Magic dragon the dragonstone

Spike woke early the next morning. Although he could tell it was daylight, he kept his eyes shut tight.

“It was a dream,” he told himself firmly. “I dreamed a giant called rutherford came to tell me I was going to a school for creatures. When I open my eyes I’ll be at home in my cupboard.”

There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.

And there’s Aunt Petunia knocking on the door, Spike thought, his heart sinking. But he still didn’t open his eyes. It had been such a good dream.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“All right,” Spike mumbled, “I’m getting up.”

He sat up and Rutherford’s heavy coat fell off him. The hut was full of sunlight, the storm was over, Rutherford himself was asleep on the collapsed sofa, and there was an hawk rapping its claw on the window, a newspaper held in its beak.

Spike scrambled to his feet, so happy he felt as though a large balloon was swelling inside him. He went straight to the window and jerked it open. The hawk swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of Rutherford, who didn’t wake up. The hawk then fluttered onto the floor and began to attack Rutherford’s coat.

“Don’t do that.”

Spike tried to wave the hawk out of the way, but it snapped its beak fiercely at him and carried on savaging the coat.

“Rutherford!” said Spike loudly. “There’s an hawk —”

“Pay him,” Rutherford grunted into the sofa.

“What?”

“He wants payin’ fer deliverin’ the paper. Look in the pockets.”

Rutherford’s coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets — bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags . . . finally, Spike pulled out a handful of strange-looking coins.

“Give him five Knuts,” said Rutherford sleepily.

“Knuts?”

“The little bronze ones.”

Spike counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl held out his leg so Spike could put the money into a small leather pouch tied to it. Then he flew off through the open window.

Rutherford yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched.

“Best be off, Spike, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter Canterlot an’ buy all yer stuff fer school.”

Spike was turning over the creature coins and looking at them. He had just thought of something that made him feel as though the happy balloon inside him had got a puncture.

“Um — Rutherford?”

“Mm?” said Rutherford, who was pulling on his huge boots. “I haven’t got any money — and you heard Uncle Wind rider last night . . . he won’t pay for me to go and learn magic.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Rutherford, standing up and scratching his head. “D’yeh think yer parents didn’t leave yeh anything?”

“But if their house was destroyed —”

“They didn’ keep their gold in the house, boy! Nah, first stop fer us is Nightmare zone. Creatures’ bank. Have a sausage, they’re not bad cold — an’ I wouldn’ say no teh a bit o’ yer birthday cake, neither.”

“creatures have banks?”
“Just the one. Nightmare zone. Run by bat ponies.”

Harry dropped the bit of sausage he was holding. “Bat ponies?”

“Yeah — so yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it, I’ll tell yeh that. Never mess with bat ponies, Spike. Nightmare zone is the safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe —’cept maybe Celestia School. As a matter o’ fact, I gotta visit nightmare zone anyway. Fer Star swirl. Celestia's School business.” Rutherford drew himself up proudly. “He usually gets me ter do important stuff fer him. Fetchin’ you — gettin’ things from nightmare zone — knows he can trust me, see.

“Got everythin’? Come on, then.”

Spike followed Rutherford out onto the rock. The sky was quite clear now and the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Wind rider had hired was still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.

“How did you get here?” Spike asked, looking around for another boat.

“Flew,” said Rutherford.

“Flew?”

“Yeah — but we’ll go back in this. Not s’pposed ter use magic now I’ve got yeh.”

They settled down in the boat, Spike still staring at Rutherford, trying to imagine him flying.

“Seems a shame ter row, though,” said Rutherford, giving Spike another of his sideways looks. “If I was ter — er — speed things up a bit, would yeh mind not mentionin’ it at Celestia School?”

“Of course not,” said Spike, eager to see more magic. Rutherford pulled out the battle Acts again, tapped it twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off toward land.

“Why would you be mad to try and rob Nightmare zone?” Spike asked.

“Spells — enchantments,” said Rutherford, unfolding his newspaper as he spoke. “They say there’s dragons guardin’ the high-security vaults. And then yeh gotta find yer way — nightmare zone is hundreds of miles under Canterlot, see. Deep under the Underground. Yeh’d die of hunger tryin’ ter get out, even if yeh did manage ter get yer hands on summat.”

