It was far hotter than any civilized place should be in mid-September. It was with good reason that only mad dogs and Englishmen were expected out at this hour. Strictly speaking, Dolores Umbridge was neither, despite what her detractors would say. Three layers of cooling charms had barely made a dent in the oppressive heat. Surely, the filthy natives must have a trick to endure such abysmal conditions. Umbridge seethed at the thought of being exiled to such an abominable place. Porcine rights activists everywhere would have been outraged as perspiration turned the pink-clad figure into an obscene parody of their clientele.
The wizarding world should never have come to this. Purebloods were the elites, the ruling class. It was their duty to put others in their place. The traitorous mudbloods had ruined everything, usurping what was rightfully the domain of their betters. There was no place in magical Britain for purebloods now. Umbridge was a fugitive, unjustly persecuted for performing her duty to ensure the betterment of wizarding society. How many more purebloods must fall victim to the madness that the mudbloods had wrought?
Only a complete idiot could miss what was coming. Every major pureblood house that had helped her in the raid now lay in shambles. There must have been a traitor in their midst; there could be no other explanation for the ambush that had awaited them. Those brave patriots who had accompanied her had been condemned to ignoble deaths as traitors when they should have been hailed as heroes. The mudbloods’ nonsensical laws had been their doom. The worst was yet to come; the illegitimate regime was sure to strip the purebloods of their rights at the next Wizengamot session. With their ranks decimated, the pureblood faction did not stand a chance. The future was indeed bleak.
Umbridge might be down, but she was far from out. As inhospitable as Egypt’s meteorological climate was, its political climate was inviting. Here, she was beyond reach of the Britain’s aurors and their allies. She also had the resources to re-establish herself. Former Minister Fudge had made Umbridge responsible for salting away the spoils of his office where no auditor could go. She had been careful to link the funds to the office, rather than to the man. Thus, when Fudge fell, it had been her duty as executor of the Ministry to transfer the funds to someone who could be trusted to further the cause. The only one worthy was she. She and her fortune were now safe from anything the mudbloods would dare send. She would secure a modest house and bide her time. Make no mistake; the one the locals called “faras nahr” would rise again.
Ravenclaws could argue for hours on end as to whether their common room were a lounge with an inordinately large number of bookcases or a library with uncommonly comfortable appointments. Regardless, it was a bibliophile’s dream. Generation upon generation of students had donated texts. The ever-growing collection spanned a multitude of subjects. Those outside the house might be surprised to learn that the stacks also had sections devoted to muggle technology and philosophy.
The precious collection was protected by multiple layers of fire suppressant wards. Even the fireplace had been sacrificed in the name of safety. Though it it had never been tested, the room was reputed to be impervious to even the much-dreaded fiendfire. Although the temperature could never even come close to 451 degrees Fahrenheit, one third-year boy would attest that the room could get uncomfortably hot.
“Myrtle,” he protested, “I don’t want to cuddle right now; I want to read.”
“We can do both at the same time,” replied the revenant as she caressed the backs of his hands.
With a sigh, he asked, “Isn’t there something you’d like to be reading?”
“I’ve read more books over more shoulders than I care to remember.”
“Not that I don’t enjoy your company, don’t you ever think of anything else besides cuddling and kissing?” he said, relaxing into her embrace.
“Yes, but you are still too young yet.”
“That sounds scary and ominous.” He shuddered slightly. Myrtle snuggled against him until the trembling stopped.
Myrtle whispered into his ear. “When you use the word ‘exciting’ instead, I’ll know you’re ready.”
“You don’t act like other girls,” he noted.
“Give them time. They just haven’t got their priorities straight yet.”
The quidditch pitch was buzzing with excitement as at least a third of the Gryffindor house stood with the first-years as they awaited the arrival of Oliver Wood. Most present held a broom, and the looks of eager anticipation were aplenty.
“What are you doing here?” one of the older boys asked, his tone approaching a sneer. “First years can’t play on the team.”
