Chapter 48: Hammer Down
Blaise ZabiniHogwarts Express, King’s Cross Station
They changed the wallpaper again; that was the first thing I noticed. I couldn’t be bothered to remember what it was at the start of the winter holidays, but it definitely wasn’t a scene of flying monkeys carpet-bombing a beach with explosive bananas. Their opponents? An army of hermit crabs that seemed to be launching an amphibious counterattack.
Yes, the wallpaper moved. The perspective zoomed in and out in sweeping, panoramic shots as if it was a war documentary. The hermit crabs, led by their octopus commander, were putting forth a valiant effort, but the monkey battalion’s air supremacy could not be denied.
That gave me ideas. One day, I’d have to find whoever decorated the Hogwarts Express. We had a solid seven hours between King’s Cross and Hogsmeade; it sounded like a wonderful way to introduce as-of-yet unreleased anime to Hogwarts students. Or maybe have the whole train play Saving Private Ryan in the background, give the wizard kids something worth watching.
I shook my head free of intrusive thoughts and claimed a compartment towards the back of the train. I was looking forward to a nice, quiet train ride. After all, there was no Violet to bicker with Lyra, no Parvati to talk my ear off about fashion or divination requests, and no Padma to drag me into a pre-term emergency study group.
Now that I thought about it, I realized I was woefully lacking in the way of male friends. It hadn’t been intentional… mostly. I’d sought out Violet because she was the Chosen One and the twins ended up being a package deal. Having spent so long away from them, I did find myself missing their company somewhat.
At this point, I’d largely given up on forming friendships in my own house. Everything I loved about Slytherin–the verbal jousting and constant competition–was also what kept me from forming genuine relationships. Not to mention, there was my mental age, general introversion, and intention to help murder their dark lord to consider.
Shrugging, I settled in to read. I was going over a list of exotic blacksmiths in Western Europe. Turned out, finding a smith who could convert my cane into a hidden sword wasn’t difficult, even muggles could do it. The hard part was sourcing goblin silver, that mythical metal that absorbed the properties of anything it cut and adapted to even basilisk venom.
I could do it easily enough, truth be told. I had a thermos full of unicorn blood, willingly given. It was the kind of inconceivably rare reagent that even a goblin chief would pay through the nose for. There was more than enough to grease the wheels and commission a blade.
Alas, I was loath to part with even a part of my stash simply so I could acquire a fancy letter opener. So for now, at least until I’d exhausted all options or found a sufficiently talented enchanter I admired, I was stuck with researching things the old-fashioned way.
I was about two hours through the train ride when my compartment door cracked open. Clara Warren, president of the Hogwarts art club, poked her head in. She saw me and slammed the door fully open as she stormed inside.
“You! Zabini!” she declared my name as if I’d kicked her dog. Her face glowed as red as her hair and I knew my jig was up. Clearly, someone had a rather enlightening winter break.
Still, I composed myself and arched a brow in response. “Yes, club president? How can I help you? I hope your winter holiday has been as relaxing as mine.”
“I-You-The paintings-Argh!!!”
I watched with mounting amusement as she tried to form the words. Her hands made little, grasping motions as they subconsciously gravitated towards my throat. I thought that was exclusively a Homer Simpson thing.
Behind her, I spotted a short, petite brunette. Much like her taller friend, she was also dressed in Ravenclaw colors. Her face was also red, though for the exact opposite reason. Her shoulders trembled with mirth and I could see her doing her best not to burst out laughing.
“Ah, I take it you learned about Warhammer, then?” I drawled with a shit-eating grin. “Fascinating series, isn’t it? Please, come inside. I’d love to talk about it with someone who gets the references I’ve been making all semester.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Clara whispered. “Monica, I’m going to commit murder today.”
The shorter girl, presumably Monica, laughed and nudged her friend inside. “Hehe, he got you good, Clara.”
“Shut it, whose side are you on?”
“There are no sides in a proper prank war,” she said with a zen smile. “There is only the simple pleasure of causing untold frustration for your friends.”
