A/N: My titles are getting wyrd. Like weird, but with extra strangeness and bad spelling…

All my formatting's been messed up. Damn them.

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Harry Potter: Raven

by Shadow Crystal Mage

Chapter 18: Sturm and Drang, Beautiful Wands, And Other Things of Interest, Including, But Not Limited To, Incendiary Drinking Cups

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Teen Titans. As the Internet as my witness, I will not rest until I make it into as many pages of TV Tropes as possible!!!!!!!

Without actually putting myself there, of course.

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Two months is a long time. A lot of things could happen over that period. The Justice League, for example could put away over a three hundred petty criminals, prevent or do damage control for at least seven natural disasters, put out at least twelve literal fires, save thousands of lives, engage/battle at least twenty supervillains (more if the villains were feeling group-y), be on the newspapers for at least a quarter of the time, and make countless little boys and girls very happy by rescuing their little kitties that had gotten stuck up in trees (the Question will also have added 39.5 new aspects to his conspiracy theory, one of which will be that PETA and other animal-oriented groups are subliminally, chemically programming kittens to run up and get stuck in trees for a secret, sinister purpose using the chemicals in the inks of pet food labels).

The Teen Titans can order 134 pizzas, visit Disneyland at least 5 times, be pranked by Beast Boy a minimum of 17 times, by Harley Quinn at least 21, have the Tower attacked at least seven times by people and/or groups they don't know, at least twice by people they do know, be visited countless times by Supergirl and Stargirl, at least four 'casual' visits by Superman and S.T.R.I.P.E. that has Robin sweating and later reaching for the aspirin, a lesser number of casual visits by Hawkgirl, Zatanna, Static, Gear and a few of the more social Leaguers, and least 46 letters from Terra to Raven (at Ivy's insistence, Terra has switched to rag-pulp paper, which feels nicer and kills fewer trees).

London's newest serial killer can claim at least 23 more lives that the police know of, and an uncertain but large number that they do not. He can cause people to each lose the cumulative equivalent of at least four days of sleep. There were at least eighteen nervous break-downs relatable to him. The police gains twelve new officers, and lose twenty seven. Those are the ones who resigned. About as many are killed in action, gutted, dismembered, and in a few instances apparently eaten. This is not counting the number who've died due to more mundane reasons.

Yes, a lot can happen in two months.

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One month, three weeks, and about 5 days ago…

Two friends, Jo and Bob, were trying to steal a car. Even with today's modern security systems, that was still possible. After all, it's not like they all had alarms tuned to a frequency Superman could hear (he'd kindly asked the makers not to put that one of the market, since not only would it be near-useless for everyone else, he'd practically go deaf). So, given time, technique, experience, and the right tools, virtually any car can be broken into without setting off alarms. Alarms, after all, were loud, distinctive things that instantly drew attention to the fact someone was trying to steal something that wasn't theirs, and would send people running to either intervene, as was their civic duty, to call the authorities, which was also their civic duty, or to try and join in.

Bob broke the window of the old but still profitable car with a practiced strike of his elbow, letting the alarm blare as it would until Jo had managed to pop open a panel and mess around with a few things. That fact they had fifteen minutes to do so probably said some things. Whether it was a critique of where the car was parked, the quality humanity or the annoying nature of car alarms is a judgment call.

They weren't worried about police. They knew this neighborhood, knew how to work quickly, and if they happened to draw the attention of the little red and black little tart who called herself a superhero, let her! They had GUNS, man, they weren't scared of any little girls who looked like she should be working the docks!

Almost finished with hotwiring the engine– whose ever car this had been, they had unsportingly not left the keys tucked up in the driver's side shade flaps– Bob was impatiently tapping the roof of the car, supposedly on lookout, while Jo messed with the wiring when there was a rather polite cough behind them. Bob though he imagined it, until it happened again, louder.

Bob swore, reaching for his gun awkwardly as Jo bumped his head while trying to scramble to his feet. He wondered how the little tart had sneaked up on them. From what he'd heard from a few blokes that had gotten busted, she liked to announce herself, and a few near-misses of their own had taught them that the red stuff she made glowed like neon and wasn't exactly subtle.

Whoever it was behind them, it wasn't who they were expecting. He was wearing a blanket on his head, for one thing, like those ringy-rat things from those movies a few years ago.

In a soft, polite voice, the person under the blanket said, "Excuse me, but are you attempting to steal this car, or are you merely having some sort of engine trouble? I'd like to be sure, so as not to make a mistake."

