Iceland sat comfortably in fron of the blazing fireplace, legs thrown over the arms of the puffy chair he was seated in, reading a large book that laid open on his lap (Magiks and Runes of the Dark Ages, luckily in Norwegian [why was it he could never find the rarer books in Icelandic?], he didn't think any of the Gryffindors would take kindly to his reading of Dark Magic [they were called the dark ages for a reason]). He glanced up as footsteps appeared in the common room, noticing the Golden Trio that had appeared through the portrait hole. Crookshanks uncoiled himself from the armchair across from Iceland and trotted to meet them, purring loudly, and when Harry, Ron, and Hermione took three chairs at the fireside he leapt lightly into Hermione's lap and curled up there like a furry ginger cushion. Iceland returned his eyes to the yellowed pages in front of himself.

"How can Dumbledore have let this happen?" Hermione cried out suddenly, making Harry, Ron, and Iceland jump; Crookshanks leapt off her, looking affronted. She pounded the arms of her chair in fury, so that bits of stuffing leaked out of the holes. "How can he let that terrible woman teach us? And in our O.W.L. year too!" Iceland let out a breath of air, sounding half annoyed and half exasperated. Why were British people so emotional? He suddenly felt a wave of appreciation for England, glad that the nation seemed to be nowhere near as melodramatic as his people.

"Well, we've never had great Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, have we?" said Harry. "You know what it's like, Hagrid told us, nobody wants the job, they say it's jinxed." They also said the world was flat, and the turned out to be wrong, didn't they?

"Yes, but to employ someone who's actually refusing to let us do magic! What's Dumbledore playing at?"

"And she's trying to get people to spy for her," said Ron darkly. "Remember when she said she wanted us to come and tell her if we hear anyone saying You-Know-Who's back?"

"Of course she's here to spy on us all, that's obvious, why else would Fudge have wanted her to come?" snapped Hermione.

"Don't start arguing again," said Harry wearily, as Ron opened his mouth to retaliate. "Can't we just... Let's just do that homework, get it out of the way..."

Sighing, Iceland continued to ignore the trio for a little while longer, he gave up on making any further progress on his book when other students came filtering in from the Great Hall, that noise distracting him too much to truly appreciate the text. He dropped the heavy tome into his schoolbag, switching it out for a few pieces of paperwork he had not yet completed (He had already completed the assigned essays, having a natural affinity for writing, and responded to his mail). As he scribbled scraps of information and numbers on a separate piece of paper, placing signatures and notes when needed, he listened in the back of his head to Hermione scold the Weasley twins.

"Fék matar?" Iceland jolted at the words that suddenly sounded in his ears, relaxing as he felt a soft weight on his head. It was simply Mr. Puffin.

"Hér," Iceland replied, feeding the puffin a small licorice wheel that he procured from his bag. "En ég var að búast við þér að fá mat í mikla sal."

"Já, ég gerði það, en þú varst ekki þarna svo þeir tóku mig fyrir a villtur fugl eftir smá stund. Þeir gerðu ekki einu sinni lakkrís!" Mr. Puffin replied snarkily. Without looking, Iceland gave the bird a sharp jab, effectively cutting off the argument.

"Bara fara að segja að tvíburarnir lykilorð. Á ensku, sérstaklega," Iceland ordered the bird, ignoring the annoyed grumbles and insults he received as Mr. Puffin flapped off. He placed the papers in his lap into his schoolbag, slinging it over his shoulder with the decision to go to sleep. As he was walking up the stairs h heard one of the twins shout after him:

"Emil, is your bird bilingual or something?" Iceland let a small smile crawl onto his face as Mr. Puffin resettled himself upon his head.

"Multilingual, actually!" he shouted over his shoulder.

"It's not even normal that it can talk!" Iceland paused to turn back around and peek his head out of the stairway.

"He. Not it. You could at least thank him," he snapped before walking back up the staircase with a shouted "Thanks, Bird!" ringing up after them.

The following day dawned just as leaden and rainy as the previous one.

"I'm in England. I'll just have to get used to it, I guess," Iceland muttered to himself in Icelandic as he glanced out the window, placing his needed books into his bag for the day.

