[HER/MY-NEED]
The KEY/STONE to happiness L i E Z entirely in convincing yourself enough degrees of separation exist between U and [a-potentially-worst-case-scenario] that it is O K to stop looking around your shoulder/wing-curve to make sure you’re not going to crash into anyone or anything when you go to merge lanes. It is the pure mechanical and proprioceptive understanding of your [mind-in/the-body] and SOUL as you navigate and suf your way around the pitts and mounds and moguls of LIFE’s BRAID.
Sir Fing is great, if you can avoid the sharks and WAILS lurking beneath the sir FACE.
I much prefer snowboarding.
I’m actually a pretty decent snowboarder though I stopped proving to myself my body was capable of the [PAST/TIME] several years before I stopped feeling a desire to even try.
Some of my coolest and memories and most responsible moments of spontaneity involved jumping into a car after closing up the rest-a-rHaunt, only to finish the 3 hOUR drIVE to my CABin in enough time to pretend to ty and sleep before pulling a full day of climbing our way around BEAR VALLEY.
Here’s the kicker though.
I didn’t start with boards of SURF and SNOW.
Me Kneeds started with the independence of SKyis, and I can confidently say I probably could have gone Olympic if pushed in any way to take them seriously.
The memories of flying down double BLACK DIAMOND hills when as young as 4 and 5 are feint, but i have a cousin two years my senior that was my buddy through the excursions, and her younger brother (10 months my elder as well) that was the constant to prove Jacks and I particularly exceptional.
All our feats of greatness were pretty 1-1 matched with an objectively horrible, yet somehow subjectively hilarious adectdote of how CHRIS either managed to find that ONE rock with his KNEE, or get a tooth KNocked OUT>
I am not 5 anymore, and at 13 I traded a pair of Knees for a Pair of Kneads the Plan when scaling a Mountain, but eye still found diamonds in the souls of both bear feet and spit a rock from my mouth B4 reaching 35.
The irony of [HER/MY-NEEDS]’s life’s memories, when paired with the unique sensation of recovering from the very fascinating and horrible experience of animorphus-polypotianic mishap, has her questioning if she’ll ever get [Park-in-Son]’s damn cat out of her system. She wonders when or if she’ll finally be able to stop wondering which memories were HERS, and which were MYne, the strange 3rd observer feline-based genetic strands tend to leave the victim suffering with upon alien exposure.
[HER/MY-NEED] had researched extensively into the subject, going so far as to learn how to use a Muggle computer and the [IN/THE-nets] to learn the tools necessary to master parselmouth ([pain/mouth]+[IN/THE-speech]).
[HER/MY-NEED] isn’t sure if it’s the Feline DNA, the nature of the encounter itself, or the fact that she was Petrified with a Basilisk Curse so soon after the discovery that resulted in her life taking the turns it did, morphing into the thing it has, but she’s positive the culprit is most definitely sometime during her first 2yEArs at Hogwartz.
The first yEA.Re was terrifying and exhilarating and wild and an additional venture beyond her wildest dreams. Her second YeaR(e) was a nightmare, and she’s scared to admit, even to herself, just how much she doesn’t want to open the box when it comes to unpacking the trauma of it all. She’s still barely able to hold things together when reflecting back on [Y:hEARS 5-7].
In all her years since leaving that… place-of-ACE, it is only recently that she’s even paused to consider that maybe children should be prepared a little more fully when tempering their hopes and expectations and illusions of safety and control when finding out you have been accepted into a “School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” It’s embarrassing to remember when she thought magic was as simple as remembering translations in another language and waving a stick around like a fool.
(I mean, sure… the stick helped. Sometimes. But it’s not like the stick was a fucking branch stuffed with hair or anything so pedantic. Crafting a W.and extension Multiplier was an art, and [HER/MY-NEED] had very complicated feelings regarding her “gifts” in WandING.)
Anyways.
The Petrification.
