Chapter Ten
Delaia fingered her wand and shifted uncomfortably next to Snape. She just wished something would go ahead and happen already. Even an ambush would be better than this interminable, stultifying wait in the frigid cold. What had happened to last week's good weather, anyway? She shifted again, trying to get some blood flowing into her feet, which felt like they were both on the verge of falling asleep, and glared at her partner. Not that he could see it, of course. Damned man, she should have known better than to agree to do HIM a favour. Of course, she reflected, as they both watched the dark-cloaked figure up the street pause, probably startled by some small noise, this really wasn't for him.
"Do you think you could find a position and stay with it?," the irritation at her side hissed into her ear.
"My foot's asleep."
"Oh for Merlin's sake . . . "
"Well, we've been here for ages! We'll miss the Triwizard selection at this rate, and I really wanted to be there. I don't know why you couldn't just have asked him when and where the damned rendezvous was supposed to be." They had arrived at the cobblestone covered heart of what Delaia had been surprised to identify, eventually, as Paris almost two hours before. Having grown up just outside the city, she had thought she was fairly familiar with it, but there was no doubt that it had changed a bit in the last 150 years.
The tangled maze of streets through which they had, with extreme difficulty, tracked Apollo bore no resemblance at all to the picturesque avenues of Delaia's memory. She recalled her history instructor at Beauxbatons mentioning something about the difficulties posed to the magical community by the Emperor Napoleon III's decision, in the 1860s or 70s, to beautify Paris. He had torn down the narrow, evil-smelling, and almost airless warren of medieval streets at the city's core and replaced them with wide, tree lined boulevards that shortly became models of city planning all over the world. The rapidity and thoroughness of the move had caused the Parisian magical community some problems, however, forcing the Ministry to work almost around the clock to shore up the centuries-old wards that guarded the Avenue Inclinée--the French version of Diagon Alley. Delaia wished they were there now, or even in the less salubrious Rue de Menaçante, Paris' version of Knockturn Alley. Instead, they had spent the evening dodging along the numerous cesspools that still passed for streets in this era's muggle Paris, and not enjoying the experience. At least Delaia hadn't; it was difficult to tell what Snape was feeling as the lack of street lighting insured that she'd spent the night following after little more than his silent shadow.
"The man IS a genius, however naïve of one," Snape reminded her, his hawkish profile lit only by the very dim wand light they shielded from Zosimus by their bodies. "He would certainly have known what I intended had I been foolish enough to ask for particulars, and taken extra precautions to insure we could not follow him."
"He took enough as it was," Delaia muttered. It had not taken her very long to realise that the whole point of their little perambulations that evening had been Zosimus' attempt to insure that no one could trace him to the meeting place. Despite Snape's tracking ability, which was surprisingly good, he had almost succeeded in losing them no less than four times, the last with a sudden apparition from one alley to its brother a street over, followed by an almost immediate switch back again. The only reason it hadn't worked was the poor lighting available, which meant that he had returned just as they were realising he'd left. Your reflexes are too good, uncle, Delaia had thought, grinning with anticipation over the weeks of teasing this night's events would provide. Assuming they all survived, of course.
Delaia watched Zosimus' unusually dark-garbed figure as it paced the alley for what had to be the fiftieth time. Apparently he was early or his contacts were late; either way, she didn't like it. For a change, Snape's instincts had been spot on--she was VERY glad they had followed Apollo, despite the fact that she really was getting quite uncomfortable. She fidgeted behind the wooden casks piled at the alley's entrance that provided them with some cover. The blackness of the night coupled with a basic do-not-notice charm insured that it was very unlikely they would be seen by anyone, even if that person was practically on top of them. The charm also meant, however, that they had to stay in the small area over which it had been cast, a fact that was starting to give Delaia serious leg cramps.