Bob and Jo should have looked at each other in confusion. After all, this was the narratively acceptable thing to do. As it was however, Bob just got pissed, raising his gun threateningly. "Back off, wanker," he said. "Get out of here, before I blow your brains out!"

The person under the blanket tilted their head. "Ah," he said. "Thank you for clarifying."

And then there was only darkness and screaming…

Officer Cleese found them later, tied to a light-post, sleeping like babies. He read the folded note tucked into one of their breast pockets with bemusement. It included, after a concise and conveniently numbered listing of what offenses the two might have committed, an apology for not remaining to give a police report in person, as well as possibly breaking the law with vigilante activity. Officer Cleese looked at the two tied up would-be carnappers (according to the note). Then he looked at the gun floating in midair, next to another note admonishing it not be touched by anyone except a certified crime-scene technician.

Officer Cleese sighed, and began to think of how he'd write this in his report as he radioed in that there seemed to be a new superhero running around.

A very polite one, apparently.

........................................

There was something wrong with her eyes.

That was the only conclusion Ginny could come to as she blinked, trying to make the problem go away as if it were sleep gunk. It didn't seem serious, just annoying. She wondered if it was related to those weird clicking noises she sometimes heard.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked her as she rubbed her eyes again, despite knowing she shouldn't.

"I'm fine," Ginny lied. "My eyes are just a little blurry, that's all."

"Have you been getting enough sleep?" Harry asked, sounding concerned and bone tired.

Ginny gave him a reproving look. "You're one to talk. Did you get any sleep at all last night?"

"Yes," Harry said simply.

"You're being literal," Ginny accused him.

"Yes."

"Pass the bacon, will you?" Ron asked. He paused to look at Harry. "Harry, did you get enough sleep last night?"

"Yes."

"Here you go, Ron," Hermione said, handing it over. She looked at Harry and frowned. "Harry, have you been getting enough sleep?"

Harry turned to her, his eyes narrowing, eyebrows coming down and meeting, face tensing.

Hermione blinked. "Are you trying to glare at me?"

"Yes."

Hermione seemed to consider and discard being angry. "Work on it."

Ginny studiously bent over her food, trying to ignore the buzzing in her ears…

Lessons that day were difficult, since she kept getting distracted by the strange colors and lines that crept through her vision that no one else seemed to see. The strange clicking noises she'd almost become used to, but this was something else. Still, it didn't seem dangerous. It was actually kind of nice, like her own personal fire-works show.

It only became problematic a few times.

As she'd waved her wand to try the charm Professor Flitwick was having them practice, her vision seemed to blur. A riot of colors flashed through her vision, almost blinding her, much harder to ignore than the insect-like chittering in her ears. She lost her concentration, the spell flickering out in a decidedly unspectacular and unremarkable fashion not worthy of any particular notice.

Ginny stared about wildly, even as her vision rapidly returned to normal, though random bursts of lines and colors continued to flicker through it, a bit more often than before. The heck…?

........................................

One month, two weeks, and about 4 days ago…

Raven was calmly walking across a rooftop, taking care not to damage the tiles with his boots and trying to pinpoint exactly where he was on his map. The simple street map hadn't exactly been rendered with nocturnal overhead navigation in mind, and as a result it had been heavily annotated with little additions detailing things like visible landmarks, relative elevation levels, and other features of a more useful nature. He'd slowly been getting used to London's layout, to the point were he'd been fairly confident– if he felt things like confidence, that is– of his ability to discern his relative location, but he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, because he was completely disoriented.

Perplexed, Raven approached the dark-skirted teenaged girl who was kneeling on the lee side of a chimney stack and looking down on the streets below.

"Excuse me–" was all he managed to say, before the girl gave a startled yelp and began randomly flinging barely coherent blobs of red that toed the line between matter and energy.

Raven darted sideways, using the roof's slope to his advantage as his hand flipped up in a warding gesture, summoning a shield of dark energy before him. The gesture wasn't strictly necessary, but it was a mnemonic device taught to him in his youth, and his instincts had never really outgrown it. In times when his powers, instinct and training moved faster than conscious thought– such as, say, if he were suddenly attacked– the gestures made themselves known.

