Red Tide Rising

Cursing under her breath, Briar paced her way along to the Quidditch pitch. Men! Men are so vulnerable, she thought, with their stupid egos that are constantly under attack.

And Severus Snape was the worst of them all! He disliked her, even hated her, because she was more talented the he was, because she had achieved more than he had, and she was younger than he was. And, let's not forget, I'm a chick. That's the kicker.

Four days into term, and he was already making her life hell. Ever since she'd been fourteen, when she'd first met him, he'd held nothing but distain for her. Maybe it was the pure talent for Potions that she had, and that she hated. If she'd had her way, she'd never had learned the frigging subject. But she hadn't had her way, and she'd just dealt with it.

Just as she dealt with everything else in the tedious time and space that was her life. The list of problems was long and getting longer, and Severus Snape was just another column amid the endless parade of complications.

Not that Briar was complaining, nor did she wish for a problem free life. Complaining would show weakness, and since nothing changed, it would prove futile and inefficient. Briar hated futility and disorder. She also would not run from her life, as she had once done, because now she was mature.

She was stronger than the problems.

She was a woman now, and Snape would tremble at her feet one day. Briar just wasn't in a rush for that day, since revenge, like everything, is sweeter when anticipated. Yes, Snape and all the other bigoted little assholes would tremble.

Tremble! she repeated in her mind, in a funny little melodramatic way, just to relieve the tension she felt when she got a little too angry. Anger was futile, and her biggest weakness. Some people may say she had an excellent temper, but she just mocked them in her mind, and that usually did the trick.

And besides, she shouldn't be angry right now. She was teaching her first morning class, and the sun had yet to rise. It was the time of day when the world actually felt as fresh as it looked. The soft sounds of things that go bump had always kept her from feeling lonely when she was younger.

The early, early morning was her friend. She had long ago conquered her fear of it, and the memories she had earned during the wee hours. Her parents had died in the early morning. She had been exiled to London to study the Dark Arts in the early morning. At the moment she thought she'd finally return home, or what remained of home, she had been turned away, and turned over to another Master, in the early morning. And a thousand other bad things formed bad memories of the early morning, and she had overcome those things.

She was stronger than the memories, than the fear. And she'd force these kids, though they were hardly younger than she, to overcome their fears, real or imagined, as well. She had to; it was her job. And Briar Gryffindor never, ever failed. Well, not often, anyways.

At least she wasn't depressed anymore. It was closer to unhappy now, and getting better every time she saw her therapist.

Finally reaching the pitch, she saw several blobs of shadow.

"Eager, aren't you?" she asked. "Good! Ten points to-" she strained to make out faces, "-ah, Gryffindor!" It filled her with pride to say that. She loved that these kids, with all the petty concerns, still managed to do her family name justice. Dumbledore had told her, before she had started teaching, that this generation of Gryffindors was exceptional.

"Good morning, Professor!" several of the children sang in tired voices. A few gave great yawns.

"Good morning," she replied as she glanced at her watch. "I see we still have a few minutes before I start deducting points from the other houses. Were there any questions from last class?"

While most of them shook their heads, more concerned with the sleep they were losing then with questions their brains could hardly form this early in the morning, one girl, the brilliant one, piped up. "Yes, Professor. We discussed the definition of Dark Magic. I was wondering if you agreed with the definition in the book, that certain magic is just dark."

Briar hesitated momentarily before answering. She knew Gryffindors, and she knew not to lie. But still, should she tell the absolute truth to them? She realized it would be easier in the end. "No, Hermione. I don't agree. I study the Dark Arts, and they aren't always bad, some were meant to be good. In my opinion, magic is magic, and it can be as pure or as tainted as you make it. The Dark Arts? That's every single artifact, spell or Potion that can be used for bad purposes."

"But some magic is definitively bad, right?" asked Harry Potter.

Well, what do you say to Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived? "Well, yes, I suppose. The only curse I've ever run into that I wouldn't use, ever, is the Cruciatus Curse. It has no justification whatsoever, you have to be twisted for it to work properly, and it hurts like hell."

For some reason, Potter actually chuckled. "I think Dementors are worse."

Briar shivered, not from the cold, but from the idea of Dementors. "Ah, yes, Dementors, my old friends. I, over the summer, helped developed a way to actually destroy those awful things. I had to, you know, since I can't keep my head around them. I'm fine at producing the Patronus Charm when there's nothing around, but the moment a Dementor comes around, I can maybe do it, maybe not. Just depends on the day."