“That’s not true,” Katie Bell corrected. “They just can’t bring their own brooms yet. Oliver checked, and there are no rules barring them from playing.”
“Can I just go fly now?" one of the more colorful first-years asked. "Waiting around doing nothing when I can be up in the air is just wrong,”
“You’re just worried that we’ll show you up,” Ron challenged, holding up his battered Nimbus 2000. “You don’t think you have what it takes.”
“Ron,” Abagail hissed at him, “last time I checked, you can’t fly in a straight line to save your life.”
“It’ll just take a little practice,” Ron huffed.
“If they can’t own brooms, why do they all have one? Those aren’t school brooms.”
“Borrowed them from the twins,” Terisa said nonchalantly. “There are no rules against that.”
“Basically, we are letting them buy their way onto the team.” The first boy snarled, “There is no way our brooms are going to stand up to theirs during tryouts.”
“Ron,” Apple Bloom questioned, “how much better are our brooms?”
“A lot,” Ron admitted sheepishly.
“Then it’s not fair.” Apple Bloom set her jaw. “Everyone grab a school broom instead.”
“Then you’d be at an unfair disadvantage,” Katie said, halting the first-year’s migration toward the aforementioned brooms. “School brooms are questionable at best.”
“How do we fix it then?” Parvati asked. “And why does your quidditch Captain want us first-years trying out, anyway?”
“Because Scoot is so wicked on a broom that he’s ready to give her starting seeker, no questions asked. The rest of us are just here for show,” Dean reminded her.
Sweetie Belle said, “What if we let the others borrow our brooms when they try out?”
The first boy sneered, “You lot couldn’t handle a school broom, let alone a top of the line model. You don’t have the skills or the guts.”
An agitated first-year said, “Are you calling us chickens?”
The first boy flapped his elbows and clucked.
The first-year growled, “Which house broom is the worst?”
“Number thirteen, the Widowmaker.”
The first-year held out her hand. “Widowmaker, to me.” Obediently, the broom leapt from across the pitch to her palm. The girl handed her Nimbus 2000 to Sweetie Belle.
The first boy said, “Nice parlor trick. You still don’t stand a chance against me.”
“Forget this, and forget you. I’ve got a broom, and the skies are calling. Someone come and get me when things get started.”
The gathered students watched one of their members take to the air on a decrepit house broom, and soon, all thoughts of tryouts went on the back burner.
“I wonder if Oliver is going to choose a reserve seeker as well,” the older boy mused.
In the magical land of Equestria, one not so little girl was living out a fantasy that would have made her former peers green with envy. She was among a multitude of miniature candy-colored ponies, each a person in their own right. As much as they were the stuff of legends to her, she was the same to them.
She had been summoned to this place to vanquish a menace to the land, and now, she had been called in front of its rulers. The fantasy had started to crumble when she found herself on the wrong end of a routine debriefing, and things had gotten worse when she had to answer for the condition of one of her charges.
The discussion of legalities and politics was mercifully cut short when a bespectacled, raven-maned aide entered the formal gardens to deliver a whispered message to the princesses. Minerva’s hosts politely excused themselves to attend an urgent matter, leaving her with a promise to return shortly. This gave the witch a chance to gather her wits and to freshen up.
Anatomical differences had made using the facilities an adventure in itself. She was reasonably sure she had used the appropriate fixtures. As she returned to the lavish gazebo, she noticed something out of place. A casual observer would have missed it. However, decades of honing her skills in transfiguration had gifted her with an acute eye for detail. The border of nondescript rocks now had one more rock.
With her curiosity piqued, Minerva channeled her house’s ethos and investigated the unremarkable anomaly. A quick wave of her wand showed it had immensely more inherent magic than its neighbors, making it even more unique. Cautiously, she gently poked it with her foot.
In an annoyed countertenor, the rock sang, “Leave me alone. I’m only a stone.”
Nodding to herself in satisfaction, Minerva returned to the gazebo and settled down, sipping a delicious tea blend she was sure was unavailable any place on Earth. After hearing about the versebreaker stone, she was, understandably, reluctant to test the patience of a random talking rock.
