This is a sequel to the story 'G is for Gabrielle'.
Also, it will either be obvious as to what language is being spoken, or it can be assumed to be French.
Finally, the French school system counts classes down from six, to the terminale.
v - v - v - v - v
Chapter One - A Second First Wand
Eleven months earlier, in August.
Gabrielle Delacour watched the flames flicker feebly in the hearth. There was quite a lot of flame, which was as she had hoped. They were just not very hot. The scraps of parchment she was feeding the failing magical fire would hardly even darken. She had not done something correctly, but it was too late to try yet again. Her Maman had already called twice, and her mother would not have much patience today since Grandmere would be coming along.
Gabrielle tied the short, blond wand back onto the thin cord around her neck, and slipped it into her blouse. Then she thought better of it, and put both into her handbag. The handbag, with its magically sealed liner that only she could open, was a gift from George Weasley. Gabrielle knew the purpose of the trip today was to get her official first wand. Maman and Grandmere would not be happy to learn that she already had one, which was the one she had taken from Fred Weasley. It had been difficult to hide it from her parents and practice what few spells she had learned, but not as difficult as it would have been without the apron from Mrs. Weasley. That had to have some kind of powerful charm on it, which is why Maman had mostly not noticed her earlier when she had checked this room. Mostly not noticed, because her mother had handed Gabrielle a duster and waved vaguely at the mantle before leaving.
Gabrielle kept the apron on as she made her way down the wide hall to the parlor. The parlor was the place for formally entertaining important guests, and Grandmere. Maman was just ahead of her, moving in that crisp way she had that meant her patience was already quite thin. After her mother entered, Gabrielle paused at the door to peek in and listen. It was good to know exactly how thin.
"We are ready?" asked Gabrielle's grandmother regally. She sat next to the hearth in the chair Papa would use, and wore a simple black frock brought tight at the waist with a belt. It was unfair, thought Gabrielle, that Maman's far more elegant garb paled in comparison.
"Did you happen to notice a Postal owl?" asked Maman. "She appears to be hiding again."
"Our little bug, always looking for a dark crevice," sighed Grandmere. Gabrielle thought, excuse me? Crevice? "Does that mean her suitor still writes?"
"He does write," said Maman. Then she chuckled, "But suitor? I think not. Unless the correspondence is in some sort of code." Gabrielle's jaw dropped. Maman had read George's letters? How had she found them? It seemed that everything would have to go into the handbag. All the things that Maman did not like were in it already. Apparently George fell into that category. Gabrielle did not like the idea all that much, since it was easy to lose a handbag but very hard to lose a house.
"A tiresome behavior if they are. I have always preferred a man of action in any case. I find scars intriguing."
"Yes. Your behavior at the wedding was -"
"That is tiresome as well," interrupted Grandmere.
"I see. Is it tiresome then that a werewolf attacked Gabrielle?" demanded Maman.
"Don't be a silly girl," replied Grandmere sharply. Listening in, Gabrielle had to wonder why Maman did not show more sympathy for her with regard to Fleur. After a moment, Grandmere continued wistfully, "I should have liked to meet that Harry Potter though..."
"I have had enough of this - I shall get my wand. Perhaps it is puberty that is making her so withdrawn," said Maman, who had given up on her mother. She stepped past Gabrielle and headed down the hall.
Gabrielle quickly undid the apron and crammed it into the handbag. It was best to show up before Maman was holding a wand. Gabrielle slipped into the room. "Eh, hello Grandmere," said Gabrielle. "How are you?"
"I am well, dear. Thank you. We have been waiting for you."
"I am, eh, sorry, of course. I was, eh..." Gabrielle tried to think of an excuse.
"Was there another letter from your young man?"
"No. I was, eh, just -"
"He does not write you everyday?" Gabrielle's grandmother managed both surprise and disappointment with the lift of an eyebrow.
"It is an International Post," explained Gabrielle defensively. She felt her face heat up. George did not write everyday; Gabrielle felt that would silly. But, thought Gabrielle, he does write. A little more often would be nice, though.
"Hmm."
"Gabrielle - there you are. It is about time you showed up. You know we have an appointment," said Madame Delacour as she re-entered the parlor. Gabrielle had never been glad to see her Maman with her wand before, but she did not want to discuss the letters anymore. "Why, child, is there soot on your robes?"
