He Does Write

by polkaking2

PreDH,PostHBP AU. HG HrR GabrielleD. Various POV. Read and review. Unicorns love her, Abraxans love her, squirrels love her. But does George? Gabrielle is dragged off on another adventure by the Goblet of Fire - the worst summer holiday ever! In Albania! And then Harry and company show up. Can it get worse?

4. Correspondence 'Course

Chapter Four - Correspondence 'Course

It was morning, and Gabrielle was indulging in a small cup of very strong coffee. In the designated area, of course, since there had been so many complaints. She had nearly finished the beverage when the owls swept into the Dining Hall. The post was early again, so Gabrielle tried to swallow down the remaining coffee. It was nearly impossible. The house-elf version of strong coffee was barely runny. The house-elf who made the coffee worked behind a curved, shiny metal table beneath the large brass flowers that provided the extra ventilation needed. There were only a dozen or so students who took advantage of the new coffee service - the rest walked by with their noses held. The offering was part of some modernization program by Madame Maxime. Gabrielle wondered if more students would try the service if proper muggle coffee was used, which made her think of Gaston and his room of beans. At the start of the year, the little cups would appear on the table in a sparkling instant, but there was no choice. Then a house-elf began, eh, manning the little station. That had not gone well at first. It was difficult to enjoy a beverage prepared by a sweaty elf prone to nervous vomiting. Gabrielle, given her experiences at the Weasley household, expected that that was due to his disguise. The house-elf wore a black shirt and black trousers, with a green apron. The clothes, no, the disguise was well-fitted. It was too bad the elf's shape was ill-fitted. Now, however, the house-elf was quite all right. He did suffer from panicked hiccups if one left a gratuity. If only the espresso was not like custard.

Gabrielle was halfway to her seat when a descending owl dropped straight toward her. In its talons was a bright red letter - a howler. Gabrielle stopped short. What, her mind raced, had Maman learned of now? It could not be about Montaigne - Madame Maxime had not said anything about it to her. The headmistress had stared at her quite hard, it was true, until Gabrielle had almost run back to the stalls, but there had been no punishments. If it was about the Wheezes - well, Gabrielle always expected she would be told she was being expelled first. She had nearly cut off Nelle's thumb in Alchemical Arts, but that had been a complete accident and Nelle was almost through being mad at her. The girl just made a point of sitting on the opposite corner of a table from Gabrielle. In any case that had been almost a week ago.

It might not be from Maman, suggested a second thought. Was there not, continued the thought nastily, something Papa would be very upset over? Yes, admitted Gabrielle to herself. She had had a boy, George, visit her at school, without telling either parent. But that had been ages ago. The traitorous thought asked, so? It only mattered when Papa found out.

The owl was quite close now. It was useless to try and dodge; the owls had really good aim. Gabrielle just wished she was at her seat with sympathetic Monique, rather than out in the open, where she would have to trudge back to her seat past curious stares and the laughing caused by the knowledge it was not for them.

The howler, to a relief that nearly dropped her to her knees, was not intended for Gabrielle. The owl flew just over her head, releasing its load a moment before wheeling away back toward the wide, open transoms. The red letter skipped off the table and hit Angie, short for Berangaria, in the chest. She was a very nice girl, a little too round in the face and stomach, and she burst into tears even before the letter exploded. Gabrielle came as close to running as she dared to get back to her seat. There was a protocol here. Everyone would likely hear the howler, but one should not be seen trying to listen.

There was mail for Gabrielle also. As soon as she took a seat at the table, the Hall still echoing from the exhausted howler, two owls that had been circling the Dining Hall swooped in. Two small flat, square packages and a letter skittered to a stop in front of her. She knew, from the sounds of dozens of chairs sliding, that numerous eyes were striving to see. It was -so- annoying. One of the boxes undoubtedly contained their orders, but, griped Gabrielle to herself, did they have to make it so obvious that she was involved? Why not just stand up, point, and say, "She's the reason dorm seven smells like it does, Headmistress." Or worse, "Professor, I know what blew up the Stone tower."

The letter was from George. Gabrielle recognized the handwriting, the fact it was not addressed to Gigi, and, well, he does write. She slipped it into a robe pocket as quickly and discreetly as possible. Which, unfortunately, signaled its contents as clearly as if she had read it aloud. "It's a letter from her George," blurted Monique. "Let's see it!"