Briar explained the theory behind destroying Dementors for a few minutes until four o'clock. The crowd had grown to what she assume was the full class size. "Everyone here?"

"Malfoy's not here yet," a Hufflepuff called.

"Does anyone know where he is?" Briar asked. When no one responded, she shrugged. "He'll regret it. Now this morning we are practicing a method of warming ourselves in cold weather, without using magic. It's rather simple, I promise, you just need to concentrate on feeling warm, and it will work. Just remember, there is no such thing as cold, only different amounts of heat.

"So, if you'll all take your cloaks off, we can begin."

For the next few minutes, Briar instructed the class on finding a spot inside them that was warm, and expanding that area to encompass their entire bodies. It was a simple idea that worked wonders in mildly cold temperatures. "Now, the trick is to manage to stay warm while doing other things-" Briar broke off. "Ms. Parkinson, have you used a Warming Charm? Ten points from Slytherin!"

"But Professor, I'm really cold!" Parkinson complained. "Besides, why shouldn't we use magic? We're witches and wizards!"

"Ms. Parkinson, I was fifteen feet away from you and I could feel the difference in air temperature. If I were trying to kill you, you'd be dead! And you, Mr. Malfoy," she said whirling to face the late-comer who was trying to sneak in unnoticed, "should start wishing you were. Why are you late?"

"I'm sorry, Professor. I couldn't seem to get ready this morning," Malfoy replied, without looking the least bit concerned.

"That is an excuse, Mr. Malfoy, not a reason. The difference? An excuse gains you detention!" Briar said in a no-nonsense way. "Tonight, Malfoy, at seven. Three hours. My office. Don't be late," she finished with a smirk.

*********************************

Draco knocked on Gryffindor's door at exactly one minute past seven. Just to prove a point; no one directed a Malfoy around, and certainly not a Gryffindor. Honestly, she thinks because she's a teacher she can tell me what to do? Although this was technically how the school worked, Draco decided not to focus on it.

"Tardy again, Mr. Malfoy? That's not very good, is it?" Gryffindor said as she waved him into her office.

"Sorry, Professor, I had to sort out some first-year squabble," Draco lied.

"No you didn't, Mr. Malfoy, five points for lying. Now take a seat, enjoy your surroundings, and give me one moment, please."

Draco glanced around the room, trying not to sneer. Huge books, a cauldron bubbling with a pile of ingredients beside it, and old skeletons of strange things littered her room. There were Sneakoscopes buzzing lightly, a tank with brown, filthy water, and a fern, but for what purpose Draco had no idea.

"That's Henry," she said, following his gaze toward the plant. "He's the only plant I haven't killed yet. He's a survivor, so we get along just fine." When Draco didn't comment, she continued. "Those," she said pointing at the skeletons, "are the skeletons of a human, and a human under the Lycanthrope curse. See how the bones thicken and change shape? Very painful, I'm sure."

"How many lines shall I write then?" Draco asked, his palms sweating a bit, as he was unnerved by such casual talk of Werewolves.

"Lines? Dear God, no. What a stupid punishment- I never figured that one out," she said gruffly. "Lines? Oh, no, Professor, I promise never to do anything wrong, ever again! Just not lines!" she continued in a high falsetto, her head bent over a parchment.

Draco managed a small smile. "Well, then what shall I do for punishment?"

"Well, then, here's the thing. Some teachers say punish the hell out of you brats. Some say be more lenient, that it's all just a stage. Myself, I just see lines or polishing plaques as a complete waste of time, and an evening of it would not see me on time for the next class. You can't force respect by giving out boring and tedious punishments. So instead, we'll just chat for a few hours. See, instead of really making you bleed, I'm just going interest you in my subject, and maybe you'll be on time, next time."

"So, what your saying is that you think detentions are really stupid, but you didn't want to punish me by taking points? And now we'll just talk until ten o'clock?" asked Draco incredulously.

"Uh, yeah, I was hoping you wouldn't catch on... So, Draco, tell me about yourself," Gryffindor said as she stretched her arms behind her head and kicked her legs onto her desk.