“God, I forgot how much of a bloody pixie you can be. Maybe a month off from school really is too long,” Clara groaned. Despite her grumbling, she tossed her luggage onto the rack and helped her tiny friend do the same. She then shoved a shipping tube into my hand, no doubt filled with my rolled up paintings. “Here. These are yours. I never want to see them again.”
I took the tube and closed the book I’d been reading. “So, how’d you find out?”
“Wait, wat-wait-wait,” Monica said. She eyed me with a faux-suspicious glare. “Hold up. First things first, what do you know exactly?”
“Warhammer is a science fiction, tabletop role-playing game set in the thirtieth through the fortieth millenniums. There is also quite a sizable collection of fictional works known as the Black Library, unrelated to House Black, of course. Everything from the servitors to the Fabricator General of Mars is fake. I’ve been scrying images to paint just to fuck with everyone, and Warren in particular.”
“Hah, that’s hilarious. Okay, so you do know everything. Why? How did this even start? What did poor Clara ever do to deserve this?”
“She tried to turn my prank back on me,” I said defensively. If anyone asked, I wasn’t pouting. “I made that Terminator picture once and thought I’d get a good laugh for a day or two. Then, she comes back with–”
“Oh… Oh! That’s how this started!” Monica howled laughing. “So it’s all my fault? Hahahaha!”
“Ah, so pretending the Terminator was an urban myth and not a movie was your idea,” I said, nodding respectfully at her sheer gumption. “I figured someone else had to be involved, Warren isn’t the type, but I couldn’t recall if I ever bothered to scry you out.”
“Yup! Oh, Merlin, that’s hilarious. And rather than let the joke die, you just played into the frightened pureblood angle and kept ‘dreaming’ more horrible mechanical monstrosities until even Clara started to second-guess herself.”
“That about sums it up. I then gave Warren everything I made over the semester and let her run her own investigation in the muggle world.”
“Wait, what would you have done if I hadn’t found anything?” Clara interrupted. “Were you going to keep making stupid paintings ‘til I graduate?”
I shrugged. “I mean, sure, why not? I’m sure I’d have stopped eventually… when it stopped being funny.”
Monica stood and held out a hand towards me. She really was tiny, a real pixie of a girl despite presumably being in Clara’s year. “Monica Harrington. Respect. Well played, seer.”
I took her hand with a solemn nod of my own. “Game recognizes game.”
“God, I hate you both,” Clara moaned. She had her head in her hands. Her shoulders shook, though whether from sobbing or giggling hysterically, I couldn’t tell. “People will remember me as the girl who let you two monsters meet.”
“Come on, we’re not that bad,” Monica said, putting an arm around her redheaded friend.
“Do you have any idea how much time you made me waste? And I looked like a bloody moron in front of my muggle cousins!” she said, finger jabbed in my direction accusingly.
“In my defense,” I began.
“What?”
“Ah… Nah, I got nothing. It’s still funny and I regret nothing.”
“I’m going to hex you.”
“I’m going to tell Professor Flitwick two sixth years are bullying me, a poor, defenseless firstie.”
“You’re so full of shit,” she grumbled. Then, more calmly, “Say, speaking of firsties, where are all your other baby snakes?”
I shrugged and pulled out a sandwich. It was about lunchtime and Pookey’s food was better than anything from the trolley. “I don’t know. It seems I’ve been abandoned by my yearmates.”
“Wait, really? I would’ve thought you’d be popular. You know, the king snake.”
“Any snake with the ‘king’ epithet is called that because its diet is made predominantly of other snakes.”
“So? If the shoe fits.”
“I don’t exploit other Slytherins. At least, not any more than they do each other,” I defended my not-so-good name. “I can think of three possible reasons I’ve been left alone.”
“And what’s that?” Monica asked curiously.
“One likely reason is that they saw you two, decided I was plotting something, and also decided they wanted no part in it.”
“Just like that? I mean, we’re not exactly friends, but still. What kind of reputation do you have?”
“Either that, or they think you’re purchasing information from me and are leaving me to conduct my business in peace. For example, I could sell you the answers for any NEWT-level exam, even if I don’t understand exactly how to get to those answers.”
