The Darkwood Wand

Cultivation

"I have it!" MacDougal cried triumphantly as he dragged her off the forest floor. She had leaves in her hair and one small fist was clenched around something. "We've been looking for these!"

"Look out!" Draco gasped. Another object launched from a tree above, heading toward them in a long, curving arc. "Confringo!"

The wand cooperated, producing a precise, perfect shot and Draco expected to see a small but satisfying explosion. But MacDougal threw herself on his arm and his aim went wide, blasting off a small tree branch in a pop of orange.

"Don't!" MacDougal cried. "We need them!"

"What are they?" Draco asked, but the witch didn't answer, just pushed him out of the Forest as more little projectiles zinged around them. Back on the grassy lawn, Draco turned and glared at the Ravenclaw's closed fist.

"Give me that," he ordered. "It could be dangerous."

"It's not dangerous," MacDougal insisted, raising her hand. "See?" Caged inside her slender fingers was something small and hard, struggling to escape her grasp like a small Quidditch ball.

Draco blinked. "Is that a muffin?"

She nodded eagerly. "It's part of a House study on blueberry-to-batter ratios. We've enchanted 24 muffins in all: Ten were recovered, one was eaten and we're still hunting the rest." She looked back at the Forest. "We'd heard they'd escaped the castle."

Draco stared at the muffin in MacDougal's hand. Hardened and pitted, the pastry was streaked with dirt and smeared with berry juice. The blonde witch drew her wand.

"Incarcerus," she said, and thin strings wrapped around the muffin, which continued to struggle madly. She tucked it into her bag. "Fascinating," she said. "We wanted the muffins to self-sort by number of blueberries, but the berries keep trying to escape, rolling the muffins ..."

Draco had never heard anything so ridiculous, not to mention pointless. If that was how Ravenclaws spent their free time, he certainly felt better about his drinking habits. He might start a fire or two, but whiskey bottles didn't go feral.

"We're going back to the castle," Draco announced. He took her hand, grimacing at the feel of sticky blueberry juice on her palm.

MacDougal jabbered excitedly as he towed her across the grounds. "Just think, Mr. Malfoy, we could open a whole new field of study in wild pastry behavior. Have they formed a pack? Is there a leader, an Alpha Muffin? Are they territorial? That would explain their aggression. We have to go back and—"

"What?" Draco halted again. "We are not going to the Forbidden Forest to hunt rogue, violent muffins!"

MacDougal was displeased. "Well, you don't have to come. I thought you might enjoy it."

"I would not, and you're not going either!"

She patted him on the arm. "Don't worry, I'll be fine," she said, smiling. "I'll borrow a pith helmet from Luna."

They argued about it all the way back to the castle, but MacDougal didn't deviate a hair from her mad quest to track muffins in the wild. She just needed a clipboard and a net. "I wonder if I could tag them," she said. Clearly, Lovegood was not an outlier in her House—all Ravenclaws were mad.

As they neared Dumbledore's statue, MacDougal finally noticed Draco's agitation. She stopped to look him over, her brow creased in concern. "Mr. Malfoy? Are you alright?" she asked.

"Yes," Draco snapped. She stepped back. "I mean, yes, thank you for asking," he said. Bookworms were great ones for manners. He spared a regretful sigh for all those lovely Slytherin sluts, who liked their men selfish and snarling. Ah, those were the days.