly. "But I saved a little of my meal. It's yours, if you like." Luna smiles and extends her arm with the offering.

Ranma gazes at it, at first not quite comprehending the offer, not quite hearing Luna's words. It... is an apple -- a yellow apple, with little green freckles -- in the hand of a child. Ranma's chest tightens, her breath shortens, and her eyes narrow, focused on the the rotund fruit. It shines golden, almost glows, under the rocking lamplight. "No," Ranma whispers, almost imperceptibly. The word rasps dry in her throat. Knowing she wasn't heard, Ranma shakes her head and shoves the offending item away.

Luna blinks. "Are you sure? I hear an apple a day keeps the snorkel-backed frooglebies away."

"The doctor," Jacey corrects automatically. Her eyes remain fixated on the window, and her slender fingers slowly crunch a nearly-empty pack of cigarettes, relaxing then squeezing again in methodic rhythm. The one remaining cigarette somehow survives this abuse, tumbling around in the open corner of the pack.

"The doctor? You mean the muggle healers?" Luna inquires. "How interesting. I didn't know they had an aversion to fruit."

"..." Jacey scrutinizes the blond for any hints of sarcasm. Then her grip relaxes around the crumpled pack of Lambert & Butlers as she focuses on the redhead. "Speakin' of doctors, you don't look so hot. You gonna make it?"

Ranma scowls at the girl. "I'm not going to die if that's what you're askin'."

"Oh, so you do talk!" Jacey teases. "But, seriously, you feelin' alright?"

Ranma snorts. "I feel like I've been shot in the gut three times and one of the bullets is still inside me."

"That bad, eh?" Jacey nods sympathetically. "My sister gets it real nasty, too. If you ever need to borrow, just ask. I've got plenty of extras... haven't even started, yet."

Ranma raises a brow at the goth, but doesn't say anything.

"Shot?" Luna asks, suddenly appearing excited. "Isn't that what you call it when someone curses you with a Muggle wand?"

Jacey places a hand over her face and brow in obvious exasperation.

"A Muggle... wand..." Ranma drawls.

"Yeah. I think you call them 'guns', but that's how my father explains them to everyone else," Luna states matter-of-factly. "So what's it feel like? Is it anything like the Reductor curse? ... oh, I suppose you wouldn't know about that. Who shot you, anyway? Was it the Ninja Goblins?"

"Oh, wow. ... how did you guess?"

"Really?" Luna's eyes widen and she looks even more excited. "Are you involved with the illegal transport of African conflict diamonds? Or were you merely a casualty in the hidden war being waged by Gringotts to maintain their monopoly over the world diamond trade?"

Ranma stares at Luna. "What?"

"Luna," Jacey starts, "It's not like the shrimp was actually shot in the gut. It's not something you just get up from."

"I am not a shrimp," Ranma protests.

"Give me a name then... or you'll be stuck with 'shrimp' until you grow out of it."

"I'm Ranma Granger," Ranma states, locking eyes with Jacey. "And I'm not the one who waltzed in here on platforms."

Jacey rolls her eyes and gazes out the window.

"Do you know Hermione Granger?" Luna asks.

"She's my sister."

"Oh." Luna stares at Ranma for a few seconds. "Were you adopted?"

Ranma doesn't answer. Instead, she waves at the short chains of soda-tabs scattered over the bench. "So... just how many of those things are you planning on making?"

"Well, Jacey insisted we make you a whole set and adorn you while you slept," Luna elucidates dreamily. Her dangling soda-tab earrings reflect dim lamplight. "I figured I would use the inicio vestis charm to put the bracelets and the necklace on, but I was having a bit of difficulty remembering a charm to pierce your ears. I suppose diffindo might work, but I'm afraid that might cut them off - your ears, I mean." She adds the last upon seeing Ranma's obviously confused, distraught expression.

Ranma transfers her glower from the blond to Jacey.

"It was a joke," Jacey explains quickly.

Luna blinks twice. "Really? I suppose that makes sense. It was an awfully strange request."

"It had better be a joke," Ranma grumbles. "Nobody's piercing my ears."

"You don't want your ears pierced?" Luna inquires.

"No," Ranma states, incredulous. "Not without asking me first, and definitely not if you're going to lop off an ear."

"Ah," Luna nods. "That makes things easier. May I pierce your ears?"

"No."

Jacey snickers at the blond; an arm clutched over her belly stifles any fuller laughter.

With a light, swaying jerk, the train begins to slow. The clickety-clack over jointed track becomes less frequent, and the pistons fade to silence. Other noises fill the void: wind shrieks, whistling around the car; the window trembles in its fittings, and rain hammers the roof overhead.

"'Bout 'effin time," the dark haired girl murmurs, tension melting from her taut muscles.

The blond frowns a little, and leans toward the window, attempting to pierce the black morass. "I don't see any lights from Hogsmeade."

Suddenly, the train lurches; the wheels lock and scream shrill against the metal railing below. BANG! Jacey's trunk crashes into the center of the compartment. The rocking lamps come to a rest, then die. Everything plunges to darkness.

"That's it. Frig moderation. I'm having another fag." Jacey begins to shuffle her hands across her seat, groping for her pack.

"This is certainly odd," Luna remarks. "I wonder if something broke. I hope we won't be stuck here."

"I effin' hate trains," Jacey grumbles. She repeatedly thumbs her lighter. Brilliant sparks play off the flint, but the girl is left with an unlit cigarette hanging from her lips.

Confused and weary voices filter from the hall outside as students meander in search of answers. Luna stands uncertainly, stumbling over Jacey's luggage to peer again out the window. Jacey stubbornly continues to stroke the lighter. Gazing after Luna, Ranma frowns; the dull pain in her left leg and side discourages her from rising, but, from where she sits, Ranma sees nothing through the glass aperture but caliginous fog.

"Mom died in a train wreck four years ago," Jacey says suddenly. "I remember standing by my sister, watching as they sorted bodies into the dead and the dying. They didn't let us too close to the wreckage, but we knew when they found our mom. They were excited, you see -- she was one of the few still holding on. Mom couldn't talk much; she faded in and out of consciousness. I'm not sure how long we stayed with her before the bus picked us up. Eventually, though, she woke up and spoke to us as though she knew her words would be her last..." she trails into silence, gazing in contemplation at her lighter. Lips curling in disgust, she throws it to the floor.