His powers quickly folded up his map and tucked them into his belt as he turned the dodge into a slide, slightly… distressed, he supposed, at the damage his footwear was doing to the tiles. His movement's changed to a dangerous hopping lunge that should never be employed by people who'd only heard of it, a combination of agility and partial-telekinetic influence causing his foot to land at the very edge of the roof, before his leg kicked off and he somersaulted off, his movements also telekinetically guided as he tried to dive into the darkness below, into cover and away from the faint illumination found at rooftop level.

Darkness had just obscured his vision when there was a cry of "Hold it right there!" and something grabbed his ankles, abruptly pulling him back up and into the light as he dangled upside-down.

He found himself facing a pale-skinned girl, almost the same grayish shade as Raven himself, glaring at him upside-down in what he could vaguely interpret as an expression of righteousness. At least, he supposed it was. Her hands glowed an intense neon red, the same shade as the rather bulbous, cartoon-y hands currently holding him aloft, the same shade as her eyes. "Who are you?" she demanded, hands clenched into fists. "What do you think you're doing up here at this time of night? Talk!"

Raven composed his features into what he hoped was a reassuring smile, his palms open in the commonly accepted gesture of surrender. "Good evening," he said as politely as he could, which was, reportedly, a lot. "I was wondering if you could help me. I seem to have gotten lost and was wondering if you knew what area this was."

She– Argent– blinked at him. "What?"

Having consumed all not-confrontational avenues of conversation, Raven sought for some other topic to continue along. He'd been told compliments were always received well, especially among females of the species. "Also, you have very nice eyes," he added. "I believe this is the traditional misunderstanding between un-introduced superheroes that results in a short but possibly highly destructive battle wherein we hurl accusations and incorrect assumptions at each other that semi-justify our own belligerence. For the sake of expediency and the reduction of property damage, however, would you accept my surrender so we can converse as civilized individuals?"

The red-headed superheroine blinked at him. "What?"

Raven raised a finger in a gesture for patience and reached into his belt for a pair of handcuffs. Snapping them on his wrists, he held his cuffed hands before him. "I surrender. Please don't hurt me."

Argent's eyebrow twitched.

It twitched again later as they sat across from each other at a Starbucks, as Raven handed her the cappuccino she'd asked for while he helped himself to a cup of tea. She looked down at the paper cup in front of her, next to the waffle on a plate, then back up at the boy, who was holding out his pinky in a manner that managed to be either effeminate or affected and pretentious. "You're Miss Manners," she accused.

Raven tilted his head, his hair framing his face and domino mask in a not-unflattering manner at the gesture. "Excuse me?" he said.

"Miss Manners," Argent repeated. "The new player who's been leaving polite notes and thoughtfully concise reports at her– er, their– crime scenes."

Behind the mask, Raven blinked. "Miss Manners?" he said. "What gave people the impression I was female?"

Argent shrugged. "I don't know. It just… didn't seem in character for a guy to write it. It was… too polite."

Raven nodded, accepting the words. "Ah, I see. In future I will attempt to be less polite."

Silence descended. Argent took a sip, and washed it down with a bite. Raven sipped his tea. Late night people stared, pointed, and took pictures.

"How are the murder investigations progressing?" Raven asked politely.

Argent made a face, glaring up at him, waffle in her mouth. She bit it off, chewed, swallowed, and said, "I'm sorry, that's privileged information and none of your damn business."

"Ah. My apologies, then," Raven said. "I did not mean to pry. As an unknown element, I understand you reticence in confiding in me, though I thought the question was worth the attempt."

A slightly muffled "Miss Manners" emanated from the general direction of Argent's throat as she took another drink.

"Would it affect the investigation if I informed you that there is a strong possibility it was a demon that committed the double homicide a few nights ago where there was an incident in which shots were fired?" Raven said helpfully. "I believe you were there with Inspector… Destrale, was it?"

Argent went still, hands clasped around her cup. Raven noted the contoured cover had been pried up slightly, and that the liquid appeared to still at a high temperature. "That wasn't in the papers," Argent said slowly.

"No, it wasn't," Raven agreed. "Incidentally, I was not shot, if that makes any difference."

She glared at him. "What were you doing around the area of a crime scene?" she said, voice accusatory.

"I was familiarizing myself with the layout of the city, having only recently arrived," Raven said, finishing his tea and setting the cup aside. "I reached the scene by listening to the police bands, thinking that I would be of some assistance somehow. I believe that is the expected and accepted modus operandi of a superhero."

She glared at him.

