• Published 23rd Apr 2017
  • 15,034 Views, 7,156 Comments

Magic School Days - Dogger807

When the CMC asked Discord to help them attend magic school, he pulled an owl out of his hat. Only he didn't exactly have a hat. Which was okay, since their new school had a singing one laying around. Where the hay was Hogwarts anyway?

  • ...

PreviousChapters Next
Interlude 2: Homecoming

Lounging in a comfortable gingham duster as she shifted about on a well-loved easy chair, Emily Smith indulged in her morning ritual of reading the newspaper. The years had been generous to her, and life had generally been kind. Having just recently celebrated her sixtieth birthday, she could honestly say she had been one of the lucky ones. Financially, she was well off; her large, six-bedroom house attested to that. More importantly, she had family. Her nine-year-old granddaughter was even now sprawled out on the carpeted floor, watching some cartoon or other on the telly. True, the girl’s mother, Emily’s own daughter, had yet to rise for the day, but that was hardly a concern.

In the other room, Emily’s own mother, Olivia, was puttering around on her computer. The eighty-year-old woman had ignored the stereotype stating that elders could not fathom new technologies. It was safe to say that both Emily’s mother and granddaughter knew more about the blasted machines than she did herself.

Surprisingly, it was the computers that were the source of what little tension there was in the household. Olivia had found BBS and IRC channels online claiming that magic was real. As long as she could remember, Emily had listened to her mother insist that magic was real; with the discovery of likeminded individuals, Olivia's certainty only intensified. This would not have been a problem, except that Olivia had been teaching her great-granddaughter, Amy. Suddenly, all those strange situations that couldn’t be explained were labeled "accidental magic", and the young girl was anticipating a letter of acceptance to a magic school when she turned eleven, a letter delivered by owls, no less. Seriously, she expected an owl.

So, except for the small issue of magic, Emily had four generations of her beloved family living peacefully under the same roof. The sad fact was that they were her only remaining family. Her father was long gone, and her own husband had followed not four years ago. Infuriatingly, her daughter had never married and had produced Amy out of wedlock. Luckily, this did not have the same stigma that it had carried in the time of Emily’s own youth.

As she sat there, watching her granddaughter and contemplating the extent of her family, the doorbell chimed.

“I got it!” Amy leapt from her spot before the telly and rocketed toward the front door. Despite being told dozens of times to wait for her elders before answering the door, the little girl still dearly loved to be there first when it opened. Emily had arranged for the handyman to install a swing bar door guard as safety measure. That had lasted all of two minutes against a four-year-old Amy and a broomstick, but, still, it did slow her down.

Emily arrived just as Amy was yanking open the door to see who it was.

“Amy!” Emily scolded as she hurried to her granddaughter’s side. “How many times have you been told not to do that. What if it’s strangers waiting to snatch little girls just waiting on the other side of that door?!”

She had been half right; there were two strangers on the other side of the door. Neither looked like they could snatch little girls, though. The first was a small man; Emily saw that he suffered from dwarfism. The other was a girl, a young teen by the looks of her. The girl looked strikingly familiar, though Emily could not quite put a name to that face.

“Yes?” Emily said, acknowledging the callers with a pleasant smile.

“Good morning,” the little man said in a tone that, though cheerful, left little doubt that this was serious business. “My name is Professor Flitwick, and I apologize for bothering you so early in the morning, but does Olivia Warren still reside here?”

Scrunching her nose, Amy called out, “Granny! You’ve got visitors!” before Emily could formulate a reply to the question.

Sighing at her granddaughter, Emily invited the two into the foyer, unwilling to make them wait outside. This was something her daughter would have highly disapproved of, but Emily refused to be rude just for the illusion of greater safety.

Emily observed the two as she waited for her mother to put in an appearance. The small professor, who seemed to be a caricature of a teacher miniaturized, stood calmly, waiting with a worried expression on his face. The girl, on the other hand, fidgeted and looked around as if trying to take in every detail. Emily was sure she even inhaled deeply several times as if to take in the scent of her surroundings. The feeling that she should know the girl only grew, and Emily realized that the stranger looked a lot like her own daughter had at that age. Had her late husband fathered a bastard? Was she going to stuck with a symbol of his infidelity, young enough to be her granddaughter?

“Yes, Emily? Who is it?” Olivia finally put in her appearance, drawing Emily out of her musings.