Being helpful, knew Gabrielle, always worked. "Eh, I was, eh, cleaning up the hearth in -"
"In your good robes? When we are to leave?" scolded Maman. She sighed, "You still have little sense." Gabrielle looked down her robes. There was some ash, but only around the bottom of them where the apron had not covered. She did not think anyone but Maman would notice. Besides, they would be traveling by Floo, and she always ended up covered in soot from that, even if others did not.
v - v - v - v - v
'The Palace of Beauxbatons is nestled in a hidden valley in the foothills of the French Alps.' Madame Maxime, headmistress of the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, considered the sentence she read. The word 'nestled' did not seem to fit. At least, it did not seem to fit her attempt to broaden the school's image. Beauxbatons had never, except in its very early decades, been a witches-only school. But even after accepting wizards centuries ago, the student body was still predominantly female and the school was viewed as the preferred one for witches. Durmstrang, while also accepting both genders, was thought of as the wizard's school. There was no way to claim the mantle of being the preeminent school of magic if such attitudes did not change. And words like 'nestled' were part of that - it seemed too feminine. 'Perched,' though, thought the headmistress, made it sound as if the palace were a vulture looming over the cooling body of the valley. Durmstrang 'perched'. 'Set in a hidden valley' was too bland to be either.
The picture accompanying the words bothered Madame Maxime as well. It was quite a good one really, taken from her favorite Abraxan mount Montaigne as the huge flying horse flew out of the early morning sun. No, she could see the picture was well-executed. It showed the four towers that formed the quadrangle, with the dormitory wings radiating from the sides, and the large, walled formal gardens surrounding it all. The number of dormitories changed, of course, depending on enrollment. There were usually four - three on the left for witches, and one on the right for wizards. This year's sixth class needed seven dormitories, with an almost even split. It was the chaos in Britain and the uncertainty at Durmstrang that made Madame Maxime believe it was Beauxbatons' time.
Yes, the picture itself was lovely. It was the towers that held the classrooms that were the issue. Built at different times according to different whims, the towers were, in her opinion, stylistically at war. Two were round in cross-section, one was a chunky square, and the last was octagonal. Each tower rose to a height of its own to further mismatch. Even the materials used in construction, and thus the resulting colors, were different. The Ivory Tower, which the student body insisted on referring to as the Bone Tower, was a glorious Italian marble. Madame Maxime thought the pale color worked well in all seasons, truly complementing its surroundings. The red granite of the Stone Tower, though, did not blend in with nor accentuate what it stood among. The Aeneus Tower, its octagonal walls covered in copper plates, wore a patina of verdigris. The Green Tower, the students had dubbed it. Its design was what came of allowing alchemists to fund construction. They simply adored their copper vessels. The Glass Tower was a gray, gleaming mass, its walls shading from nearly opaque at the base to almost transparent at the top. While it was her second favorite because of the sheer drama of its architecture, it was also the least practical, at least when considering the top floors. Too much furniture in the upper reaches, for instance, made it seem like a shower of chairs was due. Then there was the issue of being able to look up robes from the floor below. Not, again, very practical. The whole ensemble of structures, thought the headmistress, was nothing short of untidy. She had done her best with the huge silk banners, but there was a limit to what one could do before the Palace looked as if it was wearing trousers.
The problem, mused Madame Maxime as her hand engulfed the fine china cup, besides arrogant builders jealously warding their creations, was a burdensome buildup of history. There was not much history around when the Aeneus Tower went up, and there was no one to exclaim that it clashed with the fieldstone walls of the original building. The Stone Tower went up out of necessity, as the desire for a formal education in the magical arts grew rapidly. The Ivory Tower was an aesthetic coup, and towered over its ugly sisters. As a memorial, it had brought enough history with it to make up for the history it displaced by its construction. The Glass Tower rose from the sheer will of her predecessor's predecessor. The audacity of its erection crystallized the notion of historical preservation, thus severely tying Madame Maxime's substantial hands when it came to burnishing the school's image. Having overcome the circumstances of her own mixed birth, and the bias against those perceived of as half-giants, through hard work and determination, Madame Maxime preferred the future to the past. History was, in her opinion, useful only if it made good copy. Perhaps she would renew her campaign for the flag masts as a unifying feature. If only the trustees were not so tight-fisted with their gold, Beauxbatons would be an even brighter gem.
The headmistress read on, selecting a fancy pastry to accompany her tea. 'A short walking trail leads to a private beach on the Mediterranean' - that was a definite plus, come summer. There had once been such a path to the distant snowy peak higher in the Alps, but its accidental discovery by muggles, and the ski lodge they built, had closed it for decades already. And she had loved the skiing. The path to Epiphanie in the Ardennes had disappeared with the town itself under the relentless, errant pummeling of muggle explosives.
