A Prefect is Born

On the way back, Oleandra couldn't help but admire her new wand under all its angles: it was yellowish-brown, long and slender, made from the wood of her bloodline's primogenitor and it possessed a core of a Greater Fairy's wing, her spirit origin. In short, it was the perfect wand for her. Yes, wandless magic was incredibly handy, but there was just something special about the bond between a wand and its true owner.

As far as Oleandra knew, nobody had ever made a wand using a Fairy's wings: your garden variety Fairy was about as magical as a lightbulb, so there wasn't much worth in using their parts to make wands, at least when compared to common cores such as Dragon heartstring or Unicorn tail hair.

And since the Greater Fairies of the British Isles had disappeared aeons before wands had ever reached the islands, odds were that apart from the Ollivander who'd been around in 500 A.D., nobody had ever produced a wand using a Greater Fairy's wings. (Ollivander's shop sign in Diagon Alley read: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C., but that was counting its beginnings in Rome; a British branch was only established when the Romans invaded the British Isles at the beginning of the 1st century A.D.)

As such, Oleandra had no idea what kind of hidden traits her wand might have. The most she could do was attempting to guess at some aspects of it based on the wood it was made from, with her limited understanding of wandlore. Her wand was made out of yew; the Tree of Terror; the Tree of Time and Space, Yggdrasil, was reputed to be a yew tree.

Wands made of yew wood were known to be difficult to master, but were supposed to possess a greater capacity for Space-Time magic, various duelling spells and Dark Curses. And due to the yew tree's longevity, such wands were thought to grant power over life and death. But that's just a theory— a wandlore theory!

But apart from that… Oleandra didn't have a clue how a wand possessing a Fairy wing core would affect her spellcasting.

"I suppose I'll figure it out as I go," Oleandra muttered to herself.

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Today was promising to be a very nice summer day, after the previous night's storm. The sun was rising on France; birds sang their songs, cicadas chirped, and the air was filled with the scent of wet leaves warmed up by the morning sun.

The quiet village of Paimpont was still in the middle of waking up— there were a few people walking in the cobblestone streets, but nobody gave Oleandra and the other women a second look as they emerged from the forest. Such occurrences were probably common, she supposed.

A small welcoming party was waiting for their return on the lawn in front of the mansion: Madame Dulac, a man Oleandra assumed to be her husband, a few servants, and Mai's twin sister. Oh, and there was also an owl sleeping in a golden cage on a table, for some reason.

"You'll forgive us for looking up the name you gave us," Madame Dulac said as they approached. "I knew I recognized you, you're one of the Triwizard Champions, aren't you? You're looking quite lively for a British girl who's supposed to be dead, by the way."

"Reports of my death may have been greatly exaggerated," Oleandra responded.

She'd always wanted to say that line.

"May I ask if you've found what you were looking for?" Madame Dulac asked.

"You may," Oleandra said lightly. "Are you aware that you're using my ancestor as a battery?"

The older woman scowled.

"The Wood Nymphs didn't seem to mind sharing the Mother Tree with us, so we took it as a sign that she wouldn't mind," Madame Dulac responded. "Incidentally, there's an owl for you; it was circling around the town in broad daylight. It couldn't quite find its way through our wards, so I had it knocked out and brought here before it drew unwanted attention."

A letter for her? Oleandra frowned. As far as the world knew, she was dead; even the ministry had lost track of her, with the Trace removed from her body. Who could possibly have sent her a letter?

Oleandra reached through the golden cage's bars and untied the envelope from the unconscious owl's leg, before tearing it open. The letter read:

Dear Miss Greengrass,

I hope this letter finds you well; or even at all. I was perplexed to find that your name still figured in Hogwarts's roll of students as well as its mailing list, despite your apparent death at the hands of Lord Voldemort.

"Voldemort!?" Oleandra said incredulously. "That's who tried to kill me!?"

She kept reading:

 I was only convinced of your survival when the sword you pulled from the lake last February disappeared from my office in the dead of night. As such, I am pleased to offer you the responsibility of being Slytherin's fifth-year female prefect. Professor Snape, of course, vigorously disagreed, but in the end, the final choice of prefects lies with the headmaster. I am counting on you, Miss Greengrass.

P.S.: I should like to meet with you at your earliest convenience once the term starts. Professor Snape will contact you when the time comes.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

Headmaster

"You're kidding me," Oleandra said out loud, as she retrieved the shiny silver and green prefect badge from the envelope. "He's not even sure if I survived, and he makes me prefect? Why not Daphne!?"

Prefect candidates could be suggested by the Heads of each House, but in the end, the headmaster decided who'd be prefects, as well who'd be Head Boy and Girl. There were twenty-four prefects in total at any given time: for each of the four Houses, there was one male and one female prefect per year, for fifth, sixth and seventh years.

Visibly, Dumbledore was trying to temper the pro-Voldemort Slytherin faction by putting his own moderate candidate into the mix… Better the devil you know than the devil you don't, and all that.

And there were two very good reasons why Daphne hadn't been selected: firstly, she had bunked off a lot of her classes in her fourth year due to the long brewing process of the Bloodline Atavism Potion, and secondly, she looked like a child; prefects needed to enforce discipline, and it was difficult to do so when you looked younger than your charges…

Inevitably, thinking of Daphne led her to think of everyone else. Oleandra missed her family and friends very much; but at the same time, she dreaded meeting them. They must have grieved and cried for her, so what could she possibly say to them? Ha, ha, it was just a prank? I wasn't actually dead?

And what would Voldemort do to her family when he learned she was the second person to survive his Killing Curse? He would surely try to torture them to force her to tell him her secrets, and when she couldn't… Then she would die for real; and permanently, this time.

"I— I need to leave," said Oleandra in a panic. "My family— they're in danger."

"Not so fast!" said Monsieur Dulac, who had so far contented himself by staying quiet at his wife's side. "You are concerned about this Dark Lord's reprisal, aren't you? I believe you shouldn't rashly return to your family's side— as long as you remain hidden, they will stay safe."