In response, Emily gestured toward their guests, waiting for them to say their piece.

Upon seeing the two standing in the foyer, Olivia’s hands flew to cover her mouth, and she let out a startled gasp.

The girl’s eyes widened at the sight of Olivia, and she said, of all things, “You're still alive?”

“Myrtle?” Olivia said in a voice full of hope, a voice full of longing, a voice full of denial.

Emily turned to see if her daughter had decided to come see who was at the door and caught the image of the girl nodding in her peripheral vision.

With a sob, Olivia belied her age and rushed forward to kneel and hug the girl. “How? How?” Her voice trembled. “They told me you were dead.”

“I was,” the girl said, tears streaming from her own eyes. “I got better.”


What had happened? He still wasn’t sure what had happened.

There had been a rushing sensation, like he was hurtling through space and time. Then . . . then there was nothing, no sound, no sight. There weren’t even any feelings.

He was alone in the nothing.

Alone with his thoughts.

How he did not go crazy, he didn’t know.

All he could do was wait.

So, he waited.

Slowly, over time, he became aware of the warmth. Yes, that’s what it was, warmth.

So, he waited in his warmth.

Time passed and he found his thumb.

He sat in the warmth, sucked his thumb, and waited.

Yet more time passed; he grew bored, so he kicked. He had legs. His kicks met with resistance, though he could neither see nor comprehend what that resistance might be.

So, he sat in his warmth, sucked his thumb, and occasionally kicked as he waited. Was that music?

Then came the great trauma, trauma unlike any he could recall. There was a lot of squeezing involved, and he lost his warmth.

Perturbed by the loss, he screamed. He heard himself scream. It didn’t sound like what he remembered of his voice.

Light had returned as well, if not full sight. He saw towering blobs and heard voices. He heard words.

He tried to call to the voices, to let them know he was there, but only more screams came out.

He heard a voice say, “Congratulations, it’s a boy.”

There was movement, and his lost warmth was replaced by another.

“Have you thought of a name?” the same voice asked.

Then he heard her clearly for the first time. “We had been leaning toward William, but now I can see he’s more of a Nicholas.”

Yes! Yes, that’s right! Nicholas was his name!

The folds of sleep began to engulf him. They didn’t matter. He had possibilities. Possibilities he’d face with his head firmly attached.


“You can’t honestly expect us to believe that this girl is my long-dead aunt.” Emily’s daughter had awakened to find her family and a pair of strangers in the living room having what, at first, appeared to be a serious conversation.

“If I were in your position, I wouldn’t believe it either,” the small man claiming to be a professor agreed. “This situation has never happened before, and we are in new territory.”

“And yet, you still decided to turn up at our doorstep with these outlandish claims.”

“How could we not notify her family about her resurrection?” Flitwick shrugged his shoulders. “It would be rather callous to send this kind of news by owl.”

“By owl?!” Emily’s daughter’s voice rose a few octaves. “You're one of those crazies going on about how magic is real. I suppose you’ll be telling my daughter she’ll be going to magic school just like Gran does.”

“Oh?” Flitwick gave the woman a questioning look. “Has she been displaying accidental magic?”

“Don’t you start with that too!”

Flitwick looked at the woman then shifted his gaze to the couch where the girl was getting acquainted with Olivia and Amy. He produced a wand and swished it skillfully, and suddenly, a clear ball appeared in the air in front of the wand.

Emily’s daughter sat back in alarm at the unforeseen arrival and failed to say anything as the man waved his wand to send the ball floating over to her daughter.

Amy saw the ball and cooed excitedly as she reached out and grabbed it. At her touch, the ball turned a deep blue and started glowing softly.

With a satisfied grin, Flitwick turned back to the woman and said, “Yes, I do believe she will be receiving a Hogwarts letter when she turns eleven, Miss. I’m sorry, I don’t seem to have gotten your name.”

“Myrtle,” Emily’s daughter said as she watched her child play with the conjured sphere. “My name is Myrtle.”

Well, that was awkward.


The cavern was large and well-lit. The trappings of wealth were on display for all to see, denoting the importance of those in the chamber. Around a stone table, a number of goblins sat and contemplated the report just read to them by one of their number.

“How many are no longer in our control?” one asked.

“Seven were sold, even though they were only placed up for sale recently. Had we known, they would not have been offered for general sale.”