"Stop it, Monique," hissed Gabrielle. Her friend was playfully pulling at her robes, trying to squirm a hand into the pocket. Which she did every single time. Gabrielle never shared what was in the letters with anyone, which only made them all the more curious. Gabrielle suspected her girlfriends would be quite disappointed with what was in the letters, or rather, what was not in them. He does write, Gabrielle reminded herself. That was at least a start, one that she had wanted to build on over the coming summer.

"Can I open one of the packages? I never get a package," complained Dilly. As she was eating her mother's fresh-baked Langues de Chat from an envelope big enough to hide behind, Gabrielle ignored her. "Want one Allie? Allie?" offered Dilly. Her friend looked to be counting something in a small diary, and did not acknowledge the offer. The sums seemed to be off.

"Piers is having the omelet. He shouldn't be having that," said Allie, a vague concern entering her voice. Dilly slumped.

"Eh, what?" asked Gabrielle. She had had the omelet; there had been nothing wrong with it.

"She keeps track of what he eats," explained Dilly resignedly.

"Umm..." started Monique. That was about all that could really be said, though, so there was quiet. Gabrielle loosened the wrapping on one of the packages. She was expecting a special one from Fred.

"George is on time," noted Allie, sounding disappointed. By that, wondered Gabrielle, or the rogue egg-eating?

"What do you mean by that?" asked Gabrielle. The first box did have the latest orders. She could see the invoice was folded on top. So it must be the second box, concluded Gabrielle. She peeled the wrapping a little.

"Didn't you know? He writes three days after the full moon. More or less, there's no way to account for the availability of owls and - oh!" Gabrielle had lifted the lid of the second box a little, and now sat with her face dripping stinksap. Yes, steamed Gabrielle, definitely from Fred.

v - v - v - v - v

"Severus," came the nasally tones of the latest throat the Dark Lord used. "Sit. Have some tea." An offer that was as much a command. Severus Snape took the seat indicated. The wizard he obeyed appeared to be a mere decade out of school, with the flowing hair of one trying to follow fashion but also with the manner of one trying to blend in, so as not to be noticed. At least formerly; now sharp eyes glared out from the weak-chinned face.

"Thank you, my lord," replied Severus. There was little doubt that the Dark Lord, and his latest vessel, were recovering from the disaster. Why the nebbish young wizard had been allowed to attend at the cemetery was a mystery, but perhaps the Dark Lord had foreseen his... utility.

"Has the Potter boy made contact with you?" The mind and eyes were supremely confident, but not, noted Snape, the rest of the body. From the neck down, the young wizard looked ready to flee.

"No, my lord. He is as thick as porridge, with a head like an empty cauldron," complained Snape. Or surprisingly canny, he added to himself.

"I have bested the finest minds of wizardom, out-maneuvering even Dumbledore himself, yet this thick-headed boy has anticipated my actions." The eyes dimmed as attention focused on drinking some tea. "Perhaps, having taught him, you can offer an explanation?"

Snape was not unprepared for the question. He had given it, and ones like it, some thought over the last eight months. To continue to attribute it all to good fortune was unthinking. Certainly the events in the graveyard were not the result of blind luck. The boy had always been a bit of a skulker, yes, and the unprotected grave had been a calculated risk to avoid Ministry attention. But, reasoned Snape, the intent was there. It was just that the whole of it seemed more like an elaborate prank than an actual attempt on the Dark Lord's life. The explosion and chaos were far more effective than they had any right to have been, but it was, at the heart, just a prank. "I... believe, my lord, the problem is that Dumbledore is -not- here. There is no guiding plan, no hidden agenda to Potter's actions. There is nothing to out-maneuver. Dumbledore's Order is adrift, and the Ministry stumbles daily. Without any real plan, Potter's actions not only appear random, they are random."

"Hmm. A fresh perspective. Perhaps I have failed to account for a high enough level of stupidity," sneered Lord Voldemort. The effect was diminished by the nasal whine of the voice.

"It is my experience that one should never underestimate that trait in a wizard, my lord," risked the former professor.

"You have given this much thought, my loyal servant. What would you propose?"

Snape had thought about this as well, looking to a solution that might save both Draco and himself. "I suggest not targeting the boy at the moment, my lord. He should be encouraged to enter the Ministry's auror training program. When he emerges, there is the possibility, the small possibility, that he will be a more dangerous dueling opponent, but he will also be taught Ministry spells, Ministry tactics, and Ministry rules." Time was what Snape needed.

