For my fabulous sister Schuyler, on her birthday.

Disclaimers: Everyone here belongs to J. K. Rowling.

by Lesa Soja

"I need a new quill," Hermione says.

Ron looks up. "Can't you ask Harry?"

Harry's tend to be dirty brown and somewhat scruffy. Hermione curls her lip. "I like yours better."

Ron looks at her, then nods. He says the words of the spell, and the wings unfurl behind him.

Hermione strokes one briefly, up and over the strong sweep of the bend, before plucking a feather from the primaries. Its orange-red vane is softer than silk against her skin. "Maneat," she says happily, and begins to cut the nib.

"Finite incantatem," Ron says. His voice is thick and low.