"You'll see her again someday," Luna says firmly.

"No. I won't." The reply is cold, hard, and punctuated by the darkness surrounding the girls. "Mom's gone, dead, worm food, end of story, nothing more. That's what happens when people die. They cease. There is no sparkly city. There is no second life, no cheerful reunion. There is no great secret to be revealed. When you die, there is only nothingness, absolute and unending nothingness. And you can't even experience it because you are gone, too. Death is meaningless, just like the life before it."

"Death for the born and birth for the dead together are sworn and forever are wed," Luna's sing-song voice returns.

"Reincarnation?" Jacey snorts. "You think I haven't considered that? There are over five billion people on this planet, Luna. Even if my mom is out there somewhere, I'll never find her. Even if I found her, I wouldn't recognize her. And even if I recognized her, she wouldn't be my mom."

... The final words of Jacey's diatribe fade into the distance, tinny, like a voice echoing down a long hallway. Luna's lips move in lethargic response, every twitch of teeth and tongue transient and insubstantial.

Ranma shivers. The air sleeps thick, heavy and stale, accompanied by an eerie chill. She feels as though she's choking upon it.

Ba-bump!

A sensation surges through her -- not a sound, not a feeling... but a cry, a wail -- the tortured heartbeat of a wretched child.

Ba-bump!

It pulses. Closer. She can almost feel it -- in her heart, in her hand. It reaches piteously, begging for salvation.

Ba-bump!

Her fingers and palm wrap around a ribbed pommel. The dagger -- Ranma knows even before she looks. In the dark it does not glitter, but the naked black-iron blade somehow stands stark against the shadows.

BBa-BBump! The dagger pulses again, and this time her heart beats with it. Her wounds throb. A wet warmth spreads across her abdomen -- a piceous pool crawling over the violet shirt. The cloth sticks to her flesh, cold and congealing at the edges. An ebon fluid precipitates through the fabric -- a drop, at first... then three thin ribbons flow through the air, orbiting the black-iron blade before plunging to its surface.

It stops.

The blade glows dim crimson as lines of blood dance upon the surface -- shimmering, twisting, writhing, forming ephemeral runes that are gone almost before they appear, leaving only lingering meaning.

Pure food I have not eaten.

Clear water I have not drunk.

An offense against my god have I unwittingly committed?

A transgression against my goddess have I unwittingly done?

I sought for help, but no one taketh my hand.

I wept, but no one came to my side.

I lamented, but no one hearkens to me.

I am afflicted, I am overcome, I cannot look up.

Mankind is perverted and has no judgment.

Of all men who are alive, who knows anything?

I do not know whether I do good or evil.

I am cast into the mire.

Take my hand.

... The lines continue to flow in recondite rhythm, but meaning does not.

"No," Luna cries. "You don't get my point!"

"You can't make a point with a circle," Jacey grunts, rolling her eyes. She gropes around a little. "Where's my effin' lighter."

"It's by your left foot," Ranma replies, tearing her eyes away from the dagger.

Jacey scoops it up. "Thanks. You've got good eyes. I can't see a damn thing."

"She must eat a lot of carrots," Luna says brightly, glad to escape the argument.

Jacey raises a brow, once again striking her lighter. For a moment, the flames catch, and the cigarette takes.

Schruff! A pale, elongated hand, dressed in thin strips of rotting flesh, slowly slides the door aside. A huge, hollow shadow, hidden under a hooded cloak, dominates the doorway. The thing twists it head to either side, before drawing a deep, rattling breath.

The glowing embers at the end of Jacey's cigarette quench in an instant; cold ashes tumble to the floor... then Ranma, too, finds herself-

falling...

A white room, whispered words, a glowing sign -- a girl's fate hangs on edge, hidden beyond double doors. Her heart and the child's life rest now in the hands of a stranger with a scalpel. Waiting is quiet agony, but all she can do is wait -- helpless, hopeful, silent, stoic with pretended strength to support a friend.

The world spins -- drunken, disoriented; the image of the hospital is gone. Ba-bump! The dagger beats in her hand -- alive, eager... but thoughts regarding it are washed away. She feels her amulet burning against her breast, searing like a heated skillet, but the pain is distant, disconnected as though it were a mere memory. Only half-aware, Ranma gains a glimpse of the creature's wispy, sable cloak before...-

A golden orb crashes, abused asphalt buckles, and metal screams. Torn, twisted towers surge above collapsing earth, and she plummets into aphotic void. Broken bodies, crushed by rubble, are imprisoned in a tomb of steel -- her act, her fault, her responsibility. Around her, voices cry in pain and terror, only to be snuffed. She turns. Atramentous, amorphous, Itlooms above, eclipsing the sun.

It reaches for her...

A half-moon shines over a burning forest, obscured by billowing clouds of ash and soot. The fiery tempest throws sparks and smoke into the air, casting earth and sky in golds and reds. Ranma stands in a sheltered copse... and, all around her, shadows dance to the chaotic tempo of coruscating flames.

"She has come!" "She is here!" "She walks with us among the trees!" whispers call in a rising crescendo.

The surrounding shadows grow wider and darker, and ever more voices join an excited babble.

Ranma draws back a step, nervously, only to hear more whispers rising behind her. She cowers, her hands covering her ears in a vain attempt to block the noise. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

There is a moment of silence. Then a voice speaks up, then another and another, each speaking a line in a complex litany:

"Do not fear; let us near."

"Open wide your heart and mind"

"Do not try to deny"

"That our fates are intertwined"

"Let us be your arms, your hands"

"Entrust to us your righteous plans"

"We will grant what you desire..."

"Waltz with us in ash and fire."

Ranma tightens into a ball on the ground, and sways in rhythm with her own muttered mantra. "I'm not insane. I'm not insane. I'm not insane." Then the rising chant around her washes her voice away.