The prospective players continued to stare skyward in amazement. The Widowmaker should have maneuvered like an arthritic centenarian. A standing eight to falling leaf should have been impossible in a space the size of a student’s trunk.
“Wait a minute.” Abagail said. She took her eyes off the aerial ballet she had been witnessing to look down at Hermione’s broom, which she was still holding. “Brooms have names? They know their names and come when called?”
“I guess so.” Sweetie acknowledged, looking at her own broom, “I guess I’ll name mine Mr. Twittersticks.” Sweetie’s broom shuddered violently from side to side in her grip, while Scootaloo's bobbed up and down as if laughing.
“Um,” Dean said before fixing his own broom with a questioning gaze. “Sideswipe?” His broom remained still. “Ron, what are you going to name yours?”
“Murphy.”
“That’s just asking for it. Murphy’s an optimist,” Seamus said. “Mine’s Brown Thunder.” The others stepped away from him, holding their noses. Ignoring them, he asked, “What about you, Apple Bloom?”
“Tinder.”
“That seems kind of cruel,” Parvati said.
“It’ll keep him honest,” Apple Bloom replied.
“What’s this?” she considered the news brought before her, “Ahhhhh yes, opportunity.”
This was something she might be able to work with. However, she knew better than to take anything for granite.
Ponies were a resilient lot, and the residents of Ponyville were especially so. Being in close proximity to the Everfree Forest drew disaster like flies to honey, and the princess’s student seemed to be an open invitation to fate. The latest incident didn’t even rank at the top of the scale; it was somewhere between “rage at fate” and “lose your lunch”. The town center had returned to business as usual, with its casual, friendly atmosphere. Everypony exchanged polite greetings as they passed, and shoppers and merchants dickered, hoping to land the best prices. Lodestone napped, perched on Applejack’s back as the farmer sedately strolled with Spike and Rarity toward Carousel Boutique. The owl ignored the pronking pink pony who completed the group.
“I am ever so grateful you agreed to help,” gushed Rarity. “Goodness knows how long I would need to catch up on my own, and this morning’s activities set me back even further.
“Anything for you, Rarity,” Spike said dreamily.
“The Cakes remembered how generous you were last time they were in a jam; we’re happy to help,” added Pinkie Pie, bouncing in time with her words.
“Ah don’t rightly know how much use Ah’ll be,” Applejack said. “This frou-frou stuff ain’t exactly up my alley, but Ah’m willing to lend a hoof anyway y’all see fit.”
Silently, an unknown owl glided in and landed on Rarity’s back.
“Oh look,” Spike said. “You’ve got mail.”
“Here now,” Applejack said. “Ah’m trying to get Rainbow to stop that; don’t you start up with it.”
“Is it from Sweetie Belle?” Rarity asked, arching her neck to examine the bird on her back.
“Let’s see,” Pinkie said, bouncing closer. “Nope, it’s a small package addressed to Applejack.”
“If’n it’s a chest, Ah’m running for it,” Applejack said, coming over to relieve the owl of its burden.
At the word “chest”, several ponies who had been meandering close by perked their ears in alarm. In no time, there was a respectable clearing around the four friends. The phrase “as if by magic” would have been a good description if not for all of the earth ponies boosting their speed, making it literally by magic in some cases. The pegasi had the good sense to steer clear of the bearers, and the unicorns in the throng simply didn’t have the talent to teleport away.
“It doesn’t look like a chest,” Pinkie said as the farmpony detached the package with her teeth. “Just a normal bit-sized package wrapped in twine.”
“It’s probably just shrunk, darling,” Rarity said. “Allow me to tap it with my horn.”
Applejack placed the package on the ground and took a step backward. “Thank you kindly.”
After applying the required three taps, Rarity also stepped back and watched the package. The bundle seemed to pause and think for a second before it decided to grow, expand, elongate, and generally get bigger. Then, just because it could, it grew some more.