"What a deliciously black heart you have, Snape. Conforming to bureaucratic authority will be his downfall? Not an epic ending, but one indicative of the weaknesses born of hiding the true power of wizards," said the Dark Lord. "Speaking of true power?"

"The port-key has been obtained. The contact in the French Ministry has it set for Porclette, a small muggle town just inside the border. He guarantees it will not be traced."

"Yes. I will assume he understands that his life is backing that confidence?" Snape nodded curtly. "Excellent. This body is strong, but the wand is nearly a useless stick. Now, how are your slimy bits doing these days?"

"Progress has been made at last. I have replicated Shastry's mouse-snake experiment," replied Snape. "The fangs on the mice are fully functional." Progress was much slower than anticipated, however. The murdered healer's notes were cryptic, with much unfamiliar jargon. His widow was more capable than Snape in interpreting the writings, but she herself lacked magic. The potion master's original plot had been to grow a body for the Dark Lord by fusing a few bits of Draco Malfoy with the reserved blood from the Dark Lord's first resurrected body, as a way to ingratiate the boy. That had been lost along with the Malfoy heir, but now the effort continued at the behest of the Dark Lord. The amount of magic imbued into the so-called nuclei of the cells intrigued the Dark Lord, as did the possibility of a made-to-order body. If one could not die, then the risk for a set of poison fangs was not that great, and the retribution would be so much more personal.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle put her ear to the door of the closet beneath the stairs. No giggling this time. She was in the Green tower, looking for some privacy. The little corner in the library was not good enough this time, as she had the letter from George and the box from Fred. Opening the box would need space and, probably, hard cover. Gabrielle was hoping she was right about Fred. It was well after supper now, but there was still plenty of time before Gabrielle had to be back at the dorm.

The closet was dark inside and, as Allie had described, larger than one would think. Gabrielle wondered why the girl had been looking into the closets, and also what else was in that little book. This closet held many long poles with thick metal hooks on the end of them, leaned into a corner. Their use was not obvious. Gabrielle pulled out a candle from her handbag and, using the little blond wand that was truly hers, conjured a small flame to light it. Another candle was produced and lit with the wand. Then Gabrielle blew out the first candle so she could use her wand to relight it, because she found conjuring the little flames very relaxing. It suddenly occurred to Gabrielle that this might be part of the Veela heritage, a talent that had its roots in the fireballs of the transformed state, like the ones Grandmere had thrown. It was an intriguing epiphany, even a little cool, to Gabrielle, but also somewhat disappointing at the same time. A smile that could make certain staff members stop looking at her with such suspicion would be way more helpful.

The closet did not have any heavy wooden boxes or steel plates to hide behind, only the poles. This was simply another chance, thought Gabrielle, to use her superior witch abilities. She set to work transfiguring a pole into a stout shield. It was much harder than the thin boxes used in Wand Arts. Ten minutes later and feeling a little tired, she set aside her heavy creation, as it still had many wide gaps in the face and the hook, which was supposed to be the handle, was dangerously sharp. Gabrielle, instead, opened the package from Fred such that it pointed away from her. Stinksap was always easier to clean up if it was on something, or someone, else. There was no sticky splat this time, however. She looked into the box; it did seem to have something made of cloth in it.

Gabrielle, when it was clear that the fates were aligning to ruin her summer plans, had remembered that she might have a way to at least see George anyway. It was her talent - no, she corrected herself, it was among the many talents she had, that she could attempt to scry George. She had done it once before, for Harry Potter, to look for that disgusting Wormtail. All that she needed was something with a trace of George still on it, such as a shirt he had recently worn. She wrote Fred - a month's allowance for the Post! - that she was going to knit George a jumper, and that she needed the shirt for a pattern. Gabrielle chose Fred not because he would be the most helpful, but because he would use the opportunity to be helpful to be as irritating as possible. Mrs. Weasley would have sent her the spells and hints needed to do the knitting properly, which, of course, was the stated goal. George might have sent one, but even if it was not too embarrassing to ask, she expected that he would have sent a clean one. Fred, though - well, it was time to see.