"Are we seriously staying here for the whole year?" Mr. Puffin asked from where he was preening upon Iceland's pillow. "I mean, you're alright I guess, but the humans in this school are practically all British, with only one or two Irishmen, and every single one of the them is prissy as hell, not to mention most are sheltered and quite a few are spoiled. Most all of them take everything for granted, and I fucking swear, if I —"

"Don't worry about it," Iceland interrupted the puffin, hefting his bag over his shoulder ('God, are these robes uncomfortable. And unpractical,' he thought to himself as he once again almost tripped over the hem of the robes once more. 'At least those dress shoes everybody else wears aren't required,' Iceland's thoughts continued, glancing down appreciatively at his comfortable white boots.). "We have a winter break halfway through the year. But if it really bothers you that much, you could act owl and deliver my mail for me..."

"... I think I can live with this..." Mr. Puffin muttered, settling himself into Iceland's hair (the animal was there so often he had been asked more than once if he was some sort of twisted hat or something), shuddering at the thought of having to fly all the way down to Africa, or go to the 'Cactus head's' house (he had almost been decapitated more than once by that axe). Iceland hummed in acknowledgement, knowing he had won the argument.

Now, Iceland had always seemed a morning person to most people, being able to get up ridiculously early on most days, always being the first to the office (before he was... You know... forced to go to school.), generally being the first to rise at about five thirty AM (Finland used to think he was invincible, being able to wake so early [the nation practically lived off of coffee]). But try to wake him up early on a weekend? Hahaha, that's cute. Dead asleep until around one PM. Good luck with that (he would take your head off if woken any earlier). Therefore, being up so early, he was the first student in the Great Hall.

"Good Morning, Mr. Steilsson," Dumbledore greeted from the head of the staff table, with a few other teachers being there and mildly awake (except for Snape, who was sitting there wide awake. He reminded Iceland one of those stone gargoyles on the outside of Gringotts).

"Og góðan daginn að þér eins vel, prófessor Dumbledore," Iceland responded (forgetting to switch back to English), giving a respectful nod of his head as moved towards the Gryffindor table as Dumbledore gave a soft laugh, that kind that reminded Iceland of wind chimes.

"English, my boy. Sadly, and I believe that I might speak for all staff at this institution when I say this, but none of us old professors are as well versed in languages as you are," he chuckled, making Iceland flush red with embarrassment. He liked to speak English when possible around other countries (or in this case, humans), slightly shy about his thick accent (which he tried his hardest to suppress) and hard to understand language.

"Apologies, Professor Dumbledore," Iceland said looking off to the side before a small smile slid onto his face. "And you're not that old, I must say." Dumbledore laughed once more, as if Iceland had just repeated some inside joke that was between the two (which, to be honest, it kind of was). Iceland shook his head at the man before piling a few waffles upon his plate (okay, English people couldn't cook [Mrs. Weasley was an exception], that's for sure, but the house-elves in the UK, despite how badly they were treated [in his honest opinion], could cook almost as well as a gourmet chef!).

"Ég held að ég skilji sækni Belgíu fyrir þessum hlutum núna," Iceland mumbled after taking a large bite of waffle. Mr. Puffin 'laughed' (it didn't really sound like laughing, but he didn't really know what else to label it), scanning the table for anything he found appetizing. Eventually giving up on his search for fish, he just swooped down and claimed one Iceland's waffles for himself, pulling it to a separate corner of the plate.

"Er ég bara mat skammtari fyrir þig?" Iceland grumbled, pulling one more waffle onto his plate to compensate for the lost one. It was promptly stolen by a certain bird. Taking a deep breath, he let out a long, extremely annoyed sigh.

"Augljóslega," Mr. Puffin responded in between bites. Iceland slammed his head onto the table, causing all the utensils within a few feet of himself to rattle, and a few goblets wobbled (one even tipped over!). From the staff table, he could hear a few of them wince at the loud thump his head had generated.

It wasn't even six thirty and he was already one hundred fifty percent done with life.

Iceland decided that he liked Neville.