Spike sat and thought about this while Rutherford read his newspaper, the Daily Prophet. Harry had learned from Uncle Wind rider that ponies liked to be left alone while they did this, but it was very difficult, he’d never had so many questions in his life.

Console' o’ Magic messin’ things up as usual,” Rutherford muttered, turning the page.

“There’s a council of Magic?” Spike asked, before he could stop himself.

“’Course,” said Rutherford. “They wanted Star swirl fer council, o’ course, but he’d never leave Celestia's School, so old Chancellor neighsay got the job. Bungler if ever there was one. So he pelts Star swirl with bird every morning, askin’ fer advice.”

“But what does council of Magic do?”

“Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there’s still creatures up an’ down the country.”

“Why?”

“Why? Blimey, Spike, everypony’d be wantin’ magic solutions to their problems. Nah, we’re best left alone.” At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Rutherford folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the street.

Passersby stared a lot at Rutherford as they walked through the little town to the station. Spike couldn’t blame them. Not only was Rutherford twice as tall as anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, “See that, Spike? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?”

“Rutherford,” said Spike, panting a bit as he ran to keep up, “did you say there are dragons at Nightmare zone?”

“Well, so they say,” said Rutherford. “Crikey, I’d like a dragon.”

“You’d like one?”

“Wanted one ever since I was a kid — here we go.” They had reached the station. There was a train to Canterlot in five minutes’ time. Rutherford, who didn’t understand “Muggle money,” as he called it, gave the bills to Spike so he could buy their tickets.

Ponies stared more than ever on the train. Rutherford took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent.

“Still got yer letter, Spike?” he asked as he counted stitches.

Spike took the parchment envelope out of his pocket. “Good,” said Rutherford. “There’s a list there of everything yeh need.”

Spike unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn’t noticed the night before, and read:

CEIESTIAS SCHOOL of GIFTED CREATURES UNIFORM First-year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
   
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
   
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
   
4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings) Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by daring do

A History of Magic by princess Luna

Magical Theory by princess cadence

A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration by Twilight velvet and nightlight Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by dragon lord torch

Magical Draughts and Potions by Moon dancer

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Queen novo

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by King Sombra

OTHER EQUIPMENT
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
Students may also bring an bird OR a cat OR a toad

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

“Can we buy all this in Canterlot?” Spike wondered aloud. “If yeh know where to go,” said Rutherford.

Spike had never been to Canterlot before. Although Rutherford seemed to know where he was going, he was obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary way. He got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground, and complained loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow.

“I don’t know how the Muggles manage without magic,” he said as they climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling road lined with shops.

Rutherford was so huge that he parted the crowd easily; all Spike had to do was keep close behind him. They passed book shops and music stores, hayburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of ordinary ponies. Could there really be piles of creatures gold buried miles beneath them? Were there really shops that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge joke that the Riders had cooked up? If Spike hadn’t known that the Riders had no sense of humor, he might have thought so; yet somehow, even though everything Rutherford had told him so far was unbelievable, Spike couldn’t help trusting him.

“This is it,” said Rutherford, coming to a halt, “the Double Hydra. It’s a famous place.”

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Rutherford hadn’t pointed it out, Spike wouldn’t have noticed it was there. The ponies hurrying by didn’t glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn’t see the Double Hydra at all. In fact, Spike had the most peculiar feeling that only he and Rutherford could see it. Before he could mention this, Rutherford had steered him inside.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old female creatures were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little Minotaur in a top hat was talking to the bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know Rutherford; they waved and smiled at him, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, “The usual, Rutherford?”

“Can’t, Big Mac, I’m on Celestia's School business,” said Rutherford, clapping his great hoof on Spike’s shoulder and making Spike’s knees buckle.

“Good luna,” said the bartender, peering at Spike, “is this — can this be — ?”

The Double Hydra had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

“Bless my soul,” whispered the bartender, “Spike Drago . . . what an honor.”

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Spike and seized his hand, tears in his eyes.

“Welcome back, Mr. Drago, welcome back.”

