The morning after every Ravenclaw agreed to form a self-study group, the Little Eagles began spreading the news to the other three Houses at breakfast.
In Gryffindor House, Hermione's eyes lit up without a second thought and she signed up on the spot.
Studying under Lockhart clearly wouldn't teach her anything; she'd already planned to ask Amanda to tutor her in Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Now that a ready-made opportunity had appeared, of course she had to grab it.
Just as quick to agree were Harry, Ron, and the Weasley Twins.
Once the other Little Lions saw the three of them join, another dozen or so followed suit.
Worth mentioning: Percy frowned when Penelope brought it up.
He said she shouldn't trust a second-year Young Wizard's ability; just because she could cast the spells didn't mean she could teach others.
He insisted she should trust the Professors—perhaps Professor Lockhart had only wanted to give everyone a chance to shine in the first lesson.
Penelope's lips twitched; she waved a hand and walked off.
Since he didn't believe in Amanda's skill and refused to believe Lockhart was a complete fraud, there was nothing more to discuss.
That shut Percy up mid-sermon; he turned back to his breakfast, flustered.
Over in Hufflepuff, the second-year Little Baders didn't hesitate at all—the entire year joined en masse.
After sharing classes with Amanda for a whole year, they knew exactly what she could do.
Getting her guidance was a dream come true.
The normally tight-knit Little Badgers, seeing the second-years sign up, declared they wanted in as well.
The upper-years joined partly to look after the youngsters; while they'd heard of Amanda's talent,
a second-year was still a second-year, and it was hard to believe she could already teach them.
As for Slytherin House, Ravenclaw sent three seventh-years to deliver the invitation.
After all, their prank on Malfoy began at breakfast, and if anyone traced it back to Ravenclaw,
these three could escape unscathed.
'What do you want?' The Little Snakes still showed some courtesy to non-Gryffindors.
Two seventh-year Snakes stood up and addressed the three Ravenclaws.
'We've started a self-study group focused on Defense Against the Dark Arts; you're free to join or not,' one of the Ravenclaw girls explained, her smile not reaching her eyes.
'A self-study group?' The seventh-year who'd spoken frowned, glancing toward the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables.
'Those Gryffindor brutes and Hufflepuff duffers want in too?'
Another Snake, even more arrogant, cut in before the first could answer.
The Ravenclaw girl's brows knit; the insult grated.
'Yes. Anyone from any House may join,' she repeated, holding her temper.
'No thanks. What could we learn by tagging along with brutes, duffers, and a bunch of swots?'
Marcus Flint spoke up from the bench, and the Slytherin table burst into laughter.
The three Little Eagles' faces went cold. 'Understood. Goodbye.'
They turned and walked straight back to the Ravenclaw Table.
'What did they say?' Penelope asked, eyeing the laughing Slytherins and her grim-faced seniors.
'The usual: Gryffindors are brutes, Hufflepuffs are duffers, we're swots,' one of the boys sighed.
Penelope gave a soft, mocking laugh and took a bite of pie. 'Typical. Every House misunderstands the others.'
The surrounding Eagles nodded in agreement; that much was true.
Amanda ate in silence, mentally reviewing every Potions lesson of the year.
No one noticed that, a moment earlier, every knife and fork on the Slytherin table—and even those in their hands—had slid a millimetre sideways, only returning to normal once the three Eagles were safely back at the Ravenclaw Table.
As breakfast neared its end and most students, Amanda included, rose to leave, an uproar erupted at the Slytherin table.
Draco Malfoy's hair suddenly began to grow, spilling over the bench and onto the floor, still lengthening.
Draco slammed down his cutlery and shot a furious glare at the Gryffindor Table.
Halfway to the door, Amanda's gaze snapped to a seventh-year Ravenclaw girl.
Her mind raced: Draco's hair looked exactly like the effect of a Hair-Growth Potion.
But a normal one stops after reaching a set length—Malfoy's showed no sign of stopping.
Already his hair was piling up, threatening to bury him.
A modified Hair-Growth Potion, she concluded.
When the girl had passed her earlier, Amanda had caught the faint, tell-tale scent of the Potion—masked by washing and possibly a Scouring Charm, but still detectable to a trained nose; Potions always leave traces.
Fixing her eyes on Draco's pumpkin juice goblet and plate, now buried under hair, she deduced the girl had laced his breakfast with the altered Potion.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Professor Snape striding cold-faced toward the Slytherin table while her mind flicked through probability equations.
Though the girl had timed the Potion to activate only after Draco finished,
the Potions Master might still detect the residue on cup or plate.
The chance he'd then scent it on the girl was slim but not zero,
and knowing Snape, he'd likely dock points and assign detention on the merest suspicion.
Therefore, Amanda decided, the safest move was to erase every clue, leaving him unable to tell whether the effect came from Potion or spell.
Calmly withdrawing her gaze, Amanda walked expressionlessly toward the Great Hall doors.
Yet the instant her foot crossed the threshold, the entire Slytherin table erupted in a violent explosion.