"We are pawns; you are queen"

"Lead us through the midnight veil"

"Dusk and dawn and inbetween"

"Are the moonlit seas we sail"

"Let the captain take the yoke"

"'n lead the way with blood and smoke"

"This is all that we require..."

"Waltz with us in ash and fire."

Ranma seizes the brief respite to scream her own reply. "No blood, no smoke, no ash, no fire -- I'm not this queen you so admire! When you speak, I do not listen. Where you walk, I do not look. I sealed you once, and swear I will win. I'll never yield the mind I took. Now leave! This is my mind! Get out!"

"You'll do as you're told, boy," a powerful, gruff voice speaks from behind.

Ranma whirls to her feet and comes face-to-face with a thickset, balding man in a gi. As she observes his broad shoulders, wire-rimmed glasses, prominent nose, and square jaw, a word rises in her throat. But she hesitates, choking on it. Her lips move without voice. Then, finally, she speaks. "... Oyaji?"

Firelight flashes off wire-rimmed glasses as the man subjects Ranma to a stern scrutiny. With a voice as grim and intense as his visage, he answers, "Join us, and you'll know."

Ranma falls back into a combat stance, eyes narrowing. "No." The word rings with finality.

The man raises his arms to the heavens and cries, "Oh, why did raise such an ungrateful son?" He thrusts a finger forward. "You want to fight, boy? Very well. Anything goes." His arm sweeps horizontally in a chopping gesture, and, from the shadows, five pandas materialize, encircling Ranma.

"Uh," Ranma begins nervously. "Can we make this one-on-one?"

Her attempt at conversation fails as the five pandas flow over her. She struggles, lashing out, attempting to defend, but each transforms into a thick, shadowy tar as they touch her... trapping her, sticking to her, pulling her down,

down...

down.

And slowly, as her twitching stops, she drowns.

The sweet scent of magic lingers in the aether, beguiling, alluring, drawing her slowly from slumber. As she looks about in her lethargy, the world feels muted, blunted, like the broken edge of a crystal dream. Two souls cower in the corners, weeping, their hosts pathetically strewn across the benches, heads slumped and limbs askew. In the doorway is the cause of their distress, a bottom feeder -- a grotesque, parasitic creature that will never grow into anything worthy... a vulgar offense to her presence.

The creature turns towards her and inhales deeply, effecting a vortex that saps at spiritual energies, drawing trivial wisps from the children sharing her chamber.

She scoffs at its feeble attempt, and her lips waver between a disgusted frown and an arrogant sneer. The fragrant flavours are now fouled, polluted, profaned by the creature's egregious engorgement. It is enough to make her retch, yet it stirs within her a deep, lingering hunger. And, as she regards the creature, it falters. The aromas of apprehension and anxiety rise as it hovers, paralyzed, pinned by her unwavering gaze.

She derives some satisfaction from the creature's strong reaction, but turns to matters more worthy of her attention. Her gaze falls to the tiny hands of her child-host. Has she really fallen so far, to first be sealed by platoon of pompous deva, then again by a mere child? But she can hardly blame her host; that grudge has long since faded. She had been careless. Ardhendu had warned her against arrogance, but she sanctioned Dhuma's war anyway...

Absent her attention, the contemptible creature slinks carefully into the corridor. The moment it has fully extracted it's towering form, it chances a mad dash towards the next car, but as its ghastly hand reaches for the latch, tenebrous tendrils wrench it back then wrap about it, enshrouding it in shadow.

She senses it struggling -- at first frantic, frenzied, and furious, but flagging as its futile efforts are frustrated by the phantom fibers enfolding it. Her lips curl into a tiny smirk, but her eyes never leave the black-iron blade and the lines of crimson rolling across it. She can feel it. The dagger thrums in her hand, alive - promising power and providence, offering comfort and company... a place beside it in the mire. She meets the dagger's piteous lament with a sneer and contempt. How? How did this trifling toy succeed at sealing HER?

Ba-bump! The dagger's siren song stops.

Suddenly, the weapon twists, squirming with a sinuous, snake-like motion, striving to slide free of her white-knuckled grip. It briefly fades from the realm of light, but never once escapes her sight.

She holds it fast, delighting in the irony. That which holds her is now held by her. That which bound her shall be the key that sets her free. It is time to discard her prison, to cut wide the bindings, and take that which was meant to be hers.

To this end, she gathers her magic. Around her, darkness congeals, peeling away from the walls and floor, leaving in its wake an eerie pale defined more by the absence of shadow than the presence of illumination. It hovers about her, an aura -- atramentous, amorphous but denser, darker than any mere presence... a corporeal umbra. It whips and splashes like a lake in a storm, powerful and undirected.

Then from this umbra float threads of inky black. They weave themselves about the dagger into a loose sheathe of runes and shadow. With a snap, they tighten, digging into the blade. The dagger spasms once, then settles into a subdued quiver. The glowing lines of crimson grow still, then slowly, surely, move to her will.

With a quick flip, she reverses her grip then places the tip of the dagger above her left palm. She speaks a word. It leaves her lips, soft but sonorous, a discordant chorus of thirteen languages united by a single voice. She follows it with another, and another, beginning an incantation that reverberates throughout the room. As she chants, she lowers the blade until it bites then draws it across her flesh, carving lines and characters -- components of a gruesome gestalt.

Then her arm rises, lifting the dagger high above her mutilated hand. Beads of blood follow, raining upward in a scarlet shower before spiraling into the dark blade. The dagger greedily devours the fluid and crimson lines grow fat, widening, converging, becoming a sheet of ruby radiance. Silence stands, abrupt and awkward, as she completes her chant. Then, with a swift motion she thrusts the dagger towards the center of the sigil sliced into her palm.

Crack!

She stares, irritated. Her wrist is broken, shattered, twisted clean around such that the dagger's black blade points upwards towards her face. The weapon tugs ineffectually at her fingers, briefly testing its trappings. Then it calms and smirks back up at her.

To jail another -

- the cell must be opened.

The warden can be fooled.

Her lips curve into a sinister smile as the whispered advice leads her to a promising solution: the parasite. Yes, it should work... and provide a fitting end for a creature that departed without her leave.