“Nope. Nu-uh. Nein,” Monica said, arms crossed in a big “X” over her face. “We don’t cheat. Besides, it’ll be super obvious if our grades improve right after meeting you. We weren’t exactly quiet about coming to see you.”
“True. The third possibility is that Nott or Malfoy are making a power play. It’s probably Malfoy. She really buys into the Slytherin dynamics and is exactly the kind of person who’d think the train ride is a good chance to establish herself for the rest of the year.”
Clara and Monica looked at each other. As if telepathically linked, they made two, simultaneous gagging noises.
“That’s gross. That’s gross and I’m done,” Clara declared, standing. “I don’t know how you Slytherins live with yourselves with all this scheming and backroom deals going on.”
Monica joined her friend and stuck her tongue out at me. “Well, Clara got to whine about Warhammer to you so we’re satisfied. We’ll leave you to your snakey scheming. Oh, and we’re leaving our luggage up there. Don’t let anyone mess with it.”
“I’ve been deputized as a guard dog… joy,” I deadpanned.
“Guard snake. Dogs are cute and don’t scheme about world domination or whatever.”
“Of course. Go ahead, the house elves take everything up to the castle, anyway.”
I chuckled as they closed the door behind them. Truly, I’d grossed out two older girls. My teenage boy ego would never recover.
As funny as the prank was, I was happy with leaving things here. It had mostly run its course and I wanted to paint other things. Or maybe I’d paint Fabius Bile, except with Clara in the know this time. She’d probably get a kick out of that.
X
The welcoming feast was just as grand as the one at the start of the school year. If anything, the food seemed even more extravagant, with a number of dishes foreign to the average British wizard’s table. There were plates piled high with garlic naan, bowls full of butter chicken, and gravy boats filled with golden curry alongside the usual fare of roasts, meat pies, and mashed potatoes. The elves had discovered British-Indian fusion food.
Alas, as delightful as the food was, there was a certain degree of feast-fatigue. With Christmas and New Years so recently past, the welcoming feast didn’t seem as exciting. Still, Padma and Parvati were having fun explaining the new additions to their friends.
At the Slytherin table, I met up with the rest of the first years. I sat at the far corner of the dining table, next to Theo and across from Daphne, Tracey, and Alice Runcorn. A little ways away were Lyra, Millicent, Heath, Vincent, and Gregory.
That split us first years neatly in half, five to five. I could see the way the wind was shifting. Whether I considered myself a part of the house’s politics or not, it was starting to look like I’d get dragged into their competition regardless.
I ignored the smug looks Lyra sent us, Daphne and I especially. “So, how was break, Nott? Since the gala, I mean.”
“Not bad, but nothing fascinating, either. Father had me read over some of the legislation being proposed in the Wizengamot,” he said with feigned nonchalance. Everyone could tell he was in a sullen mood, though.
He’d just been forcibly reminded that his hanger-ons, Vincent and Gregory, weren’t really his. It was yet another example of real-world politics and alliances bleeding into the house. The boys’ parents followed Lord Malfoy so they had explicit orders to follow his daughter. It just so happened that until now, Lyra considered them ugly, smelly, and stupid.
Which begged the question: Why now? Odds were good that she’d simply gotten sick of losing the private suite to Daphne. Or maybe she just wanted more mooks to boss around. Possibly a bit of both. Given how things usually played out, it was a tossup as to whether Theo would swallow his pride and join her side or try the lone wolf schtick like me.
I cut my butter chicken thigh into pieces and stacked it high on a piece of toast. I ladled on some more sauce and sweet, cheesy corn and made myself a sort of open-faced sandwich. It was delicious, and far too messy to be good manners.
“Can’t you eat like a normal person, Zabini?” Daphne criticized, nose turned up at the sauce dripping from my fingers.
“I am. Most people eat like this. You’re the one who’s too stiff, Greengrass,” I said, grinning. “But why would your dad make you read laws that haven’t even been passed yet, Nott?”
