• Published 23rd Apr 2017
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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?

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Interlude 3: No Names

The burial chamber within the tomb was damp and foreboding. No light found its way through this mound that time forgot. Tightly fitted stonework, reinforced by long forgotten magics, ensured that no living creature, no force of nature, would disturb this resting place. For centuries, the chamber lay inert, sterile. No part of nature could enter, not mice or voles, not spiders or insects, not moss or mold, not air or water, not even light. Nothing, it seemed, would disturb the meager contents, a plain stone box -- a sarcophagus -- a coffin -- buried in the sands of time.

The chamber had been the ultimate expression of teamwork and sacrifice. Many benders of spirit had given their last breaths to see it completed. Many adepts of the flames had made pyres of their very bones to kindle the barest spark of success. Many benders of the waves had given the last drops of their very blood to power this achievement. There had been no coercion; that would have tainted the very soul of the effort. All that was given had been given freely, given to protect their families, given to protect those families yet to come.

Centuries earlier, the labor had ended when a lone male lay, willing, in the stone box and watched as the lid was painstakingly lowered into place. Naked he lay, shivering, with only his breath to keep him company until the magic stole even that away. He had no bitterness toward those who had sealed him in. He had volunteered. This was his opportunity to protect others, so that none might know his pain. The people of the tyrant had come in the night to snatch his daughter from her bedding. He had been forced to watch his only child, not yet seven summers old, sacrificed upon the altar of the tyrant.

Years had passed, and the tyrant’s power had grown to make him nigh-invincible. By some miracle, an opportunity had arisen, and the bloodthirsty overlord was laid low. Three score warriors had given their lives to see the act done; their only regret was not having the opportunity sooner.

Yet, the fear that the tyrant would one day return consumed the minds of the elders.

A plan was made.

A tomb was built.

Magics were cast.

He was not a zombie, mindlessly consuming flesh.

He was not a vampire, bleeding others so that he may exist.

He was not a lich, drunk on power.

He was not alive.

He was not dead.

Finally, what was feared came to be. After centuries of limbo, he felt the tyrant’s power surge.

From the families of the children sacrificed came the willpower that infused his arms with the strength needed to remove the massive stone lid.

The amassed unconditional love for their offspring gave him the power to rise from where he lay.

The resolve to never let it happen again lent urgency as he swung his legs over the edge.

Within a long-forgotten tomb, something stirred where nothing ever moved.

From within, the tomb was blown asunder.

Vengeance walked.


In a dusty storage room, somewhere in a respectable museum, sat a box. It contained a curious artifact, the purpose of which had never been divined. The fact that it was made of gold and gems had categorized it as art, albeit art that was atypical for the region and timeframe of its creation. Too valuable to dispose of and too abnormal to display, it sat in storage, seeing the light of day only when curious academics unearthed it to marvel at its uniqueness.

If one of those gawkers had been attuned to magic, they would have noticed that it resonated in the ambient field. Instead, they laughed at the absurdity of the object.

In a dusty storage room, somewhere in a respectable museum, an artifact's precious stones started flashing in sequence.

Notification went unnoticed.


The arid air in the tavern greedily guzzled the sweat from the unwashed masses. With the coming of dusk, the nearly unbearable heat of day began to flee into the night sky. Patrons filled the establishment, enjoying the company of friends, while avoiding a corner table where a lone man sat. The large individual almost looked comical, slumped in the chair he had claimed. There was nothing jovial about the aura of menace he radiated. The empty mugs on the table before him gave mute testimony to his desire to be left alone.

The hefty British wizard was discontent with his current lot in life. All of his current possessions resided in a shrunken chest in his shirt pocket. His elf had been denied access to his vault. Then, to add insult to injury, his elf had been blocked in its task to retrieve the contents of his home.

Mere survival was not an issue; his cunning alone could keep him alive indefinitely. Sadly, he couldn’t just take what he needed from the local muggle population. The wizards of this country took offense at the very concept. He couldn’t take the risk of being banished beyond its borders, or worse, returned to his homeland. It limited his options. He would have to hunt the regional wildlife to make ends meet.

It was degrading; no pureblood should be reduced to such a lifestyle.

With an unsteady hand, he reached for the mug still containing the awful brown swill. It had, mercifully, lost its flavor several rounds ago.

His homeland had been ripped from him abruptly. His comfortable life had become a thing of the past, in the blink of an eye. It was beyond nauseating. Misbegotten fools now controlled the justice system, and they wanted to hold him accountable for indulging in his privileges.

The very thought made him sick to his stomach, the bile souring its already volatile contents.

With any luck, a few more mugs would be all he needed to forget the world for a while.