She stands, restoring her flesh with an absent thought, saving only the arcane symbols carved into her left palm. As she fades into shadow, a metallic clatter sounds -- a tiny lump of lead bouncing on the ground.

She appears near the parasite with nary a whisper, and sneers at the trembling creature. Its senseless struggles surge then sputter, impotent before the darkness engulfing.

She raises the dagger.

Ba-bump! It throbs in her hand, eager, longing, crying to consummate its purpose, oblivious to all but its calling. The dagger clamors for control, whining and wailing, striving and failing.

Initially, she denies its desire, taking pleasure in her power over the weapon. Then, when she's had her fill, she allows it to proceed.

Immediately, her arm lashes out and slashes across the parasite's belly. Thick, ephemeral strands of darkness stick like tar to the black-iron blade, stretching deep into the corrupt creature's essence. The dagger dances a complex pattern, drawing ephemeral runes: sigils writ in a child's blood and a monster's soul. As the action continues, her lips begin to speak words of a language four-thousand years dead:

"The weak have become strong; but I am weak.

"I toss about like flood-waters, which an evil wind makes violent.

"My heart is flying; it keeps fluttering like a bird of heaven.

"I mourn like a dove night and day."

She finishes the litany with the dagger raised high like a conductor's wand holding the final note. Then, she twirls the weapon and thrusts it into the center of her left palm. The dark blade tears through flesh and spirit alike, and the pain... the pain is almost indescribable. She hisses through clenched teeth, and her vision flashes white as hot acid spikes are driven up her arm; a ravenous army of ants rip, tear, and shred her flesh; and molten magma washes over it all. The agony of cold-iron consumes her and, for a moment, she knows nothing else.

A violent wind rages through the hall; the windows shudder and shatter, and the dead, hanging lanterns are rent from their mounts. Among a rain of glass and water, a redhead child stands, beneath a magic vortex encircling her hand. The cyclone shreds the monster, grinding it into thin rivers of spectral slush that orbit overhead. The dagger acts as a lightning rod: drawing, directing, driving great bolts of black deep into the wounded palm. And, on that palm, carved arcane glyphs begin to burn a bright, fiery orange in a rising wreathe of flame that rolls about the silver guard and licks the weapon's golden hilt. The incandescent sigils contract, coiling around the dark blade before creeping down the narrow corridor shorn through flesh and spirit... but the black bolts beat back the flame; ba-bump! ba-Bump! Ba-Bump! -- fantastic phantasmic flashes fall faster and the dagger's heartbeat rises, each pulse pumping pureed parasite into flesh, into spirit, into her.

Her eyes snap open. Pain lances up her arm, and foul flavors flavors flood her senses, as though she had swallowed something nasty... great gobs of mold torn from the bathroom wall. ba-bump! ba-Bump! Ba-Bump! The fire of her own magic continues to falter under the pounding offered it by the dagger. But the pain, the execrable effluvium, and the dying flames do nothing to diminish her tremendous delight. The cell is open. Her spell is cast. The warden has taken the bait. Now, she need only ensure her victory.

With that thought she gathers her power and pulls. Fwoosh! The glyphs blaze brilliantly, casting the corridor in hues of orange and harsh shadow, and, for but an instant, illuminating a pale visage not her own. Then her fire implodes, carried by carven runes as they rush into the fleshy portal introduced by the dark blade. After the last, glowing ember falls into that bloody pit, she grasps the dagger's golden hilt; then, with a victorious grin, she wrenches the weapon from her palm.

From her lips fall her own, mocking lines in that language long dead: "Now dark and smoky, may my brazier glow; now extinguished, may my torch be lighted."

A faint, ephemeral haze rises from her left hand weak, frail, insubstantial. Then, slowly, it grows into a murky, shadowy torch burning darkly in her left palm. Her elation surmounts her growing exhaustion; for the first time since contact with her host, she tastes, unfiltered, her environs. The odor is pungent, putrid, and nauseating; the stench of spiritual sewage contaminates both every inch of her arm and the atmosphere into which she rises. Yet it seems the sweet scent, that breath of fresh air to a criminal who clambered through miles of urine and feces to escape her captors, the fragrance of freedom. The flavor of fear-

- the fear is not her own. She turns, gazing over her shoulder to see whom has dared enter without her consent -- a boy, a human magic-child, eyes wide and spirit aquiver. Behind him, warm lamps spark suddenly to life, adding color to his sharp, noble features and setting his blond hair aglow in a splendid corona; the boy stands at a doorway, back to the light, facing darkness. Some light spills around him, over him illuminating shattered glass, storm-battered walls, the torn rigging for a hanging lantern. Light shines on her back, her slender arms, her nearest hand... the object clutched glimmers gold and silver. Light reveals red hair, cute face, intense eyes. But, aside from those few patches of light, her corridor is painted black, submerged in shadow. The boy's own shadow stretches forth, stark and hard, hiding everything that falls beneath it. A stenciled contrast exists between dark and bright, and the border between them... crawls.

'Trembling child, let us comfort you.' 'Join us.' 'Yes, join us.' 'Cleanse our palate with your soul.'

The boy steps back, gray eyes darting left and right. After a second, his trepid attention returns to the redheaded child, the gaze that pierces his soul, the lips quirked in silent satisfaction at his discomfort. With obvious effort, he swallows his fear, forces himself to breathe, then asks, "W- wh- who are you?"

'We are your fears.' 'We are your pain.' 'We are darkness and profane.' 'We kill your hopes.' 'We haunt your dreams.' 'In the night we cause your screams.'

With each phrase, the voices dance. Above, below, beside, behind, they whisper, whisper, whisper, whilst shadows shift and waver. Stark fingers stretch, creeping, crowding close and closer to the pale-faced boy. He takes a second step back, then a third. Then the child flees in earnest; his silver-trimmed school robes whirl as he turns toward the light. The door slams shut enclosing her, once more, in darkness.

She holds her eyes on the doorway a moment longer, smirking after the terrified boy. She can feel him still, even in the bright car beyond. It would be trivial to trap him, to bind him with shadow as she had the parasite... but weariness and nausea weigh upon her, leaving the idea of a second meal even more repulsive than her first.