“Well, that’s big, whatever it is,” Spike commented, looking up at the bundle wrapped in brown paper. It had to be at least two times as tall as Big Mac. “Apple Bloom sure sent you one heck of a present.”
“That’s not a present.” Pinkie corrected, sitting on her haunches and scrutinizing the twine turned rope that held the monstrosity together.
“What makes you say that?” Rarity asked, sitting next to her. “It looks like a present to me.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t feeeeeeel like a present.” Pinkie insisted.
“And pray tell, how exactly does a present feel?” Rarity looked at her pink friend inquisitively.
“You know.” Pinkie shrugged, “All presently and such, --like a smile, not like this. This feels too businessy and pragmatical, like a delivery of flour.”
“Does it feel hungry?” Rarity questioned warily.
“I don’t know.” Pinkie shrugged again. “Open it and find out.”
“I’ll pass.” Rarity shuddered and fluffed her mane with a hoof. “Besides, it belongs to Applejack, and that would be rude.”
“Anypony got a pair o’ scissors?” Applejack called out after circling the package twice. There was a muttering of noes from the gathering crowd.
“Oooh! Oooh!” Pinkie declared, “I have a pair.” She sank her hoof into her mane and withdrew a large pair of hedge clippers.
“Why ever did you have that in your mane?” Rarity gasped.
“Don’t be silly,” Pinkie said, bouncing over to Applejack. “I’m a baker; of course I have a pair of scissors in my mane.”
“Um.” Spike whispered to Rarity, watching Pinkie hoof over the tool to Applejack. “Why exactly would a baker need a pair of scissors in her mane?”
“I don’t know,” Rarity said, “and I’m not going to ask.”
“Here goes,” Applejack called out before closing the blades on the seemingly knotless rope. After being cut, the rope yanked back and pulled itself away from the package. The thick cord twisted and turned before coiling itself up and landing right in front of Applejack.
“Huh?” Applejack said, nudging it with a hoof. “That thar is handy.” Then without another word, she grabbed the brown wrapping paper on her mouth and tugged.
“Woah!” Spike said gawking at the large pile of exposed bags. “That’s a lot of kibble.”
“There is enough there to feed every dog in Ponyville for a decade,” Rarity agreed.
“Well that is right responsible of Apple Bloom,” Applejack said taking her hat off her head. “An’ it’s one worry off mah list.”
“You were expecting this?” Mayor Mare asked, stepping forward since the trunk present alert was cancelled.
“Not exactly, but it is a welcome sight.” Applejack put her hoof in her hat and withdrew parchment and a pencil.
“Why’s that?” Mayor Mare prompted.
“It’s fer Fluffy,” Applejack answered around the pencil as she jotted a quick note.
“Fluffy?” the mayor asked, “Do I want to know?”
“Apple Bloom got herself a dog.” Applejack turned to Lodestone, who was still on her back, “‘Ere, take this to Big Mac; we’re gonna need the big wagon.”
“Well,” Mayor Mare considered, “is it likely to cause a panic?”
“Ya can bank on it,” Applejack asserted.
The mayor winced at the reply before sighing. “Thank you for the heads up.” She spun to trot back to her office.
“You know,” Pinkie commented, “this would be easier to carry if we could shrink it again.”
A dark cloud seemed to follow Oliver Wood as he trudged out to the quidditch pitch, significantly later than he had originally planned. For the entire walk from the castle, he had kept his eyes firmly locked on the ground as he wallowed in self-pity. He was therefore surprised when he looked up and saw a good portion of his house staring skyward in awe. He hurried over to the crowd and looked up himself. “Is that Scoot?”
“Yes,” Katie Belle said, “she’s been giving us a right glorious show.”
“What is she riding?”
“That would be the Widowmaker,” Angelina Johnson said.
“Aaaarrrrgh!” Oliver commented.
“Don’t make such a fuss,” Katie huffed. “I’m sure she’ll be loads better with her Nimbus. She’ll be practically unstoppable. The cup is as good as ours.”
