## Chapter 1: The Sentient Shanker Bartholomew cursed under his breath, tugging at the dagger. It wouldn't budge. Not hot, not burning, just warm – like it had been held recently. Like it remembered the last time it cut into flesh. Or, well, so he’d thought just moments ago. Now it just felt…stuck. He'd tried to be discreet, really he had. Finders keepers probably didn't apply to weirdly warm, possibly evil daggers found in the forbidden section of the dungeon. So, he'd wanted to put it back. But now, it was like the metal of the hilt had melded with the skin of his palm. Panic tickled the back of his throat. Maybe it *was* evil. Maybe it was bonding with him. Maybe he was about to become some sort of dagger-wielding maniac, carving a bloody swathe through the Fitzwilliam Academy of Magicka. Okay, that was a bit dramatic. But still! Stuck daggers were bad news. He tugged harder, grunting with the effort. Nothing. He was starting to sweat. He glanced around the dusty corridor. Empty. Thank goodness for small mercies. The dungeon wasn’t exactly a popular hangout spot, especially this far down. Still, he didn’t want anyone to see him wrestling with a dagger that seemed to have a mind of its own. Or worse, a mind that wanted to take *his* mind for a ride. He tried a different approach. Gentle persuasion. “Okay, Mr. Dagger,” he whispered, feeling ridiculous, “let’s just… gently… detach, shall we? No hard feelings.” The dagger remained stubbornly attached. Bartholomew sighed. He hated dungeons. He hated cleaning. And he *really* hated sentient weaponry. Or possibly sentient. He wasn’t sure if it was sentient yet, or just magically glued to his hand. He tugged again, a sharp yelp escaping his lips. He stopped, cradling his hand. This was getting him nowhere. He needed help. He needed Fitzwilliam. Great. Calling for Fitzwilliam was never a good idea. The old wizard had the patience of a pixie with a splinter, and Bartholomew, well, Bartholomew tested that patience daily. Still, a magically bonded dagger seemed like a legitimate reason to bother him. "Fitzwilliam!" he called, his voice echoing slightly in the dungeon corridor. "Old Man Fitzwilliam! I need help!" Silence. He tried again, louder this time. "Fitzwilliam! It's an emergency! Dagger emergency!" A beat of silence, then a gruff voice, closer this time, "What in the blazes is a 'dagger emergency,' Buttonsby?" Bartholomew visibly relaxed as Fitzwilliam came into view, his long, grey beard practically sweeping the floor. He was clutching a rather large tome, and his spectacles were perched precariously on his nose. He looked, as always, like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Well?" Fitzwilliam barked, his eyes narrowed. "I haven't got all day. Some of us are trying to conduct serious magical research, unlike certain apprentices who seem to specialize in… dungeon-based… dagger emergencies." Bartholomew held up his hand, the dagger glinting in the dim light. "It's stuck," he said, stating the obvious. "I can't get it off." Fitzwilliam squinted at the dagger. He circled Bartholomew, muttering under his breath. "What have you done now, Buttonsby? Did you try to polish it with a cleaning golem? Did you attempt to feed it a magical biscuit?" "No!" Bartholomew protested. "I just… found it. And now it's stuck." Fitzwilliam examined the point where the dagger met Bartholomew’s skin. He prodded it gingerly with a long, bony finger. "Hmm," he said, finally. "That's not good." He tried to pull the dagger free. Nothing. He tried again, using slightly more force. Still nothing. He grunted, a sound that suggested immense displeasure. "Definitely not good," he repeated, his voice grim. "This isn't just stuck, Buttonsby. It's… bonded." "Bonded?" Bartholomew squeaked. "What does that mean?" Fitzwilliam sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that spoke volumes about his current level of despair. "It means," he said, enunciating each word carefully, "that you, Bartholomew Buttonsby, have managed to get yourself magically attached to a… a rather unpleasant artifact." He reached into his robes and pulled out a magnifying glass, peering at the dagger with renewed interest. "Sentient Shanker," he muttered, reading the faint inscription on the blade. "Oh, this is just