Back at Ilvermorny that evening, Nova approached Harry and Othniel at dinner. "Harry?" she whispered as she tapped him on the shoulder. "Grab Beckett and meet me in the choir room once you two are done with dinner."

"Okay," replied Harry. "What's up?"

Nova snickered softly. "You two have your Spring Dance coming up next Friday, and I want to make sure you're both prepared for it… I've taken it upon myself to teach you two gits proper ballroom dancing."

Harry shook his head in disbelief. "You can't be serious…"

"No, but I'm sure your godfather would agree with me," Nova said. "I have a bit of a background with dancing… just trust me on this."

"How long are we going to do this?" asked Harry with slight annoyance in his voice.

"As long as it takes," Nova responded casually. "Nothing is more of a turnoff than a boy who doesn't know what they're doing on the dance floor."

Harry arched an eyebrow. "Did anyone ask you to your Spring Dance?"

Nova smiled sweetly. "Yes, Harry. That is of no particular importance – what really matters is that you and Beckett act like cultivated little gentlemen next Friday. You have two delightful girls to impress, after all…"

"Wait, Ana told you that I'm going to have a dance with Daphne?" Harry scoffed.

"Yes, Harry," giggled Nova. "And if you're going to charm the socks off Miss Greengrass, you've got your work cut out for you!"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "I promised that I'd be nice to Daphne, but I couldn't possibly care less about charming her."

"Perhaps you should care," offered Nova. "She'll most likely tell her mum and dad, who'll probably tell their closest friends… there's a lot more at stake than you realize. You are the Boy-Who-Lived, after all, and if you act like a buffoon… you might not be able to show your face in Wizarding Britain."

"Maybe I have no intention of visiting Wizarding Britain," Harry fired back. "I'm perfectly happy over here in the Americas."

"Heh-loooooo, Potter," came the sardonic reply. "Yes, you're perfectly fine right now, but ten years from now, you very well could be working with British and Irish magi! Maybe even Norwegian, or Argentinian, or Tibetan!" She shook her head in dismay. "Typical provincial American attitude," she muttered under her breath.

"I heard that," grumbled Harry. "And I'm Canadian, you Limey dingbat."

"Well, it's quite clear that the Yank smugness has rubbed off on you," huffed Nova. Her tone softened and she offered him a kindly look. "I'm sure Ana's told you this already, but please mind your manners around Daphne. You can call me a 'Limey dingbat' all you want, but Daphne's different… she's going to be a guest, first of all, but she's also a purebred witch with exceptionally limited knowledge of the Muggle world. Just… be honest and sincere with her, as she'll undoubtedly have quite a few questions for you. I know you might not be as interested in her as she is in you, but just trust me, Harry… being friends with Daphne Greengrass means having the backing of the House of Greengrass, and I promise they're about as valuable an ally as it gets. You might not think of such things because you're young and naïve, but if there's one piece of advice that I implore you to listen to, it's this."

"Well, you're from Wizarding Britain so I s'pose you know what you're talking about," Harry said. "And I'm sorry for calling you a Limey dingbat."

Nova giggled. "No offense taken, Harry. I know you're very proud of being Canadian – as you should be – but I also don't want to see you forsake your British roots. Thousands of witches and wizards from the British Isles think you walk on water. I just don't want you to do anything that jeopardizes their perception of you."

Harry nodded. "Fair enough, Nova. We'll see you in the choir room in say… twenty minutes or so?"

"Sounds good," replied Nova.

The next morning at Hogwarts, Ana joined Daphne, Hermione, Parvati and Lavender at the Gryffindor table for breakfast. All four Gryffindor girls gushed over Ana's simpler, contemporary daily uniform.

"You're so lucky, Ana," Hermione said. "Golf shirts and khaki skirts? Why couldn't I get an Ilvermorny invitation?"

"I s'pose you could talk to your house head about transferring next term," replied Ana. "I'm guessing the British Ministry of Magic has no intention of updating your wardrobes." All four Gryffindors shook their heads glumly.