Once it was a more reasonable hour for normal people, other students had started filtering into the hall, and for some reason Iceland couldn't understand (Mr. Puffin had been hissing at anybody who came close), Neville had decided to sit across from him. The boy was curious, just like the Golden Trio (who had groggily walked right past him), but if he asked a question and Iceland gave a shifty answer or changed the subject, he seemed to be able to actually take a hint and wouldn't mention it again. The two had talked all the way to Charms, sitting next to next other to continue their conversation on magical plants until the bell rung.

Professor Flitwick spent the first fifteen minutes lecturing the class on the importance of O.W.L.s.

"What you must remember," said little Professor Flitwick squeakily, perched on a pile of books so that he could see over the top of his desk, "is that these examinations may influence your futures for many years to come!" 'Yes, many years indeed,' Iceland thought. "If you have not already given serious thought to your careers now is the time to do so." 'You say that as if I have a choice.' "And in the meantime, I'm afraid, we shall be working harder than ever to ensure that you all do yourselves justice!"

They than began reviewing Summoning Charms. Iceland awkwardly grabbed his wand, not used to having a conduit for magic (sure, he didn't use it horribly often, but if he did, it was generally wandless. If he did use a conduit, it was usually a galdrastafir, which were drawn or carved, not [commonly] held), and pointed it at his Charms textbook, which laid across the room. Pausing for a second to relax, he drew up a clear image of the textbook in his mind and concentrated upon it. Flawlessly replicating the motion Professor Flitwick had demonstrated a few minutes previous, he clearly stated the spell, pouring all of his magical intent into the single word: "Accio."

It worked.

A little too well.

The heavy text flew across the room to Iceland, as it was supposed to, but it flew at a speed that was far faster than the pace of his fellow classmates, and it didn't stop. Which was the problem. It bowled straight into Iceland's stomach, continuing to push and slamming the nation into the desk behind where stood (it had moved back a few inches). Letting out a breathy cough, he slid to floor, where the textbook then plopped into his lap. The class was dead silent for a good five seconds before everybody burst into laughter.

"My intestines..." he wheezed, graciously accepting a hand that a giggling Neville offered him. Iceland doubled over, coughing. It caused the class to laugh more, Neville joining them, but he stopped when he noticed the nation had been wheezing a little too long to be normal (lung problems from heavy volcanic activity, remember?).

"Professor Flitwick?" Neville called over the laughter of the class, which was gradually toning down back into mindless chatter as everybody got back on task. The stubby teacher squeezed through the students to reach them.

"Yes? Do you need any help, Mr. Longbottom?" Neville opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Puffin had flown from Iceland's shoulder to Flitwick's, saying someting to the man that neither Iceland nor Neville could hear over the volume of the students. "I see..." Professor Flitwick said as Mr. Puffin flew back to Iceland. "Mr. Longbottom, I think it best that you take Mr. Steilsson to the hospital wing." Neville looked worried as he helped Iceland back up (whose coughing fits had somewhat toned down to an occasionaly wheeze by that point, but his chest was still shaking with silent coughs). Together the two headed to the hospital wing, where Madame Pomfrey shooed Neville out before treating the heavy bruises that had appeared on Iceland's front and back. She also kindly treated the cut that he had received a month previous, which, for reasons he was still debating, had not healed on it's own.

She had looked questioningly at the scars that crisscrossed Iceland's torso, but he gave the usual excuse of 'extreme sports'. After one last look over for any internal injuries, she kicked him out of the hospital wings muttering about 'irresponsible youths and their dangerous sports...'

Iceland caught up to Neville (who had kindly grabbed his bag for him) just outside of the Transfiguration classroom, and sat together in the back of the classroom, being some of the last students in. The lecture Professor Flitwick had given them in Charms was the same, if not worse, in Transfiguration.

"You cannot pass an O.W.L.," said Professor McGonagall grimly, "without serious application, practice and study. I see no reason why everybody in this class should not achieve and O.W.L. in Transfiguration as long as they put in the work." Neville made a sad little disbelieving noise. "Yes, you too, Longbottom," said Professor McGonagall. "There's nothing wrong with your work except lack of confidence. So... today we are starting Vanishing Spells. These are easier than Conjuring spells, which you would not usually attempt until N.E.W.T. level, but they are still among the most difficult magic you will be tested on in your O.W.L."