Barely able to comprehend the significance, he became aware of another man taking a seat at his table, across from him. He snarled at the trespasser.

The invader merely guffawed at the paltry gesture, folding his hands in his lap. “I thought I might find you here,” he said.

“There’s no extradition treaty.” The drunk stated the obvious, taking another swig of his swill.

The effete newcomer nodded his head in agreement; the purple turban he wore made the gesture look lopsided. “Our master has a task for you.”

In an unnamed tavern, somewhere in Egypt, the British wizard glared at the fool daring to speak for the master.

Hatred plotted.


In a local police station, ponies grimly started an investigation.

They had to contact every station in the land.

They had to converse with the law enforcement of other countries.

They had to have a tally of all missing bovines in the last five years.

They had to open every cold case.

They had to determine who was missing.

They had to stop it.

This was no bull; they had to protect the milk providers.

How could this have gone unnoticed?

How could such an abomination trot freely among them?

In a local police station, they prepared for the worst.

Panic prevailed.


With glee, he reread the post. Whoever wrote it needed to learn the concept of proofreading. However, the message was clear. Someone had added a new piece to the puzzle.

If there were any truth to the message, there was a new avenue of research to be explored.

It seemed too convenient.

It could be a trap.

He didn’t bother writing a letter to himself.

They checked for those things.

Instead, he set his computer to present certain files the next time it was booted.

They had no clue about computers.

This wouldn’t be the first time he had an encounter with the bastards who had no respect for other people’s memories.

Of course, he didn’t remember those encounters, but he knew they numbered five.

He sent emails to his friends and contacts, letting them know what he planned.

Then, he readied his camera for tomorrow.

In a middle-class bedroom, somewhere not far from London . . .

Curiosity prepared.


A group sat around a large table and made plans.

They had never dreamed they would have the opportunity that had presented itself.

In a single day, they had become the largest single faction in the Wizengamot.

There was so much injustice to redress.

There were so many wrongs to right.

The task seemed almost daunting.

They knew the opposition would do everything possible to maintain its stranglehold on the reins of power.

They knew the opposition considered the law something that happened to other people.

However, they had a toehold. That’s all they needed.

The most pessimistic among them predicted that blood would flow.

The most optimistic among them worried over increasing security.

They had not trusted the former government to keep them safe.

Now they were the government; they would keep people safe.

They knew the opposition’s next move was practically written in stone.

They had seen the pattern and had been powerless to stop it.

Now power had been dropped in their laps.

Around a large table, they sat and plotted.

Change lurked.


He had done what he could for his wounds, transforming back to his natural form long enough to use his master’s wand. Regrettably, healing was not something he had put much effort into learning. At least he had stopped the bleeding.

It was only a matter of time before he ended up as a meal for some monstrosity.

Strangely, he didn’t find the concept as disturbing as he thought he should.

It must be the blood loss.

He was aware of the forest ending.

He struggled to make his way into the light.

The moon was bright.

At least he wouldn’t die in those hideous woods.

Weakly, he dragged himself out from under the canopy.

His paws were trembling.

His heartbeat slowed.

Looking up, he saw a white rabbit.

What a beautiful rabbit.

Was it an angel?

He didn’t deserve an angel.

Darkness claimed him, despite the radiance of the harvest moon.

Somewhere, at the edge of an unknown forest, a rabbit sped away.

Deceit despaired.


Bedecked in her customary pink, she sipped the tea provided for her, waving a pudgy pinkie.

“We can’t let this happen,” she said to her host.

He grimaced, looking at the tea in his own cup. “They control the Wizengamot,” he lamented.

“We can’t let them take control,” the woman insisted.

“They already have it,” he countered.

“Are we to just sulk away like a whipped puppy?” she scoffed. “Are we to abandon generations of tradition?”

“What are we to do then?” he snarled. “They have the law on their side.”

“There are other ways,” she assured him.

“Such talk borders on treason,” he cautioned.

“We are talking about the wellbeing of the magical community,” she responded. “We cannot let the law stand in the way.”

“It is ironic to hear you say that, considering how many times you used the law to further your own ends.”

“We must stand resolute in our commitments,” she said.

“What exactly do you have planned?” he asked.

In the sitting room of a pureblood’s manor, she smiled.

Bigotry regrouped.


Two once separated by misery, misfortune, and malfeasance now came together.

There had been crying.

There had been hugging.

There had been apologizes.

There had been no accusations.

There had been forgiveness.

There had been vows of support.

There had been no need for words.

There had been a realignment of priorities.

In a hospital room, bonds were reforged, renewed, and reinforced.

Friendship was magic.

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