The Fae are the strangest of the races (though many consider house-elves a close second).

-Sayern nar-Hazozh, (History of the Treaty), translated circa 1952

"You're fretting, Hermione. Were you bitten by another lugga-lugga?"

The girl shook her head. "No, I don't think so. Those only cause irrational paranoia, right? I don't think that this is irrational."

A cool hand closed over hers. "Yes it is," Luna disagreed. "I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you.'

Hermione couldn't help but smile a bit. "Thank you." She doubted that Luna could do anything about her out-of-control serpent sight, which she just knew would flare up when she performed the ritual, but it still felt good to have someone at her back.

"Fear not Fire's bargain," Luna reminded her. "Remember what Auntie Sybil said? Blaise is Fire, and she was talking to you. That means that nothing bad will happen to you when you're bringing back the raths. You'll be safe."

That actually did make her feel better. She relaxed, tension flowing out her shoulders. "Thank you, Luna. I don't know what I would do without you."

"Oh, you would get by, I'm sure."

"I'm not."

Luna giggled. "You're so nice, Hermione. Oh, look. The sun is going down."

"You're right." Hermione nodded. "I had better get started." She strung the single silver hair that made up the string of her feather-carved bow, a… she wasn't sure if it was quite a gift, as the Fae clearly meant for her to use it in their service, but they had given it to her… a donation from the pumpkin-eyed knight who she just knew would arrive tonight.

The setting sun transformed Luna's hair into waves of spun gold; the full moon's rays made her eyes gleam like Sickles. She looked every inch the Faeling hybrid she was, a true granddaughter of Oisin and Niamh. Hermione couldn't help but be aware of how plain she looked in comparison, all earthy browns and oversized teeth, painfully human.

She made it through most of the ritual before the world shifted, filling with not-colors and not-smells and not-sounds at the very edge of hearing. Hermione moaned, eyes squeezing shut to block out at least some of the extra stimulation. Unfamiliar scents still wafted up her nose (she decided to breathe with her mouth. Even though she could still taste the not-smells, it wasn't quite as strong as before), but she no longer had to worry about being blinded by waves of light and color, shimmering rainbow cocoons around living creatures giving her a headache.

A door inched open. Its hinges, rusty with centuries of neglect, shrieked in pain. Hermione grit her teeth. The door gave one last cry, and then it was open fully. Magic flooded the world, a tsunami trying to drown her. She staggered backwards.

"Hermione!"

Then Luna was there, cool, dry hands hefting her upwards. Not thinking, Hermione opened her eyes. Her jaw dropped.

Luna's eyes really were silver coins, but not because of the moonlight. They shimmered from within, a few shades lighter than gray but at least as many degrees darker than white. Her pupils and sclera and irises had melted together, leaving nothing but that peculiar moonshine gaze. It should have been hideous. Instead, it was beautiful.

Mother-of-pearl seemed to crown the girl's head, threading through her pale hair. A hint of navy flickered above her heart, but most of her aura consisted of that shimmery mother-of-pearl with touches of goldenrod and pink. Her nails were each a different color: vermillion and mauve and maroon, twilight purple and evergreen and boxwood yellow, black as night and white as the moon, cyan and citrine. Hermione had no doubt that if she'd been able to see Luna's toenails, they would shine with ten more exotic colors, shades that would reveal the secrets of her soul if only she knew how to read them. The scent of strawberries and leaf piles filled the older girl's nostrils, bringing to mind images of children playing outside.

"Are you all right?"

Her voice had gained musicality, a faint echo of Samhain revelry and hunting horns. It was nothing compared to the not-voice that spoke next.

Greetings, Truth's Messenger. Greetings, Scion of Niamh.

"Greetings, autumn-eyes," Luna returned, not missing a beat.

Silence.

Hermione opened her eyes. Color assaulted her, too bright, too cloying. It hurt—the human brain wasn't meant to handle all these stimuli, human eyes not designed to see more than a thin band of visible light. A distant part of her brain wondered what she would see in a nuclear plant or radio station, but the rest of her dismissed that question as absolutely irrelevant. Perhaps, when she was very old and had her life under control and nothing better to do, she could visit one of those places and observe it with her serpent sight. For now, she had to deal with a tricky, slippery Fae man who seemed to think that his people owned her.

"I would know the bargain."

Luna had coached her on what to say. Don't make requests, she had advised, don't ask for favors. Above all, don't make demands. Simply state facts and remember you have the right to know the bargain. It might not amount to much, as Fae were just as apt to use obscure language as the average Seer, but even a hint was better than nothing.

Life for life.

Luna's indrawn breath rattled in her throat. The silver eyes went wide.