That, and she is distracted by a mild irritation growing around a weight on her chest and the faint but familiar scent of smoke and smoulder.

Shadow-shrouded fingers enclose hard metal. White light explodes, flashing to life upon contact. Her hand twitches away, and glowing motes, embers of cotton cloth, float slowly to the floor. Growing dim against her skin is an amulet of iron, wrought in the form of an eldritch symbol.

Cold Iron. Her host wears cold iron. She seethes as her burnt and blackened fingers fill again with pink flesh. Dancing shadows vanish into the healing wound. Her left hand clenches into a fist. Caked and carbonized flakes of flesh crumble free. Then, purposefully, she opens her hand, lifting it to her chest a second time.

Crunch!

Ranma stares at the crushed amulet, dread growing deep within. Why? Why did she destroy it? But she knows... she remembers the repugnance, the revulsion she felt just moments ago, and the smug satisfaction as the metal yielded within her grip. She remembers it all. But she feels detached from it, surreal, as though she had just woken from a dream...

... or, perhaps, that she is still dreaming.

Her thoughts are interrupted by boisterous voices and discontented shouts approaching from the adjacent car. Panic replaces dread as Ranma's eyes shoot to her destroyed shirt, the dagger in her hand, and the destruction all around. In a frenzied motion, the dagger is shoved into one pocket while school robes are swept from the other.

When the blond-haired boy from before stumbles through the door, her head and hands are through their holes and her hem is just reaching the floor

"Wow, Draco, we take back everything! Who wouldn't be terrified of a tiny, first-year girl?" gibes a tall redhead, one of a pair shepherding the blond into the car.

"Unhand me, Weasleys!" Draco snarls... but his eyes fixate upon Ranma as he pulls himself upright and straightens his silver-trimmed robes.

The twins' eyes are anything but fixated. They rove across the room, falling on shattered windows, broken glass littering the floor, a bathroom door wrenched violently out of place. Finally, one boy releases a low whistle. "Check it out Fred. This place looks even worse than when we set off a whole box of Dr. Filibuster's Fabulous Wet-Start No-Heat Fireworks in first year!"

For a few more seconds, Fred scans the hall. "Nothing is burning," he replies.

"... True," the first concedes. "But even we didn't manage to destroy all the windows."

"Well, I'll give you that, George." Fred admits. "So we've been outdone. Now, who do we applaud for this marvelous work?"

"Yes, who could be so capable...," George muses.

"... so wicked...," Fred adds.

"... so terrifying?" the two finish together, gazing directly at Ranma.

Ranma freezes momentarily... then quickly assumes the most innocent of smiles. "Who'd be frightened of little ol' me?" she asks, looking supremely cute.

"Ohhh, she's good," Fred states, turning to his brother.

Any response from George is interrupted when the rear carriage door swings open. A tall man with graying brown bed-hair and patchy, rumpled robes takes a moment to examine the walls and floor before stepping over a broken lamp and into the corridor. "I'm Professor Lupin, your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Is there something going on here that I should know about?" he asks mildly.

Draco scowls fiercely. "I was just leaving," he states before shoving his way between the older boys.

Lupin's gaze remains on the twins, and he waits. Patiently.

"Ah, George, it seems we must explain ourselves."

"Well, then we shall! Hmmm..." George pauses for a moment, contemplating where to begin. "I'd say this all started when Draco burst frightfully into our compartment."

Fred nods. "Frightful, indeed. We could have been doing something dreadfully embarassing."

George gazes at his brother for a moment. "I was talking about him, Fred. There he stood -- eyes wild, face pale-"

"- no paler than usual," Fred interjects.

"True. But he was terrified. That's all I meant. Gibbering, even... like a madman."

"Yes. We couldn't make out a word he was saying. But, being the responsible fifth-year students that we are, we -"

"- magnanimously -" George supplies.

"- yes, magnanimously took it upon ourselves to investigate the source of his distress."

"And behold! We found it!" The boys announce as one, flamboyantly gesturing towards Ranma.

"Hey!" Ranma protests.

Lupin indicates the sorry state of the corridor. "Are you forgetting something?"

"Oh, that." Fred pauses momentarily, as though recalling a minor detail, then dismisses the whole affair. "All Draco's fault."

"Yes. When faced with another red-headed first-year girl, he fled so swiftly that all the windows blew out in his wake," George states matter-of-factly. "It seems that Ginny left quite an impression."

Fred nods in affirmation. "He admitted it himself. He was just leaving."

Lupin maintains a straight face through the entire explanation. Then, he turns to Ranma and kindly asks, "Did you see anything?"

Ranma bites her lip, drops her gaze to Lupin's feet, and sniffs twice through her nose. "I'm not really sure what happened, Professor." She pauses in thought then adds, "But- but there was this big monster..."

"It isn't your fault. Here," Lupin says, approaching the girl and placing a wrapped bar into her hand. "Eat this. It's chocolate. You'll feel-" Suddenly, the man frowns, his nose wrinkling briefly before his visage takes an expression of concern. He leans a bit closer, examining her in the dim corridor. "Were you hurt? or cut?" he asks.

Ranma's eyes shift briefly to her left hand, discreetly examining her palm in the light from the next carriage. Then the short redhead slowly shakes her head in the negative, still not lifting her eyes.

"Good," the man states, standing upright. "Eat that chocolate. It'll help.

"Now you two," the rumple-robed professor turns toward the twins, "I understand that you are not at fault for this damage. But, being the responsible fifth-year students that you are," he allows himself the most subtle of smiles "- you shall magnanimously take it upon yourselves to repair this corridor before someone is hurt. I must speak to the conductor."

That said, he sweeps past the twins and into the next car.

"Why, Fred, I do believe we've been had," George says, blinking.

Fred nods. "Yes, George. We walked right into that one. But catching us? Masterful."

"You shouldn't manipulate a professor like that!" a new voice chastens from the back of the car.

"Well then, Hermione, how do you propose we should manipulate a professor?" Fred asks.

George grins playfully. "Yes. We wait in anticipation of your flawless advices."

"Not you!" Hermione snaps, stomping over scattered glass. "I was talking to my sister."