That was an area in which Beauxbatons did not fare well, sighed Madame Maxime. Both Hogwarts and Durmstrang could boast of quaint magical villages just outside the schools, or at least within a short broom flight, where students could get away from the academic setting. The Palace was isolated in its valley; the nearest village was tiny, muggle, and often Confunded. Although, came the thought, that might be considered a positive in these unsettled times. Madame Maxime tried it mentally. 'Beauxbatons is a secure setting in which students will safely explore their magical talents.' That sounded quite good, and did not appear to take unseemly advantage of the tragedy at Hogwarts. She still wondered if claiming 'the most experienced administration' was in poor taste.
v - v - v - v - v
In the smallest room on the highest floor of the Weasley family home, the Burrow, two boys were having difficulties. The owner of the room, Ron Weasley, had toppled from the bed again. He alternatively cursed and laughed from the floor, his arm pinned beneath his back. The other, the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter, was also laughing and cursing in turn because Ron had fallen again, and because the ink had spilled.
"Bloody hell! I think m'arm's off!" noted Ron, sounding oddly delighted.
"Hang on them, I'll d'you 'nother," slurred Harry. Half of the sheet he held was covered in ink. Probably no loss, he thought, considering the last half hour. Tossing the dripping parchment onto the pillow, Harry lifted the glass of green liquid up.
"Not sil'er, right? 'S been done. Mebbe... mebbe..." Ron trailed off.
"Something with claws?" Harry was not stupid. This was not a potion; potions worked faster. And tasted worse. The main ingredient, Harry could tell, was definitely alcohol. But he had had firewhiskey before, and it had not made his head feel like this. He could feel ideas forming and pushing their way to his tongue. He only wished he knew what they were before he said them.
"Ten'ickles. Ten - tent-stickles. Ten o' something, anyway,"said Ron.
"Wha'd'ya call this again?"
"Brain-stormin'. It's like a storm with, er, you know, your brain. 'S from Herm-ron-nee."
"Lot like writing stuff down, like before."
"Herm-my-onee. Cor, she's a real goer! D'ya know what I mean?"
"Yeah," answered Harry. But, he added to himself, I really did not want to. "Wha's this drink called?"
"What d'you mean, yeah?" demanded Ron aggressively, rolling unsteadily to his feet. He expressed no surprise that he now had two arms to use.
"You bleedin' tell me that near every day, you plonker," laughed Harry.
"Huh. I do?"
"What's this stuff again?" repeated Harry, swirling the translucent green liquid in the glass. He decided to finish the glass so it would not spill also.
"Absence. 'S from my Uncle Bilius. Died, you know. After the Grim. 'E always said it helped with his problems. Load of it in the cellar."
There was a knock at the door, to which neither teen responded. Ron was trying to salvage the pillow, while Harry was trying to salvage the parchment that Ron had tossed off the pillow. The aforementioned Hermione pushed open the door. Ron noticed her first, straightened up too quickly, and sent the bedside table crashing.
"Herm-my-o-nee!" Ron greeted her by draping himself on top of her.
"Oh good gracious, Ron. What have you two been up to?" managed Hermione after bracing herself against the door jamb.
"Brain-storming. It's like a storm with, er, your - 'ere, didn't I tell you before?" replied Ron. He bent in for a kiss; Hermione turned her head.
"Really? That's what you two have been doing, is it? It reeks of alcohol in here!" Hermione climbed from under Ron, aided by a sharp, well-placed knuckle dug into his ribs.
"We did some," said Harry, holding the stained parchment up as a shield against the far slighter girl. She pulled it from his grasp, her displeasure obvious. When she pulled out her wand, Harry quickly explained, "Look, Ron said the, er, el'xir was a, a, er..."
"Absence. 'S from my Uncle Bilius. Died, you know," started Ron.
"After the Grim," put in Harry. Hermione's wand began siphoning ink from the sheet.
"Tha's right. 'E always said it helped with his problems," continued Ron. "Helps in cogititting, er -"
"Absence?" doubted Hermione, peering at the bottle. "Might describe the sense you have in drinking it. Do you mean Absinthe? The only thing that does is make one forget one's problems. Yes, what is it, Ron?" She turned to face him. The tall redhead had loomed over her, and now pulled her into an embrace.
"I didn't get tha' kiss," complained Ron.
"Oh, all right then," acceded Hermione. It was a long kiss, with much facial action on Ron's part. His hands slid past the small of her back, gripping.
"Oy, get a room!" called Harry.
Ron looked up. "Got a room. You bugger off," he growled.