Three hours later, his skull could not contain Draco's mind. It was flying up among the clouds with ideas he'd never even considered before. He had never been inspired, actually inspired, by anyone in his entire life. And then, bam!, Gryffindor walks up and gives him detention! He couldn't believe something so stupid as a detention could be so useful.

For once, someone hadn't had to feign interest in what he was saying. Or, at least, someone who wasn't either a half-wit or Morag or Blaise had listened with real interest. Not even his father had ever listened to him, and he was beginning to see why. His father had nothing to control him with but fear and paternal obedience. On the other hand, Gryffindor made sense. Gryffindor hadn't interrupted him, hadn't derided him, and hadn't made him feel stupid. She just listened, and then gave her side of.

"The biggest thing in Defense Against the Dark Arts is to separate the threat from the innocent. Take Werewolves, for instance. The Lycanthrope isn't the enemy, the enemy is the curse that binds them to the full moon. Now, if you look at it that way, you don't battle with Werewolves, you battle with Lycanthropy. There's no need to hate a Werewolf. Their humans, just like you and I, twenty-seven days out of twenty-eight."

"But on that twenty-eight day, they turn into raging beasts," Draco pointed out.

"So do women, Draco, but we're merely avoided," Gryffindor countered with a grin. "No, acceptance is also important when contesting the Dark Arts. Some people will always want power, and the easiest way to power is to divide and conquer. So you just have to refuse to be divided. A saying in the Muggle world goes 'united we stand, divided we fall'. It's very true."

"But isn't it okay to have power?" Draco asked.

"Oh, sure. Another Muggle quote: 'Oh, 'tis great to have a Giants strength, but 'tis tyrannous to use it as a Giant!'"

"What the hell does that mean?" Draco laughed.

Gryffindor groaned, then waved her hands a bit. "It means- it means that it's fine to have power, but it's wrong to use it to keep others down," she explained. "I could, for instance, have scared the living shit out of you, scare you so badly you'd be too frightened to so much as look at me, let alone be late to my class ever again. But, would that be respect?"

"Well, yeah," Draco said, looking at her like she was a bit slow.

She sighed. "No, Draco, that's not respect, it's fear. There's a different. Respect is something you gain from equals, whereas fear is something you wring from those below you. Never allow yourself to fear anyone, not anyone, because immediately you let that person control you."

His father feared the Dark Lord. Lucius had feared the Dark Lord enough to forfeit his children to him.

"Of course," Gryffindor continued, "I wouldn't say that to everyone. Must people don't understand about pride and such, just a special few. Your one of them, I can see it in your eyes. But remember, Draco, you don't have to be very good to be great, not nowadays. You just have to stand for yourself," she said. "Aye, that's where the power is; making your own mind, and sticking to it. That's what greatness is."

Draco saw the truth of this, understood what Gryffindor was saying. Not everyone could understand things like pride or power; it took a special person to accept what they could do, and to turn that to their benefit. And of course, Draco was one of those people. But then-

He had a scar on his arm, a marking of control and fear. When he'd received it, two months ago, he hadn't thought of why he was getting it. He had only been glad to be found acceptable to the Dark Lord. His Master had very high expectations, after all, and Draco Malfoy had achieved them. And, he'd been afraid to be found wanting; the Dark Lord would probably have killed him.

Gryffindor was right; fear led to control, and the only way not to be controlled was not to fear. Obviously, he hadn't received the Mark merely to please his Master, or even family tradition. He had done it to protect his family once his father had been captured; someone had to step up, his mother was always drunk now, and his brother- well, best not to think of Adam. But did he really have to live his life the way his father had lived his- being vassal to a Lord, when he could be free of that Lord. Even if it meant losing those he was the Lord too.

What Gryffindor had said made Draco think of something else. He'd always thought people like Dumbledore, or Potter, were meddling fools. They were both powerful wizards; why didn't they just snatch what they could? The obvious answer for so long had been that they were weak, but a new idea came to Draco now: Perhaps they didn't want to control people. Perhaps they were happy as long as they were free of a Master.

Gryffindor had also said greatness lies in sticking to your beliefs. Draco wasn't sure he had any beliefs, not real ones like Potter's unholy Trinity. He didn't believe everyone was equal, but he also didn't completely believe Purebloods were always better than half-breeds or Mudbloods. Look at Crabbe and Goyle, for instance. He'd take a smart Mudblood over those two any day. But that was, he assumed, the antithesis of a belief, as it basically claimed he'd screw his followers if someone better came along.