Everything really always comes back to that. There was just something about looking into those LIFE-less, SOUL-less eyes (and feeling her body slowly go cold and sluggish and stiff until her jaw was locked and cracking, the bones of her teeth splitting long before the nerves stopped alerting the brain to the damage. And a life’s worth of postural decision making turned into a crucial moment of life or death) as she frantically found a stable and center-ground to keep from falling in the direction of the staircase just around the corner or the Mountain of black diamonds at her feet, the polished and deadly surface still slick from the perpetually faulty plumbing of her paradise home turned hell. We remembered vividly how DEATH BECOMES HER, and neither of us were willing to risk a RePeat of the DEATH-of-US. That one was embarrassing, not to mention wildly unflattering.
Regardless, death unbecoming, the months of waiting and the insanity inducing and mind numbing boredom of being unable to so much as move a fingertip were nothing compared to the vivid moment of KNOWING TRUE death was imminent the second she met HER stare and felt the Gorgons curse take root, because if she fell…
Just because she was a witch didn’t mean she was immune to death. A broken neck was a broken neck. Even if they found a cure, it would be a headless body that would thaw back to a state capable of true decomposition.
MY (@) in her makes the memory of those moments take on a dimension that is difficult to understand. [HER/MY-NEED] was desperate for the dreams to stop.
HER research when trying to figure out the exact nature of the Gorgon’s curse was the discovery of the Khaphic nature of Axial Magic when separated from Appendicular causation. The texts were old, most in a script of sand and stone and fire and light and she realized immediately she was going to have to figure out Muggle technology to figure out where to even start.
This was Dark magic, and while wizards illuminate their surroundings in ways that make due, Muggles have always been most scared of the dark, and serve their masters of seeing with both C’s and K’s, for every clue in Hogwartz’s library, or the personal libraries of the various individuals she managed to gain access dead ended in a discovery made by a muggleborn witch or wizard.
it was obvious what she had to do.
It wasn’t that much of a stretch of the imagination to figure out what kind of “leg up” THEY might have when it came to access to information, and/or an alternative perspective as to the inner workings and physics of the world when tackling a problem. There was a reason Slytherins generally didn’t fuck around with Ravenclaws. A Raven’s relatives may not all be able to make you shit your brains out everytime you scratch your left ear, but sometimes they showed up with a semiautomatic guns and solved the problem in a manner every bit as efficient as a killing curse. Ravenclaws tended to find ways of ensuring they wouldn’t end up as collateral in any of the wars going on in the many worlds that surrounded them.
[HER/MY-NEED] spent countless days poking around on the respectively high end desktop she purchased with Muggle money saved up from working a couple bartending shifts she sharked from a muggle with the help of an intricate obliviate spell and (extremely carefully prepared) poly juice potion. She felt a little bad about it, but at the end of the day, the muggle spent a couple days “feeling off” while [HER/MY-NEED] magicked and danced her way behind a filthy horseshoe stacked with bottles of watered down JamesSon.
[HER/MY-NEED] isn’t proud of it, but the department of Muggle Secrecy and Suppression tended to poke their nose into things when magic folk began showing an interest in muggle affairs, and the explanation that she was trying to learn Parseltounge wasn’t going to make anyone feel any better considering an interest in something so steeped in the stigma of Dark Magic. The combination of Parseltongue and an interest in Muggles in general were, statistically speaking, pretty unarguable RED flags in the grand scheme of things.
[HER-MY-NEED] spent a weekend and a half working as many shifts the muggle girl would realistically attempt to pick up without raising suspicion, and spent the next 2 months shaking off the lingering echos and dreams of the old and flakey skin while she figured out how to get over HER annoying fixation and confusion when using a ‘mouse’ while chasing a small little darting dot with her eyes.
The muggle memories took on a level of realness [HER/MY-NEED] was POSITIVE was a side effect of HER first exposure MY hair in the potion before OUR body was petrified.