"Neesan..." Ranma's voice is soft but strained, her eyes lowered, her bangs shielding her face from view. "I'm scared, neesan. I'm not sure I want to go to Hogwarts."

Hermione whirls upon her sister, her mouth open as if to shout, but the sharp words freeze in her throat. She swallows, takes a hesitant step forward, hand reaching out... then halts again.

Ranma allows her shoulders to slump further and sniffs twice more before taking a few shuffling steps closer to her sister.

Hermione crumbles, pulling her sister into a tight hug. "Don't worry, Ranma. It isn't usually this bad. Things'll be better when we get to Hogwarts. You'll see."

"Well, that's stuffed!" Ranma announces, her act evaporating in an instant. "Didn't you get to fight a basilisk last year?"

Hermione instantly steps back. "You little brat!" she growls. "Why do I even bother? And aren't you two supposed to be doing something?" she snaps the last at the boys who silently observed the entire exchange.

"Yes, ma'am!" the two say in unison, making a show of genuflecting before scurrying into action.

Ranma flashes a grin at her sister. "Say, neesan, what are you doing here, anyway?"

"Well, I came to see if you were alright, but since that was a waste of time, I'll settle for just picking up my school robes."

Ranma shrugs then steps into the dark compartment and flops onto the nearest bench. She begins unwrapping the bar of chocolate, paying little attention to Luna, who weeps silently across from her, and Jacey, who lies dull-eyed against the window.

Hermione stumbles in behind, almost tripping over Jacey's luggage. "Why is it so dark in here?" she asks, but her words are made moot almost immediately as light is restored to the hallway behind her. Her eyes move immediately to Ranma's companions, then to her sister who munches quietly on the chocolate while pointing at the above luggage rack. She frowns. "Give them the chocolate, Ranma. They need it more than you."

"Fine," Ranma grumbles, snapping what's left of the chocolate into halves and tossing them into the laps of the girls. "It's not like I haven't eaten all day."

"And whose fault is that?" Hermione replies while poking at the overhead lamp with her wand. "Why won't this thing light?" The rhetorical question goes unanswered. She sighs, tucks the wand away, and reaches for her luggage.

Ranma maintains an eerie silence as Hermione pulls her robes over her muggle clothes.

Hermione gives her sister an odd look as she gathers her heavy cloak under her left arm, then turns back to the other girls. "You should eat that chocolate," she states. "It'll help."

Then she's gone.

-o3o-

Ranma steps off the train into an elemental assault where sheets of rain spill over her cloak, pouring off every edge in an icy cascade. Sputtering winds nip and bite hungrily at the her hat, forcing Ranma to hold onto the pointy Hogwarts headgear until it slouches, as sodden and spiritless as the few children already present. While Ranma joins them on the tiny platform, a reluctant Jacey is pushed into the torrent by the crowd behind her.

"We better get to someplace warm quick, cause it's friggin cold out here," Jacey grumbles.

In the heavy rain the cloaks are already sopping up water, growing wet, cold, and heavy. Ranma finds herself very glad that the robes she is wearing underneath are both self drying and temperature adjusting.

"First years always take the boats across the lake. Older students get to ride in the carriages." Luna smiles weakly, huddling against the cold, her blond hair and soda-tab earrings fluttering in the wind. "I think I'll go now."

The blond wastes no time in hurrying off the small platform and onto a rugged, muddy trail. Ahead is a line of roofed carriages drawn by gaunt, skeletal horses with great, leathery wings. The windows are warm, seductive, enticing, glowing with the cozy light of kerosene lamps.

Jacey gazes after the girl enviously, then turns to the dark, rainswept path leading to the lake. "No

'effin way! She has got to be kidding."

"Firs' years this way!" a gruff bellow denies Jacey's assertion. A lantern pierces the night from the opposite side of the platform, faintly illuminating the huge man carrying it.

"Nope," Ranma states blithely, "Apparently, she wasn't kidding."

Jacey gives Ranma a dark, smouldering look. "How can you be so cheerful?"

"My robes are self-drying and temperature adjusting."

"..." Jacey continues to glare daggers at the redhead while shivering uncontrollably.

With their short conversation dead in the water, the two girls move towards the gathering crowd of first years just off the main platform. Jacey, seeking warmth and protection from the wind, quickly attempts to penetrate the mass of young students. However, she settles for shivering at the edge when she is rebuffed by several boys attempting the exact same thing. Ranma stands apart from it all... above it.

"Ranma!" a high voice penetrates the babble of children and shrill wind.

Ranma turns and waves at her sister's tuft of brown hair as Hermione pushes her way through the crowded platform.

"What ya' need, neesan?" Ranma asks.

"Ranma, I just...-" Hermione wilts. She pulls her flailing hood back over her head. "I can't believe they are making you ride on those boats in this weather. It's ridiculous."

"I'll be fine neesan," Ranma dismisses. "I've been out in worse." She pauses, forming a frown of her own. "Though, I can't remember when."

"Well, you shouldn't have been," Hermione says, pulling out her wand. "You'll get sick staying out in weather like this. Impervius!"

The rain hitting Ranma's cloak immediately ceases to soak through; instead, it beads then rolls smoothly off the surface. The dampness that had been creeping into her robes quickly vanishes, but the cloak itself remains heavy and wet.

"Hey, thanks neesan," Ranma says as Hermione casts the spell on Jacey and a lucky couple other children.

"Really, the prefects should be taking care of this. I can't believe everyone is just leaving you kids to fend for yourself!" Hermione stops her rant then speaks again, softly, this time for her sister's ears alone. "Ranma- Promise me, Ranma, that you'll visit even if we end up in different houses."

"Hey! Hermione! You out there?" that boy, Ron, shouts from a carriage. His eyes are directed to the swiftly emptying platform, obviously searching for his missing friend. Behind him sit Harry and Ginny, each looking rather glum.

Hermione yells back at the top of her lungs. "I'll be there in a minute!" As she returns to her sister, Hermione sighs and stares into deep, cerulean eyes. "I need to go, Ranma. I- I still want to talk about this morning, and I-. Ranma, you aren't alone."