Maybe he could find a cause no one else knew about? He could champion that belief, a belief where everyone was free to decide what happened to them. And he, Draco Malfoy, would lead them? No! Everyone together should decide who leads the community. Yes, everyone should be free to do as they like, as long as its legal, and they should come together to decide what's legal. It made sense to Draco.

Draco had a cause. Now he just needed to name it and champion it.

***************************

Harry was still bubbling with anger every time he thought of Snape, because every time he thought of or saw Snape, his Aunt's words came back to him. "Magic killed everything I loved... Severus Snape is evil... Severus Snape is the reason you've never met your grandparents..."

Harry knew Snape had no idea he knew. That was, Harry thought, the best part. Maybe he wasn't entirely sure when or how or why he'd use the information against Snape, but he knew he would. Snape had tormented him and his friends for too long, and for no reason, to avoid being unmasked. Unmasked as a Death Eater, former or no.

"Some of you have managed to proficiently brew your Potions over the summer holiday. Some of you did well, most of you did badly, and some of you have an inexcusable need for attention," Snape snarled as he handed Harry his remarks.

Glancing at his mark, Harry briefly registered that he'd earned his best show yet. He showed Hermione and Dean Thomas, the only other Gryffindors taking Potions with him. They both smiled encouragingly as they turned to listen to Snape rattle off instructions.

Groaning with exasperation, Harry, Hermione and Dean marched across the grounds to the Herbology greenhouses.

"I don't know if I can handle him no more!" Dean growled.

"Hold onto your sanity, Dean. Snape only wants us to quit," Harry cautioned. "He seemed quite critical of Professor Gryffindor, though, didn't he?" Harry said, thinking of the dozen barbs Snape had let fly.

"Well, she got the position he wanted, and she could do his job as well. Plus, she hates him right back, don't she?" Dean said.

"Who?" Ron asked, as the other Gryffindors joined them from Divination.

"Snape and Gryffindor seem to have a hate-hate relationship," Hermione explained.

"Good," Ron said. "It's nice to see some women have taste."

"What's that about?" Harry asked as he held the door open for his Housemates.

"Hannah Abbott turned him down for a date," Lavender said with a giggle. "Not sure why though," she continued, poking Ron in the side. Ron gave her a snarky smile.

"Probably because she's dating Zacharias Smith! And Susan's with Justin, and Parvati's with Seamus, and Padma's already dating Anthony, she's completely forgotten about me. Lavender's got some bloke at Frogsmere School, and Mandy Brocklehurst is dating a seventh-year, I think, and Lisa Turpin's a bit odd. Su Li's pretty, but she's never said a word to me. I don't want to date a seventh-year, and all the fifth-year's just blush and giggle and call me King!"

"King?" asked Dean with a shout of laughter.

Ron nodded while rolling his eyes, blushing and grinning at the same time. "As in 'Weasley is Our King,'" he explained.

"What about Slytherins? Morag and Blaise are really nice," Hermione said, "Tracey Davis isn't horrible, and Daphne Greengrass is only a bit strange, even if she looks insane because of being cross-eyed. Of course, Pansy and Millicent are trolls, but that's to be expected."

"No, Blaise is dating Stephen Cornfoot, in Hufflepuff. And Morag is with Malfoy," Lavender stated.

"Malfoy?" Ron shouted. "Morag is dating Malfoy?" Ron looked horrified.

"Well, sure, and now that someone mentions it, I think I heard that, too." Morag's voice came from behind them. She was smiling as she sat on a chair at an adjoining table of Slytherin's. She reached over and smacked Ron hard upside the head, for no particular reason, it seemed, as she just continued talking. "Blaise is just broken up with Mr. Personality," she laughed. The table shot a glance at Stephen Cornfoot, a rather dull looking Hufflepuff who had never said anything or done anything in any class Harry could think of.

"Oh, so that's Stephen Cornfoot," Seamus said with a grin.

"Your dating Malfoy?" demanded Ron, who didn't seem to hear Professor Sprout start the lesson. "You know he's practically evil, right?"

Several of Morag's Housemates looked up at this. Other than Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle, there were two boys Harry'd never met. Morag looked over at Ron. "Yes, I know. It's the bad boy thing, I think. Irresistible."