"Let's begin with some sobering charms," said Hermione, wiping her face.
v - v - v - v - v
Gabrielle skittered to a stop after the Floo spat her out. She had not really needed the bracing from the shop-witch's arm. She had also not really needed Maman to tell the Floo her destination. That usually annoyed Gabrielle greatly, but now she understood that it was taking Maman some time to adjust to the fact that she was not a child anymore and was growing up. The trip might have been her fastest yet. The destination was Brindil's Appareils Magique, Agrėė, a shop in Chamoix. Gabrielle hoped there would be enough time leftover to visit some of the other shops in the magical village.
Grandmere, though covered in a burgundy cloak with a hood that completely concealed her face, was nonetheless the entire focus of the wand shop's owner, Monsieur Brindil. He was offering Grandmere a selection of pastries and fruit from a silver tray.
"Tch. Look at the fool," muttered the shop's assistant as she dusted the soot from Gabrielle vigorously. "I hid the deeds this time."
Gabrielle's mother stepped from the Floo gracefully. A flash of annoyance crossed her face when she looked toward her daughter, and she closed on Gabrielle with a handkerchief. "How do you manage to get so filthy?" It was, Gabrielle had learned, a rhetorical question.
"Thank you, but no, Monsieur Brindil. I fear we are late already," lilted Grandmere.
"No, no of course not. Time itself stands still for you. Please, call me Winnie," replied the shop owner. He was a tall man with a bit of a stoop to his posture, and had long fingers. "I could fetch some wine - no, some champagne?"
"Perhaps, but see: my daughter and granddaughter are here."
"Your granddaughter? Are you sure?" Gabrielle frowned at that.
"You are a funny man, Winnie," laughed Grandmere. More seriously she asked, "I will provide a hair for her first wand, as I did for her sister's. Are things prepared?"
"For days already," grumbled the assistant half to herself.
"Yes, of course! If only there was another way," moaned Monsieur Brindil wretchedly.
Grandmere nodded benevolently. "We will begin, and then after, the champagne."
The proprietor led the way to a back room that was almost bare. In the middle of the room, rooted to the floor, was a gray stone pillar. Iron rings projected from the column at the top and midway up. The only other things in the room were two stone-topped tables, upended onto their sides. The hairs on the back of Gabrielle's neck went up.
"Eh, what is that for? What is going to happen?" Gabrielle asked her mother anxiously. This did not look right, certainly not for plucking a hair.
"Hush. They must take a hair from Grandmere, properly," replied Maman. Gabrielle watched as her Grandmere stepped to the pillar, and then was tied at the waist to the heavy ring.
"Maman, why are they tieing her?" asked Gabrielle shrilly, in rising panic.
"Calm yourself, child. Do not make a scene. It is necessary."
"I shall explain," said Monsieur Brindil. "But first, please, hold out the arm you favor. Yes, fine. Now, when we say we will take a hair from the Countess, you, perhaps, thought we meant a strand as you see it now. While the Countess's gossamer strands are like spun silver and smoother than the finest silk, they do not yet possess the magical potential to make the core of a wand. For such as that, the Countess must transform."
"Eh, transform?" asked Gabrielle. She was distracted from the wand-maker's explanation by his actions. He had measured her forearm, twice, frowning as he consulted a table of numbers. Grandmere's hands were now tied to the ring above her head, the cloak sliding down to reveal the alabaster skin of her arms.
"Yes, The Countess will transform into a form that is more - uhhhh..." Monsiuer Brindil trailed off as the hood of the cloak was pulled back by the assistant, and Grandmere's fine features were revealed. He stared in rapture.
"Primitive," inserted the shop-witch snidely, staring at the owner in disgust.
"Erot - pardon, exotic. A more exotic form," whispered Monsieur Brindil.
"A few Jeering charms will bring out the beast. So to speak," added the assistant sheepishly, after Maman's glare. "Assuming that pathetic mule remembers how, he will take a hair then. It will not hurt much." She sounded disappointed.
"I do not really need a wand!" blurted Gabrielle. "I, eh, mean, eh, some other -"
"Nonsense, my little bug. You shall have a wand as fine as your sister's, as your mother's," declared Grandmere from the pillar.
"Yes! Yes! A wand of the finest materials, one that is worthy of your radiant essence, my queen," rambled the wand-maker.
"I like this first part," stated the shop-witch. She began an incantation.
It was the most awful thing Gabrielle had ever seen. No, she corrected herself, that business with the locket was the most awful, and featured in nightmares. But this was very reminiscent of that debacle. With every flick of the assistant's wand, Grandmere became more agitated, until she was pulling, straining at her bonds and, to Gabrielle's shock, swearing quite colorfully at her tormentor. Her silvery hair twitched of its own accord. Maman used her wand also, to restrain Monsieur Brindil's weak rescue attempts. Gabrielle thought of pulling out the wand she was not supposed to have, but could not see what she would do with it.