You forge threads of magecraft, Owlheart, that work both ways. The orange eyes burned like twin sunsets—or perhaps twin sunrises. Learn to see.

"Learn to see?" Hermione repeated. Not technically a question, though she did lift her pitch toward the end. "Life for life?"

Learn to see, the knight confirmed, and life for life. We can wash the impurities from your eyes, if only you hold to Fire's bargain.

Luna's shoulders slumped with relief. She exhaled, body shrinking into itself. "Oh. Good."

Hermione lifted a finger to the skin atop her cheekbones, below her serpent-tainted eyes. "Of course," she breathed, relief seeping into her bones. Practice made perfect. If she were forced to use the serpent sight again and again while restoring raths, of course she would get better at controlling it. That was how life worked: through practice, children learned to walk, musicians to play, witches to make magic. Her serpent sight was just another form of magic: not something that most humans used, a form wilder and more closely tied to its roots, but that didn't mean she couldn't master it in the same way she had mastered expelliarmus.

"I see."

Oh? Wrinkles creased at the corners of his eyes. The horse beneath him pawed the ground. Are the impurities in your sight already washed away? Have you already solved this riddle?

"Perhaps." Doubt stirred. This seemed almost too simple, too neat and tidy. Yet what else could it—

Insight struck, as sudden and unexpected as a shooting star. Not her physical sight, but her mind's eye. They had been hinting at it all along.

The Fae could help her solve the riddle.

Relief almost made her fall over. The serpent sight was fading, she had an answer to at least one riddle, and the Fae had practically guaranteed her an answer to another, much more important question. She didn't have to worry about dying or being carried off to the Otherworld while restoring raths, just on probing the orange-eyed knight for hints about Dumbledore and whatever mystery she was supposed to solve. Yes, the Fae wanted payment, and she would really rather not have to suffer serpent sight-induced headaches every month (she could already feel pain building in her temples), but it would be worth it. So, so worth it.

The Ravenclaw almost forgot herself. Her mouth opened, the words "Thank you" bubbling up in her throat. Then the last vestiges of her serpent sight flickered, choked her. The orange eyes glinted with amusement. Was there something you desired to say, Messenger?

"I thought better of it," she replied, not bothering to lie. Getting caught trying to deceive a Fae knight (and she would have been caught) was much worse than admitting that she'd almost thanked him. Thanking a Fae man, Luna had drilled into her head, was the same as admitting that she owed him.

And if she knew what was good for her, she probably wouldn't want to owe him anything.

Wise of you. Niamh's descendent has trained you well.

"She has a very teachable mind," Luna demurred.

As she must. On that note, the pumpkin-eyed knight steered his charger back to the rath. Fare thee well, Messenger, Scion.

"Fare thee well, autumn-eyes."

"Fare thee well, er, world-rider." He had never actually said goodbye before, so Hermione was taken off guard when he announced beforehand that he was leaving. Not for the first time, she wondered what his name was or if he had some important Fae title that she was supposed to use and, every time she didn't use it, caused a minor interdimensional incident for which she would pay dearly once the Fae had no more need of her. But Luna had not seemed alarmed by Hermione's words, so she decided that she had not yet caused an inter-species war or even horribly insulted her only regular liaison with the Fae courts.

Then again, it was Luna. She did not exactly wear her heart on her sleeves.

Suddenly nervous, the elder Ravenclaw turned to the younger. "Was that an appropriate title for him?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" Luna blinked like an owl herself, honestly confused.

Hermione smiled with relief. "I don't know much about the Fae, I'm afraid," she confessed.

"Neither do I," Luna chirped.

"What?" Hermione pulled back.

"I know how not to make them kill us," Luna clarified, "but not much else. I'm sorry."

"No—no." Hermione shook her head. "I don't mind." She did—the thought of knowledge that she couldn't get ahold of made her brain burn—but it wasn't Luna's fault that she lacked all the facts that Hermione desired. Oral knowledge had a way of diffusing over the generations, and Niamh's descendants had lived in the mortal world for…. Hermione actually didn't know how long. She would have to ask Luna for a family history one day. But for now, she would just have to content herself with learning how not to offend extra-dimensional, more-than-a-bit-immoral, absurdly dangerous beings to the point where they killed her.

She supposed it could be worse. Luna could have an encyclopedic database of Fae agricultural customs (assuming they even had agriculture) or knitting patterns and not of how to placate them. All in all, Hermione was rather glad that her friend specialized in the not-dying part of human-Fae relationships.

"Oh, good." Luna smiled. "Now what?"

"Now," Hermione replied, "we go back to Hogwarts and tell the others what the knight told us: somehow, Blaise's deal will help me solve the riddle."