She wondered, not for the first time, if Snape had figured it out. She had been informed of his and Apollo's previous attempt to obtain illicit potion supplies, but Delaia didn't think for a minute that this was another Ministry raid. The British and French authorities could work together when they had to, of course, but it was never an easy relationship, and it made no sense for the British magical administration to arrange a raid on French soil when there were so many easier alternatives. So, that left the problem of just who Zosimus was meeting. Delaia fervently hoped it was a reliable--if such a word could be used to describe a smuggling ring--group that only wanted money in exchange for dangerous supplies. If it was some opportunist types who had heard through the underground grapevine of Zosimus' extreme interest in a certain hard-to-find ingredient, they might have decided to set him up, take the money and give nothing in return. And if that was true, they also might decide that they preferred not to leave a victim around who could identify them. Yes, despite the fact that she was fast beginning to believe that she would never walk again, Delaia was very glad Snape had asked her to come along.
Snape suddenly tensed at her side, and silently extinguished his wand. She had not seen anything, and of course could not do so now even with the aid of a sight charm, but apparently Severus had. "Get ready," he muttered unnecessarily, and Delaia renewed her grip on her wand, hoping that she would be capable of quick movement if it was needed.
The transaction was difficult to follow, but Delaia thought she saw several figures huddled around Zosimus in conversation. She couldn't make out anything they were saying and they were far too close to allow her to cast an amplification charm without risking notice. She saw something pass between them, possibly the payment, and then heard Zosimus give a strangled cry. That was all she heard because Snape immediately let off a volley of curses at the shadowy figures surrounding Apollo, while vaulting at the same time over the barrels and running towards them. Delaia might have appreciated the performance, except for the fact that, in his enthusiasm, he had knocked her to the ground and stepped on her.
Getting her breath back, she stumbled out from behind the casks and hurried over to where Severus had paused beside an obviously injured Apollo. Snape looked at her, "Can you . . . "
Delaia nodded, "I can't run anyway. Go get the bastards. I'll take care of him." Snape nodded once and ran after the figures, two of whom were dragging a third, who had probably been hit by one of Snape's curses, out the entrance to the alley. Delaia briefly wondered why they didn't just disapparate, but did not really care. Zosimus was her only concern at the moment.
"How badly are you injured?," she lit her wand at the same time she asked the question, and had it answered for her. Apollo was bleeding profusely from, amazingly enough, a knife wound. "What the hell . . . "
"Delaia . . . "
"Don't worry," she told him, muttering a basic healing charm that at least stopped the bleeding, although she doubted that it did much about the pain. Wrapping her arms around him securely, she apparated both of them to the borders of Hogwarts, then conjured a stretcher and took Apollo straight to the infirmary. She was about to wake up McClendon, who as nurse had his rooms just down the hall, when she felt a hand on her arm. Apollo was sitting up, looking at her pleadingly. "Don't . . . I'll be all right."
"Don't be ridiculous, we have to . . . "
He shook his head, cutting her off. "I'm fine, Delaia, really. The bleeding's stopped and I have a few things in my room that will fix the rest."
"But, Apollo, the nurse really should take a look at you. There might be more injuries than you know . . . "
"No, I'm fine. Although I could use some help getting back to my rooms." He tried to stand, but became dizzy and sat down hard on the nearest bunk. "Then again, maybe you could go get something for me, and bring it here?"
"I'm getting the nurse."
"NO!" Zosimus looked agitated. "Forget the man, he's an idiot anyway. Have you forgotten who my grandmother was? I learned to walk toddling around the cauldron of one of the last ancient healers in France. Don't tell me I don't know how to evaluate injuries." H laid back against the pillows, looking pale but determined. "I probably know twice as much about medicine than that old fool of a nurse, and I tell you I'm fine. I've just lost some blood, but I have something in my rooms that will take care of that." He handed Delaia a small golden key that he took off a chain around his neck. "This goes to the chest on the top shelf of my wardrobe. Bring me the dark blue glass vial and also the pale yellow one."
Delaia listened with no pleasure as he told her how to get around the extensive wards protecting his rooms. She ought to leave the infirmary and go straight to McClendon, but if she did, Zosimus would probably never forgive her. Plus, she had gotten a better look at his wound when he lay down, and it did not look as bad as she'd first thought. Either it had not been that deep, or she had remembered her healing spells better than she'd thought. In any case, Sev would doubtless be back soon--at least she hoped so--and together they should be able to convince her stubborn relative to let the nurse check him over.