But not time, thought Gabrielle, to be careless. She dug into the handbag for the knife Gaston had given her, and folded the muggle wonder into pliers. Gabrielle also brought out Poisseux, who did not get out as much as Pepi-Z. The zombie puffskein was almost always in her hair, except when she went to the stables. One careless nibble by any of the Abraxans would be the end of her fuzzy pet, or the beginning of the most disgusting rescue ever. Poisseux clambered happily in her lap until he faced what would have been a shield if there were not so many holes in it. The ersatz toad looked very put out. Gabrielle found that toads had rather remarkably expressive body language. It was, thought Gabrielle, all in the angle of the body as they sat. She knew the spellotape-bodied amphibian enjoyed watching her do magic; she should have taken him out earlier. Now he was going to be depressed and mopey. Which was, noted a second thought, more toad-like anyway.

That had not been a very nice thought, however, so Gabrielle set about un-transfiguring the shield to cheer up the zombie toad. It was more exact to say she was re-transfiguring her previous efforts. The result was not a return to the original, but a reasonable approximation of it, although with a lot of kinks and a much less strong hook. Gabrielle leaned it back into the corner with the other poles, and shifted several others to cover it. Her spells would wear off by themselves in time; there was no reason that anyone else should have to find out.

With Poisseux's body now at a much jauntier angle, Gabrielle turned back to the contents of the box. She took a handle of the pliers in each hand, and reached the metal jaws down into the box to grasp hold of the fabric. There was a flash of blue-white, a loud, sharp buzzing that ended in a sudden snap, and a thud. Poisseux adjusted to an angle that suggested panic.

v - v - v - v - v

"I would not have picked you as a screamer, Harry," started Fred Weasley, who sat casually on the stone-topped table. A pink ball spun on his fingertip.

"Unlike our family's shame," interjected George Weasley. He gave his brother Ron's still form a nudge, then turned back to the smoking cauldron he was struggling with.

"But I would have thought you'd find that somewhat alarming," continued Fred, sounding disappointed.

Harry Potter looked at his hand, or where his hand appeared not to be. He could clearly see the green-tinged strips of flesh hanging off the stump of his forearm, as if he had dipped his arm into some horrible acid derived from something only Hagrid could love. On the other, er, hand, he could also, if he shook the remains of his arm quickly, see a indistinct ripple in the air where his hand both had been and still was. With effort, he could feel his nails dig into his own invisible palm, although he had witnessed his hand and lower arm rot and drip away. "How's it done?" he asked finally.

"A lot like our Headless Hats. George did the gruesome effects," explained Fred.

"Muggle zombies are so much more drippier than real ones," added George knowledgeably. The cauldron was now spitting violet sparks. "What gave it away?"

Harry thought about that. When he and Ron had finally dared to cross the threshold into the upper room of the twins' shop, Fred had tossed one of the pink balls at each of them. It was impossible to refrain from catching the missiles by reflex. Once caught, the ball fell as the hand and arm holding it seemed to dissolve. Only, remembered Harry, it took the ball a moment too long to start to fall. "Er, I reckoned you two weren't about to maim me," said Harry instead.

"Ronnikins wasn't that sure," noted Fred with glee. Ron stirred with a moan.

"Um, along those lines - Duck!" suggested George, the last bit coming from the vicinity of the floor. The fountain of sparks merged to form a fireball that flashed to white-hot before exploding with a concussion so loud the ears barely heard it. The blast was followed by the quick staccato of shrapnel.

Harry pushed himself into a sitting position, and off of Ron, whom he had landed on. With his ears ringing, he pulled off his glasses and fixed the cracked lens with his wand. His lost arm had regrown several inches, and the stump was dangling from his wrist. He pulled the prank off his arm by the squelchy, dangling flesh. It fizzed away to nothing. "What was that? he asked. Harry repeated the question more loudly, since he could barely hear his own voice. Fred answered with a barely audible mumble. "What?"

George was suddenly at Harry's side, stuffing something icy into the Boy-Who-Lived's ear. It was cold enough to cause a sharp pain over Harry's eye. "- that now? Better?" asked George. Harry nodded, so he received another dose for the other ear.

"What was that?" asked Harry for a third time. He explored a slice in his robes left by a whirling cauldron shard. Perhaps the brothers Weasley could only avoid intentional maiming.

"Oh, many things," answered George vaguely. "The one you meant was probably the lump of potassium."

"Listed under 'K' in the muggle catalog. A bit wonky in their organization, if you were to ask me. And if you were to ask me about -using- the stuff -" said Fred.

"All right, all right. I'll admit you might have seen that bludger. Still, rather pretty at the end, right before, er..."