Spike didn’t know what to say. Everyone was looking at him. The old female creature with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out. Rutherford was beaming. Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Spike found himself shaking hooves talent with every creature in the Double Hydra.

“Cloudy Quartz, Mr. Drago, can’t believe I’m meeting you at last.”

“So proud, Mr. Drago, I’m just so proud.”

“Always wanted to shake your hand — I’m all of a flutter.”

“Delighted, Mr. Drago, just can’t tell you, Hondo the name, Hondo Flanks.”

“I’ve seen you before!” said Spike, as Hondo Flanks top hat fell off in his excitement. “You bowed to me once in a shop.”

“He remembers!” cried Hondo Flanks, looking around at everyone. “Did you hear that? He remembers me!” Spike shook hooves again and again — Cloudy Quartz kept coming back for more.

A pale young diamond dog made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching.

“Professor Rover!” said Rutherford. “Spike, Professor Rover will be one of your teachers at so Celestias school.”

“D-D-Drago,” stammered Professor Rover, grasping Spike’s hand, “c-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you.”

“What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Rover?” “D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Magic,” muttered Professor Rover, as though he’d rather not think about it. “N-not that you n-need it, eh, D-D-Drago?” He laughed nervously. “You’ll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I’ve g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself.” He looked terrified at the very thought.

But the others wouldn’t let Professor Rover keep Spike to himself. It took almost ten minutes to get away from them all. At last, Rutherford managed to make himself heard over the babble.

“Must get on — lots ter buy. Come on, Spike.” Cloudy Quartz shook Spike’s hand one last time, and Rutherford led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.

Rutherford grinned at Spike.

“Told yeh, didn’t I? Told yeh you was famous. Even Professor Rover was tremblin’ ter meet yeh — mind you, he’s usually tremblin’.”

“Is he always that nervous?”

“Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was studyin’ outta books but then he took a year off ter get some first-hand experience. . . . They say he met vampires ponies in the Everfree Forest, and there was a nasty bit o’ trouble with a hag — never been the same since. Scared of the students, scared of his own subject — now, where’s me battle ax?”

Vampires ponies? Hags? Spike’s head was swimming. Rutherford, meanwhile, was counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.

“Three up . . . two across . . .” he muttered. “Right, stand back, Spike.”

He tapped the wall three times with the point of his battle ax.

The brick he had touched quivered — it wriggled — in the middle, a small hole appeared — it grew wider and wider — a second later they were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

“Welcome,” said Rutherford, “to Griffin Alley.”

He grinned at Spike’s amazement. They stepped through the archway. Spike looked quickly over his shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back into solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons — All Sizes — Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver — Self-Stirring — Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.

“Yeah, you’ll be needin’ one,” said Rutherford, “but we gotta get yer money first.”

Spike wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the creatures doing their shopping. A plump female centaur outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying, “cockatrice liver, sixteen Sickles an ounce, they’re mad. . . .”

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops bird Emporium — Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys of about Spike’s age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. “Look,” Spike heard one of them say, “the new Lighting Dragon Two Thousand — fastest ever —” There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Spike had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels’ eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon. . . .

“nightmare zone,” said Rutherford.

They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was —

“Yeah, that’s a batpony,” said Rutherford quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward him. The batpony was about two head taller than Spike. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Spike noticed, very long legs and hooves. He bowed as they walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.

“Like I said, yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it,” said Rutherford. A pair of batponies bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more batponies were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more batponies were showing creatures in and out of these. Rutherford and Spike made for the counter. “Morning,” said Rutherford to a free batpony. “We’ve come ter take some money outta Mr. Spike Drago’s safe.”

“You have his key, sir?”

“Got it here somewhere,” said Rutherford, and he started emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a hoofful of moldy dog biscuits over the batpony’s book of numbers. The batpony wrinkled his nose. Spike watched the batpony on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals.

“Got it,” said Rutherford at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

The batpony looked at it closely.
“That seems to be in order.”

“An’ I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Star swirl,” said Rutherford importantly, throwing out his chest. “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen.”

The batpony read the letter carefully.

“Very well,” he said, handing it back to Rutherford, “I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Gripthang!” Gripthang was yet another batpony. Once Rutherford had crammed all the dog biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Spike followed Gripthang toward one of the doors leading off the hall.

