Chapter 2: Ravenclaw Reinforcements

Slytherin was not the only house to get reinforcements from other wizarding schools. One such witch was a fiery redhead, Laura Hagen. She had a heavy Irish accent but oddly enough did not go to Hogwarts, (her family did not like the “Brits” too much”) she went to Uagadou. She like, Zuriel also practiced ancient magic, hers was more druid based. She did not use a wand but knew the natural magical effect of almost anything alive, she also could form multiple patronuses, A hare, stag, elephant (manifested at Uagadou), and her most powerful Patronus an unkindness of ravens. She was a redhead but darker than Ginny and Rhonda, hers was darker but with far more angular features like a model. She also was taller and lither.

It was Laura that originally alerted Luna and told her to come back and check things out as she sensed a very powerful evil emanating from the Slytherin Manor. She also had more than one creature from the forest to inform her that everyone was in danger. Laura was someone that appeared to be very dull in class, however, not shedding her uniform until she was back at Ravenclaw. Luna had a glen made inside their tower where Laura slept. She looked more of ancient priestess from pre-roman times in her natural dress a fur bottom and a fur top with various charms of teeth and bone around her neck and Celtic symbols tattooed on hidden parts of her body.

One of the other Ravenclaw that was new was from America of all places, a woman known as Jeanine Crowley. She had the appearance of a super nerd. She would be considered a muggle of course. She might be dismissed outright if it were not for her concoctions, a mix of ancient knowledge with modern know-how, she also was not too shabby with potions although she was surprised that some here were better than her, namely, Bella and Hermione. She had a country drawl that almost made her sound like a cowboy and a look that indicated that she might be wearing a kick me sticker on her back. She rarely was put together, and if anyone was sizing up threats they would most definitely overlook her. What she lacked in chemical know how she was more than made up with ingenuity. Often coming up with magically powered automaton’s that would have put the old guardian creators in a good mood.

Last, but certainly not least was a witch that came from Mahoutokoro School of Magic, Akira Nagata. She was a type of battle mage. Her robes were gold of course and even though she wore blue accessories to denote her Ravenclaw affiliation her robe stayed most of the time, she deferred to her all-blue dress for formal functions at Hogwarts University. She possessed a samurai sword that was gold as well, although she said it was normally colored until she graduated. The spell that changed her robe’s color also changed the color of her Samurai sword. She was very beautiful and exotic, she had the attention of almost every guy on Campus and was the topic of many conversations. She took to protecting Laura at all costs when she realized the rare specimen she was, and Luna was their de-facto leader. She had respect for Harry but also one of the fellow warriors. She was training to be an Auror as well, and even though she had not been as favored with field duty as Harry she was itching to be able to go out and protect the innocent. She was quite impressed by Harry’s abilities.

The next school day between classes...

The first time Akira and Zyriel shared a corridor, there was no duel, no open threat, just the glacial grind of two tectonic egos testing the earth beneath them. Zyriel stood with her back to the sunlit windows; arms folded in that casual arrogance only a true Slytherin could conjure. Her perfect golden blonde hair was so precise it might have been cut by a goblin jeweler’s chisel. She didn’t look at Akira so much as look through her, as if evaluating the price per gram of her bones.

Akira responded in kind, pausing just long enough to render the silence uncomfortable, then bowing a razor-thin sliver of courtesy, the gesture weighted with centuries of samurai etiquette and just enough mockery to make it sting.

Zyriel’s lips curled. “I hear Mahoutokoro puts great emphasis on honor. Is it difficult, carrying that burden into a school where it’s so ... obsolete?”

Akira smiled, the way a blade smiles before it is unsheathed. “It is only difficult when one must explain its meaning to people who have none.” Her voice was even and cold like a winter stream. “But I am always willing to educate those less fortunate.”

Zyriel’s eyes narrowed, pale and predatory; she leaned forward, the air around her sharpening. “Perhaps you might lend some lessons to your friends. I’ve noticed even your headmistress is unfamiliar with how things are properly done here.”

“Perhaps,” Akira allowed, “but she is not the one who seems so desperate for validation.” Her gaze slid to Zyriel’s immaculate robes, the emerald cufflinks, the ostentatious signet on her finger. “Was the green necessary, or do you simply fear blending in with the background?”

“So clever,” Zyriel murmured, flicking an imaginary speck from her sleeve. “Yet you follow another’s lead. Curious.”

“It is only the weak who cannot recognize strength in others,” Akira parried. “Those who are secure need not always be first.”

A shadow flickered across Zyriel’s face. “If you think yourself strong,” she said, her words a caress gone wrong, “you may wish to reconsider your choice of companions. They seem ... breakable.”