It started with Grandmere's hair, which suddenly twisted itself around her head, sliding beneath the cloak she wore. Her face was concealed by the locks, and the silvery mane wound itself up her pale arms. The hair itself became shaggier. Not shaggy, exactly, thought Gabrielle who watched clutching her face. Just less hair-like. More feather-like. This, realized Gabrielle, was the transformation. The feathery layers covering Grandmere's face parted, and the face of an enormous bird-like creature emerged. It was terrifying to see what had become of her Grandmere.
Events began to go off course soon after. Grandmere let loose an ear-splitting shriek exactly like the cry of a hawk. Fire appeared where her palms would have been. Grandmere tried to throw the balls of flame, but could not. She could, however, use them to burn through the rope tying her... hands.
Maman goaded Monsieur Brindil into action with a sharp jab of her wand, Grandmere's free arm threw its fireball wildly, and the assistant witch sprayed a deluge of water from her wand. Gabrielle reacted too slowly, and did not quite dodge the errant flames. Her robes were only singed, but she received a drenching from the witch's wand anyway. Maman pushed her down behind one of the upturned tables, even as she sent a red bolt from her wand at the wand-maker. Monsieur Brindil, who was coming up from behind the pillar, was having difficulty getting the large iron pliers onto one of the feathers in what was a sort of crest on Grandmere's head. This was most likely due to Grandmere's free arm raking him - there had to be nails under the feathers somewhere, thought Gabrielle. Maman's last spell had not been helpful to that effort. Finally the wizard jerked back, stumbling. Grandmere gave out an enraged squawk, and managed another fireball, which landed merely near the wand-maker. His assistant and Maman began new incantations.
It was not long before Grandmere's feather-like covering grew more hair-like, covering her once more. Grandmere soon reappeared, gently touching a spot on the top of her head. Monsieur Brindil stopped moving again at the sight of her, and stared tragically at the plume-like object in the jaws of the pliers. The end of the intended core was tinged with red. He cast it away guiltily, and threw himself at Grandmere's feet, begging her forgiveness. She placed a delicate foot on the top of his head and pressed it down. That silenced the shop-owner. Then she lifted his chin with that same foot. "Make the wand first. Then, dear Winnie, I should like the champagne, to help me recover." The assistant huffed as Monsieur Brindil jumped up to obey. Grandmere pulled the cloak's hood back over her face as they returned to the front of the shop.
"You are not hurt, Grandmere?" asked Gabrielle anxiously, since no one else had done so.
"It does sting a little, but it is not much," said Grandmere lightly. "It is nothing compared to giving birth."
v - v - v - v - v
"Come on, stiff upper-lip you two," encouraged Hermione. "I'm sure you've had worse." Harry decided that that was true. He had been possessed by Voldemort and been under the Cruciatus curse. So the Sobering charm was only third on the list. That knowledge did not quell the tingle in his arm though. It may not have been true for Ron, thought Harry, since his best mate was still groaning. "Hmm. No new pageant ideas? No Westminster Slitted-Nostril Show?"
"You don't let anything go, do you?" muttered Ron. He rolled over onto his back, once more on the floor.
"I'm sorry, but I don't see how the two of you getting, erm, pissed, is going to help," said Hermione.
"That wasn't the intention. It was - did you just say pissed?" said Harry in confusion.
"I am of-age, an adult, if you remember," proclaimed Hermione, though a slight bit of color reached her cheeks.
"That's it then - Hogwarts must be closed if she giving up on Head Girl," observed Ron. He pulled an old shirt laying on the floor next to him over his eyes. "Bloody hell, I think my spine's burnt out."
"The Board of Governors has not made a decision, last I heard," reported Hermione. "It would be nice if Tonks brought the Prophet more regularly. I'm just wondering if this had a point." She flapped the parchment the boys had been working on. "You've had Malfoy for months, for example. Wasn't there a plan?"
"We're working on it," said Harry defensively. When Hermione started to examine the writing again, he quickly added, "Not right this moment."
"Why aren't we getting help from the Order on this? We should be making plans with them - "
"We are working with them. We haven't stepped outside the Burrow since the wedding - that's the Order's plan. Look, they can hardly prop up the Ministry; they're too busy. Besides, Dumbledore didn't tell them anything - there had to be a reason," said Harry.
"What about Remus then?" asked Hermione.
"Has he come back from trying to talk to the werewolves again?"