"Is that what he said?" Luna asked.

Hermione's blood chilled. "I…I thought so," she answered. "They'll cleanse the impurities from my eyes? At first I thought it was the serpent sight, but then he mentioned riddles."

"He also mentioned life for life," Luna pointed out.

Hermione shrugged helplessly. "Whatever the riddle is, it's important. Solving it can save lives. Their lives for human lives."

"I see."

"Why?" Her breath quickened. "Don't you think so? Did you have another idea?"

"I just don't see how the Fae could help you solve a human riddle. What is the riddle?"

Hermione winced. "I don't know," she confessed. "But the knight—he has been talking about it for a while. He dropped hints last time we met."

The last remnants of tension drained from Luna's shoulders. "I didn't know that. Yes, that makes sense. The Fae have a twisty way of looking at things. They can help."

"Yes." Hermione bobbed her head. She extended a hand. An ivory key gleamed in her fingers. "Shall we?"

Luna took hold of the key in the hand.

The Portkey tugged at their guts, dragged them through the ether to the Chamber of Secrets. They had been hesitant to use it for months, but Harry had found a tiny loophole in Dumbledore's new enchantments and it wasn't like the headmaster was sneaking down there every night in person. As long as they got out of the Chamber as quickly as possible, as long as they only used this Portkey destination sparingly, they would be all right. Or, at the very least, all right enough to constitute an acceptable risk. They still had to use Disillusionment Charms whenever transporting inside, though. Harry was paranoid like that.

They met in the centaur grove (which Harry, who had arrived before the girls, had thoughtfully heated for them) to compare notes. Did anything go wrong? Nope, not unless you counted Harry's bowstring slapping against his forearm and giving him a bruise that would hurt come morning.

But even with his skin still stinging, Harry was more interested in parsing every single word not-quite-spoken by the Fae knight than he was in showing off his injury. Yes, he made a joke about it, but then the Lightning Speaker was back in business. He and Daphne wanted to know every last detail: the inflection, the word choice, how long the knight waited before answering comments. Hermione had a phenomenal memory that had, due to the seriousness of the situation (of course it was serious. Her life could have been at stake) been working overtime, but she had paid more attention to the words themselves than to anything else. Luna commented that that was probably a result of all the books Hermione had read throughout her life, as she, who had read significantly less, had more recollections of the nonverbal information.

Eventually, Harry and Daphne came to the same conclusion that Hermione had reached: they couldn't be one hundred percent certain that helping the Fae would help Hermione solve the riddle (they could rarely be certain about anything when the Fae were involved), but this hypothesis was the best solution they could think of. And, as Neville pointed out, even if the knight hadn't been talking about helping Hermione figure out the truth, he clearly knew something. He had dropped enough hints to set the Ravenclaw's brain a-whirring, and no doubt he would continue to do so even if that wasn't part of Blaise's bargain.

Hermione went to bed feeling much better than she had in a long time. The riddle which had haunted her for over a year no longer seemed quite so insurmountable; it was still more complicated than anything she had ever attempted to discern before, but new information from the Fae would keep her from running into too many dead ends. Her hypothesizing would keep growing and growing, never stagnating, refreshed constantly by beings who had their own way of acquiring knowledge. If she did reach a dead end (which didn't seem likely, at least in her current optimistic state), all she would have to do is wait until the next full moon, when she could prize more answers from the Faes' liaison.

She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

Mark Potter usually woke up with a smile on his face. It hadn't always been that way—back at Privet Drive, he'd been quieter, less happy, and that had reflected in his default expressions. But now that he had come back to the Wizarding World—now that he'd come home—his face had changed. The muscles involved in smiling had strengthened with use, while the ones which created frowns or even carefully neutral expressions had finally taken their well-deserved break. Nowadays, he could usually be seen with at least a slight upwards curve to his lips, if not a full-blown grin.

So when he woke up on the fifth day of classes after winter break with a smile on his face, he had no reason to suspect that it wouldn't last long.

Breakfast passed without incident. He wasn't particularly fond of kippers, but the Gryffindor table was always well-stocked with toast and jam, so he slathered some blackberry preserves onto his bread, gulped down his morning tea, and headed off for the Potions lab. A year ago, the thought of going to Potions would have replaced his cheery smile with a scowl, but that was before Slughorn had replaced Snape. The former threw wicked parties and had a great sense of humor; the latter was a git, plain and simple. He had deserved to have an acromantula rip his arm off.

As was now typical, a cauldron filled with happily bubbling liquid held the place of pride on Slughorn's desk. Mark slid into his usual seat—not too close to the front, not too far to the back, right between Ron and the edge of the row—and reached into his book bag for the day's assignment. Slughorn wasn't there yet, he observed, so he had time to jot down a couple more thoughts on his essay.