The table became splinters, the splinters became sawdust, the sawdust became drifting ash.
By the time Amanda had fully stepped out of the Great Hall, the Slytherin table—and everything on it—had been reduced to dust.
There had been no warning, and the speed was inconceivable; even the Professors at the Staff Table hadn't reacted.
After a full two-second daze, Professor Snape strode forward with a cold face, flicking his wand to disperse the dust.
Fortunately, the Slytherin students had been shielded in advance by Amanda with two large, wandless, silent Shield Charms—none were harmed.
The only casualty of the blast was Draco himself; a good portion of his long hair had been blown away, and he sat slack-jawed, staring at the empty space before him.
There should have been the Slytherin table; now there was nothing.
Walking swiftly toward the History of Magic classroom, Amanda's face remained impassive.
She didn't believe she'd done anything wrong—at most, she'd damaged school property.
A quiet instinct told her to protect the Little Eagles of Ravenclaw, so she had easily chosen to shield that older student.
Even if the chance of the girl being discovered had been almost zero, she would reduce that chance to zero.
As for shielding the Little Snakes just now—she only wanted to destroy evidence, not kill classmates, so of course she'd protect them; that was normal.
Except for Draco Malfoy; he and his father had threatened Hermione and the others.
Therefore, in Amanda's eyes they were potential threats, and Hermione's life ranked above her own.
If necessary, Amanda wouldn't hesitate to trade her life for the Malfoy father and son to eliminate the danger to Hermione.
It was worth it, Amanda decided firmly in her mind as she sat down in the History of Magic classroom.
At that moment five bruises marked her left thigh—punishment she had given herself yesterday in the Ravenclaw Common Room for damaging school property while proving her abilities.
And she had just destroyed the Slytherin table; tonight back in her Dormitory she would add another cut to her thigh as penance.
Inside the Great Hall the Slytherins' faces were dark; Professor Snape shot an angry look toward Headmaster Dumbledore on the Staff Table, wordlessly demanding an investigation.
Headmaster Dumbledore rose, drew his wand, and gave a gentle wave toward Slytherin; a faint halo settled over them.
While the Headmaster investigated, Penelope turned her gaze to the older girl who had "acted" today, eyes asking: Did you do this?
The girl in question looked bewildered and innocent, shaking her head emphatically.
It hadn't been her; she had no idea. Blowing up a table was nothing, but detonating one in front of so many unsuspecting Professors—she wasn't that good.
Exchanging glances with Cho Chang and Marietta beside her, Penelope felt a suspicion take shape.
The corner of her mouth curved upward. Amanda… still sided with them after all.
Unlike Penelope and the others, Hermione thought of Amanda the moment she saw the Slytherin table explode.
No Professor would do such a thing; of those left who could pull it off under the Professors' noses, Amanda was her first thought.
So when Headmaster Dumbledore himself began casting detection spells, Hermione's heart leapt into her throat.
This was Headmaster Dumbledore—what if he found Amanda?
Fortunately, even with the Headmaster's personal inspection, nothing could be gleaned from the dust that had scattered Merlin-knew-where.
As for magical traces—Amanda had spoken no incantation and used no wand; he could only identify it as a Blasting Curse.
Nothing more could be determined.
Seeing Headmaster Dumbledore shake his head, Professor Snape drew a deep breath. "Very well, Slytherin, off to class."
With that he strode to Draco, thrust a vial of Potion into his hand, and swept out of the Great Hall.
Unwilling to let it go, the Slytherins shot resentful glares at Gryffindor; years of rivalry made them instinctively blame the Lions.
Only Draco, gulping down Snape's Potion, swept a dark gaze between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw.
He knew he had antagonized members of both houses—they were all suspects.
Facing the Slytherins' scowls, the accustomed Gryffindors chatted and laughed their way to lessons.
They could ride that scene for a whole year.
Even if they had to take the blame, they'd gladly wear it.
As for Ravenclaw, the Little Eagles scarcely noticed Draco's brooding stare.
Apart from the absolute exception of Lockhart, every Ravenclaw had spellwork that outpaced their year.
Afraid of Malfoy's revenge? Don't mention the House of Malfoy.
For a thousand years Ravenclaw had produced academic talents—Alchemy, Charms, Potions—no field went untouched.
If it came to a clash, the House of Malfoy might not come out on top.
Antagonizing one gifted scholar is foolish; antagonizing a flock of them is utter idiocy.
Though the young Mr. Malfoy clearly hadn't learned this—nor had pure-blood die-hards like Marcus Flint.
Their parents understood, or if not now, they would eventually.
For a millennium these academic minds had never truly united, but now they clearly had a center.
Like a storm, once it found its eye, it began to whirl and strengthen.
Turning pages without the faintest change of expression, Amanda recited the History of Magic textbook.
Soon the second-year Little Eagles filed into the classroom, automatically clustering around her; they already had fixed seats for every lesson.
Gathered around Amanda, they formed an unmistakable protective ring.
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