“He made me draft edits,” Theo said between far more measured bites. “With Lord Black’s return, lots of people are trying to get the measure of him. Father wanted me to suggest edits that don’t change the core of our agenda, but might be more palatable to a blood-traitor like Lord Black.”
“Sounds complicated, but how do you know he’s still a blood-traitor? He could have had a change of heart. I’ve been told Azkaban has a way of inspiring such.”
“People saw him ride off in one of those muggle deathtraps. You know, the one with two wheels and sounds like a troll choking to death.”
“A motorcycle, Nott,” I said dryly. “If nothing else, the seats are more comfortable than a broomstick digging into your crotch.”
“Whatever. Careful, Zabini, or you’ll be called a blood-traitor, too. Older students are whispering as it is. Potter’s one thing, but people are saying you spent the train ride with that mudblood Ravenclaw.”
“Warren, yes. She’s the president of the art club, you know, the only club I bothered to attend semi-regularly. We talked about a little prank I’ve been pulling last semester, that’s all.”
“Maybe, but she’s still a mudblood. I don’t have to be a seer to know getting too close is a bad idea. Why not something more respectable than art, anyway? Dueling? Broom racing? Wizard’s chess?”
“Too public. I hate heights. Too easy. Thanks, though, Nott. I do appreciate the consideration. You’re putting far more thought into this than I am.”
“Must be nice, not having to care,” he grumbled.
“It is. Mother says people have value, both in how they can be used, and what associating with them might cost. She is right, of course.”
“And Warren is worth the cost? Potter, I get, but Warren?”
“No, she’s not,” I agreed. It was harsh, but true. She had worth as a sixth year Ravenclaw, someone with respectable knowledge and access to the muggle world, but there were other, less expensive options. “She sought me out, not the other way around. She realized I’d been messing with her all semester and wanted to vent.”
Daphne eyed me judgingly at that. “The metal inferi. That’s what you’re talking about, aren’t you? You didn’t really have visions about them.”
“Of course I did. How could I have painted them otherwise?” I asked guilelessly. “Anyway, how was your break, Greengrass? I don’t remember seeing you at the Longbottom gala.”
“She was there,” Theo said. “You were just too busy getting to know your new in-laws.”
“Ah, I see the rumors have made their rounds already.”
“They have. So, when’s the wedding?”
“First day of spring. It’s weird, having a grandniece who’s the same age as I am.”
“Any plans for her? Moon, in Gryffindor, right?”
I leveled the boy with a stern glower. “I don’t. For that matter, I expect everyone to leave her be as well.”
“Protecting someone?” Daphne asked in mild surprise. “That’s not like you.”
“Let’s just say I’d like to keep things cordial until the wedding, hmm?”
“Reasonable. And if you must know, my winter break was quiet. Astoria enjoyed the painting I made for her. Father took me along on a business trip to Norway for a week.”
I listened and chimed in occasionally as Daphne told us about her trip.
Her father, Lord Maximillion Greengrass, had important business partners there. Like any legacy fatcat, he was making a point of showing off his heiress to his business connections now that she was old enough. It was her good fortune that magical betrothal contracts were largely considered old-fashioned, even by purebloods.
Tellingly, only she’d been permitted to go. Tracey, despite being her cousin, was a half-blood. I didn’t know what Lord Greengrass felt about his niece, but she was, at least officially, a disgrace to the house, made tolerable only in that she did not bear the family name.
Astoria was more complicated. She was only two years younger than Daphne, but the family’s infamous blood malediction expressed itself most strongly in her. She was a sickly, frail girl by all accounts, a child to be sheltered and protected, not a chess piece to be introduced to peers.
It made me wonder what my unicorn blood could do for her. Theoretically, if there was any curative that could purify such a powerful blood curse, this was it. I was loath to use it simply for the purchase of a sword, but I wasn’t so cruel as to think giving it to a terminally ill little girl would be a waste.
It was something to consider, especially as I researched more into the subject. I had time. I didn’t know when Astoria died in canon, but she did graduate from Hogwarts, at least.