“What’s the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?” Spike asked.

“Can’t tell yeh that,” said Rutherford mysteriously. “Very secret. Celestia School business. Star swirl’s trusted me. More’n my job’s worth ter tell yeh that.”

Gripthang held the door open for them. Spike, who had expected more marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Gripthang whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in — Rutherford with some difficulty — and were off.

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Spike tried to remember, left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The rattling cart seemed to know its own way, because Gripthang wasn’t steering.

Spike’s eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he kept them wide open. Once, he thought he saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late — they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

“I never know,” Spike called to Rutherford over the noise of the cart, “what’s the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?”

“Stalagmite’s got an ‘m’ in it,” said Rutherford. “An’ don’ ask me questions just now, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, Rutherford got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his knees from trembling.

Gripthang unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, Harry gasped. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

“All yours,” smiled Rutherford.

All Spike’s — it was incredible. The Wind riders couldn’t have known about this or they’d have had it from him faster than blinking. How often had they complained how much Spike cost them to keep? And all the time there had been a small fortune belonging to him, buried deep under Canterlot.

Rutherford helped Spike pile some of it into a bag.

“The gold ones are Galleons,” he explained. “Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it’s easy enough. Right, that should be enough fer a couple o’ terms, we’ll keep the rest safe for yeh.” He turned to Gripthang. “Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?”

“One speed only,” said Gripthang.

They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air became colder and colder as they hurtled round tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine, and Spike leaned over the side to try to see what was down at the dark bottom, but Hagrid groaned and pulled him back by the scruff of his neck.

Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

“Stand back,” said Gripthang importantly. He stroked the door gently with one of his hoovf and it simply melted away.

“If anyone but a nightmare zones batpony tried that, they’d be sucked through the door and trapped in there,” said Gripthang.

“How often do you check to see if anyone’s inside?” Spike asked.

“About once every ten years,” said Gripthang with a rather nasty grin.

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault, Spike was sure, and he leaned forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous jewels at the very least — but at first he thought it was empty. Then he noticed a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on the floor. Rutherford picked it up and tucked it deep inside his coat. Spike longed to know what it was, but knew better than to ask.

“Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don’t talk to me on the way back, it’s best if I keep me mouth shut,” said Rutherford.

One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the sunlight outside nightmare zone. Spike didn’t know where to run first now that he had a bag full of money. He didn’t have to know how many Galleons there were to a pound to know that he was holding more money than he’d had in his whole life — more money than even Lighting Dust had ever had.

“Might as well get yer uniform,” said Rutherford, nodding toward Madam Rarity’s Robes for All Occasions. “Listen, Spike, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Double Hydra? I hate them nightmare zone carts.” He did still look a bit sick, so Spike entered Madam Rarity’s shop alone, feeling nervous.

Madam Rarity was a tall, smiling unicorn dressed all in mauve.

“Celestia School, dear?” she said, when Spike started to speak. “Got the lot here — another young Griffin being fitted up just now, in fact.”

In the back of the shop, a Dragon with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second unicorn pinned up his long black robes. Madam rarity stood Spike on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

“Hello,” said the dragon, “Celestia's School, too?”

“Yes,” said Spike.

“My father’s next door buying my books and Mother’s up the street looking at wands,” said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. “Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully Father into getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.”

Spike was strongly reminded of Lighting Dust. “Have you got your own broom?” the dragon went on.

“No,” said Spike.

“Play fireball at all?”

“No,” Spike said again, wondering what on earth fireball could be.

“I do — Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my House, and I must say, I agree. Know what House you’ll be in yet?”

“No,” said Spike, feeling more stupid by the minute.

“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I’ll be in cockatricea, all our family have been — imagine being in bearal, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

“Mmm,” said Spike, wishing he could say something a bit more interesting.

“I say, look at that yack!” said the dragon suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Rutherford was standing there, grinning at Spike and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn’t come in.

“That’s Rutherford,” said Spike, pleased to know something the dragon didn’t. “He works at Celestia's School.”

“Oh,” said the dragon, “I’ve heard of him. He’s a sort of servant, isn’t he?”