"Do you wish me to accompany to the nearest police station?" Raven said guilelessly.

........................................

"Uh oh," Cybrog said, staring at the article his Google search had bought up.

"Hm?" Harley said, looking over his shoulder as she juggled a spoon, a can of whipped cream and a bowl. She froze. The three dropped, the bowl making a clattering sound as it bounced off the floor. "Uh oh."

"What is 'uh oh'?" Starfire asked, carrying a jar of mustard with a straw in it. She looked at the picture. "Kreb glaghk."

"She doesn't need to know about this, does she?" Cyborg said.

"No, she does not," Starfire agreed.

"Know about what?" Terra said behind them. The three jumped, and there was a crash as Cyborg fell off his chair, followed by a crack and a tickling sounds. She looked weirdly at her Tower-mates, but before she caould say anything, she looked at the monitor and froze.

"WHO IS THAT RED-HAIRED HUSSY AND WHAT IS SHE DOING WITH RAVEN AT A STARBUCKS?!?!?!?!?!?"

"Terra, please, remember we are standing on a tectonic fault line!

"My Mickey Mouse bowl!""

........................................

There is, Raven considered a bit tiredly, probably something illegal about this class.

He was fairly certain it broke some sort of safety protocol to demonstrate instantly lethal and traumatizing spells to a 4th year class. That is, a group of impressionable, possibly impulse control-deficient teenagers who might doubtless attempt to reproduce the spells they had just seen, illegal or not.

Or perhaps not. They apparently had different standards of safety within this society, unlike in non-magical areas. Still, the demonstrations were highly irresponsible.

And this was not, at all or in any way, shape or form, based on the fact that the sight of the Killing Curse's destructive green light had reminded him of some traumatic memories recovered by the Dementors. No, not at all. Definitely not!

Hermione, it seemed, also seemed to have concerns about the psychological effects of Professor Moody's demonstration. She led him and Ron towards a side passage, where Neville was standing with an expression Raven recognized as 'traumatized'. His high-pitched denials were clearly, if not a prevarication, then at least an obfuscation.

He was not sure that Professor Moody leading Neville away ostensibly to converse with him might not be cause for concern.

"What was that about?" said Ron, watching Neville and Moody turn the corner.

"I don't know," said Hermione, looking pensive.

"I occurs to me that leaving Neville with him might not have been a good idea, if only because he has apparently managed to cause intense psychological damage to him over the course of only one class, a dubious honor that not even professor Snape has managed to achieve," Raven noted.

"Some lesson, though, eh?" said Ron to Raven as they set off for the Great Hall. "Fred and George were right, weren't they? He really knows his stuff, Moody, doesn't he? When he did Avada Kedavra, the way that spider just died, just snuffed it right—"

"Ron," Raven interrupted, much to his companions' surprise. "You are my friend and I mean no offense, but I must ask, in the most forceful terms possible: Shut the hell up."

The two's head snapped around to look at their friend, shock painted on their faces. "Harry…?" Hermione gasped.

"I apologize, but the lesson has been… taxing for me in the non-physical sense," Raven said curtly. "I am unpleasantly reminded of certain memories excavated from my mind by the Dementors last year. I would take it as a great personal favor if we could please discuss something else."

"Uh, sure mate," Ron said, more surprised than anything else.

"Thank you," Raven said. He paused, considering. Well, what else could they discuss? "How are you with your Divination Homework, Ron? Do you require any assistance?"

Hermione made a face. "I can't believe you stayed with that tripe, Harry."

"It has its applications," Raven said. "Despite Professor Trelawney's penchant for the melodramatic, there is more to Divination than predicting untimely deaths. Or timely deaths, as the case may be, depending on your perception of what is inevitable."

"Do you always need to get philosophical about that?" Ron asked, sounding resigned.

"On the nature of inevitability?" Raven said, a small smile on his lips. "Yes. Yes, I must."

........................................

"Cyril," Beryl said as she watched her childhood friend trying to install nitro-boosters onto his motorcycle. "What do you think you're doing?"

He paused ever so slightly, but continued, stoically ignoring her presence.

"I found the armor," she continued. "And the Kevlar. And the chain-mail. And the guns."

Silence. Things were tightened and adjusted.

"It's insane," she said. "For crying out loud, what do you bloody think you're doing, dressing up like some psycho-gothic English Batman?"

Cyril grabbed a screwdriver and studiously ignored her.