"This one's taken, Creevey!" Ron's voice again penetrates the gale. A quick glance shows him shoving a short, hooded boy out of his carriage. "Hurry up, Hermione! You can talk to your crazy sister later!"

"Your boyfriend is calling, neesan."

Hermione growls and turns away, annoyed, but she is stopped when Ranma suddenly wraps her slender arms about her sister. The short redhead wordlessly presses her face against her sister's back, holding tight in silent embrace. Then, just as suddenly, back turned to her sister's stunned response, Ranma is trotting after the other children towards the boats.

Steep, narrow, and rank with such hazards as slippery moss, thick roots, and sunken hollows, the path to the lake would be treacherous even on a good day. At night, with the full moon and stars hidden beyond thick growth and thicker clouds, the only source of light is a tiny lamp in the great man's hand... and even that is so far ahead as to be but a faint pinprick, a glimmering beacon offering direction in its brief moments of visibility. The dismal weather only magnifies the danger for the children forced to trudge the trail. Their every footfall is mired in muck that grips and sucks, or lands in impenetrable puddles of frigid, muddy waters that splash upwards, soaking socks and shoes.

A sharp curse is followed by a body slamming into Ranma's back, and the short redhead's foot slams into a puddle she had been meaning overstep.

"Sorry 'bout that," Jacey mumbles, using Ranma to leverage herself upright.

Ranma grimaces, pulling her previously dry foot from the runny slush. "Just don't do it again."

"There's only one way I can guarantee that," Jacey responds, tightening her grip on the smaller girl's shoulder.

Ranma raises a brow and glances back at the goth. "If that's the way you want it: keep up!"

Ranma immediately increases her pace, stepping over a fallen boy and striding past a crying girl with a sprained ankle. Jacey slips and stumbles, straining to match Ranma's gait, knowing the moment she lets go she'll end up with her face planted in the mud.

The two are near the front of the pack when the trail suddenly opens revealing a great, black lake. The water churns, cresting and crashing, and the giant man stands among the waves, battered and bludgeoned as he wrestles a small fleet of half-sunken skiffs to shore. From beyond the raging waters, dim light shimmers golden through the rain, offering hope to those children optimistic enough to believe they'll make it across.

"We're all gonna die," Jacey laments. She gazes back up the trail for a minute, then sighs.

The big man finishes draining the last of the boats, placing it at water's edge. Then he sweeps back, lifts his lantern off a branch, and scans the half-sized crowd of students. "I remember 'ere bein' more o' yeh," he says, frowning. "I'll be back. No more'n four to a boat!"

He trudges back up the trail, taking the lantern with him.

A few groups of children break off, laying claim to those boats that are nearest or appear sturdiest. Others meander along the shore before huddling by the trees, away from the rain and wind.

A flash of magic grabs Ranma's attention -- a trio of children are boarding a boat. She's about to look away when she glimpses a pair of pigtails concealed beneath a hooded cloak. Her eyes narrow, and she notes the haughty posture of the other two.

Ranma cracks her knuckles. "Wait here," she commands. "I have a private matter to... take care of."

"Okaaay. You do that," Jacey disparages. "I'll wait right here."

Ranma approaches the boat directly, a wolfish grin widening on her face. She places one foot on the stern then leans forward, shoving the boat a few inches into the water. The motion immediately draws the attention of the occupants.

"Whoever you are, get away from our boat," a snide voice demands. Ranma immediately identifies the speaker: the obnoxious, green-eyed girl from Madam Malkin's.

"You don't recognize me. I'm hurt," Ranma says, her grin widening. "So which one are you? Anise? Camassia? Jonquil?"

"Lumos." The word is spoken softly, and a faint light springs to life at the tip of a wand, not much brighter than a candle. The wand is held by the girl with auburn hair and gray eyes who dispassionately surveys the intruder. "Ranma Granger," she says, each syllable spoken precisely in her silvery voice. "Are you here to deliver a real apology or to violate your probation?"

Ranma's eyes widen, but her grin never falters. "No, no. Nothing like that. I came to ensure you received my apology... and to let you know I'm feeling inspired to righteous action by your presence."

"You wouldn't dare." The gray-eyed girl's tone is no less smooth, but now has a cutting edge.

"Yeah, mudblood! You can't touch us!" the obnoxious, green-eyed girl cuts in. "If you do, her uncle will have you expelled, just like he made you write the apology." Her voice assumes a mocking quality. "I'm sorry for my behavior. It was inappropriate. In the future, I'll be sure to show the correct amount of restraint. For a mudblood like you, the correct amount of restraint is to get down on your knees and beg for forgiveness." The girl gloats then adds, "We own you, mudblood."

Ranma stares incredulously for a moment... then bursts out laughing. Seconds later, she regains control and turns back to the gray-eyed girl. "So, Camassia is it? You should shut your minion up. She's an idiot!"

The green-eyed girl explodes from her seat, her face twisted in rage, lunging at Ranma, arms extended like claws of a harpy. "I'm going to kill you, Mudblood!" she screeches.

Ranma's grin stretches to its limits as she falls backwards all the while shoving the boat into the lake with as much force as she thinks can look natural. Her own pratfall is followed by the satisfying 'thunk' of the green-eyed girl striking the stern. She suppresses a chuckle as the skiff is pulled away from the shore and into the seething waters. Then, hearing footsteps behind her, she adopts an expression of worry.

"You aren't hurt, are you?" a child's voice asks. A hand is extended, offering aid.

"I'm okay," Ranma says with artificial pain and stoicism. She accepts the hand and is lifted to her feet. "But what about them?"

The other child scoffs. "Why are you worried about them? They attacked you. And, whatever those bigoted, blood-purists said, just ignore it. You're better than them."

"If you say so," Ranma answers weakly, staring at her feet to hide her smile. She can hear cries and screams as the boat vanishes behind curtains of rain. Then she whines, "I'm sure they're gonna blame this all on me." Sniff sniff... sniff.

"Don't worry about those girls! Me, and everyone on my boat, will vouch for you!"

"Thank you so much," Ranma says. "I'm Ranma. Can I have your name? just in case?"