“He’s the gamekeeper,” said Spike. He was liking the dragon less and less every second.

“Yes, exactly. I heard he’s a sort of savage — lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed.”

“I think he’s brilliant,” said Spike coldly.

“Do you?” said the dragon, with a slight sneer. “Why is he with you? Where are your parents?”

“They’re dead,” said Spike shortly. He didn’t feel much like going into the matter with this boy.

“Oh, sorry,” said the other, not sounding sorry at all. “But they were our kind, weren’t they?”

“They were a magic creatures, if that’s what you mean.”

“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Celestia School until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old creatures families. What’s your surname, anyway?”

But before Spike could answer, Madam Rarity said, “That’s you done, my dear,” and Spike, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the dragon, hopped down from the hoofstool.

“Well, I’ll see you at Celestia School, I suppose,” said the drawling dragon.

Spike was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Rutherford had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).

“What’s up?” said Rutherford.

“Nothing,” Spike lied. They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Spike cheered up a bit when he found a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When they had left the shop, he said, “Rutherford, what’s fireball?”

“Blimey, Spike, I keep forgettin’ how little yeh know — not knowin’ about fireball!”

“Don’t make me feel worse,” said Spike. He told Rutherford about the pale dragon in Madam Rarity’s.

“— and he said creatures from Muggle families shouldn’t even be allowed in —”

“Yer not from a Muggle family. If he’d known who yeh were — he’s grown up knowin’ yer name if his parents are magic creaturein’ folk. You saw what everyone in the Double Hydra was like when they saw yeh. Anyway, what does he know about it, some o’ the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in ’em in a long line o’ Muggles — look at yer mum! Look what she had fer a sister!”

“So what is fireball?”

“It’s our sport. Magic creaturesport. It’s like — like hoofball in the Muggle world — everyone follows fireball — played up in the air on broomsticks and there’s four balls — sorta hard ter explain the rules.”

“And what are cockatricea and bearal?”

“School Houses. There’s four. Everyone says bearal are a lot o’ duffers, but —”

“I bet I’m in bearal,” said Harry gloomily.

“Better bearal than cockatricea,” said Rutherford darkly. “There’s not a single magic creature who went bad who wasn’t in cockatricea. You-Know-Who was one.”

“Tie-, sorry — You-Know-Who was at Celestia School?”

“Years an’ years ago,” said Rutherford.

They bought Spike’s school books in a shop called Flim and Flam where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Even Lighting Dust, who never readanything, would have been wild to get her hooves on some of these. Rutherford almost had to drag Spike away from Curses and Counter-curses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More) by Professor cheese sandwich.

“I was trying to find out how to curse Lighting Dust.”

“I’m not sayin’ that’s not a good idea, but yer not ter use magic in the Muggle world except in very special circumstances,” said Rutherford. “An’ anyway, yeh couldn’ work any of them curses yet, yeh’ll need a lot more study before yeh get ter that level.”

Rutherford wouldn’t let Spike buy a solid gold cauldron, either (“It says pewter on yer list”), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Rutherford asked the zebra behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Spike, Spike himself examined silver chimera horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery-black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

Outside the Apothecary, Rutherford checked Spike’s list again.

“Just yer wand left — oh yeah, an’ I still haven’t got yeh a birthday present.”

Spike felt himself go red.

“You don’t have to —”

“I know I don’t have to. Tell yeh what, I’ll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh’d be laughed at — an’ I don’ like cats, they make me sneeze. I’ll get yer an bird. All the kids want birds, they’re dead useful, carry yer mail an’ everythin’.”

Twenty minutes later, they left fluttershy's animal Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Spike now carried a large cage that held a beautiful young Phoenix, fast asleep with his head under hid wing. He couldn’t stop stammering his thanks, sounding just like Professor Rover.

“Don’ mention it,” said Rutherford gruffly. “Don’ expect you’ve had a lotta presents from them riders. Just Trixes left now — only place fer wands, Trixes, and yeh gotta have the best wand.”

A magic wand . . . this was what Spike had been really looking forward to.

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Trixies: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Rutherford sat on to wait. Spike felt strangely as though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Spike jumped. Rutherford must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the spindly chair. An unicorn mare was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

“Hello,” said Spike awkwardly.