Delaia followed instructions, or at least she tried, but it took a long time to get through the last ward. She probably had the incantation slightly off, but then, it had been a hard night. Returning to the infirmary with vials in hand, Delaia saw no sign of her uncle. For a moment she thought that Sev had perhaps returned, but if that was true they should still be there, or else have gone to Zosimus' rooms if his condition had improved.
She was trying to imagine where Zosimus could be, when she saw a strange sight. A small blue beaker, such as those used to hold water for patients' use, floated into her view from around the corner. It bobbed in the air a few times, then floated back into the next ward. After a moment, Delaia followed it. Rounding the corner into the secondary ward, she didn't at first see anything, until she caught sight of the beaker, slowly passing behind a screen.
"Honestly, Apollo, I really don't understand what you think you're . . ." Delaia broke off as she caught sight of the figure who reached out to reclaim the beaker. They stared at each other for perhaps two full minutes. Delaia knew that her mouth was hanging open and that she probably looked like an absolute idiot, but at that moment she really didn't care.
Oh. My. God.
Just then, before she could even fully process what was before her eyes, sounds from the next room warned her that someone had, indeed, roused McClendon who, thankfully, was loudly complaining about it. The figure opposite her looked as horrified as Delaia felt. "Please . . . "
Delaia silently handed over the two vials, calmly pulled the screen fully closed behind her, and stepped into the next room. Severus, McClendon and, for some reason, Albus, were just entering the room.
Delaia wasn't sure she could speak, but somehow managed to give a strangled explanation. "You just missed . . . him. Left already. Probably wanted a lie down in his own room. You should check there." Her response was practically incoherent, but it was the best she could manage under the circumstances. It was apparently good enough for Snape, who turned and rushed out of the room, but Albus regarded her thoughtfully.
"Is everything all right, Valentin?" She saw him glance briefly at the ward beyond her, which hopefully appeared empty. Even if he does notice anything, she assured herself, he certainly won't understand it. Then again, this WAS Albus, and she preferred not to take chances.
"Oh, yes, everything's fine." Delaia smiled as convincingly as she could, hoping it looked less like a grimace than it felt, and shifted slightly to better block Albus' view into the next room.
"Then you should come along or we'll miss the selection, and that would be a shame." Delaia thought she saw something odd in his eyes for an instant, but it was gone too quickly to tell. She reluctantly let herself be led away, unable to come up with an excuse for hanging around a supposedly empty ward.
The great hall was blazing with a thousand floating candles and the house banners, usually reserved for the welcoming and leaving feasts, had been magically suspended in the air above the tables. Delaia found her seat under the golden Gryffindor lion a little more cramped than usual, as the first fifth or so of the table had been cordoned off, with only a small napkin sitting in the centre. The other tables had a similar arrangement, except for Slytherin, where a rough-looking wooden chalice had been placed on the napkin. Delaia had missed the Triwizard tournament held at Hogwarts the previous year, as she had already graduated from Beauxbatons, so she found herself looking forward to seeing how the selection process worked. Albus slipped into place beside her as the meeting was called to order.
Listening to the long-winded speeches about the history of the tournament, the past champions from Hogwarts, and the need for everyone to rally behind their house's choice once it was made, Delaia wondered, not for the first time, why they had had to go along with tradition and hold the selection at midnight. Not that she wouldn't happy to be there when Albus was chosen for Gryffindor, but it had been a very long day and her eyelids were beginning to droop. Glancing over at Slytherin, she noticed that, of course, Zosimus was absent, as was Severus. She hoped he wasn't planning on camping out all night in Apollo's rooms, as that might prove a bit . . . awkward, under the circumstances. Delaia saw the agitation-level mount at Slytherin as time passed and still their favoured son did not put in an appearance. Oh, if they only knew, Delaia thought, and stifled a slightly hysterical giggle. Albus shot her a glance, but said nothing, although she had noticed him watching Slytherin, too.