marvelous." "Sentient Shanker?" Bartholomew repeated, his voice trembling slightly. "Sentient? As in… alive?" "In a manner of speaking," Fitzwilliam said vaguely. "More like… psychically active. And notoriously troublesome. These things have a nasty habit of influencing their wielders." "Influencing?" Bartholomew swallowed hard. "Like… making me want to… shank people?" Fitzwilliam shrugged. "Potentially. Or, more likely, just causing general mayhem and magical incompetence. They're not exactly known for their subtlety." Bartholomew groaned. That sounded about right. His life was already a monument to magical incompetence. Adding a sentient, shanking dagger to the mix felt… excessive. "Can't you just… un-bond it?" he asked, hopefully. Fitzwilliam shook his head. "Not easily. Sentient Shankers are notoriously resistant to removal spells. Especially when they've… taken a liking to their host." He eyed Bartholomew with a look that suggested he couldn't imagine why any sentient dagger would take a liking to *him*. "So, I'm stuck with it?" Bartholomew asked, his voice rising in panic. "Forever?" "Not necessarily forever," Fitzwilliam said, hedging. "But certainly for the foreseeable future. We need to research this. Find a way to sever the bond without… unpleasant consequences." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "In the meantime," he said, his eyes narrowing, "we need to contain this situation. I can't have you running around the academy, shank-ing people and causing magical chaos. Not that you don't already cause enough chaos on your own." He pulled out his wand, muttering an incantation under his breath. A shimmering, golden chain materialized, wrapping itself around Bartholomew's wrist and then around Fitzwilliam's. "What's this?" Bartholomew asked, staring at the chain in dismay. "A binding spell," Fitzwilliam said briskly. "You are now magically tethered to me. Wherever I go, you go. Whatever I do, you do… or at least, you're nearby while I do it. Consider it… magical supervision." "But…" Bartholomew protested. "No buts," Fitzwilliam said firmly. "Until we figure out how to deal with this dagger, you are under my direct control. No touching any magical objects. No casting any spells. No breathing too loudly. Is that clear?" Bartholomew grumbled, but nodded. He knew when he was beaten. Arguing with Fitzwilliam was like arguing with a particularly stubborn garden gnome. Pointless, and ultimately exhausting. Fitzwilliam tugged on the chain, pulling Bartholomew along. "Come along, Buttonsby," he said. "We have research to do. And you have to stay out of trouble. Which, knowing you, will be a challenge in itself." He led Bartholomew out of the dungeon, back towards his cluttered study. The Sentient Shanker, still firmly attached to Bartholomew's hand, seemed to hum with quiet anticipation. Fitzwilliam settled himself at his desk, surrounded by stacks of books and arcane scrolls. Bartholomew, still tethered to him by the golden chain, stood awkwardly by his side. He felt like a particularly useless and unwanted paperweight. "Right," Fitzwilliam said, rubbing his hands together. "Let's see what we can find out about this… Sentient Shanker. Ancient curses, demonic bindings, obscure rituals… hopefully something in this mess will give us a clue." He began flipping through a massive, leather-bound tome, muttering to himself as he scanned the pages. Bartholomew watched him, feeling increasingly restless. Being chained to Fitzwilliam was even more boring than cleaning dungeons. And that was saying something. He glanced down at the dagger. It felt… warm. Almost… encouraging. He shook his head. He was imagining things. Daggers didn't encourage people. Especially not sentient, shanking daggers. Fitzwilliam was still engrossed in his research, his brow furrowed in concentration. He reached for a vial of shimmering, purple liquid on his desk, intending to take a sip. It was a potion designed to enhance magical focus. Or, at least, that's what Fitzwilliam claimed. Bartholomew suspected it was just really strong coffee with a bit of glitter thrown in. Suddenly, Bartholomew felt a strange impulse. An urge to… interfere. He tried to ignore it, but it was persistent, growing stronger with each passing second. It was like a tiny voice whispering