"I wish," sighed Hermione. "Ilvermorny is a quality school, but Scotland is far enough from my parents as it is… I may be a Gryffindor, the mere thought of being an entire ocean away scares me!"

"My best friend's from Vancouver in Canada," replied Ana. "That's nearly as far from Ilvermorny as Great Britain is!" She suddenly remembered that she was at Hogwarts and not Ilvermorny, so she wisely diverted the conversation away from Harry. "So… what class do you guys have first this morning?"

"Potions," Daphne answered with a shudder. "It's fifty percent worse because it's fifty percent longer than our Monday-Wednesday-Friday classes."

"Yeah, our Potions Master, Madam L, is serving as an official chaperone during our visit," Ana murmured. "She tore in to one of your prefects yesterday for mispronouncing her name. It's a pet peeve of hers."

"I heard," Parvati said. "She threatened to give Percy Weasley a demerit, but we don't have a demerit system at Hogwarts…"

Ana tilted her head a few degrees. "If you don't have demerits, then how do they discipline students that get out of line? They don't hang them from the ceiling from chains like in the olden days, do they? That was utterly barbaric!"

"Naw, they usually just deduct house points or if you really do a professor's head in, you might get detention," explained Lavender. "I take it that they don't do that at Ilvermorny?"

Ana shook her head. "I've never officially gotten one, but after five demerits you get a detention at Ilvermorny. Your screw-ups are basically your own over there, but it sucks knowing that your mess-ups can screw the rest of your house over here…"

"Pretty much," Daphne said. "It's possible to have fewer than four hundred house points and still win the House Cup at the end of term – they can be awarded and taken away so easily."

Ana winced. "Four hundred? It usually takes upwards of a thousand to win the House Cup at Ilvermorny. We've got nearly eleven hundred as it stands now…" All four Gryffindor girls' jaws dropped.

"So, what are you going to be doing today, Anastasia?" asked Hermione. "Meditate? Study? Stroll the school grounds?"

Ana shrugged. "Probably go to the library and study, study, and study some more. Not only do I have to prepare for tomorrow night, but I'm still responsible for the classwork that I'm missing."

"I can show you where that's at," offered Daphne. "We've got a few minutes before we need to head to class."

"If you don't mind," squeaked Ana. "I don't know my way around Hogwarts quite yet, so if you could lead the way please…"

"It'd be my pleasure, Ana," giggled Daphne. "It's not hard to find at all, I promise…"

Twenty minutes later, the first-year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs congregated in the dungeons for their Potions lesson. Two minutes before eight o'clock, an imposing figure clad entirely in black strode in, with sallow skin and eyes nearly as black as coal. His dark oily locks hung down to his chin, and his voice was a low, guttural drone that commanded equal amounts of respect and fear. The notorious Severus Snape, Potions Master, had a reputation for being as surly as he was brilliant – it often took very little to vex the Slytherin house head, especially if the one to incure his wrath happened to sport the Gryffindor red and gold.

"Turn to page 493," he snarled as he flipped the slate of the blackboard. "Today we shall concoct a Herbicide potion. Observe very carefully… if even one milliliter is discovered in the greenhouses, I shall personally siphon the magic out of the offending party's veins... I assure you, it will quite painful, and even more humiliating."

He began to demonstrate the potion to the class, by crushing four lionfish spines using a mortar and pestle into a coarse powder, then added two measures of Standard Ingredient to the mortar and again ground into a coarse powder. He then tossed three pinches of the mixture into a cauldron and waved his wand. "This concoction must take at least forty five minutes to brew," he explained. "And perhaps as much as an hour, depending on what type of receptacle you Neanderthals use." Meanwhile, the students furiously scribbled the steps down in their notes.

As the end of class approached, Snape prowled the classroom to inspect his charges' concoctions. "No, no, no," he grumbled. "Can't you lot do anything right?" His eyes soon darted to the hapless Neville Longbottom and Ron Weasley, both of whom had their faces covered with smoke and soot, with every last hair on their head standing on end. "Weasley! Longbottom!" he snapped. "If we were crafting a hair-raising potion, this might almost be an Acceptable… but contrary to what you foolish boys might believe, the goal is to concoct a Herbicide Potion. Ten points from Gryffindor for your gross incompetence," he added with a cavalier sneer.