“Aaaaaaarrrrgggghhhh!” Oliver re-emphasized.
“Oliver!” Terisa snapped at him. “Grow up! Whatever is the matter with you?”
“I just got done talking to Madam Hooch.” Oliver waved a hand in disgust in the direction of the castle. “She told me that Dumbledore has issued a lifetime quidditch ban on Scoot, and she’s not allowed on the team.”
“Aaaarrrrghhh!” quite a few of the students on the pitch echoed.
A gust of wind cleared the center of the Ponyville town square. A familiar flash of light left behind the Princess of the Sun and the Gryffindor Head of House. The ponies bowed to acknowledge both the princess and their savior before going on with their business.
“Thank you for spending the day with us,” Celestia said as she led her guest toward their destination. “You have allayed many of my concerns, and I am most pleased that my little ponies are in such capable . . . hands.”
“I am happy to be of assistance,” Minerva replied. “Though, I am most perturbed over what you are accusing Albus of. I can only think that he has lost sight of what is right in his pursuit of protecting our world. I have no idea what he was thinking and his actions are unforgivable. It is only because Fawkes has not abandoned him, that I have not lost all respect for him.”
“Normally, I would counsel words of forgiveness for such a long-standing friendship.” Celestia said in a sorrowful voice, “I too have had those I cherish lose their way. However, the deliberate mistreatment of a minor make such words empty.”
“Albus must have had a good reason for doing what he did.” Minerva shook her head. “He is not an evil man. He can be distant and forgetful of what it was like to be young, but outright cruelty and harm are not in his character. He even strongly advocates forgiveness for even the worst of us. I find it difficult to associate these actions with the man I knew.”
“The descent is often preceded by doing what one feels must be done in defiance of what is good and right. When one is responsible for many others, this truth is often amplified.” Celestia sighed.
Minerva sighed as well. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s a muggle saying,” Minerva said. “Basically what you just said only in fewer words.”
“I see.”
The two ruminated in silence for a moment before Celestia asked, “Are we in agreement that Albus Dumbledore must not have any more say in the life of Harry Potter?”
“I could not consider myself a friend of the Potters if I thought otherwise,” Minerva said. “It is to my eternal regret and shame that I had not taken action sooner.”
The two elder females resumed their silence for the remainder of the walk to the Carousel Boutique.
The oaken double doors to the study in the opulent mansion practically flew off their hinges. A young voice cried out, “Daddy! She just went into the boutique. Hurry, we need to catch her before she leaves!”
“Okay,” the still-depressed Oliver Wood said, “we may not have our star seeker, but at least we can add Apple as a reserve beater.”
“She only managed to hit a bludger once,” Katie complained. “Every other candidate has done loads better.”
“Yes, but her bludger is still buried three feet in the pitch in three pieces. With practice, she's going to be a terror on the field.”
Rainbow Dash shepherded a slightly wobbly fluorescent orange filly with a hint of green into Rarity's home and place of business. She was greeted with the sight of several ponies, a baby dragon, and a human finishing off the last of a massive backlog.
“Hello Mrs. Dash. Hello Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall said. “I do hope your time has been well spent.”
“I am sure that it was.” Rarity cantered over to examine the filly. “Have you overcome your fear of heights?”
“It's manageable.” Hermione muttered.
“Don't worry squirt,” Rainbow chimed. “A few more sessions and you'll be wondering what you were afraid of in the first place.”
“Did I say manageable?” Hermione quickly spoke up. “I meant to say that it is completely cured. No acrophobia here. Absolutely none.”
“Nice try.” Rainbow said, ruffling the filly's mane with a hoof, “but you do realize that the Element of Honesty is standing right there.”
“Howdy.” Applejack raised a hoof in acknowledgment.
“No fair.” Hermione pouted. “There should be a law against that.”
“Funny,” Applejack mused, “a whole mess o’ nobles said the exact same thing, las’ time Ah attended day court.”
“That is funny.” Pinkie said. “Last time I was at day court everypony kept saying ‘icing doesn't go there!’. I wonder if there’s a connection.”