Finally, the moment came and everyone wishing to try for the honour of representing their house at Durmstrang was instructed to write their name on a slip of parchment; when the goblet reached their table, they were to come forward to place their name in it for consideration. The selection started with Slytherin, and, in Zosimus' absence, the bright flame that erupted from the cup carried aloft a paper bearing the name of the other prefect, a lanky, olive-skinned seventh year. Ravenclaw and then Hufflepuff followed, with neither of their champions impressing Delaia as being any match for Albus. The decision on who would ultimately represent Hogwarts in the final tournament had, she thought smugly, already been decided. Then it was Gryffindor's turn.
All of the upper classmen, plus a few daring junior students, rushed forward with much jostling to place their names in the cup. Albus sat where he was. At first, Delaia thought he was merely waiting for the crush to dissipate, but, as the line at the front of the table grew shorter, he still remained in place. "Albus," she nudged him lightly, "it's your turn." Indeed, he had started to get puzzled glances from other Gryffindors as he continued to keep his seat. When he still didn't move, Delaia looked up in surprise to see his eyes fixed, not on the cup, but on her, while a small smile hovered about his lips. "Albus? You need to go now." He continued to sit and smile at her. McGonagall cleared his throat and looked pointedly down the table at them, but Albus ignored him. Delaia held his glistening blue gaze with her own and suddenly had a very strange thought.
McGonagall announced loudly that the Gryffindor selection would soon be closing, but Delaia barely heard him. She was starting to put things together. "You aren't going to enter," she whispered. Albus' expression didn't change, except that his smile may have grown a fraction wider. "So, in a minute . . . the cup is going to select the Gryffindor champion . . . who, without you as competition, will almost certainly be . . ., " she wanted to glance across the table, to where she was sure Geoffrey was watching them, but couldn't force her eyes to move. "And that means Geoffrey will go to Durmstrang . . . for the rest of the year . . . "
Memory of Albus's words echoed in her mind, asking if she wanted to "hazard something on my inability to remove the threat of that moron without threatening him, hexing him, getting him expelled, or otherwise attacking him."
Oh my God.
Albus said nothing audible as the cup duly coughed out Geoffrey's name a few moments later, but his eyes were laughing at her, and his lips formed quite clearly the words, "I win."
Delaia fingered her wand and shifted uncomfortably next to Snape. She just wished something would go ahead and happen already. Even an ambush would be better than this interminable, stultifying wait in the frigid cold. What had happened to last week's good weather, anyway? She shifted again, trying to get some blood flowing into her feet, which felt like they were both on the verge of falling asleep, and glared at her partner. Not that he could see it, of course. Damned man, she should have known better than to agree to do HIM a favour. Of course, she reflected, as they both watched the dark-cloaked figure up the street pause, probably startled by some small noise, this really wasn't for him.
"Do you think you could find a position and stay with it?," the irritation at her side hissed into her ear.
"My foot's asleep."
"Oh for Merlin's sake . . . "
"Well, we've been here for ages! We'll miss the Triwizard selection at this rate, and I really wanted to be there. I don't know why you couldn't just have asked him when and where the damned rendezvous was supposed to be." They had arrived at the cobblestone covered heart of what Delaia had been surprised to identify, eventually, as Paris almost two hours before. Having grown up just outside the city, she had thought she was fairly familiar with it, but there was no doubt that it had changed a bit in the last 150 years.
The tangled maze of streets through which they had, with extreme difficulty, tracked Apollo bore no resemblance at all to the picturesque avenues of Delaia's memory. She recalled her history instructor at Beauxbatons mentioning something about the difficulties posed to the magical community by the Emperor Napoleon III's decision, in the 1860s or 70s, to beautify Paris. He had torn down the narrow, evil-smelling, and almost airless warren of medieval streets at the city's core and replaced them with wide, tree lined boulevards that shortly became models of city planning all over the world. The rapidity and thoroughness of the move had caused the Parisian magical community some problems, however, forcing the Ministry to work almost around the clock to shore up the centuries-old wards that guarded the Avenue Inclinée--the French version of Diagon Alley. Delaia wished they were there now, or even in the less salubrious Rue de Menaçante, Paris' version of Knockturn Alley. Instead, they had spent the evening dodging along the numerous cesspools that still passed for streets in this era's muggle Paris, and not enjoying the experience. At least Delaia hadn't; it was difficult to tell what Snape was feeling as the lack of street lighting insured that she'd spent the night following after little more than his silent shadow.