He strode back to his own cauldron and carefully filled a thin glass tube with a small sampling of the liquid. "This is a textbook example," he uttered in a soft, monotonous purr. "This is among the most elementary of solutions; it takes barely any brainpower at all to concoct it, yet you lot only amaze me in finding new ways of mucking things up. I swear on Merlin's beard, each passing crop of students becomes dimmer and dimmer."

A sharp, bitter laugh erupted from the very back of the room. "Hah! You call that textbook, Snape? The consistency is iffy, and the color is a touch off… Old Huck Chapman could improve it by pissing in it."

"What?" roared Snape. "Who said that?" He lowered his voice to an ominous creak. "Show yourself."

Nobody seemed to notice the elderly lady seated in the very rear of the classroom – to many of the students, her stock-still posture and wrinkled, warty appearance may as well have led them to believe that she was yet another grotesque sculpture that served as castle decorations.

"Lewandowski," Snape drawled. "I thought it was made plain as day several years ago that you are not welcome in my classroom." He narrowed his eyes, which burned with a silent fury. "And how dare you bring up that pompous old goat? Huckleberry Quinkle-Chapman was nothing but a foolhardy git who exemplified Yank arrogance." His lips curled into a haughty smirk. "Pity. The demented fool couldn't even recognize his own children at the very end…"

"Better to be arrogant and exceptional, than to be ignorant and incompetent," Madam L retorted without skipping a beat. "You're just another idiot Limey that would be unqualified to scrape the gum from under the desks at Ilvermorny! You are the house head of Slytherin, are you not? The house that will be representing Hogwarts tomorrow evening for the Quiz Bowl?"

Snape opened his mouth to reply, but Madam L cut him off curtly. "You best keep that trap of yours shut if you know what's good for you. Mark my words, Slytherin is going down, and going down hard tomorrow night. They will embarrass your entire institution, which will reflect quite poorly on your so-called leadership skills." She flashed a smirk towards the children. "How many points shall we deduct from Slytherin for Snape's stupidity, class? Fifty? Eighty? A hundred?"

Both the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff children erupted into loud cheers and applause. "You heard the children, Snape. A hundred points from Slytherin."

"You can't do that to me, Lewandowski," Snape growled. "As I am faculty here, and you are not…"

"Apparently I can, and I just did," quipped Madam L. "Care to make it two hundred, shit-for-brains?" An infuriated Snape closed his mouth, and simply glared at the old woman. "That's what I thought," continued Madam L. She gestured toward the students. "Class is dismissed."

Shortly after the jubilant students put their books and materials away and began making their way out of the classroom, Snape stormed toward Madam L. "If I ever catch you in this castle again, Madam Lewandowski," he threatened, "I'll…"

Madam L simply smirked at Snape. "I wouldn't count on it, Snape." She rapped her gnarled walking stick on the floor, and summarily disapparated.

Later that morning, as Daphne, Hermione, Parvati and Lavender made their way to Defense Against the Dark Arts, the girls spied Madam L conversing with Professor McGonagall conversing underneath an arched window. "Excuse me for a moment," Hermione told her friends.

"What are you doing?!" exclaimed Parvati. "That creepy old lady makes Snape look like Quirrell in comparison! She's like one of those witches in Muggle fairy tales – if you so much as look at her the wrong way, she'll throw you in her oven and bake you for dinner!"

"I just need to know something," Hermione replied fearlessly. "I promise this'll be quick."

"Your funeral," grumbled Lavender. "Don't say we didn't warn you."

The determined Hermione made her way to the two older witches on the other side of the corridor, and gently tugged on the hem of Madam L's robe. "Excuse me, Madam?"

Madam L turned to the young Hermione and nodded. "Yes, young lady?"

"You were in our Potions class a little while ago, and I couldn't help but notice that there was nothing wrong with Professor Snape's Herbicide Potion. It matched the description in the text to a tee…"

Madam L chuckled at the girl. "I can see there's no fooling you, young lady. Ten points to your house for your keen eye – Gryffindor, is it?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, Madam… I don't recall your name? It starts with an 'L' does it not?"