Akira’s smile did not reach her eyes. “Yours, too, if you’re not careful.” She let the words settle, then inclined her head, the conversation closed ... until the next time the world forced them into collision.

During Potion Class...

Bella’s fingers danced over the scales and vials on her side of the workbench, the way a pianist might flaunt her dexterity at the keys. “Honestly, I don’t know how anyone gets by without a good grounding in chemistry,” she said, voice pitched to reach the four benches in every direction, though her gaze never left the delicate meniscus of her potion. “It’s almost ... tragic, how some people think they can just wing it with a little magical intuition. Isn’t it, Jeanine?”

Jeanine, hunched next to her like a crow to Bella’s glossy magpie, rolled her eyes with the slow, deliberate grandeur of a stage curtain closing on Act I. “Oh, totally. It’s just so tragic, Bella, how some people don’t realize every potion in this book is plagiarized from six others and then just tarted up for the syllabus.” She sniffed, and the tip of her nose turned fox-red. “But then, I guess when you’re only as good as your glassware, you have to make a show of the tools.”

Bella’s smile sharpened. “I suppose that’s why my Antivan Absorption Elixir is already at phase separation and yours is still ... emulsifying? Or whatever you Americans call it?” She didn’t look up ... she didn’t need to. Her victory, as always, was preordained.

Jeanine’s fingers, ink-stained and raw from the previous night’s tinkering, drummed an erratic tattoo against her beaker. “Yeah, well, when you’re done measuring out the universe by hundredths of a gram, let me know. Some of us prefer results that don’t taste like licking a Hefty bag soaked in battery acid.” Her lips were pursed, but there was an edge in her posture, the suggestion that she was winding herself up for something. “But I’m sure your elixir will be, like, super pretty.”

“So glad you appreciate the aesthetic,” Bella crooned, swirling her potion into a vortex of emerald and blue. “One day you’ll figure out that a little rigor is the difference between a potion and a puddle.”

Jeanine made a show of squinting at Bella’s work, then smirked. “Or maybe you’ll figure out that a little improvisation is how discoveries actually happen. But, you know, you do you, “Queen of the Cauldron.” She flicked a drop of her own mixture onto the marble, where it sizzled and left a deep purple stain, like a bruise blooming on the skin.

Around them, the class buzzed. Heads turned to watch the spectacle, the rivalry as much a part of the curriculum as the syllabus itself.

Ten minutes later, when Professor Chang asked for a demonstration, Jeanine poured her mixture into the center crucible and the concoction instantly neutralized the toxic fumes in the room: a trick nobody else had anticipated, and one that won her a rare, grudging nod from Bella herself.

The Defense of the Dark Art Class

The Hogwarts dueling chamber, most often a mausoleum for overblown hexes and adolescent grandstanding, came alive on Mondays with the kind of drama that made even the house ghosts linger in the rafters. It was the first day Professor Malfoy ... debonair, serpentine, universally loathed and begrudgingly respected ... decided to pit the top students from each House against each other in a round-robin exhibition for “advanced practical review.” The class may have been billed as Defense Against the Dark Arts, but everyone knew it was a shadowy proxy war for pride, bloodlines, and latent trauma.

In the third bout of the afternoon, Luna faced Alexandria across the length of the blackened oak floor. They bowed, as required, but Luna’s deference was a little too sincere and Alexandria’s head never quite lowered all the way ... more a gesture of teeth-bared truce than respect. The room stilled. Even the chalk dust on the ledges seemed to pause, mid-hover.

The first volley was textbook: Luna’s disarming charm, light as a feather but with a sharp, surgical snap. Alexandria parried, her counter an almost petulant flick of the wand that sent a gust of superheated air down the aisle, raising the hair on everyone’s arms. Luna absorbed it, redirected the force into a shimmering shield, and then, without so much as a second’s thought, transfigured the air above Alexandria’s head into a rain of glittering petals. Insult and injury, in one move. The petals hissed as they hit the warded floor, evaporating into the scent of parma violets and ozone.

Malfoy, from the dais, was rapt. He had the aura of a man who could drink tea while a basilisk coiled around his chair. As the crowd gasped at Luna’s showmanship, he leaned forward, voice slidely oily and unhurried: “Exquisite, Miss Lovegood. You reframe the contest to your advantage. Observe, everyone ... true magic is not force, but adaptation.” He let the words hang, surgically precise, before turning to Alexandria with a smile that could have sliced parchment. “Miss Rookwood, your shield work is uninspired. Sloppy. You rely on raw power, but brute force is a brittle crutch. If you wish to last a year in my class, you will learn elegance.”