Hermione blinked at Pinkie but said nothing.
A bell above the front door chimed, interrupting the conversation as it heralded the arrival of three new ponies.
“Hello,” called an outrageously pink unicorn. Pinkie Pie blinked as she tried to fathom the concept of somepony pinker than she.
The unicorn continued, “Sorry to bother you but a little rock told us the headmistress of a notable magic school was on the premises.”
“Yeah,” her male companion said as his knees nearly buckled under the weight of the massive sack on his back. “We have a new student for her.”
At those words, a creamy yellow unicorn filly hesitantly stepped forward and said, “Hello, my name is Clouded Hope.”
“Hello Miss Hope.” Professor McGonagall addressed the child, “I am the deputy headmistress for Hogwarts. Am I to understand you wish to attend our school?”
“Yes please,” the filly replied shyly.
“Ahem,” the pink mare said. “My name is Pink Zircon. My husband and I wish to enroll our child.”
The brown earth pony stallion gave a small heave, rolling the sack off his back. The floor trembled at the impact. There was a loud thump accompanied by the distinct clinking of coins. “We've got bits,” he proudly declared.
“Be that as it may, Mr. . . .” Minerva started.
“Standard Issue.” The stallion puffed his chest importantly. “My name is Standard Issue.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Issue, bits are not legal tender where I am from.”
“That will not be a problem,” Rarity said. “Payment can come from the girls' vault and Twilight can help work out a fair exchange rate.”
“We can get more,” Standard declared. nudging the bag.
“What my husband means to say,” Pink Zircon hurriedly interjected, “is that our daughter was unable to attend Celestia's school, and we turn to you to further her magical education.”
“She's a valuable asset,” Standard confided.
With a gasp, Pink Zircon lunged for her husband’s tail, dragging him bodily from the shop. “Thank you for your time! Please take care of our precious! We look forward too hearing from you! Get good grades dear! Oh, look at the time, we have to gallop! Ta-ta for now!”
After the door slammed shut, there came the muffled hollow sound of somepony's hoof going upside somepony else's head. “Amateur!”
“Well,” Rainbow Dash said staring at the door, “that just happened.”
“So,” Clouded Hope asked with more than a hint of desperation, “am I in?”
“I do believe we can accommodate you.” Minerva looked at the recently abandoned child. “However, you will have to work extra hard to catch up with your peers. You will be starting two weeks behind.”
“I'll do my best!” the filly cheerfully declared.
“Does this happen often?” Minerva asked as she mentally rearranged her schedule to accommodate a trip to Diagon Alley with the filly the next day.
“Nope! First for me!” Pinkie exclaimed.
“Can't say Ah've heard of anything like it,” Applejack added.
“That was exceedingly odd,” Rarity opined.
A bell above the front door chimed, interrupting the conversation as it heralded the arrival of four new ponies-- a pink mare, a brown stallion, a pink filly, and a gray filly.
“Deja vu, anypony?” Pinkie asked.
“Filthy,” Rarity greeted. “Spoiled. Welcome. I am currently closed but won't you please come in for some tea?”
“Thank you for your kind offer,” Filthy Rich said, “but we were hoping to discuss schooling with your guest here.”
Rainbow Dash sighed, “I know where Fluttershy put the extra rings Discord gave her. Let me go raid her cottage, I'll be right back.”
Minerva asked, “Are you sure you are ready to work extra hard? We’re already two weeks into the term.”
Dramatically, Diamond Tiara reared up and put a pastern on her forehead. “You have no idea what it’s like being an earth pony in a unicorn’s world. I heard the Crusaders are getting opportunities an earth pony can only dream of here.”
Silver Spoon giggled. “And you might actually get to meet this ‘Draco Malfoy’.”
Puzzled, Minerva asked, “How have you heard about him? He’s a first-year in House Slytherin.”
A greedy expression formed on the pink filly’s face as she sat up and rubbed her forehooves together. “Excellent.”