"It's Lewandowski, but my students back at Ilvermorny usually address me as Madam L. I'd be much obliged if you'd do the same, Miss…?"

"Granger," Hermione said. "Hermione Granger."

"Well met, Miss Granger," purred Madam L. "You know, you do remind me of one of my pupils back home… a girl about your age named Anastasia Harrison. She's an exceptionally bright young witch – that girl will amount to something special one day."

Hermione beamed. "Anastasia? I know her! She's my roommate's pen pal, actually. She's also competing in the Quiz Bowl tomorrow night – I can't wait to see her in action!" She cleared her throat. "So, why did you berate Professor Snape like that earlier? It seems like you two know each other…"

"Hah!" Madam L laughed. "Another five points to Gryffindor for your astute deduction. Yes, there's no love lost between us… let's just say the jerk had it coming."

Professor McGonagall gave Madam L a rather stern look, before kindly gazing upon Hermione. "And Madam L has also given me her assurance that she shall not perform such a stunt again while on school grounds… isn't that right, Gwendolyn?' she finished in a low, deliberate tone.

Madam L smiled mirthfully. "Of course, Minerva." She smiled at Hermione. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Granger. You're a credit to your house, and house head. Perhaps one next year, you'll be representing your house in the Interscholastic Quiz Bowl…"

"The pleasure was mine," Hermione said with a small curtsy. "If you see Anastasia before I do, be sure to tell her I said hello!" The moment Hermione's back was turned, she swore she heard the sound of hands slapping, like a high-five, and two old women chuckling.

That evening, back at Ilvermorny, Harry, Othniel and Nova were in the choir room going over the basics of ballroom dancing.

"Oh, dash it all, Beckett," Nova snarled. "That's the third time you've stepped on my foot this evening – thank Merlin I'm not wearing heels." She rolled her eyes, and produced her wand and pointed it at the enchanted music box. An orchestra of brass, woodwinds, and bells began playing a slow waltz. "Okay, Harry," she continued. "Your turn."

Harry approached Nova and looked up at her with apprehension. "Oh for the hundredth time, Potter, I'm not a porcelain doll," she groaned as Harry gingerly placed his hands around her middle. "Now, hold me like you mean it!" She then nodded in satisfaction. "That's better, Harry. Now, follow my lead and for Merlin's sake, watch your bloody step."

Ten minutes later, Harry bowed out so he could catch his breath. Even with his background in ice hockey, and regular physical conditioning, neither boy had expected ballroom dancing to equate to such a rigorous workout.

"Not every dance will be like this, I hope?" Harry panted. "I thought this was s'posed to be, y'know, informal…"

"While you should know a little about formal dancing early on, most of the songs will be contemporary, so you can just goof off around the floor with your friends for a good part of the evening," Nova clarified. "Now by the time you reach fifth year, that's where the dancing starts to become more serious." She let out a thin, airy sigh. "I'm simultaneously looking forward to – and dreading – my first formal dance in two years."

"Speaking of, can you imagine your godfather on the dance floor?" chuckled Othniel.

"I've never seen him dance, but he told me that he was forced to study it a long time ago," Harry said. "I'm guessing it's not a favorite pastime of his."

"I can't prove it, but just by looking at the way he walks, he's probably a wonderful dancer," said Nova. She let out the tiniest of giggles. "He's got some serious swagger. I'm not going to lie, I wouldn't pass up the opportunity to have a dance with him one day."

"Maybe on your wedding day," suggested Harry. "Of course, I think tradition dictates that your old man gets the first crack, but knowing Uncle Roger, he'd gladly let Padfoot and Remus have a dance if that's what you want."

"That thought had occurred to me," murmured Nova, her cheeks pinkening. She looked at the clock on the wall. "All right, you two, we don't have much time before we're due upstairs. One more go for the each of you and we'll call it good… now up you get!"

Both boys groaned as they stood up, and the enchanted music box started playing again.