That being said, Parseltounge turned out to be a fascinating language. It was also terrifying to a painful degree, because snakes don't really “talk.” They whisper. They flick. They slither and slide and hiss and spit. The only animal that communicates even remotely similarly -[HER/MY-NEED] is sure significantly, as far as her particular quest was concerned- is a cat.
She learned when pouring over ancient scrolls left over from the ill fated wizarding dominant era of Atlantis that the particular frequency of a cat’s purr exists in a range that creates enough of a baseline that gives all subsequent forms of expression utilizing exclusively the vocal and mouth organs a surprising amount of clarity.
Its what makes a Sphinx’s riddle so deadly.
[HER/MY-NEED] is sure that the lingering symptoms of feline poisoning when she was 12 are the reason why the basics of Parseltongue came so intuitively when she finally discovered its earliest human derivative in sanskrit, becoming immediately infuriated at its exclusion from Hogwartz curriculum right up until she stumbled across the Veda’s. Right there. In plain sight. For literally anyone to read pretty much anytime they wanted.
Finding the Upanishads on the internet was an earth shattering experience. It was the shock of HER life to find a book of dark magic she had once spent weeks sending Mcgonagall requests for access only to be immediately rejected, outlined so succinctly on a webstrand sighting [HER/MY-NEED] found about 5 minutes after figuring out the librarian wasn’t having some kind of embarrassing episode when she sarcastically instructed her to “Google it.”
If finding and finally getting to read the Upanishads was a shock, discovering Wikipedia was like opening Pandora’s box. She recognized so many titles and names she had only ever seen in the restricted section of Hogwartz’s library, and nearly fell out of her chair when she clicked on a ‘thumbnail’ of a white haired man that looked vaguely familiar only to find a picture of Merlin staring back at her. Only he wasn’t winking and shifting in his seat, and his name wasn’t listed as Merlin.
Apparently the Muggles had named him “Einstein.” Which was confusing, because another page listed several of his theories, postulations and equations, only under a variety of other names including Charles Darwin, Edward Newton, and Frank Herbert among many MANY others. It was a puzzle [HER/MY-NEED] was itching to tackle at some point, and as her understanding crystallized of the hissing and spitting, cracking and popping of a serpent and IT’S spine as it thrummed its body along the ground like a bow against strings, she was beginning to develop her theories.
The implications were… alarming. The least of which being that there may be a little bit more in common between muggles and wizard folk than anyone could have possibly guessed. The most alarming of which being that the world was apparently full of witches and wizards with serpentine patroni and she was beginning to wonder if Slytherins had even heard of the Owl Post, because she couldn't go 5 minutes sitting inside the leaky cauldron before she was overhearing some message from “Master,” emanating from an incorporeal source apparently only she had the ability to hear, to pass onto Mr or Mrs. So-and-so at their earliest convenience. It was a curious system that hinted at some kind of structure or hierarchy, which, again, was pretty alarming, especially when realizing how out in the open it was.
[HER/MY-NEED]’s mastery of Parseltongue segued immediately into her next astronomical discovery.
It is important to note, that at its core, Parseltongue, like all languages, is just a very precise type of music. It is a type of architecture that followed a particular set of harmonic rules in which phrases were organized absent any kind of repetition. To grasp the grammar rules, she first had to dust off not just her old arithmancy textbooks but her advanced tomes on ancient runes as well. She even resorted at one point to digging out her old calculus textbook from the advanced muggle schools she had been enrolled in prior to getting her Hogwartz letter, and it was a relief to finally be reminded that Muggles hadn't figured out how to memorize the 5,013 Paradimatologixohamatulorical Laws of Infinite Digress when solving the suddenly simple conversion table she had been graphing regarding the nuances of an i (with a dot) and its evolution from t2T through 12.I, which involved the tricky problem of solving for ‘el’ and L. Learning Sanskrit helped. She is positive she would not have been able to make the distinctions with English, Latin and Futharc alone. The Greeks once had it figured out, but conversion became impossible once 3Y[backwardsB] (colloquially remembered in Bettlles Barbed Til of the Sea of Flees) became a CONVERSATION instead of the inartculatable answer/question of the 528S’s law of infinite degrees. (The answer is 13.31, for anyone curious enough to know, though b42B can account for any factorial beyond 88. Anyone curious on my notes on TOM‘ s Palace Map in use for Requirement in the room of Mirrors has but to ask [=D].)