“Ah yes,” said the acorn mare. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Spike drago.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.”

Ms. Trixie moved closer to Spike. Spike wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

“Your father, on the other hoof, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it — it’s really the wand that chooses the creature, of course.”

Ms. Trixie had come so close that she and Spike were almost nose to nose. Spike could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.

“And that’s where . . .”

Ms. Trixie touched the x scar on Spike’s cheek with a long, hoovf.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” she said softly. “Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands . . . well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do. . . .”

He shook his head and then, to Spike’s relief, spotted Rutherford.

“Rubeus! Rubeus ! How nice to see you again. . . . Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?”

“It was, ms, yes,” said Rutherford. “Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?” said Ms. Trixe, suddenly stern.

“Er — yes, they did, yes,” said Rutherford, shuffling his back hooves. “I’ve still got the pieces, though,” he added brightly.

“But you don’t use them?” said Ms. Trixe sharply. “Oh, no, ms,” said Rutherford quickly. Spike noticed he gripped his battle ax very tightly as he spoke.

“Hmmm,” said Ms. Trixe, giving Rutherford a piercing look. “Well, now — Mr. Drago, Let me see.” She pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of her pocket. “Which is your wand arm?” “Er — well, I’m right-handed,” said Spike. “Hold out your arm.

That’s it.” She measured Spike from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As she measured, she said, “Every Trixie wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Drago. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Trixe wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another creature’s wand.” Spike suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between her nostrils, was doing this on its own. Ms. Trixe was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes. “That will do,” she said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Mr. Drago. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”

Spike took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Ms. Trixe snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try —”

Spike tried — but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Ms. Trixe.

“No, no — here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.”

Spike tried. And tried. He had no idea what Ms. Trixe was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Ms. Trixe pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere — I wonder, now — yes, why not — unusual combination — holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Spike took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Rutherford whooped and clapped and Ms. Trixe cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well . . . how curious . . . how very curious . . .”

She put Spike’s wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, “Curious . . . curious . . .” “Sorry,” said Spike, “but what’s curious?”

Ms. Trixe fixed Spike with his pale stare.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Drago. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother — why, its brother gave you that scar.”

Spike swallowed.

“Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember. . . . I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter. . . . After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great.”

Spike shivered. He wasn’t sure he liked Ms. Trixe too much. He paid seven gold Galleons for his wand, and Ms. Trixe bowed them from her shop.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Spike and Rutherford made their way back down Griffin Alley, back through the wall, back through the Double Hydra, now empty. Spike didn’t speak at all as they walked down the road; he didn’t even notice how much ponies were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the Phoenix asleep in its cage on Spike’s lap. Up another escalator, out into Canterlot station; Spike only realized where they were when Rutherford tapped him on the shoulder.

“Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves,” he said.

He bought Spike a hayburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Spike kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow.

“You all right, Spike? Yer very quiet,” said Rutherford. Spike wasn’t sure he could explain. He’d just had the best birthday of his life — and yet — he chewed his hayburger, trying to find the words.

“Every creature thinks I’m special,” he said at last. “All those creatures in the double Hydra, Professor Rover, Ms. Trixe . . . but I don’t know anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I’m famous and I can’t even remember what I’m famous for. I don’t know what happened when tie-, sorry — I mean, the night my parents died.”

Rutherford leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows he wore a very kind smile.

“Don’ you worry, Spike. You’ll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Celestia School, you’ll be just fine. Just be yerself. I know it’s hard. Yeh’ve been singled out, an’ that’s always hard. But yeh’ll have a great time at Celestia School — I did — still do, ’smatter of fact.”

Rutherford helped Spike on to the train that would take him back to the Riders, then hoofed him an envelope. “Yer ticket fer Celestia's School,” he said. “First o’ September — Alicorn’s Cross — it’s all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Riders, send me a letter with yer Phoenix, he’ll know where to find me. . . . See yeh soon, Spike.”

The train pulled out of the station. Spike wanted to watch Rutherford until he was out of sight; he rose in his seat and pressed his nose against the window, but he blinked and Rutherford had gone.