in his ear, urging him to… act. He shifted slightly, accidentally bumping into Fitzwilliam's arm. The vial of purple liquid wobbled precariously, then tipped over, spilling its contents all over Fitzwilliam's notes. "Buttonsby!" Fitzwilliam roared, leaping to his feet. "What in the name of Merlin do you think you're doing?" Bartholomew stared at the spilled potion, feigning innocence. "I… I don't know," he stammered. "I just… tripped." Fitzwilliam glared at him, his face flushed with anger. "Tripped? You 'tripped' and managed to soak my research notes in a concentration-enhancing potion? Do you have any idea how delicate these scrolls are?" He grabbed a cloth and began dabbing at the spilled liquid, muttering curses under his breath. Bartholomew watched him, a strange sense of satisfaction bubbling up inside him. It wasn't his fault, really. It was the dagger. It was making him do it. Or, at least, that's what he told himself. Fitzwilliam managed to salvage most of his notes, but a few of the more delicate scrolls were ruined. He threw the soaked cloth onto the desk in frustration. "Right," he said, his voice tight with anger. "That's it. I need a calming tea. And you, Buttonsby, are going to sit quietly in that corner and not move until I get back. Is that understood?" Bartholomew nodded meekly, relieved to be out of Fitzwilliam's immediate line of fire. He shuffled over to the corner of the study and sat down on a dusty stool. Fitzwilliam stormed out of the room, presumably to brew himself a calming tea and plot Bartholomew's imminent demise. Bartholomew was left alone with the Sentient Shanker. He looked down at the dagger. It felt… pleased. Almost… smug. He glared at it. "This is all your fault," he muttered. "You're trying to get me into trouble." The dagger remained silent, but Bartholomew could almost feel it… vibrating. Like it was… laughing. Fitzwilliam returned a few minutes later, carrying a steaming mug of tea. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. "Right," he said, setting the mug down on his desk. "Let's try this again. Now, where were we?" He picked up another book, a particularly ancient and brittle-looking tome. As he opened it, a cloud of dust erupted from the pages, causing him to cough and splutter. "Blast it all," he said, waving his hand in front of his face. "This book is older than I am." He took a sip of his tea, then began to read, his brow furrowed in concentration once more. Bartholomew watched him, feeling that familiar urge… that impulse to interfere. He tried to suppress it, but it was too strong. It was like the dagger had taken root in his mind, whispering suggestions, planting ideas. He glanced around the study, his eyes landing on a stack of empty vials on a nearby shelf. He knew he shouldn't. He knew it was a bad idea. But he couldn't help himself. He stood up, slowly, deliberately, and walked over to the shelf. He reached out and gently… nudged… the stack of vials. They tumbled to the floor with a crash, shattering into a thousand pieces. Fitzwilliam jumped, spilling his tea down the front of his robes. "BUTTONSBY!" he roared, his face turning a shade of purple that rivaled the spilled potion. "That's it! I've had it! I'm going to turn you into a newt!" Bartholomew stared at the shattered vials, feigning shock and dismay. "I… I don't know what happened," he stammered. "They just… fell." Fitzwilliam glared at him, his eyes blazing with fury. Bartholomew could almost see the steam coming out of his ears. "You," Fitzwilliam said, his voice trembling with rage, "are the most infuriating, incompetent, and downright disastrous apprentice I have ever had the misfortune to train. And that includes the one who accidentally turned himself into a teapot!" He took a deep breath, trying to regain control of his temper. "Right," he said, his voice dangerously low. "That's it. No more research. No more magic. No more anything. You are going to spend the rest of the day cleaning up this mess. And then you are going to write me a thousand-word essay on the dangers of sentient weaponry. And then you are going to… " He trailed off, his eyes widening in horror. He stared at Bartholomew's hand, his face paling. "Buttonsby," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "The dagger… it's glowing."