Ron made a disgusted face and tried to pay his attention to Professor Sprout, but he kept passing measuring glances at Morag.

Thirty minutes later, Morag finally snapped. "Why are you still staring at me, Ron?"

"It's just, you and Malfoy. I can't get over it. You're sweet and funny and smart, and as far as I can see, you're not at all evil. Why are you with Malfoy?"

Morag continued scribbling down observations about her Sneezewort bush. Finally, she set her quill down. "Because Draco and I have fun together. And, well- I'm a Taurus and he's an Aquarius, if you understand." Morag may have blushed a bit.

Lavender and Parvati broke out in scandalized giggles. Hermione's eyebrows shot up under her fringe and Ron gave a great choking grasp of horror.

"You're joking!" Ron cried.

"I'm not," Morag said in a dignified voice and returned to her work. When Harry gave Ron a questioning look, Ron only muttered to wait for later.

Morag's anger at Ron melted quickly though (probably because of boredom and because the Slytherin's she sat beside were Crabbe and Goyle, and they couldn't keep up with the class, so had no time to goof around), and soon they were tossing Sneezewort berries at each other.

"You throw like a girl," Ron jeered as he easily blocked a shot aimed at his face.

"Well, they don't call you King for nothing!" Morag returned and squealed when she finally managed to get passed Ron's defense.

"Mr. Weasley, Ms. McDougal, five points from your Houses," Professor Sprout said. "And do try to remember those berries are poisonous," she muttered with resignation.

*****************************

Dueling Club started that night after dinner. As before, in second-year, the Great Hall was stripped of its tables and had a great platform down the middle. This time though, Snape was not helping, but merely glaring from a corner as the students practiced.

"Everyone partner up, please, and we'll begin," Gryffindor's voice carried from the platform. "I want you to concentrate on the spells your throwing. Make sure your aim is correct, or there's no point to this at all."

Ron and Harry teamed up, as did Hermione and Neville. Blaise and Morag grouped, and Draco paired with Pansy.

"You know, for a couple, they don't seem to do much together," Ron commented.

"Well, I guess they both have their own friends. Morag doesn't seem to like Pansy much," said Harry.

"Right then, on the count of three. One, two, three-" Gryffindor counted off, and the room exploded in curses, spells, hexes, jinxes and their counters. Each year was practicing one spell at a time, trying to perform it properly. "Very good, I suppose," she said, looking around in disgust at several people unable to counter the curses quickly enough.

"You may find, Professor," Snape's said coldly, "that most of these students are incapable of the most basic aspects of magic."

"And you may find that as teachers it's our responsibility to help them master those most basic aspects of magic," Gryffindor called back in a cheerful light voice. Addressing the students, she said: "This time, I'd like you to try a bit harder, all right? You can all do this, so you just need a bit of practice. And- again!"

Briar was going over the notes she had taken the evening before, in Dueling Club, when a knock came at the door. The results were mostly horrible, with a few pointed exceptions, so she was happy for the interruption. And, to her near delight, one such exception opened the door.

"Is this a bad time, Professor? I can come back," said Miss Hermione Granger. "It's only that I wanted to have that interview I asked about. The first edition is set to go on Monday."

"Come in," Briar said with the easiest smile she could manage. The girl was clearly unclear about how to act around her, and with past Professors in this portfolio, it was no wonder. "I was wondering if you'd forgotten, in fact."

"No, just busy. Shall we start, then?" asked Hermione, setting out a parchment and a quill. Briar nodded her agreement. "First question, then: How is it that your so young, and yet you have Masters qualifications in both the Dark Arts and Potions?"

"Oh, well, I started early, I suppose. I was sent away to study the Dark Arts under a Master in London when I was nine, just after Voldemort disappeared. When I was thirteen, that ended and I studied under Master Flynn, of Inishutogue. He's a Potions Master, and I apprenticed him."

"That's when you helped create the Wolfsbane Potion?"

"Create? Well... I did a lot of research and nearly died more than once when a few attempts didn't exactly settle well with the Lycanthropes, so I suppose I may have helped," Briar said with a smile of fond memory. Those were probably the happiest days of her under-aged life. "I didn't actually receive my qualifications in Potions until I was twenty, and my quals in Dark Arts I received just this spring."