[HER/MY-NEED] spent many years worrying at Muggle’s lack of discovery whenever she stepped outside the Fidelis Pocket that contained all the world's Magical centers and visited her family. Things were getting hot, and it was only a matter of time before the poor things went through another food scarcity. [HER/MY-NEED] just hoped they had stopped resorting to Nuclear war. She much preferred public transit to apparition, and it made the FLEW and PORT-KEY/LINES and security an absolute nightmare. [HER/MY-NEED] was also beginning to have her suspicions as to what all that radiation was doing to genetic time dilation, and the literature on Muggle perception and wellness as a result of the lack of immunity to the radioactive elements in the environment are the birth of any argument regarding wizarding supremacy that may actually have a point that may be worth considering.
The next greatest shock of [HER/MY-NEED]’s life came when delving deeper and deeper into Python Scripting. She had rolled her eyes almost painfully when buying the ‘How To’ book upon seeing the title. “Merlin” apparently wasn’t even TRYING to be subtle about it. There was most definitely someone from the wizarding world feeding the muggle world very complex magical information, and while the Muggles seemed content only really use the information to figure out how to talk to each other as much as possibe, as quickly as possible, without really demonstrating a desire for those conversations to actually GO anywhere or MEAN anything, she recognized what it was almost at once. She suspected that the SPELL/CRAFTing was probably the natural evolution of some project by a muggle born before the first wizarding world cracked down on interspeciotic cointerhabimingly and Tom’s Riddle was threatening genocidal intentuality. Regardless of its original purpose, to [HER/MY-NEED], it was a very cleverly hidden tool to spy.
Her quest was not without its joys and giggled. She had been delighted when she stumbled across a muggle comic series that was clearly based on Harry’s godfather and the other Marauders, except instead of being a Jack of ALl/TRADES, he was a Batman. Both their hearts had ached when she read of Batman’s easy defeat of the Riddler when reality was so much messier and painful, however, she had a feeling Serius would have been delighted by his legacy among a population he had grown up being taught were mud and filth, and she’s sure he would have preferred being remembered as a Dark Night, instead of [SOC-RA-TH(^3x)10TH] which had been the popular remembrance when separated from its J-curve.
Either way, it was clear that someone had created a system of communication using a Patron of Serpentine origin (a phenomenon known to occur more prominently in the older, more pure magical bloodlines), though this person clearly held differing ideologies regarding Muggle utility, for they had left all the tools necessary to learn a language that suddenly gave [HER/MY-NEED] the ability to intercept shockingly sensitive and private messages merely by being in the same room/SPACE of their passing.
It turns out a patronus is only visible when interacting with the world, either by warding against a dark-matters pocket or delivering a message. But communicating amongst themselves? At most you’ll hear the flap of wings, or scratching of small feet as it coalesced its density into a vibrational pattern.
This applies to all save scirpents. Then its spine does the singing, its song a presence made known as it moves, long before it deigns to speak.
[HER/MY-NEED] was losing sleep over it.
It thrummed against her ears the same way she could feel her magic pulsing through the highways of her aura, but she could feel it in the core of HER. LIke a squeaky wheel rolling through all thier joints until it reached the base of HER skull and turned into a flood of MY hormones and pheromones leaving THEM with the unfortunate sensation of sliding through a steep tunnel, the ‘gist’ of a message or moment pressed into awareness itself in the vivid moment before waking, only to slip away the moment HER eyes slid open. It was not unlike being petrified, except instead of a body turning to stone in the world around it, a different world of stone materialized like a glove around a body filled with fluid and ropes and cables of mud and blood.