"Before it nearly made us eligible for the Headless Hunt?" asked Harry. The twins just grinned. Harry bent over Ron and pulled the prank of his friend's arm as well. "Still here, mate?" he asked while giving Ron a shake when his eyes fluttered briefly.

"What? What? WHAT?" answered Ron, banging the side of his head.

"I'll warn again you about another bludger," chided Fred.

"What brings you young students to Diagon Alley this fine day?" asked George, ignoring his brother. "A bit out-of-bounds for you, isn't it?"

"Er, I'm not actually official at Hogwarts," explained Harry.

"WHAT? HELLO? WHAT?" shouted Ron.

"That's a good wheeze," noted Fred. "But it's a poor lookout for the Head Boy to be caught out too, eh?"

"WHAT?" Ron had a finger in his ear up to the second knuckle.

"I, er, heard you went to - " started Harry. He was interrupted by the door slamming open. Hermione, clearly in a pique, stood in the doorway.

"How can you dare sell feminine hygiene products as pranks?" demanded Hermione. "It's a very fragile time in a girl's life! Can you imagine the psychological scars of falling victim to a Red Geyser?"

"HERMIONE!"

"Well now, I'll admit that testing has been, er, -spotty-," said George.

"Don't," warned Hermione.

"I think you'll find that your average wizard not only has little opportunity for the deployment of said products, but also has little knowledge of the possibilities in the first place," excused Fred.

"In point of fact, witches buy those. Come up with them too," added George.

"And apparently find them funny, although personally..." Fred shuddered.

"WHY'S EVERYONE WHISPERING?"

"Why are you shouting, Ron?" asked Hermione.

"WHAT?"

Hermione touched her wand to her throat. "WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING, RON?"

"AM I?"

"YES!"

"Bright future in the Ministry, those two," gasped George as he laughed.

"It means stupidity is catching. Spreads by contact, too," said Fred. He shuddered again. "That reminds me. Catch!" He tossed the last pink ball to Hermione. Ron made a lunge for it, but Hermione directed it up to the ceiling with a sweep of her wand.

"DON'T TOUCH IT. IT TOOK MY BLOODY ARM OFF!" warned Ron.

"WHICH ARM WAS THAT?" boomed Hermione. Ron looked at his hands in surprise. "YOU'D HAVE TO BE STUPID TO CATCH SOMETHING IN THIS PLACE."

"OY, HARRY CAUGHT ONE TOO."

"She won't live this down easily. Wish I could use one of those viddy-lo recorders," said George.

"AND? WHY DO YOU NEED TO SHOUT?"

Harry shook his head and sighed. Why was everything so hard?

v - v - v - v - v

"Two sugars, Harry?" asked George. Hearing and voices had been restored to normal levels, debris had been picked out of the walls, and the tea was nearly there. "I could do some coffee if you -"

"No," interrupted Fred. "I can't work here when the place smells like the skip behind a fish shop in summer."

"Oh, you still work here, do you? Thought you had gone all management, the way you watch the employees. Well, I should say -an- employee..."

"Look, we need to know how to get to France," said Harry, hoping to thwart another round of Weasley bickering.

"Get a compass, right? Follow it south - can't hardly miss it. Mind the wet bit," advised Fred.

"Come on, give us a bit more help here. According to Fleur, even muggle routes are watched. No brooms, no port-keys, we can't apparate there - how did you do it?"

"You're making the very hurtful assumption that we were not wanted there," accused George.

"The French Ministry agreed to your travel?" asked Hermione in surprise. "I thought they forbid -"

Fred jumped in. "They might have let us in. It's just we didn't ask."

"Why go to France anyway? I thought they banned Wheezes completely, bloody frogs," asked Ron.

Fred opened his grinning mouth, but the words were George's. "Partner good-will tour," he said quickly.

"Partner good-will," muttered Fred while rolling his eyes.

"Er, Fleur mentioned you were at Beauxbatons for the - "

"Partner good-will. You know there's this muggle tunnel under the Channel, right?" asked George hurriedly.

"Yeah," nodded Harry.

"Yes, but I thought the French were monitoring that," said Hermione.

"What, a tunnel through water?" asked Ron.

"It's under the ground that's under the water, Ron," said Hermione patiently.

"They watch the trains going in, and the trains going out," continued George.

"So you jumped off the train while it was still moving?" asked Ron. "Bloody hell, how fast do they go?"