"No," admitted the girl.
"Can you make port-keys yet?" asked Ron.
"It's not as easy as pointing a wand and not garbling the incantation, you know," said Hermione heatedly. "I got a garden gnome to disappear yesterday."
"That's excellent!" enthused Harry. "Getting away is - "
"I don't know where it went! It was supposed to end up by the shed."
"Aw, don't worry. The little blighters always come back," reassured Ron. Hermione still looked upset, but focused on the parchment instead of arguing.
"Harry, you've ticked 'disider Riddle's lones, relny on burn'," noted Hermione after a long silence. "What in Merlin's name do you mean?"
Harry looked at the list of ideas with her. Depending on when old Bilius's Peculiar had kicked in, it was possible he would not know either. The item indicated by Hermione's finger, though, was plainly written. "That's 'disinter Riddle's bones, rebury or burn.'"
"You want to rob Riddle's grave?" came Hermione's incredulous question.
"No, we want to - move - his grave," clarified Harry. "That's not the same." Ron started laughing on the floor, getting louder each second until Harry kicked at him. "You may need to do the pillock again," indicated Harry to Hermione. She pinked for some reason.
"No," said Ron quite seriously. Then he snorted and explained, "If we dig up his Dad, right; what if we put some pranked bones back? You see? The Dark Sod'll be sitting in his potion thingie, right, the bone'll be dropped in, and whoomp! Flaming letters saying, saying - Up Yours Fu-"
"Ron!" rebuked Hermione. "This isn't something -"
"That's brilliant," declared Harry. "It - it could rocket around the inside of the cauldron first!"
"Blow the thing into sky, then write 'Bite my -'"
"Ron. Enough."
"Turn him into a squid - no, a jellyfish!"
"Release a neurotoxin that kills him instantly," suggested Hermione.
"Yeah, release a - a what?" asked Ron.
"Neurotoxin. To kill whatever form Voldemort had, and maybe whichever Death Eaters are nearby." The two boys looked at the witch like she was the neurotoxin bomb that had not yet gone off. That was, thought Harry, not exactly funny.
"Erm, that's... that's an idea too," allowed Harry.
"Bloody scary one," added Ron. "Can we still have the writing?"
"How would we move Riddle's grave anyway, if we can't leave the Burrow?"
Harry answered. "Just because we haven't left the Burrow doesn't mean that we can't or won't. We just won't mention it first. Besides, I was thinking of asking the house-elves. I'd bet my Firebolt they'd be so neat that the Dark Todger would never know until, er, whatever.
"I'd still like to blow the snake-buggerer up," said Ron. Harry noticed Hermione roll her eyes.
"The bone thing was Ron's idea. Do I, er, need to leave you two?" teased Harry, waggling his eyebrows. Hermione colored again.
v - v - v - v - v
Monsieur Brindil presented the wand, on a velvet-lined tray, to Grandmere and Maman. Grandmere pulled back her hood to offer him a smile, which caused his knees to buckle. He set the wand aside to bring out the champagne, which his assistant had, with much grumbling and complaining, been sent to acquire while he had worked.
Now it was the assistant that brought the wand to Gabrielle, as if what she thought of the wand did not matter. And it did not matter, knew Gabrielle. After what her Grandmere had gone through, there was no way Gabrielle would reject the wand. And, of course, she already had a wand in any case. Gabrielle sensed as soon as she picked it up that it was not the wand for her. It felt wrong, like an ill-fitted shoe. Still, even given the ordeal that Grandmere had endured for its creation, Gabrielle knew that she had to say something if it was not perfect.
"Eh, it is, eh, bent," said Gabrielle to the assistant. The wand itself was done in the rustic style, the wood retaining the essence of the original twig, which gave it a bumpy appearance. Gabrielle preferred the smoothly turned taper of her real wand.
The witch picked up the wand and sighted down the length of it. "It is not bent. That is a twist."
"It can be fixed? Without, eh, taking another hair?"
The assistant rolled the wand on the table. As it rolled it turned to the left. "I should not think it broken. That is a helical twist, which can form a meta-core. You often see those in powerful wands."
Gabrielle wondered if this was a trick to get her to accept damaged goods. She had not heard of such a thing before. If Fleur's wand had such a twist, she surely would have bragged to everyone about it. Maman, thought Gabrielle, would certainly have an opinion, but what if they needed to begin again with a new hair? Gabrielle had not liked seeing Grandmere suffer like that. Especially as this was not going to actually be her wand. "Eh..."
"Give it a try; it might surprise you."