“Also, the original owners have ten more in their primary vault,” another goblin hastily interjected.

“That leaves us with just five.”

“See if you can repurchase the ones already sold,” the first goblin commanded. “Persuade the original owners to sell us their remaining hoard.”

“They have set another as their contact.”

“Persuade him or her.”

“What if they have more that we aren’t aware of?”

“There can’t be too many like this; we would have heard of them before.”

“I want every one of them under goblin control.”

“It could start another war.”

“That it could.”


She sat on her throne and read the paperwork floating before her.

“Everything seems to be in order,” she said, levitating the bundle of paper to her aide. “Please see to it that I’m listed as one of her references, and let the committee know that a speedy resolution would be appreciated."

The aide bowed as he retreated from the room to carry out the request. Normally, adoptions took years to complete, even for the most influential of ponies. The ponies on the acceptance committee were notorious about dragging their hooves; they seemed to think that a slow process benefited both the anxious prospective parents and the impatient children they would be trying to adopt.

However, when a princess asks to be one of the references, it was the same as saying, "Sign here and don’t ask questions.” Though the princess would never have used those words, the effect was the same.

The aide smirked happily as he went to light a fire under some very bureaucratic ponies.


The Altar to Morning failed to bring its normal comfort as Emma took the carafe from its place of honor and poured herself a cup of coffee. She sighed as she reread the letter for the umpteenth time. Her daughter had had her memory altered, willingly, if the letter she had received was anything to go by. Hermione had said that she remembered being happy to receive the mind wipe, she had remembered going to get it, but she didn’t remember what it was that had been removed. If Emma had not also received a letter from the school nurse explaining what had been removed, she would have stormed the castle demanding the return of her daughter.

The casualness they talked about removing her daughter’s memories with was disturbing. The fact that her daughter was part of a group that brought a ghost back to life was even more so. She hadn’t been at the school a week, and she had already been taught how to raise the dead. What was next? Zombies? Vampires?

She would have to write the school; a request for her daughter to be excluded from any rites pertaining to the undead was in order. Shamefully, in none of the information packets was the art of necromancy ever mentioned. It wasn’t even hinted at.

On the other hand, her daughter seemed to be making friends. That almost made up for the whole fooling around with the deceased kick she seemed to be on. Hermione had never made friends easily; to hear that she had several and that one had both a phoenix and a unicorn was music to Emma’s ears. Emma was more than willing to let her daughter get into trouble if she was making friends in the process. Hermione had always been too attached to rules and following orders. While nice from a parenting prospective, this could lead to a harsh awaking once she realized that those in power did not always deserve that power.

Sighing, Emma put down the letters and went to make sure her husband was getting ready for work. Dan had been known to fall back asleep after being awakened the first time.


The scent of tallow from the lone candle burning in her tidy study did nothing to ease her sour mood.

She was ruined.

With that mudblood’s lack of rightful respect, she had been ruined.

Ten percent of her total worth was bad enough, but with Fudge out of office, she was as good as out of a job.

With Fudge being dismissed in the manner he had been, it was very likely she could not expect to be moved to a position as cushy or influential as the one she currently held.

It was all that mudblood’s fault.

Generations of righteous governing by purebloods had been upset in a day by that selfish bitch. Now, the Wizengamot had seated members of the worst kind of lineage. It would be the ruination of wizarding kind.

It was all that mudblood’s fault.

All those poor children who had lost a parent yesterday could lay the blame at the feet of one woman, a woman who could not see her rightful place.

It was all that mudblood’s fault.

And the money! The tramp had robbed ancient families of their entire worth, distributing her ill-gotten gains amongst the so-called victims of nonexistent crimes.

It was all that mudblood’s fault.

Didn’t she realize that everything that had been done had been in the best interest of Magical Britain? Did she really think that her group of magic-stealing mutts would be allowed to casually waltz in and take over? Didn’t she realize she had a fight on her hands?

It was all that mudblood’s fault.

Sneering, she took up a parchment and started writing down a list of like-minded individuals she would need to contact. The reins would not be surrendered so easily; the tramp would pay!

Under the undue pressure being forced upon it, the quill in her hand snapped in half.

It was all that mudblood’s fault!

Join our Patreon to remove these adverts!
PreviousChapters Next
Join our Patreon to remove these adverts!