"I'm Romilda," the child says. "Romilda Vane. I'm a half-blood, not that it matters, but you can come to me if you need help. I'd offer you a place on my boat, but it's already full."

"That's okay," Ranma accepts, still acting the meek little girl. "I'll go back to my friend."

"A real friend would have backed you up," Romilda states.

"I'm sure she means well. Thanks again," Ranma says, bowing impulsively. Then she makes quick her escape.

"You pushed them, didn't you?" Jacey asks as Ranma approaches.

Ranma smirks. "There's an entire boat full of people who will say otherwise."

"So... Care to tell me what that was about? And how the effin' hell did you recognize them from back here, anyway? It's all black on black to me."

"You have bad eyes," Ranma answers.

"I've got perfect vision," Jacey snorts. "You've got freaky vision."

At that moment, the warm glow of the lantern breaks through the wood, and the children turn to see the huge man. In his left arm he cradles a sobbing girl, and around him stands a small troop of sodden, sullen students.

"Everybody in a boat!" the giant bellows.

Ranma and Jacey drop into the nearest boat with two open spaces, joining a pair of boys who offer a cursory glance before resuming their conversation - some argument about the merits and qualities of quodpot over quidditch. The bellows continue as the great man corrals the kids into the skiffs, and it isn't long before they're heading across the lake, bucking and rolling on the waves.

Water crashes over the edge of the boat, drenching Ranma and tasting of brine. Hermione's charm collapses under the deluge, and Ranma shivers, soaked to the bone. She tightens her arms about her chest and watches avidly as the warm glow from the castle windows draws ever closer.

As the lights begin to vanish above the cliffs, the water suddenly grows calm.

"Watch yer heads!"

The warning comes moments before they pass beneath thick coils of ivy and into a dim cave. The children brighten visibly, gasping in relief and pointing at the torchlit harbor not far ahead. Ranma notes the already docked skiff, then offers a cheeky grin to the three girls glaring daggers from ashore. As her own boat comes to a stop, Ranma hops onto dry land.

The green-eyed girl doesn't waste a second before stomping, full of fury and indignation, towards the giant man.

He glances up at her while lifting a girl from his boat. "Good, yer alright. 'fraid I'd have to get Dumbledore."

"We were pushed! by that mudblood!" the obnoxious girl shouts. Her outstretched arm points accusingly at the small redhead.

The big man frowns, his bushy eyebrows tightening. "You shouldn' use words like that, missy."

"But she pushed us!" the girl yells. "She tried to kill us! She should be in Azkaban!"

"That's not how I heard it," the man replies gruffly. "And nobody should spend time in that place." He quickly turns and takes several long strides up a dark passage. "This way!" he booms back.

Camassia and her obnoxious minion cast a final, defiant glare before moving towards the passage, but the brown-haired girl with twin pigtails gazes only at her feet. Ranma offers a small smile when she sees Romilda looking particularly smug.

The trip up the tunnel ends, opening unto the castle courtyard. The cold rain and harsh winds do little to dampen the children's spirits as they lay eyes upon Hogwarts for the first time.

"Everybody 'ere?" the big man bellows, giving a cursory glance to the crowd. He then turns towards a heavy oak door, and raises his beefy hand to knock, when it swings open of its own volition.

In the doorway stands a pallid man with a hooked nose, greasy hair, and coal-black eyes that seem to sap what little warmth the children have left.

The giant stares at the man in surprise before remembering his position. "Firs' years, Professor Snape."

"I can see, Hagrid," Snape responds. His dour visage sweeps across the collection of cold, soggy students as though he had just discovered something disgusting to scrape from his heel. Eventually, his gaze settles back on Hagrid. "You may go."

Hagrid places the child in his arms upon the massive, stone steps that rise to the door. "Where's Professor McGonagall?" he asks.

"She had something important to discuss with Miss Granger, and by now she is undoubtedly doting on the Potter boy. Now, please, leave." The dark man watches as Hagrid takes his cue and exits, then turns to the children. For a minute, Snape just stares at them, his lip half-curled, watching those in front shiver under their sopping, freezing robes, rubbing hands to warm their fingers.

His wand flickers out. "Mobilicorpus. Follow me." He turns and strides into the great hall, the girl Hagrid left on the steps floating behind him.

The kids clamber into the castle, eager to escape the rain.

Snape stares as they gather in a chamber off the main hall, and the children gaze back, too intimidated to speak. A boy near the front sneezes explosively into his hands, then takes a moment to wipe the mucous off onto his plain black Hogwarts robes. Snape's upper lip curls a little higher.

Seconds pass.

"You are now at Hogwarts," Snape announces, shattering the silence. "If you are fortunate, this is where you shall remain for the next ten months.

"Soon, each of you will take part in the sorting ceremony. This ceremony determines with which house of doddering fools you'll be stuck for the next seven years. There are four houses: Hufflepuff, best known for its lack of anything remarkable -" his eyes rake across the students, stopping briefly on those hiding in the back "- an excellent choice for those of you who wish to be forgotten. Ravenclaw, a house of dreamers and thinkers who believe themselves intelligent but have long since divorced themselves from reality. Gryffindor, a house of arrogant fools who pride themselves on their lack of self-preservation... but I suppose we should be glad for their presence. If there's ever a threat, they'll die first. And, of course, Slytherin, famous for producing more Dark Wizards than all other houses combined. Those of you who end up in House Slytherin will experience the 'pleasure' of having me as your house head." Upon saying this, he scours the group with a silent glare. Then he continues.

"While here, your achievements will earn house points... but rule-breaking will lose them and secure the scorn of your peers. I strongly suggest you pay attention to the rules, that you may better avoid breaking them. The house with the most points at the end of the year will earn the House Cup –- an empty honor, to be sure, but coveted nonetheless.

"The sorting will begin in a few minutes. You will remain here until I return to fetch you. I would suggest you make yourselves presentable," he says, staring at the sodden, muddy, shivering children, "as you will soon be... tested and judged before the entire school. But I know a hopeless cause when I see one." Then, with a sudden smirk, he turns and heads into the main hall, his robes billowing behind him.