Remembering what had happened in Charms, he decided to try and channel as little magic as possible into the spell. Wrapping his hand around the magical twig as lightly as he could without it falling to the floor, he pointed it at his snail, which was lazing around in a small circle on his desk. With next to no magical intent placed upon the words, he muttered: "Evanesco."

The snail disappeared. Along with about half of his notes. Looking at the place where it had once been questioningly, he raised his hand. For getting it on the first try, he was awarded ten points for Gryffindor and a glare from Hermione, who had only gotten it on the third try. Lucky him.

The day had become cool and breezy, and, as they walked down the sloping lawn toward the cabin on the edge of the Forbidden Forest (creative.), they felt the occasional drop of rain on their faces. Professor Grubby-Plank stood waiting for the class some ten yards from the cabin's front door, a long trestle table in front of laden with many twigs.

"Everyone here?" barked Professor Grubby-Plank once all the Slytherins and Gryffindors had arrived. "Let's crack on then — who can tell me what these things are called?"

She indicated the heap of twigs in front of her. Hermione's hand shot into the air. Iceland could hear a shriek from behind as the twigs on the table leapt into the air and revealed themselves to be what looked like tiny pixieish creatures made of wood, each with knobbly brown arms and legs, two twiglike fingers at the end of each hand, and a funny, flat, barklike face in which a pair of beetle-brown eyes glittered.

"Oooooh!" he heard two voices coo from somewhere in the crowd.

"Kindly keep your voices down, girls!" said Professor Grubby-Plank sharply, scattering a handful of what looked like brown rice among the stick creatures, who immediately fell upon the food.

"So — anyone know the names of these creatures? Miss Granger?"

"Bowtruckles," said Hermione. "They're tree-guardians, usually live in wand-trees."

"Five points for Gryffindor," said Professor Grubby-Plank. "Yes, these are bowtruckles and, as Miss Granger rightly says, they generally live in trees whose wood is of wand quality. Anybody know what they eat?"

"Wood lice," said Hermione promptly, which explained why what Iceland had taken for grains of brown rice were moving. "But fairy eggs if they can get them."

"Good girl, take another five points. So whenever you need leaves or wood from a tree in which a bowtruckle lodges, it is wise to have a gift of wood lice ready to distract or placate it. They may not look dangerous, but if angered they will gouge out human eyes with their fingers," 'Oh joy,' "which, as you can see, are very sharp and not at all desirable near the eyeballs." no rlly. "So if you'd like to gather closer, take a few wood lice and a bowtruckle, you can study them more closely. I want a sketch from each of you with all body parts labeled by the end of the lesson."

Iceland and Neville once again teamed up, having nobody else to work with, and settled upon a patch of grass not too far from the cabin. Neville was calmly sketching the bowtruckle and struggling not to laugh as Iceland fought the tree creature.

"Fight me, you damned stickman," he muttered as the bowtruckle squirmed under neath his grip, attempting to get away.

"Get ég borða það?" Mr. Puffn asked from his perch on Iceland's head, seeming to salviate as he stared at the struggling bowtruckle.

"Ég óska," Iceland muttered in response.

To nobody's surprise, Professor Sprout started their lesson by lecturing them about the importance of O.W.L.s. Iceland wished the teachers would stop doing that, especially since the O.W.L.s wouldn't affect his career or future in any way. Unless he ended up like Prussia, whose nations was dissolved but was somehow still alive. Tired and smelling strongly of dragon dung, Professor Sprout's preferred fertilizer, the Gryffindors trooped back up to the castle and hour and a half later, none of them talking very much; it had been another long day.

Iceland decided to skip dinner once more that night, not feeling horribly hungry, instead sitting on the edge of the Black Lake, wand in hand. He was muttering spells under his breath, trying to get the spells to weaken.

"Good evening, Mr. Iceland." The nation in question jumped and whipped his head around, relaxing once he saw that it was only Professor Dumbledore. He muttered a greeting under his breath before going to back to his practicing, causing Dumbledore to chuckle. "You might want to try and spread your magic out, so it is not all diverted to one area."

"What do you mean by that?"Iceland asked, turning to face the old professor.

