"'But 1784 isn't really long enough to…' 'Shut up[,] Evie!'" –DayDreamerGirl4life, summary to "First Day"
"No, but listen," Evie insisted. "If the Headmaster wants us to alter French society enough to prevent the Revolution, he has to give us more than just one year. By 1784, the aristocracy was so far gone in decadence, you could spend a lifetime trying to reform it without…"
"What part of 'shut up' didn't you understand, Evie?" said Joseph. "Of course, the Headmaster knows all that; he doesn't expect that things will be perfect when we're recalled to the present. All we're supposed to do is provide the initial impetus – to inspire certain key people, by our words and examples, to alleviate things enough that Robespierre and Danton don't feel the need to start knocking down prisons in five years."
"Well…" Evie floundered for words. "That's all very well, but it doesn't… I mean, you can't just…"
"Oh, ignore her, Joseph," said Lucy, swishing into the room in her 1780s-French-aristocrat gown. "She's just worried that she won't be able to carry off the necklines of the period as well as some of the rest of us."
Joseph glanced up at his girlfriend, and smirked. "Well, I can't blame her for that…"
"[S]he stopped[,] holding her breath[,] as she noticed a bright flash of green light, and the evil Lough of, he who must not be named." –Novum Arkilum, "Contritum"
"James?" she said hoarsely.
James glanced up from the map of the Scottish Highlands he was examining. "Yes?"
Lily pointed to the gap in the trees through which the faint gleam of the fell lake had caught her eye. "Is that what I think it is?"
As James's gaze followed her pointing finger, a second green flash lit up the woods, and the Potters heard a cold tenor voice cackling in delight. "Behold, my servants!" it cried. "Behold what was once a mere wriggling lamprey, now lighting up the sky as the blood-lust throbs through its fiery scales! Such is the power of your master; behold, and tremble!"
James gulped. "I didn't realise we'd come this far out of our way."
"I think we'd better start heading north again," said Lily.
James nodded, and the two of them turned and strode briskly in the direction of Hogwarts, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the accursed waters of Lough Voldemort.
"Distantly a folklorist tune could be heard faintly through the trees." –Swooping Evil, "Weeping Cherry Tree"
"So many the scholars whose praise may be sung,
As Jacqueline Simpson, or Ruth Lyndell Tongue,
Or Arnold van Gennep the proud Savoyard –
But who'd be a tale told by Beedle the Bard?"
The tremulous soprano echoed through the trees, and Albus Potter, as though drawn by a magnet, tiptoed through the leaf litter toward its source. Why anyone should be wandering the Forbidden Forest under a midsummer full moon, singing a mournful tune about Muggle folklorists, was more than he could imagine – and his Marauder blood wouldn't let him leave such a mystery unresolved.
"James Frazer's attentions are nothing to fear;
Well might Georges Dumezil's conscience be clear –
But oh, my good masters, 'tis bitterly hard
To be thus recorded by Beedle the Bard!"
The voice seemed to come from a nearby clearing; Albus approached it, and beheld a midnight-black girl in antique robes, sitting on a fallen log. In the moonlight, he could make out every detail of her face, and the beauty and sorrow in it came nigh to breaking his heart; he wanted to call out to her, to offer her some word of consolation, only he couldn't bring himself to interrupt her song.
"Pass Zora Neale Hurston and Joel Chandler Harris,
Whose ghosts and whose beasts they were loath to embarrass;
Condemn not George Dasent – no fault lies in him –
And who need admonish the good Brothers Grimm?
But, stranger, if any heart beats in your breast
For those whom the Parcae have sorely oppressed,
Then pity a periapt poor and ill-starred
Whose tale was collated by…"
A branch snapped under Albus's feet, and the girl abruptly broke off and turned with a start. As she caught sight of his face, a brief flash of horror passed over her countenance; then, then next moment, it was replaced by a look of bewilderment, as though she were unsure what precisely she was seeing.
"Sorry," said Albus hastily. "I didn't mean to intrude; I just heard you through the trees, and it was so pretty and unusual, I had to check it out." Then, remembering the proprieties his mother had trained him in, he added, "I'm Albus Potter, by the way."
The girl's eyes widened in understanding. "Oh, I see," she said. "Well, hello, Albus Potter. I'm…" She paused for a moment, as though uncertain how to continue. "Anastasia," she said at length, seeming to come to a decision. "My name is Anastasia Stone."
"So, a genius like Dumbledore couldn't possibly be fooled by a doge as pathetically dim[-]witted as an aging potion." –Unicorn20023, "Sometimes, Happy Memories Hurt the Most"
"That's all you know about it, Signorina Granger," said the revenant of Vitale Michiel II, glaring down at her from the top of the Astronomy Tower. "True, my reign over the Republic of Venice may have been marked by follies and ineptitudes – I may have been short-sighted enough to open the Pandora's box of national debt, and simple enough to let the Greek emperor destroy my fleet by mere inaction – but that, my dear, was long ago and far away. Now that the Dark Lord has summoned me out of the grave, my intellect has the scope, power, and dispassion of an unholy angel; no mere English schoolmaster can possibly fail to fall victim to the inhuman cunning at my… awwk!"
Hermione cast a hasty Shield Charm to protect herself from the falling body of the suddenly Petrified doge; the 800-year-old corpse crumbled upon impact with the magical barrier, and little pieces of medieval Venetian ruler sprinkled down harmlessly upon the grass around her. Then, hearing a rustle of robes behind her, she turned to see the Headmaster striding across the lawn toward her.
"My sincere thanks for your loyalty just now, Miss Granger," he said, smiling broadly. "It does an old man good to know that, vague and doddering though he may be growing, his students still trust him not to credit a backwards-written letter reading, 'My Lord, if Dumbledore goes into the Forbidden Forest at noon, all our secret plans will be ruined.'
"One question, though, if I may," he added. "Just where did a witch of your tender years pick up the fine old phrase 'as dim-witted as an Aging Potion'?"
Hermione grinned. "Something Professor McGonagall said about Ludo Bagman."
"Ah."