"Don't be thick," said Fred. "Anyway you'd need a ticket to get on, and there's a good number of detector portals you'd have to pass through. Some from the goblins."

"It's not just one tunnel. There's one for going to the continent, one for coming back to England -" started George.

"There's three, actually. A service tunnel runs between the other two," as Hermione failed to contain herself.

"Yes, I was coming to that," complained George.

"Should have given her the boxes before you started," remembered Fred.

"That's right! You promised me two of your shop's special boxes. And a reading list," said Hermione.

"Three tunnels? That's, that's balmy..." mumbled Ron.

"We went a bit better than that, since you're practically -" began George.

"Inexplicably," interjected Fred.

"- a part of the family." continued George. Ron examined his shoes. "There's a scroll or two for you, and copies of the notes the Krishnas use too."

"Sounds smashing," said Harry. "Erm, so there's three of these tunnels. And?"

"What are krishnas?" asked Ron. "They those fried buns with cream in?"

"Not what, you git - who. Krishna S. and Krishna R. Told us not to bother about surnames; grates on their ears when we try," explained Fred.

"They are Indian?"

"Welsh, actually. But their ancestors were, when it was a colony," answered George.

"Can we get back to France?" insisted Harry.

"Wouldn't think so. You haven't been there yet," joked Fred.

"Tell us how you crossed the bloody Channel!" snapped Harry.

"Not a beaten man yet, I see," grinned Fred. "Ginny's not had much chance then. My own brothers are a lost cause, save Charlie."

"Come again?"

"My fiercely independent brother, for breakfast this morning, enjoyed a delightful fruit cup and, if he has been good, a second slice of wholewheat toast," announced George.

"Fruit cup?" murmured Ron with a look of horror.

"There was an egg too," grumbled Fred half to himself. "Who went running to the queen when she beckoned?"

"Partner good-will," repeated George. "We had to go anyway to smooth things over with the Touliers. And Philippe."

"I still can't see why he's involved. He's worse than a goblin about galleons - always doing sums," complained Fred.

"The Touliers trust him, not us. And he's saved you a hundred of those galleons doing sums," added George. "You're just hacked off because he got you with that wire hooked up to the mans."

"I never did like that jammy bastard."

"Was there at least jam?" asked Ron.

"Hooked up to the man's what?" asked Harry, despite wanting to get back to the travel question and despite, perhaps, not wanting to really know.

"You know, the holes for the plugs the muggles put on everything," explained George.

"The mains?" suggested Hermione. "Who is Philippe?"

"Gigi's boyfriend," smirked Fred.

"Partner good-will tour, implying more than one stop. And you were at Beauxbatons - you don't have Beebee selling your pranks, do you? Fred! George! She could be expelled!" said Hermione hotly. "It's not right taking advantage of her like that."

"She's not selling Wheezes," said George, putting his hands up placatingly. "I would - we would never do anything to hurt her."

"Least not badly," grinned Fred. George did not. "It's more a mail-drop arrangement. Purely temporary. Surprised she hasn't been made to tell us to bugger off."

"Impressed was the word you used before," reminded George.

"Yeah, well."

"Let's get back to the tunnels under the Channel, please. We're not out-of-bounds, but we are running out of time," said Harry. He glanced up at the pink ball still hovering up near the ceiling. An idea was coming to him. One that was he was sure the twins would help with.

"Right. It's simple. Slip into the service tunnel, and do line-o'-sight apparition the length of it. Or fly; they're bloody huge," shrugged George.

"That's it?"

"Yes, but you had to be damned clever to think of it in the first place," declared Fred.

"If we do say so ourselves," added George, bowing.

"So they don't watch the service tunnel at all?" asked Hermione.

"The muggles do, I suppose, for all they notice anything," said George.

"Completely enclosed, weird lighting, noisy mechanisms - it's not a wizard kind of place," added Fred.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle staggered through the halls, trailing a cloud of ozone. She tried to avoid the metal railings on the stairs and the bronze statues and urns elegantly placed along the walkways; she still sparked if she got too close. It was hard to think, so Gabrielle held onto one thought, which was that Fred would suffer horribly. Or die. Or both; it -was- hard to think so Gabrielle could not decide. Despite her precautions, she had been shocked when she had reached the pliers into the box. That had been bad, but it was worse when she, after crawling back to the box, had assumed the prank had done its work - and reached in again. What made it so much worse was the way Poisseux sat looking at her like she was a complete idiot when she got back up. The spellotape toad actually nosed the box over for her so she could lift the bottom of the box off the contents without incident. It was quite embarrassing to be shown up by a toad, especially one that spent so much time in a handbag.