Ron rushed in then, scrambling for his own essay. He ended up dropping it onto the floor. Theo Nott, one of the Slytherins who took Potions with Gryffindor, snorted in derision. Ron made a rude gesture in his direction. Theodore made as if to stand up, but Slughorn's entrance kept him in his seat.

Smirking, the red-haired Gryffindor plopped down beside Mark. "I have a good feeling about this one," he announced.

"You mentioned that last night," Mark reminded him.

"I know, but it's a really good feeling."

"That's because you were working on it for what, a week?"

"A week?" Dean exclaimed. "Are you talking about the same Ron that we all know and love?"

"On and off for a week," Ron admitted. "Mostly off."

"Ah." Dean nodded. "The universe makes sense again."

Ron snorted.

"Assignments, please," Slughorn called. The students obediently passed their parchments to the center of the rows.

That was the first hint Mark had that something was wrong. He had trouble leaning forward; the bench beneath him scraped the floor as he handed his row's assignments to Slughorn.

Mark and Ron exchanged nervous glances.

As the lesson went on, they discovered that their rears were stuck to the bench they shared. No matter how much they squirmed and shifted, they couldn't break free. All they could do was get more of their clothing stuck to the seat.

That became a problem when Slughorn finished the lecture portion of his class. "We have just enough time to cut up our ingredients for next week," he said. His wand flicked. "There. Quantities are on the board. Make sure to crush the snake fangs into an ultra-fine powder. Some of you had lumps last time." He glanced at Lavender Brown, who flushed but nodded vigorously. Snape wouldn't have given them the warning; or if he had, he would have couched it in terms so insulting that the girl would have been reduced to tears. He had done that to students before, as everyone in Hogwarts could attest.

"Should we ask for help?" Ron mumbled, his voice covered by the din of students heading for the supply cabinets.

"No," Mark murmured back. The thought of asking for help in front of all his classmates made him grimace. "On the count of three, we stand up really fast. One, two, three."

The boys jumped to their feet. Or at least they tried to. They ended up stumbling, faces colliding with the table in front of them. Everyone turned to stare.

Mark pushed himself up, flushing furiously. So much for not attracting attention.

Riiiiip!

Ron's face drained of color. Slowly, oh so slowly, he craned his neck. Looked down. Loosed a low moan that rose in pitch until it was more of a strangled cry. His hands flew to the enormous hole in his pants and robes.

Rii-iii-iiip!

Mark's clothing was better-made, but it couldn't hold up the weight of the chair by itself. He scurried away from it, blushing even more. A distant part of his brain was grateful that only his robes and pants had torn, not his boxers, but most of him was focused on the humiliation of his trousers ripping in front of the entire class. At least no one was—

Lavender Brown giggled. She was joined by Parvati Patil, then Pansy Parkinson, then every child in the entire room save three was laughing and laughing and laughing. Slughorn's mustache twitched as he fought back his own reaction.

Mark sat down on the table. Ron jumped onto it, knocking aside their (fortunately empty) cauldron in his haste to cover his rear. He wished he knew some kind of spell that would block the view of his undies, but was a bit too humiliated to think straight. Maybe he could take off the rest of his robe, tie it around his waist, and run to the dorm?

Then Slughorn solved his problems by tapping his wand on Mark's knee. Magic flowed up the fabric of his pants, mending the hole. Another tap fixed Mark's robe. Then Slughorn turned his attention to Ron, who was scowling a bit at not going first. "Your ingredients aren't going to chop themselves," the professor called.

Still giggling, the students went back to work.

Mark's gaze landed on one of four people who hadn't laughed. Harry was cool as always, more sardonically amused than anything else. And he was not, Mark noted angrily, at all surprised.

The elder Potter stood by his brother's side in front of the ingredients cabinet. "Just so you know," he announced quietly, "I've enchanted the floor beneath my bed now too." He reached in, extracted a half-dozen snake fangs and two Shrivelfigs. "And Slytherin House has been warded against intruders." A pomegranate joined the other supplies in his arms. "I would recommend not coming back." Smiling blandly, he returned to his own table.

Mark's scowl returned full force as he conveniently overlooked the fact that he and Ron had struck the first blow by invading his brother's dormitory. This, the Gryffindor vowed, means war.

Le gasp. Did Harry really just *indrawn breath* act like a thirteen-year-old boy when he took revenge on his brother? I don't-d'you think he's feeling okay? I mean, he was acting his age there with the pants prank.

Then again, Mark was kind of asking for it.

Next update: May 31. It'll probably be the Ravenclaw Task.