Gabrielle raised the wand. It still felt wrong. She started, "Innoxus Confla -"
The assistant grabbed the wand and pulled it down. "A fire spell? Really? Not with your first wand, you don't. Just give it a wave, or try something with less damage potential. This is a shop with a lot of inventory. Expensive inventory."
Gabrielle thought that was being rather ridiculous. Of course, the witch would not know that conjuring a flame had been the first spell she had done with her real wand. It was, unfortunately, also her best spell. Gabrielle mentally ran down the list of other spells she had managed. It was regrettably short. If she was not going to be allowed a small conjuration, then the shop-witch would certainly not let her aim the wand at someone else. That removed the silencing spell and the curse she had learned from her coven sister, Hermione, from consideration. That left only one more spell, one that, of course, did not always work for her. Gabrielle looked around for a suitable object, and found one conveniently close.
"What are you doing?" asked the assistant curiously as Gabrielle backed up halfway across the shop. Gabrielle did not answer, but sprinted forward, jumped up, and landed with wand held out.
"Accio wand!" cried Gabrielle, focusing on the unclaimed dark stick that lay on the table.
It was not, perhaps, thought Gabrielle with a grimace, the best choice choice of spell to try in a wand shop. Before she could end the magic, hundreds of the stacked boxes tumbled from the shelves, spilling an equal number of wands clattering onto the floor. It was the new wand's fault! Even though it was not going to truly be her wand, the knobbly stick was trying to impress. A second thought suggested that she could also have been, perhaps, a little, tiny bit more specific. Or perhaps she was, as the assistant sharply exclaimed, an idiot.
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Madame Maxine tapped the table lightly with her fingers. Teacups jumped and rattled their spoons down the long table. The noise disrupted the chorus of complaints concerning overcrowding. The headmistress could dismiss those readily; the true issue was not the space for the additional students, but the space in the staff's schedules for the additional work. The phrase 'beginning each year fully-staffed' played in her mind to an appreciative audience. She had used it in the promotional literature for years - a subtle slight to the competitors of Beauxbatons. "It is time we moved on to the next agenda item," she urged politely. "Herr Professor, if you would?"
"Thank you, Headmistress. Yes. I have arranged for the Goblet of Fire, yes, to be brought to Beauxbatons," began Klaus Festeller. Madame Maxime beamed at him indulgently as the professor described his plan. He was an older wizard, gray in the hair and red in the face, but not yet slowing down. A neatly trimmed beard hid a ragged scar; she wondered if the mustache covered another. Madame Maxime found herself quite taken with him, which was unusual not only because he was German and she had endured Grindelwald's reign of terror, but because he also taught Magical History. Madame Maxime's view of history was utilitarian, and she normally had little regard for those whose worlds were defined by it. Festeller was a surprise. It had taken quite a bit of convincing to provide the galleons for his first expedition, which he had assured would help raise the school's prestige. It took much less effort the following years. Festeller did not view history as a past, but as a present that he wanted to touch. Touch, and bring back. The treasures and relics of wizarding history found a home in the school's collections, sounded impressive in the literature, and created a much-desired commodity: access.
"Nein! The plan is doomed," burst out Tearlach Korbel. He was quite a fit wizard with an abrupt manner, and instructed in the Martial Arts. Madame Maxime was not so predisposed to him, and thought him quite ambitious. Each year he petitioned her to bring Beauxbatons' less intense curriculum more into line with his beloved Durmstrang. "The students learn nothing to protect themselves until the third year."
"Yes. The younger students will only, yes, observe on the expedition, of course," explained Festeller.
"Why include the sixth and fifth -" began Mademoiselle Deudancorp.
"-classes at all? They can be very vexing," finished Mademoiselle Deudancorp. The twin, spinster witches taught Wand Arts. Madame Maxime had spoken to them about etiquette, but they still tended to share one cup.
"The purpose, yes, is to help the Goblet. It was strongly Confunded. This choosing, yes, will cause it to regain its confidence," explained Festeller.
A cup was loudly overturned into its saucer. All eyes turned to the ancient, veiled figure of Madame Sombrevoir, who instructed in the Divining Arts. She examined the dregs from the tea critically. "The endeavor will be successful. Dark aspects will gather. Tragedy looms. You must avoid succumbing to temptation." She fell silent, and pulled out her Tarot cards. Her ragged voice added, "And curses."
"The students can be better prepared, with permission," hinted Professor Korbel. "The situation in Britain -"
"Is in Britain," interrupted Madame Maxime. "The travel restrictions and tracking of long-range apparitions are an effective response." Tearlach looked unhappy, but did not challenge her. The headmistress sighed, "We will discuss it privately, Tearlach. Thank you, Professor Festeller.