"You understand how England always seems to mess up spells, correct?" He nodded. "This is just a theory, but I believe that nations store much more magic within their bodies than normal humans, so preforming normal powered spells is much more difficult to personifications than it is for humans, with too much magic being diverted to a certain outlet. So if you give yourself a way to spread your magic about when casting a spell, I believe that you would have more success than if you forced all magic into a single spell." Iceland turned his head back to lake giving deep thought to what Dumbledore had said. "England does not do this, so therefore all of his energy is focused upon one point, causing a malfunction within the spell, or causing it to become more powerful than necessary and do more than it was supposed to." Iceland turned back to ask a question.

"Well, what do y—" he paused. The whole field around him was empty, and Iceland was fairly sure you couldn't apparate within school grounds. "I'm going crazy..." he muttered to himself as he turned back to the lake. 'But it's an interesting idea...' he thought to himself, trying to think of ways to divert magic elsewhere when he was using a spell. He fingered the chain around his neck, giving it a sharp yank to pull out the necklace that Sirius had gifted him a month previous. The Iceland spar still gave off a pulsing glow, the colour a soothingly soft white. Turning the three pieces over, he read the galdrastafir inscribed upon each of the bases. 'Just maybe...'

Letting the necklace fall back against his chest, he stood up and held his wand towards the lake, a simple spell in mind. Pouring close to all of his magical reserves into the crystals that hung around his neck, his body felt almost a million time lighter. The glow of the Iceland spar intensified, casting a ghostly reflection upon the surface of the lake. Iceland gave a small smile.

"Alarte Ascendare." A small twirl of water rose from the surface of the lake, swirling through the air until it stopped a few seconds later, crashing back down towards the lake. A few drops landed upon Iceland's face from the splash created. A smile graced his lips. Pulling his magic back from the necklace, he decided to see how far he could push the spell. With more confidence in his voice than any other times previous, he repeated the spell:

"ALARTE ASCENDARE!" Before Iceland could even react, a geyser of water shot up from the lake. A look of pure wonder and joy spread across Iceland's features, the height of the water reminding him of Geysir back in his own country. He chuckled as a few sprays of hot water splashed against his body.

Maybe the year would get better.

Fék matar? = Get any food?

Hér = Here

En ég var að búast við þér aðfá mat í mikla sa = But I was expecting you to eat in the Great Hall (Or something along those lines, the translator was fighting me)

Já, ég gerði það, en þú varst ekki þarna svo þeir tóku mig fyrir a villtur fugl eftir smá stund. Þeir gerðu ekki einu sinni lakkrís! = Yes, I did, but you were not there, so they took me for a wild bird after a while. They did not even have licorice!

Bara fara að segja að tvíburarnir lykilorð. Á ensku, sérstaklega = Just go tell the twins the passwords. In English, specifically

Og góðan daginn að þér eins vel, prófessor Dumbledore = Good morning to you as well, Professor Dumbledore

Ég held að ég skilji sækni Belgíu fyrir þessum hlutum núna = I think I understand Belgium's affinity for these things now

Er ég bara mat skammtari fyrir þig? = Am I just a food dispenser to you?

Augljóslega = Obviously/Clearly

Get ég borða það? = Can I eat it?

Ég óska = I wish

I am extremely sorry this chapter took so long to get out! I kept putting it off until later because I wasn't entirely sure what I wanted to do with this chapter, and I kept being distracted by other things (I've been working on new fanfictions and ideas, and I hope to post one of them soon!). Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter (even though not much happened), as that is what I strive for with this story! I'm hoping to pick up the pace of the plot shortly, considering that it's been ten chapters and we're only on the seconds day of Hogwarts.

On another note, I can't believe I've already written and posted ten chapters of Galdrastafir! When posted the first few chapters, I hadn't been expecting it to get as much support as it did, and now it's already been up for over five months (time really flies, doesn't it?)! I honestly cannot thank all of you for the amount of support you've given me across the course of the past nine chapters (you're nicer to me than most of the people at my school), and for how dedicated some of you have been to letting me know what did and did not like about each chapter, helping me improve my writing as this story progressed, with some even correcting major errors I've made with foreign languages and grammar! YOu are all so forgiving when I take ridiculously long to release chapters, even when many of those chapters are fillers, you've continued to support this story! Thank you all!

*coughs awkwardly* now that that sappy moment is over, until next chapter, Hasta la Pasta!