The sandwiches thrown at him were a bit more difficult. Not to mention wasteful…

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One month, one week, and about 3 days ago…

Raven had been pleased– or, for the sake of linguistic accuracy, as close to it as possible– at managing to establish a basis for a working relationship with the more locally experience heroine Argent. Apparently, however, other people focused on the word 'relationship' and not 'working'.

"What," Raven said, looking at the picture and headline on the inside of the tabloid an annoyed Argent had thrust at him, "is Argven? And why is there a picture of our initial public meeting?"

Argent scowled, glaring out over the city from on top of the bridge tower they'd arranged to meet. "Oh, that's they're way of saying we're a couple. You get used to it. They made the same kind of fuss that time Supergirl came over."

Raven paused. "A couple of what?"

She stared at him. He returned the look, face completely neutral.

Apparently deciding to drop the topic, she turned back to look over the city. "Okay, if you're going to be working here, let's get one thing straight. This is my city. You don't mess around in my city. You follow my lead and do as you're told, got that? I know this place better than you do."

"Understood," Raven said, completely cheerful, agreeable and not at all mocking.

He didn't understand why she glared at him like that at all.

........................................

It was a beautiful sunny day at the Watchtower.

Say what you'd like about working in an isolated station in one of the most dangerous working environments in the solar system, at least the view out the window is never rained out.

"He sure gets around, doesn't he," Kara idly said as she looked at the reports she, Stargirl, Zatanna and Shayera were going through.

"'Miss Manners'?" Shayera said, looking over the Kryptonian girl's shoulder and chortling. "They called him 'Miss Manners'? They thought he was a girl?!?"

"Have you ever heard the kid talk?" Zatanna said, amused. "If all they've had from him until recently was notes, I'm not surprised. He can be pretty…" She paused, considering her words, always an important thing for someone who practiced a form of Logomancy. "…Sissy," she finished, nodding in satisfaction. "How's Terra taking it, by the way?"

"Not too well," Stargirl said. "The Titans are trying to cut her off from finding out but they're not having much luck. They're worried she might accidentally start a major earthquake. So far, nothing's gone higher than a 3 on the Richter scale, but people might start noticing soon."

"Great," Shayera muttered. "That'll be just what we need. Can you try to calm her down next time you visit to hit on Robin?"

Stargirl sniffed with affronted dignity. "I'm not going down there to hit on Robin! I happen to think it's nice to be able to hang out with a bunch of people I can relate to who happen to be my age group!"

"And he has a great ass," Kara added, a slightly dreamy look on her face.

"I can't say I fault you," Zatanna said, a slightly dreamy look of her own. "If there's one thing Batman's good at, it's training his sidekicks enough so they have great asses. Hmm, Nightwing…"

"Is that deliberate, you think?" Stargirl said.

The four paused to think about it.

"He does have Batgirl," Kara pointed out. "Who, in all fairness, also has a great ass."

"Maybe he has a special training video?" Zatanna mused, eyes half-lidded. "Bat-Buns of Steel or something…?

The four bowed their heads in thought. "Hmm…"

"You think he'll let us borrow it?" Shayera asked.

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Three weeks, and about six days ago…

"Is that an owl?" Argent said, starring glowing, avian-shaped magical construct carrying a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. It flew around Raven's head a few times before it landed on the table in front of them and dropped its package, before disappearing in a cloud of sparks.

"It appears to have been," Raven said, putting down his tea and reaching for the delivered parcel. A curving script on one side declared it was for 'Miss Manners'. "And it appears to be for me."

Argent twisted her head, seeing the designation, her lips twisting in wry amusement. "Someone has a fan," she said.

"More likely it is one of my associates attempting to elicit humor at my expense, though without malice aforethought," Raven said, before deftly generating a small utility-knife-like construct and making a small tear, before unwrapping the package. "Ah. How thoughtful." He held up the contents to Argent's line of sight. "Personalized stationary."

The red-eyed girl laughed, careful not to spill her drink as Raven put the new stationary away. Since they'd met, the Starbucks they'd taken to frequenting had gotten used to their presence, and though they didn't go there every night, they'd appeared often enough for their patronage to no longer elicit much surprise. It had been Raven's idea, a mid-patrol break to re-energize themselves and take a moment to rest, proposed with polite if novice clumsiness and clearly an attempt to try and get to know her. She'd been initially resistant to the idea, if only to assert– she admitted to herself– her dominance, but it was hard to maintain the head of stubbornness, contrariness and pseudo-testosterone in the face of the cloaked boy's near-endless politeness, courtesy, and his tendency to agree with her when she was clearly in the right without, somehow, seeming like a suck up.