"Speaking of expanded curriculum, my dear Professor Elevagre, have you succeeded in obtaining the new specimens?"
The professor for the Natural Arts, an older, slight wizard, looked as one would staring into one's doom. "Yes, except for the manticore. The Ministry would not provide a license," he said flatly.
"Excellent still. Beauxbatons will have the foremost program! You are twice the professor that Hagrid is," praised Madame Maxime.
"Not even half of the man," muttered Elevagre. He addressed Madame Maxime, "Perhaps an assistant could be allowed? There are the Abraxans..."
"A fine idea. Extra credit for the students, hmm?" replied Madame Maxime. The professor looked down at his hands forlornly. "The final item today is Gabrielle Delacour. She is, of course, Fleur's younger sister. That means, gentlemen, that you should be wary of your interactions." And, though she did not say it, certain witches would also do well to check themselves. "Now, any final words, Madame Sombrevoir?"
"Light will pierce the dark. Fire will be a plague. Wine will turn to butterbeer," stated the Divining Arts teacher, looking down at the cards. The first one, thought Madame Maxime, was bit vague. The second sounded inconvenient; the last sounded dreadful. "Increase the healing budget twenty percent, and move the whiskey for your Abraxans." That was a bit more useful, and Madame Maxime noted them down. She did indicate only a ten percent increase, though, in that note.
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"Severus," rasped the figure weakly from where he lay on the bed. "The potions..."
Severus Snape, the former Hogwarts professor and potions master, stood up from where he knelt to approach. The aging body of the gray-faced wizard on the bed looked at him once, then a second time as the hand of the puppet-master turned. The corporeal form of Ogden Dickinbottom was quickly becoming the dried-up husk of the same as it hosted the non-corporeal Dark Lord. The old wizard had agreed to the bargain willingly, believing he would regain his vitality, his virility. And, thought Snape, he had. The Dark Lord drove himself ceaselessly, and his vessel. The days were spent arranging for the return of the Chairman of the Wizard Alliance for Social Isolation party, and building alliances in the Ministry. The nights were spent encouraging petty attacks on muggles by his Death Eaters, and who knew what else. The snatches of muggle news one overheard were well past disturbing. The children...
Snape poured a measure of the strengthening draught into a goblet and helped the body on the bed drink. The vitality and virility that Ogden experienced now would be fleeting; it was as a candle thrown onto the coals. It could not last. Which, considered Snape, was the reason he had approached Dickinbottom in the first place. It was just happening too quickly for the former professor's machinations. The problem, again, was Potter. The werewolf Frenrir had never returned from his attempt, and there were only rumors as to his fate. So that, thought Snape, had gone according to plan. What had not been anticipated was the abduction of Draco, followed by... nothing. There had been no attempt, as far as Snape could discern, at communication, neither sophisticatedly subtle nor naively amateurish. He had even taken to looking through the Prophet's paid advertisements. It was classic Potter - accomplish the most ridiculous task, then blunder on the next step.
"Gregorovitch, Snape," began the Lord Voldemort more strongly. The face of Ogden Dickinbottom lagged only slightly. "He possessed it, and he is where I will begin following the trail." No assistance was needed for draining the restorative the potion master poured.
Snape occluded his mind more strongly. He knew what 'it' referred to, and needed to keep his doubts well-hidden. The Dark Lord chasing after fairy-tale wands was a confusing development, and further added strain on the aged body. "Yes, my lord?"
"I have set plans in motion for an excursion to the continent to that end. The wretched rat must be found, also, and dealt with, and that which he should have brought must be recovered," explained the Lord Voldemort. The restorative often left him less taciturn, and more expansive. Snape was not so much a confidant than nursemaid these days, though. "Congratulations on Frenrir."
Snape damped down any reaction. There was no point in denying anything. "My lord," he said deferentially.
"Lord Voldemort sees all, my servant. Still there is no word from Potter." The last was not a question. "Perhaps you are wrong?"
"No, my lord. Potter has young Malfoy. It is likely he had no real plan."
"We will provide him with one, then. Do not allow any more of my Death Eaters to go after the boy," ordered the Dark Lord. He curled a lip, "No matter how much they annoy you. I will be the one to destroy Potter." The Dark Lord continued, getting to his feet. "I will create a new body - I believe you retrieved some of the blood?"
"Yes, my lord. It has preserved nicely."
"How very... loyal," enjoyed the Dark Lord. Snape once more felt it necessary to further occlude his mind. "But your skills are too useful to hamper. I have a candidate."
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