“We largely import expensive reagents from our partners in Norway,” Daphne continued primly, “such as Norwegian ridgeback scales and heartstrings or coruscant cuttlefish ink and blood.”
“Oh? What is a coruscant cuttlefish?” I asked.
“I’m not surprised you don’t know. It lives in the arctic waters and can phase from solid to liquid at will. Fishermen need to capture them using enchanted nets that force them to remain solid.”
“Interesting. I assume there is a reason they bother catching such a troublesome species at all.”
“Of course. They are called ‘coruscant,’ or ‘glittering.’ It’s said that their bodies reflect the constellations they were born under, and that their magic is colored by that very night.”
“Wouldn’t that mean that any potion made using their blood or ink can’t be replicated?”
“Exactly. Well, it can, but you’d need the right type of coruscant cuttlefish. They’re popular among experimental potioneers for adding a bit of random variability to potions. Or, you can use it to brew a potion on a day when you otherwise shouldn’t.”
“Sounds expensive,” Theo drawled. “Say, can you turn the ink into pasta sauce?”
The conversation picked up but I tuned them out. The cuttlefish was nice, but the talk of dragons reminded me of Hagrid’s dragon. He’d received the egg sometime in the summer from Quirrell. It probably hatched already, or was about to.
I wondered what I ought to do about that. Violet wasn’t as close with Ron in this life so there was no telling Charlie would show. And well, Hagrid getting arrested because of this would be pretty stupid, admittedly.
I sighed. It was one more thing to add to my plate.
Author’s Note
Here’s the first chapter of the second semester… term…? Whatever. I know it’s not quite right, but I’m using the words interchangeably because it seems to annoy a very small subset of Brits. And really, what’s this story about if not trolling people?
I suppose this is the end of the Warhammer jokes. Or is it…? Will we see Voldemort making servitors? Or the rise of Muggle Lord Granger with an army of terminators? Maybe. I’m not ruling it out.
Animal Fact: Okay, this is a doozy, but I promise it’s fascinating.
Mice act as midwives for each other. In fact, this proves that mice are capable of learning complex behaviors from past experiences.
Dr. Robert Froemke and his team at NYU found that mice in the same cage often interact with those who are in labor. It appeared that some females actively help mothers give birth.
To see more of this, they genetically engineered mice that lack oxytocin receptors. Oxytocin is the “love hormone” and is responsible for, among other things, uterine contractions. So basically, he and his team purposely made it so mothers would die in labor.
Ten pregnant, gene-edited mice were housed in individual cages, each paired with another mouse who has already given birth to at least one litter. As a control group, seven more pregnant mice without oxytocin receptors were kept in individual cages for observation.
They found that experienced mothers helped mothers in labor by gently spreading the birth canal. The midwives even bit and pulled the pups out manually, without harming the pups. They even broke open the fluid-filled sacs encasing the newborns, allowing them to breathe.
Nine of ten experimental mothers survived their labor. About ninety percent of their litters did as well. In comparison, only one of the seven controls survived and all litters died.
A second study set fourteen expecting mothers in individual cages. Seven were paired with males, four with females who had never given birth, and three with female mice who lacked oxytocin receptors like the mothers. This was done to determine if the midwives needed to have been mothers themselves, and because oxytocin is also thought to affect closeness and relationship development.
Sixty percent of mothers paired with male mice and fifty percent of mothers paired with non-mother females survived labor. These did not pull the pups out directly.
What’s fascinating is that they had different methods of treatment: Males mounted the mothers’ backs, putting pressure on their abdomens and forcing the pups out. Females groomed the mothers while also putting pressure on their abdomens.
Of the three mothers kept with females that lacked oxytocin receptors, only one survived.
Further, not one of the pups in this second experiment survived because no one removed the sacs encasing their heads. They all drowned.
So, not only are mice smart enough to have a concept of “midwife,” experience and social dynamics absolutely matter. Mothers who have given birth before perform best as midwives and carry and apply knowledge (like tearing the sacs) to latter scenarios.
Also, yes, science is kinda fucked up.