The sensation was… unpleasant. [HER/MY-NEED] wished she could turn it off.
She supposes that’s how they ended up in Egypt. India was the more obvious choice, but fidelis pockets were almost as dense and frequent as the surrounding jungles, and real snakes were just as loud and jarring as corporeal ones.
sHe apparated into Mumbai for a solid 10 minutes before the pounding in HER head turned into a full blown MY Grain. Egypt was only easier by comparison.
She finds a teacher in what she assumes at first to be a clearly magically altered Cobra. [HER/MY-NEED] Names it KYRA. The actual name is a song so long, it was only HER sensitivity to petrification that alerted THEM to the time bending paralysis charm that was struggling to take root in THE Basal Ganglia, and [HER/MY-NEED] suspected surviving the introduction is the only reason the Cobra hadn’t so much as hesitated to give the affirmative when asked for assistance. It took nearly a year under the patient and sometimes surprisingly kind tutelage of the 6 foot cobra for [HER/MY-NEED] to master the basics to be able to tune her body towards and soul away from hearing an unwanted Parsel. Kyra’s company also had the very welcome effect of keeping both real and patron serpents away. Snakes have a way of sensing one another, and [HER/MY-NEED] learned pretty quickly that Kyra was considered exceptional among the world of beings that whispered in the last truly practiced dialect of Dragons.
It was several years later, long after [HER/MY-NEED] had been lulled into a false sense of security regarding her level of proficiency with the language, that she realized she had only only ever been turning the volume of Kyra’s introduction down, a particularly potent sequence of syllasections creeping into HER/MYnd while she slept, causing THEM to slip into a deep, magically induced nap for over longer than sHe cares to consider.
While sHe slept, sHe dreamt. SHE dreamt of the stars and the cosmos beyond the edges of time and space, and SHE remembered Egypt, witnessing the conclusion to a song-story explaining the curse of Kyra’s name in a manner so vivid, sHe awoke to tears in HER eyes, her joints locked to stone, the uncontrollable sobs feeling as though HEy was ripping THEM apart from the inside while HER body remembered how to breathe and MYNE to blink at the same time.
The story, insofar as THEY remember is thus:
Kyra had once been a witch of unparalleled brilliance, her wit and charm so profound, her name was remembered and recalled as one might a prayer.
In a piece of magic so deeply rooted in the creation of AlL it is impossible to know if its triggering was by malicious or benign design, Kyra attained a form of immortality, her life extending magical core gaining a burst of life every time one of her ideas became a source of inspiration. Among the other witches and wizards of her many t=I[aMs]E, she was a source of envy and respect. Among the muggles, she was considered wizdom incarnate.
There is a reason those two words are so similar, and this reason resulted in a fate so horrific, [HER/MY-NEED]’s soul feels as though it is being twisted in two every time Kyra tightens her lithe body wrapped around HER torso when agitated or seeking a more optimal position for warmth. Or when she slides slowly and purposefully up the groove of a spine, the glide almost indecently decadent, before brushing a cool and sleek nose along a cheek, unabashed in ITS unrelenting drive to get a better taste of the burst of pheromones from [HER/MY-NEED]’s tonsils in a moment of agitation of HER own.
Kyra’s curse was communication itself. Her anthropomorphical intelligence, memory and aura drawn and concentrated into a form reflecting its greatest representation. Kyra was unspeakably beautiful, entirely human in form, up to the moment Muggles figured out their own way to explain how life was able to fly. Her wisdom came to be remembered only by wizards, and her beauty was forgotten along with her name.
Kyra didn’t realize her extended life had the potential of becoming a curse until the moment she had to begin introducing herself. As long as the people around her remembered who she was, and had at least enough of an understanding of the significance of her intellectual contribution on the world they were thriving in that her form remained unscathed. However as her introductions had to become more and more sophisticated and intricate as the world around her began developing their own language to give interpretation and form to her base discoveries and calculations, her form began to change.