Fred had sent a wreck of a shirt, as Gabrielle had hoped and expected. It was a thick pullover, but it was torn and the arms had been cut short. Completely useless as a pattern. She wanted to think of it as redolent with George's unique scent, but, really, it stank. It was very dirty as well, as if he had been creeping through a cramped tunnel or pipe. Gabrielle was sure the shirt would work for scrying, as long as there was an open window nearby. But Fred still had to die. Or suffer. Or both.

It was a good thought; a powerful thought to focus on. It was not much use when it came to navigation, though, so Gabrielle was not sure which hall went to her dorm. It was confusing because the choices were on the wrong side of the wall. Poisseux would probably know, but she could not face him just yet. There were people here, but none appeared to be Fred. Who had to suffer. To help concentrate, Gabrielle imagined her nemesis crammed into her cauldron. Over a nice big fire.

"Uh, hello, uh, Gigi? Are you all right?" Gabrielle looked over to see Silvain looking back curiously.

"Fred will suffer," blurted Gabrielle. It was not what she intended, but it had been on the tip of her tongue.

"You don't look so good. You look a little scorched, to be - gah!" A white-blue spark jumped between Silvain's outstretched hand and Gabrielle's chest. It hurt a really sensitive, rather small prominence. Gabrielle had a moment of clarity and wrapped her arms across herself. Fred would suffer -and- die. More voices filtered in.

"It's Delacour. What's she doing here?"

"Was that a new Wheeze? Looked like it hurt."

"It's the Goblet's Jinx!"

"Chut, idiot! Don't say it so loud. If the prefect hears you - "

"Roget? You're the idiot - he gets Skiving Snackboxes. You didn't believe all those stories about bad paté did you?"

"Did someone order more Poot Powder?"

"Mon Dieu, non. I was finally able to breathe again."

"There's a Deluxe version now. It'll make you fart La Marseillaise."

"That's, that's just... so cool."

"Come on Gigi. Let's find, uh, Monique." It was Silvain again, a little further away than before, and wary.

"Silvain, it's almost curfew."

"I'd like to find Monique, heh!"

"Silvain and Delacour? I thought she tried to flush him down a toilet."

"Shut up! Shut up!" hissed Silvain. "You can see she needs help."

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle did not get a chance to look at George's letter until the following day. Monique wanted to have a picnic again to get even more sun, and see Impy, but Gabrielle begged out of it. She had a natural excuse. The pipes in the shower had earthed the residual magic very forcefully, and her legs still felt wobbly.

"Eh, Pepi-Z? Is there..." Oh, remembered Gabrielle, that's right. Poisseux had taken the slightly crisped little red bobble into his mouth and into the handbag. Her faux toad was having a snit, completely of his own choosing because, thought Gabrielle, how was she supposed to know the prank would go off twice? If Poisseux was disappointed in her abilities, then he could stay in the handbag forever. Anyway, how could she make it up to him? Neither pet was technically alive, so there were no special treats to offer them. Poisseux would probably forgive her, decided Gabrielle, if she showed him the dancing flame spell. Once, of course, she managed to get the spell to work. Right now it just seemed like the breeze from waving her wand made the flames move.

In the meanwhile, the loss of the zombie puffskein's early warning was making life more difficult. Such as now, when Gabrielle wanted to put a study carol in what she thought of as her special corner. The Palace's house-elves had secured nearly every study carol to the floor, at least on this level of the library. Probably the only one not fixed in place was the one she kept in her handbag. Gabrielle felt a little guilty about that, but it was not as if she was going to keep it forever. So it was not stealing, at all. If the house-elves would have welded one in her corner, she would have used that.

There was another way, even without Pepi-Z's help. Gabrielle stepped to the corner, squatted down, and rummaged through the magical handbag liner until she found the apron from Mrs. Weasley. Gabrielle used to try and become invisible when she wanted to avoid a scene. That, she had to admit, seemed impossible to do. The apron, though, showed her another possibility. Gabrielle found that it was possible to be... unnoticed. It came naturally, added a critical thought. That did bother Gabrielle a little. She was part Veela; she should be the light in any room. If Fleur laid on the floor and was covered by a tarpaulin, people would see it and say it was the most beautiful lump ever. Gabrielle knew if she did that she risked being binned. She could sit at dinner in the Dining Hall, go quiet, and even Monique would soon pick at her dessert. That was a little depressing, that she could be overlooked so easily. Gabrielle felt a lot better when she decided that it was actually a talent. That she was able to overcome her natural heritage so completely, thought Gabrielle, really indicated a high degree of ability.