"The man IS a genius, however naïve of one," Snape reminded her, his hawkish profile lit only by the very dim wand light they shielded from Zosimus by their bodies. "He would certainly have known what I intended had I been foolish enough to ask for particulars, and taken extra precautions to insure we could not follow him."
"He took enough as it was," Delaia muttered. It had not taken her very long to realise that the whole point of their little perambulations that evening had been Zosimus' attempt to insure that no one could trace him to the meeting place. Despite Snape's tracking ability, which was surprisingly good, he had almost succeeded in losing them no less than four times, the last with a sudden apparition from one alley to its brother a street over, followed by an almost immediate switch back again. The only reason it hadn't worked was the poor lighting available, which meant that he had returned just as they were realising he'd left. Your reflexes are too good, uncle, Delaia had thought, grinning with anticipation over the weeks of teasing this night's events would provide. Assuming they all survived, of course.
Delaia watched Zosimus' unusually dark-garbed figure as it paced the alley for what had to be the fiftieth time. Apparently he was early or his contacts were late; either way, she didn't like it. For a change, Snape's instincts had been spot on--she was VERY glad they had followed Apollo, despite the fact that she really was getting quite uncomfortable. She fidgeted behind the wooden casks piled at the alley's entrance that provided them with some cover. The blackness of the night coupled with a basic do-not-notice charm insured that it was very unlikely they would be seen by anyone, even if that person was practically on top of them. The charm also meant, however, that they had to stay in the small area over which it had been cast, a fact that was starting to give Delaia serious leg cramps.
She wondered, not for the first time, if Snape had figured it out. She had been informed of his and Apollo's previous attempt to obtain illicit potion supplies, but Delaia didn't think for a minute that this was another Ministry raid. The British and French authorities could work together when they had to, of course, but it was never an easy relationship, and it made no sense for the British magical administration to arrange a raid on French soil when there were so many easier alternatives. So, that left the problem of just who Zosimus was meeting. Delaia fervently hoped it was a reliable--if such a word could be used to describe a smuggling ring--group that only wanted money in exchange for dangerous supplies. If it was some opportunist types who had heard through the underground grapevine of Zosimus' extreme interest in a certain hard-to-find ingredient, they might have decided to set him up, take the money and give nothing in return. And if that was true, they also might decide that they preferred not to leave a victim around who could identify them. Yes, despite the fact that she was fast beginning to believe that she would never walk again, Delaia was very glad Snape had asked her to come along.
Snape suddenly tensed at her side, and silently extinguished his wand. She had not seen anything, and of course could not do so now even with the aid of a sight charm, but apparently Severus had. "Get ready," he muttered unnecessarily, and Delaia renewed her grip on her wand, hoping that she would be capable of quick movement if it was needed.
The transaction was difficult to follow, but Delaia thought she saw several figures huddled around Zosimus in conversation. She couldn't make out anything they were saying and they were far too close to allow her to cast an amplification charm without risking notice. She saw something pass between them, possibly the payment, and then heard Zosimus give a strangled cry. That was all she heard because Snape immediately let off a volley of curses at the shadowy figures surrounding Apollo, while vaulting at the same time over the barrels and running towards them. Delaia might have appreciated the performance, except for the fact that, in his enthusiasm, he had knocked her to the ground and stepped on her.
Getting her breath back, she stumbled out from behind the casks and hurried over to where Severus had paused beside an obviously injured Apollo. Snape looked at her, "Can you . . . "
Delaia nodded, "I can't run anyway. Go get the bastards. I'll take care of him." Snape nodded once and ran after the figures, two of whom were dragging a third, who had probably been hit by one of Snape's curses, out the entrance to the alley. Delaia briefly wondered why they didn't just disapparate, but did not really care. Zosimus was her only concern at the moment.