At first, she began to look more and more masculine, her epigenetically superior magical blood giving her an edge in forcing an expression of form most likely to be accepted once explained. Once the gender line became impossible to gap, her expression of form began to shift into almost unrecognizable and sometimes horrific ways. Some places could only believe a beautiful young woman could have the sensitivities to have the ability to heal out of mere presence alone. Others needed an innate sense of unease and fear and awareness of the unknown to be willing to consider she was of an age, experience and intelligence, that the discrepancy made her appear by comparison omniscient and otherworldly.
[HER/MY-NEED]’s research into the Muggle archives, guided by Kyra’s tutelage and corrections during their parseltongue lessons immediately found them hunting down the bartender again, pleased that she now had two bars to choose from when picking up shifts, and ended up taking over for over a week because she actually had so much fun during the first two days. In the end, she had more than enough money to nearly buy out the entire myths and legend section at some muggle store called Barnes and Nobles that she found herself preferring to Flourish and Blotts.
(None of the books in the muggle book store ever tried to bite her, and there was something about looking for a book without wondering if the precariously balanced stack stretching near comically into the sky was actually going to tip over and give her another concussion. The healing charm always left her with another ocular migraine, and the snake chain of whispers around her got really loud in the meanwhile.)
After that, [HER/MY-NEED] spent 3 months in the magically expanded crawl space she added in the light socket of the muggle’s house. The patronus network, be they serpentine or other, was non-existent this deep into muggle territory, and staying on the premise was the one time Kyra issued anything other than a request, declaring with finality that they had found their “cave of nesting.” The muggle had two roommates that also worked in the industry, and it was an easy manner to accio a fallen eyelash, or stray piece of hair any time her funds were running low and she needed money for food. The trio partied hard enough that it was an easy task of juggling obliviate covers, as they seemed to end most nights in a drunken stupor, be they on the clock or not.
It was sometime near the end of her second year of questing with Kyra as a companion, the floor space nearly always covered in books on muggle religion and creation myths, cross referencing against the long list of individuals credited with contributing to all the charms and spells used in the earliest all-wizarding communities across Europe, Africa and the east that [HER/MY-NEED] had the second dream.
What frustratingly few witches and wizards failed to realize, is that the foundation for the vast majority of pockets of existence that housed the wizard world may all trace their roots to Hogwartz, but Hogwartz was the product of its time. The spells used on Hogwartz all existed in some form for centuries before 4 wizards decided to combine efforts and create an institution to regulate education and ensure there will always be a safe place away from Muggle politics for wizard folk to learn their craft in relative peace and safety. What’s more, is prior to Hogwartz, other schools existed. They tended to be smaller in size, and among small compounds and pockets of wizard kind that had collected into some kind of community, but little changed as to curriculum once Hogwartz expanded in popularity and importance, an unsurprising eventuality due to the unchecked growth rate of the relatively simple and pastoral muggle population that surrounded most magical epicenters.
Either way, [HER/MY-NEED] is immediately convinced that her dream of that dramatic transformation into a snake, the final and desperate act in a long and confusing narrative to save her husband (Or brother? And wife. Or sister? The characters were confusing, but the drama was heavy) from some non-magical king and his wizard lover that ended in unspeakable disaster, has something to do with the short and only mildly informative chapter in “Hogwartz, a History” regarding the life and influence of an ancient Necromancer named Amy. One of the details given on the ancient witch, listed almost biasedly as evidence of her involvement and connection to dark magic, is the fact that she was an animangus, and her animangus shape was that of a Spitting Cobra.
In the dream [Her/My-Need} learned the nature of Kyra’s curse. Her animagus form served as the final nail in the coffin, her name only remembered as the wisdom whispered to you by the oldest, most survival oriented part of your brain even witches and wizards colloquially refer to as Amy’s Gala, her prominence occurring during that weird and sometimes shameful period of wizarding history in which life expanding necromancy and Muggle dissection were all the rage. When in school, Hermoine always found it mildly hilarious that the most accomplished necromancer and “dark” witch in history was an unassuming, and reportedly almost alarmingly pleasant and petite woman named Amy. However, she lost the ability to see the joke when she learned the truth of the origin and fate of Amy, because Amy is when Kyra’s name turned into a song. After Amy, the only ones who remembered the true nature of Kyra’s contribution to the world were the few who maintained the memory of the language of Dragons, and when they died out, Kyra was left with the snakes.