"Really? Then, after you were awarded the Order of Merlin, what did you do?"

"I turned seventeen a day later, and two days later I was back in Canada, where I was born. Stayed there, did a bit more research into the Dark Arts, but really just partied with the Muggles. Man, could I party back then." With a sigh, she thought of the hangover she'd achieved in Moscow. She never used to get hangovers.

"Oh!" Hermione said, looking up for the first time. "But at some point you returned to the Wizarding world?"

"Nineteen. I turned legal age in Canada, realized the bars weren't nearly as much fun as they had seemed from the outside, and decided to travel the world. Learned some interesting things, and was taken on by a special Auror unit of the International Convention of Warlocks."

"What did you do there?"

"Took out some pseudo-Dark Wizards and Witches. The ones just gaining followers, you know? One nasty wizard in Poland, a witch in Niger, and a group of them in Argentina. Last summer I resigned, just after Voldemort returned, and I teamed up with my brother, Maximus, to figure out how to destroy Dementors. That took even more research, and over a year of my life. Plus, Max and I don't get along, since we hardly know each other."

"Why is that?" Hermione asked.

"Oh, well," Briar said, "we grew up in the last war against Voldemort. He's my closest brother in age, only ten years older than I. Then there's Domicus, Chistopher, Nicholas, and Sebastian. Our parents died when I was eight, Voldemort disappeared when I was nine. My brothers decided to send me away to learn the Dark Arts, as I was already passed the threshold of knowledge most kids leave school with."

"Your brothers sent you to learn the Dark Arts when you were nine?"

"Yeah. That was a cheerful moment. I'd spent my entire life trying to defend myself against them, and my brothers decide it'd be good for me to learn them. They were right, in the end, as I have so much important knowledge to pass on, but still it seems strange. Can't blame them for panicking though. They were young, really, and couldn't be bothered to raise a child as well as try to have some of their own. So they sent me away.

"Wasn't a complete screw-up on their part, though, as I really hated it. Oh, but I hated learning Dart Arts, and I hated the house I was at, and the Master I apprenticed. Luckily, Master had an extremely painful death, and I was sent to Ireland. Still and all, it seems a strange idea to send an impressionable child to an evil Witch."

"Yes, it does," she said hesitantly. Then she pushed aside whatever she was thinking and continued. "Are you happy here at Hogwarts?"

"I think so. Other than notable exceptions on the staff, everyone is really pleasant, and I enjoy teaching. I didn't think I would, to tell the truth, and I was expecting to hate you students. But really, you lot aren't half bad," she said with a wink. "And it allows me to continue my research into the Dark Arts."

"You seem to do a lot of research, Professor," Hermione noted.

"Yes, lots and lots of research. Research is my mantra, my lives work. For some reason, I'm just very good at it. I try to concentrate on the application of the work I do, otherwise you get bogged down on silly things, like what will happen if this is substituted for that. The problem with that is you no longer have a goal in mind," Briar explained. "You have to keep your eye on the prize."

"Well, research is very important," Hermione said in an odd voice.

"Yes, it is," Briar said. She watched Hermione carefully, something niggling her instincts. The girl was taking notes without looking up at her. What had she heard about Miss Granger? Briar's mind zipped past the obvious- Granger, bookworm, Gryffindor, top of the class, the girl's friends, Krum, the battles she'd been in, her connections to the Weasley family- and fell straight to the Order of the Phoenix. This is the girl who translated the parchments this summer! Briar had reviewed the translations, searching for something useful on the Killing Curse. There had been tidy notes in the margins, giving possible double contexts and translations. There hadn't been anything actually worthwhile in the parchments, and Briar had demanded whoever it was translating the parchments keep at it. Dumbledore had told her, at first, it was impossible, but had come back later and said that he'd continue supplying her the translations.

What the hell is this girl trying to do? Kill herself? And Briar would know, after all. She was the best when it came to working oneself to near death. Ten NEWT courses, Prefect duties, Newspaper, Dueling Club, translation of thick scroll upon thick scroll of medieval scribbling, and what seemed a full social calendar? Not even Briar, with her total disregard for mental and physical health, could possibly manage all that. How long would it take for this girl- vibrant, young, and healthy- to crash and burn?

One of the things that had impressed Briar the most about this young generation was how serious they seemed to take their education, but this girl was- this was insane!