"How badly are you injured?," she lit her wand at the same time she asked the question, and had it answered for her. Apollo was bleeding profusely from, amazingly enough, a knife wound. "What the hell . . . "
"Delaia . . . "
"Don't worry," she told him, muttering a basic healing charm that at least stopped the bleeding, although she doubted that it did much about the pain. Wrapping her arms around him securely, she apparated both of them to the borders of Hogwarts, then conjured a stretcher and took Apollo straight to the infirmary. She was about to wake up McClendon, who as nurse had his rooms just down the hall, when she felt a hand on her arm. Apollo was sitting up, looking at her pleadingly. "Don't . . . I'll be all right."
"Don't be ridiculous, we have to . . . "
He shook his head, cutting her off. "I'm fine, Delaia, really. The bleeding's stopped and I have a few things in my room that will fix the rest."
"But, Apollo, the nurse really should take a look at you. There might be more injuries than you know . . . "
"No, I'm fine. Although I could use some help getting back to my rooms." He tried to stand, but became dizzy and sat down hard on the nearest bunk. "Then again, maybe you could go get something for me, and bring it here?"
"I'm getting the nurse."
"NO!" Zosimus looked agitated. "Forget the man, he's an idiot anyway. Have you forgotten who my grandmother was? I learned to walk toddling around the cauldron of one of the last ancient healers in France. Don't tell me I don't know how to evaluate injuries." H laid back against the pillows, looking pale but determined. "I probably know twice as much about medicine than that old fool of a nurse, and I tell you I'm fine. I've just lost some blood, but I have something in my rooms that will take care of that." He handed Delaia a small golden key that he took off a chain around his neck. "This goes to the chest on the top shelf of my wardrobe. Bring me the dark blue glass vial and also the pale yellow one."
Delaia listened with no pleasure as he told her how to get around the extensive wards protecting his rooms. She ought to leave the infirmary and go straight to McClendon, but if she did, Zosimus would probably never forgive her. Plus, she had gotten a better look at his wound when he lay down, and it did not look as bad as she'd first thought. Either it had not been that deep, or she had remembered her healing spells better than she'd thought. In any case, Sev would doubtless be back soon--at least she hoped so--and together they should be able to convince her stubborn relative to let the nurse check him over.
Delaia followed instructions, or at least she tried, but it took a long time to get through the last ward. She probably had the incantation slightly off, but then, it had been a hard night. Returning to the infirmary with vials in hand, Delaia saw no sign of her uncle. For a moment she thought that Sev had perhaps returned, but if that was true they should still be there, or else have gone to Zosimus' rooms if his condition had improved.
She was trying to imagine where Zosimus could be, when she saw a strange sight. A small blue beaker, such as those used to hold water for patients' use, floated into her view from around the corner. It bobbed in the air a few times, then floated back into the next ward. After a moment, Delaia followed it. Rounding the corner into the secondary ward, she didn't at first see anything, until she caught sight of the beaker, slowly passing behind a screen.
"Honestly, Apollo, I really don't understand what you think you're . . ." Delaia broke off as she caught sight of the figure who reached out to reclaim the beaker. They stared at each other for perhaps two full minutes. Delaia knew that her mouth was hanging open and that she probably looked like an absolute idiot, but at that moment she really didn't care.
Oh. My. God.
Just then, before she could even fully process what was before her eyes, sounds from the next room warned her that someone had, indeed, roused McClendon who, thankfully, was loudly complaining about it. The figure opposite her looked as horrified as Delaia felt. "Please . . . "
Delaia silently handed over the two vials, calmly pulled the screen fully closed behind her, and stepped into the next room. Severus, McClendon and, for some reason, Albus, were just entering the room.
Delaia wasn't sure she could speak, but somehow managed to give a strangled explanation. "You just missed . . . him. Left already. Probably wanted a lie down in his own room. You should check there." Her response was practically incoherent, but it was the best she could manage under the circumstances. It was apparently good enough for Snape, who turned and rushed out of the room, but Albus regarded her thoughtfully.
"Is everything all right, Valentin?" She saw him glance briefly at the ward beyond her, which hopefully appeared empty. Even if he does notice anything, she assured herself, he certainly won't understand it. Then again, this WAS Albus, and she preferred not to take chances.