Once the apron was on, Gabrielle did not worry about the other student wizards and witches that passed. Other than to quietly accept their illicit food wrappers and drink cups. The upper classes were spending a lot of time in the library as the school year wound down and the stress over exams wound up. Gabrielle pulled the study carol slowly out of her handbag, positioned it just so, and opened George's letter.

"Dear Gabrielle," started the letter. This was one of Gabrielle's favorite parts. Never 'Dear Gigi' or Fred's 'Oy Gigi.' She also liked the way her name looked when George wrote it. She did not say that out loud, though, because she did not want people to look at her like they looked at Allie. Or, frankly, Dillie.

"First, sorry about the Bogey Blasters luv." The diminutive just had to mean something, hoped Gabrielle. "We thought it was self-explanatory and they were green after all." No, thought Gabrielle. It was not obvious at all. It was only afterward that the meaning of bogey was apparent. "What is the proper French word for bogey? Fred wants to use escargot, but that's just him being a git. I would have loved to see the results. A horse's nose is at least four times the size of a wizard's. Wouldn't suppose you could give us a guess on the volume?" A question from Fred, undoubtedly.

"I read in Le Monde, Magique about the Stone Tower at the school. I will swear on Merlin's staff that that was a bog-standard Wildfire. It should not have blown down a building. Truth is they are mostly noise and pretty flashes, which is all the punters can handle anyway." He, wondered Gabrielle, reads Le Monde, Magique? That was a surprise, one with many possibilities her daydreams would fill out. What was a punter?

"The weather here is dreary. It's not dementor-spawn this time. The muggles have gotten the worst of it - someone's learned to create magical whirlwinds. The ruddy things shredded a couple of villages in the midlands." Gabrielle frowned. How closely did George actually read her letters? He completely missed her use of metaphor for how her life was without him. It might have been, allowed Gabrielle, a little over the top in a literary sense, but really, the weather? "The Minister of Magic has the aurors running in circles to find who's doing it. Dad said Scrimgeour told him that the muggles have some sort of map taken from space by an artificial new-ronny thing that shows spots that shouldn't be blank, and they want something done. Not about the not-blank spots, but about the muggle attacks. There's not a lot of support for Scrimgeour's efforts. It looks like an election might be called." Poor Mr. Weasley. Elections were always the worst time for Papa, remembered Gabrielle.

"Mum is doing well. Still over the moon about the grandchild thing, of course. Bill says Fleur is even tired of the fussing now." That made Gabrielle think of Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley's expectations there. "You remember Old Man Winterhall? From the wedding dinner? You must, he caused quite a scene. Mum visited him the other day. He's doing poorly now. Mum says he's shrinking away faster than a shrivelfig. He did quite a good likeness of you out of flax seed and dried feverfew on his dining table, apparently." Well, he was insane, thought Gabrielle, but that was a little sad even so. The dried feverfew - Gabrielle decided to ask Lucretia about her hair. Her roommate would not hide the awful truth - if there was such a truth.

"Chin up in Wand Arts. As long as they aren't making you do lines with a blood quill it's just a matter of time. Do practice with your favored wand though." Her Papa could have written this.

"I found a method that can tell whether dried armadillo bile was collected under a full moon or not. The proper stuff burns yellow when mixed with sulfur and a little bit of aconite. Half our bloody stock is tainted. We'll be having a word with our supplier, count on that." This was a standard feature of George's letters: tips from the workroom or customer anecdotes. Gabrielle was not sure about why he included them. The notes were either banal, or were a welcome sign of familiarity.

"Cheers, George" That was not familiar, just banal. Gabrielle always hoped for something more heartfelt.

"P.S. Mum got word from Fleur that the Goblet of Fire had picked you for some expedition of some sort. I'm well chuffed about it." That might, considered Gabrielle, mean completely disconsolate at the news. "An excellent chance for a bit of mischief. I'll send you an assortment." Probably not, sighed Gabrielle. There was no two ways of looking at it. There was a lot of work that needed to be done here.