By their very nature, snake names are long. They tend to be a collection of sounds, that when translated is usually something of the nature “slithers before {slight twitch in the anterior portion of the 9th-12th vertebrae from the Atlas clockwise, quickly followed by 4 pulsing rolls in the opposite direction, but only between 10 and 11} pounce on mouse.” If you find yourself reminded of the fundamentals of WandING technique and form, I assure you, this is not a coincidence. The idea behind a snake’s name, is that it is the ‘sound’ of their greatest pride. Because Snakes are hunters by nature, their “Pride” is usually their unique technique or style when striking at prey or defending against a predator. Occasionally its a flashy display boasting of previous successes when courting for a mate, but that tended to occur in seasons, but either way, snakes tended to change their name All. The. Time.
It was rare for a snake to stick to the same name for any duration of time, the name almost invariably evolving or extending in at least SOME kind of way, but it wasn’t unheard of if the serpent’s Pride found it way hosted less in a technique, and more in a moment. For instance, maybe a cobra has figured out how to increase the range and accuracy of their spit, and remembered exactly how they were able to blind a jackal from over 20 yards when it was closing in on the scent of a freshly laid clutch of eggs. It’s a scene that became a reoccurring dream for no less than 6 months, long after [HER/MY-NEED] had shortened the sound to ‘Kyra’, and around the time she was beginning to grasp just who it was that had made habit and home of a roving pocket of warmth somewhere in the groove of HER waist and along the line of OUR spine, and at this point, [HER/My-NEED] tried not to make a habit of thinking about it. She had dreamed enough of Kyra’s name for the sound to fill her dreams with memories of countless lifetimes barely remembered, so she tried to keep her waking moments focused on the problem at hand.
Because there was definitely a problem.
It turns out Snake magic, and the language of snakes (which is really just dragon speak with a lisp) is its own WHOLE ASS branch of magic. Its a magic that is so easily misused or blatantly abused, that wizards have gone out of their way to vilify any kind of association with even the memory of it, and muggles have turned all said associations to that of pure evil, or the mascot of the embodiment of pure evil, and honestly, its all quite dramatic and ludicrous, because at the end of the day, its just music.
Its music that is heard with your bones and the muscles of your spine, less the drum pads at the ends of a neural process involving your ears, but its still music. Muggles and wizards may not agree on much, but everyone loves music, right? So what makes dragon speak so dangerous?
Cuz its music, but in THE time signature. THE time signature is not a polynumeric hyperbole of two relative patterns of grouping and phrase. Its a prime number so long that its expression can only be done utilizing some kind of linguistic algorithmic collapse baked into the working of a spell so long, it would arguably take years to read the thing from start to finish. Most of the wizarding world didn’t think it existed. Hermoine had her doubts before realizing halfway into a lecture that Kyra was basically giving her a lesson on a harmonic variation of string theory when explaining the importance of scalene manipulation when going for accuracy at high range when interpreting the nuance difference between a spit and cough.
Two days later, Hermoine was told it was time to move. She was glad. She had experienced enough time behind a muggle bar and learned enough about muggle current affairs to be ready to wash her hands of it. It was also alarming and depressing to see what the world would look like if people didn’t know how to perform the meditations and spells to heal the excess damage to their bodies that invariably occurred after drinking that much alcohol. It was downright depressing to realize these people didn’t realize that Alcohol wasn’t actually supposed to kill you like that and had so clearly misread the signs and symptoms of their disease.
Muggle’s were sad and depressingly doomed like that. Hermoine was glad to be free of it.