"Oh, yes, everything's fine." Delaia smiled as convincingly as she could, hoping it looked less like a grimace than it felt, and shifted slightly to better block Albus' view into the next room.
"Then you should come along or we'll miss the selection, and that would be a shame." Delaia thought she saw something odd in his eyes for an instant, but it was gone too quickly to tell. She reluctantly let herself be led away, unable to come up with an excuse for hanging around a supposedly empty ward.
The great hall was blazing with a thousand floating candles and the house banners, usually reserved for the welcoming and leaving feasts, had been magically suspended in the air above the tables. Delaia found her seat under the golden Gryffindor lion a little more cramped than usual, as the first fifth or so of the table had been cordoned off, with only a small napkin sitting in the centre. The other tables had a similar arrangement, except for Slytherin, where a rough-looking wooden chalice had been placed on the napkin. Delaia had missed the Triwizard tournament held at Hogwarts the previous year, as she had already graduated from Beauxbatons, so she found herself looking forward to seeing how the selection process worked. Albus slipped into place beside her as the meeting was called to order.
Listening to the long-winded speeches about the history of the tournament, the past champions from Hogwarts, and the need for everyone to rally behind their house's choice once it was made, Delaia wondered, not for the first time, why they had had to go along with tradition and hold the selection at midnight. Not that she wouldn't happy to be there when Albus was chosen for Gryffindor, but it had been a very long day and her eyelids were beginning to droop. Glancing over at Slytherin, she noticed that, of course, Zosimus was absent, as was Severus. She hoped he wasn't planning on camping out all night in Apollo's rooms, as that might prove a bit . . . awkward, under the circumstances. Delaia saw the agitation-level mount at Slytherin as time passed and still their favoured son did not put in an appearance. Oh, if they only knew, Delaia thought, and stifled a slightly hysterical giggle. Albus shot her a glance, but said nothing, although she had noticed him watching Slytherin, too.
Finally, the moment came and everyone wishing to try for the honour of representing their house at Durmstrang was instructed to write their name on a slip of parchment; when the goblet reached their table, they were to come forward to place their name in it for consideration. The selection started with Slytherin, and, in Zosimus' absence, the bright flame that erupted from the cup carried aloft a paper bearing the name of the other prefect, a lanky, olive-skinned seventh year. Ravenclaw and then Hufflepuff followed, with neither of their champions impressing Delaia as being any match for Albus. The decision on who would ultimately represent Hogwarts in the final tournament had, she thought smugly, already been decided. Then it was Gryffindor's turn.
All of the upper classmen, plus a few daring junior students, rushed forward with much jostling to place their names in the cup. Albus sat where he was. At first, Delaia thought he was merely waiting for the crush to dissipate, but, as the line at the front of the table grew shorter, he still remained in place. "Albus," she nudged him lightly, "it's your turn." Indeed, he had started to get puzzled glances from other Gryffindors as he continued to keep his seat. When he still didn't move, Delaia looked up in surprise to see his eyes fixed, not on the cup, but on her, while a small smile hovered about his lips. "Albus? You need to go now." He continued to sit and smile at her. McGonagall cleared his throat and looked pointedly down the table at them, but Albus ignored him. Delaia held his glistening blue gaze with her own and suddenly had a very strange thought.
McGonagall announced loudly that the Gryffindor selection would soon be closing, but Delaia barely heard him. She was starting to put things together. "You aren't going to enter," she whispered. Albus' expression didn't change, except that his smile may have grown a fraction wider. "So, in a minute . . . the cup is going to select the Gryffindor champion . . . who, without you as competition, will almost certainly be . . ., " she wanted to glance across the table, to where she was sure Geoffrey was watching them, but couldn't force her eyes to move. "And that means Geoffrey will go to Durmstrang . . . for the rest of the year . . . "
Memory of Albus's words echoed in her mind, asking if she wanted to "hazard something on my inability to remove the threat of that moron without threatening him, hexing him, getting him expelled, or otherwise attacking him."
Oh my God.
Albus said nothing audible as the cup duly coughed out Geoffrey's name a few moments later, but his eyes were laughing at her, and his lips formed quite clearly the words, "I win."