Plus, he insisted on being the one to pay.

It wasn't a 'trust you with my life' sort of working relationship, but it was likely a start.

And he had never once tried to look up her skirt. Never mind she was wearing short underneath, it was the principle of the thing.

"Have there been any leads regarding Vita-man's clients?" Raven said quietly, continuing their conversation from where it left off.

Argent grimaced. "Some," she said. "The police have managed to make some arrests, but many of his buyers seem to have been really good at covering their tracks. The Hyde Formula's bad enough by itself, but some newer super-being formulas use it as a base, since it's easier to get a hold of than Venom. Following it through the criminal underground's going to be hard. Doing that's more Destrale's line than ours."

Raven nodded solemnly. "And the other matter?" he said, even more quietly.

Argent's eyes flicked around in caution. "More dead, all the same way," she said, low through clenched teeth. Her eyes narrowed. "Whoever this guy is, he's sick. He's–" she shuddered. "He keeps sending notes and… parts, to the police, though they're keeping that quiet. The media's going nuts as it is. They're calling him New Jack Ripper."

Raven frowned. "It is becoming arrogant," he said, the altered pronoun dropping into place comfortably and without fanfare. "More deaths are likely to follow."

Something inside Argent twitched, disturbed. While she and the police knew that– and very much did not like it– and had been forced to say the same before, no one had ever said it in so… detached and matter-of-fact a manner. "You're not a robot, are you?" she said suddenly. "Escaped from some sort of government lad because you became self-aware or from the future or something?"

"No," Raven said. "I'm fairly certain I'm not."

........................................

Resisting the Imperius Curse, Raven found, was surprisingly easy. He supposed his years of experience in total self-control must have been a critical factor, though it was likely Professor Moody's spell wasn't all that strong. Or it was possibly a resistance afforded by his physiology. He couldn't be sure.

He'd gotten used to his nocturnal schedule in the weeks since he'd begun operation. The difficulty had been maintaining an acceptable appearance during the mornings before his body had acclimated. Learning to rest where and when he could had been easier. Robin had, in his rather extensive letters, given him a lot of good advice born of years of experience. It had all been very useful.

It was also, he was certain, about to be put to the test.

The serial killer demon would strike again, he knew, and soon. And, likely, in some large and significant manner.

Halloween was coming.

It was a night rife in significance to many. To mundane peoples, it was a commercially and emotionally significant day. The western world saw it as a night of sweets and costumes. Spanish-influenced Catholics held it sacred as a day to remember and honor their dead. Those who dealt in magics beyond what mere wizards know celebrate it as a day of power and truce. Those from beyond this plane knew it as a time when passage between worlds was easiest. It was a time when the rules, in every and all senses, changed, just a tiny but significant bit.

Its approach sang to all that wasn't human in Raven's blood.

How much more, he wondered, would it sing to the killer's?

He neglected to patrol on the night of the arrival of the other schools involved in the Triwizard Tournament– the bond-building nature of which he still held in question– partly to conserve his strength and partly because it was likely his disappearance would be noticed that night, due to the heightened excitement and partially increased attentiveness of his fellows. He took the opportunity to track when they succumbed to unconsciousness, in preparation for the following night.

His name being drawn from the Goblet was an unexpected inconvenience.

........................................

Cyril drew the sword at his waist in a fluid, practiced motion. In the darkness, the blade glowed, reflecting off his modified and roughly assembled armor.

"Vengeance is mine," he whispered, "Sayth the Lord."

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- To be continued...

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A/N: Really, who leaves their keys conveniently located in that shade that flips down and nowadays has a flap for your driver's license? You're just asking to have your car stolen…

So many superheroes have friction between them at first meeting, ego posturing, dominance showdowns…

I decided to subvert that.

I am now revealing how exactly things are different for Harry/Raven school-wise. Or trying at any rate. The superheroics seem to be giving my problems.

Poison Ivy's powers tend to wary depending how much of a plant she is, according to writers. The Batman Adventures comics shows her as having acid and/or possibly poisonous spit, chemical generation/secretion abilities, as well as plant control. Gotham Sirens as powered her up a little. My version's cobbled from that.

Please review, C&C welcome.

Until next time, this is Shadow, signing off.