Chapter Ten - Ready

Harry Potter woke to the aroma of cooking. It ought to have been a powerful reminder of some of the best times in his life, when he would wake in the sanctuary of the Burrow to Mrs. Weasley cooking. But there was something off about the smells, something that was not quite right, that did not fit. Wracking his brain in his current muzzy state was not helping. Harry rolled from his bedroll, kicked Ron as a wake-up call, and found himself dangling from the ceiling by one leg. A helpful sign dangled in front of his face, hung upside-down to match his current state. It read, "Constant vigilance!" I hope, thought Harry, that there's one for Ron too. "Oy Ron! Wake up!"

There -was- a similar prank for Ron, and, too late, Harry changed his mind about his wishes. One reason was that there was no one with a wand available to help now. Another was that Ron was definitely not a morning person, though it was not obvious at the moment from the amount of complaints he was making. There was nothing for it now, though, but to wait it out while the inside of the tent slowly twisted by. It looked like Ginny and Hermione were already up, noticed Harry. He could see over the blankets that divided the tent now.

Ron wound down, and when Harry finally completed his revolution he faced a sour-faced friend. "You're a real tit, you know that?" accused Ron.

"What? They're your brothers," said Harry.

Ron did not reply, but turned his dangling sign so it faced Harry. It read, "Didn't Harry warn you?"

"All right, sorry. But there's no need to fly to the bludger," said Harry. "Do you smell that?"

Ron took a deep whiff. "Yeah. It's porridge. Why?"

"Oh. I, erm, thought it smelled a little off."

"Porridge, toast, eggs... and jam. Nothing good frying yet."

"Ah," said Harry. That's what was missing: the comforting smell of bacon or sausages frying.

"I could've slept until the bacon was ready, if it weren't for you messin' about," complained Ron.

"I don't think there will -be- any bacon, Ron."

"You - you're joking, right?"

"I don't think so," replied Harry to the incredulous question. The two boys had drifted around so they faced away from each other again. There has to be a counter, thought Harry.

"And he's going to propose? Do you think Fred knows?" Harry did not answer. Instead, he tried to concentrate on how he wanted to be. With a clear enough picture in one's head, one could then make the image real. Allegedly. Harry had never managed it in his few attempts, and Hermione thought it was more philosophy than practical magical instruction. "Harry? Did you faint or something? Probably the blood rushing to his head. Bloody twins! I'll kill 'em. I'll - "

"I didn't faint," interrupted Harry, giving up his concentration. Ron might be the reason he had trouble with the technique. The other possibility was that it was a load of dung. "I was trying to get down."

"Yeah? How?"

"Um, by, erm, thinking about it?" The approach sounded a lot more like dung explained that like that. Ron did not say anything, but started to whistle.

v - v - v - v - v

Breakfast was light and refreshing, and light. But refreshing. It would, judged Harry, be at least a couple of hours before he was hungry again. Possibly less for Ron. Probably less for Ron.

"Do you think Hermione would do the cooking?" asked Ron. He scanned the empty pots forlornly.

"You can be the one to ask her," replied Harry.

"Ask whom what?" Hermione dragged the collapsed tent over, and began working it into one of the small boxes the twins had given her.

"Yes, Ron, now's your chance to ask, after she's spent the morning breaking camp," encouraged Ginny.

"What is it, Ron?"

"Er, I, er, wanted to know..." started Ron. He swallowed loudly and reddened noticeably, before breaking into a grin. "How can your hair look so brilliant after sleeping in that ruddy tent?"

Hermione opened her mouth, then shut it, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. "My hair?"

"Yeah, it's fu- it looks really good this morning."

"Hmm..." said Hermione.

"Really, really good."

"I just used this little thing called a 'comb'," said Hermione. "I realize it may be something unknown to you boys."

"I tried," said Harry defensively. "It just doesn't last."

"You're fine Harry," put in Ginny. "It's the Sorcerer of Scruff there who needs to shine up a bit." Harry was pleased with that assessment, but now realized that he should have complimented Ginny also.

"Go to hell, Ginny," snapped Ron. Harry suspected that Ron was trying to be angry, but there was too much relief in his voice.

"What Ron wanted to ask, was -" began Ginny.

"Was, do you have a map of the area, in there?" Harry jumped in to keep the peace, earning him a quick jab from Ginny for spoiling her fun. He supposed he deserved that.

"No, no I don't. There was an atlas at the Burrow, but I don't think it had been updated for centuries," replied Hermione.

"Your hair looks nice too," whispered Harry to Ginny.

"Real original Harry. But thanks."

"We had an atlas?" wondered Ron.

"It's maps in a book, Ron," said Ginny. "You wouldn't have gone near it."

"I was hoping to buy a set of muggle maps. Maps with all the landmarks, not just the few magical ones. Did you know in that atlas Paris is shown as a port?" asked Hermione, as if it was a profound indictment of the whole study of magical cartography. She reached into the box again and pulled out a bacon sandwich, which she handed to Ron, who accepted it with a look of surprised wonder. He bit into it, putting nearly a third of it into his mouth.

"'Ou 'ill marr' me, 'ight?" asked Ron around a mouthful, some of which sprayed out on the last syllable.

"Not at the moment, no," replied Hermione, wrinkling her nose. She tapped a grass clump with her wand, which grew tall and thick enough to block the view of her boyfriend eating.

"Figured out how the boxes work, have you?" It was probably George, with a chance of being Fred. He sounded disappointed. Harry looked around for Verity.

"A bit. That was a nasty trick you tried, to put the really useful scrolls at the very bottom," said Hermione.

"I didn't think you'd fall for it. Get the original out?"

"No. I, erm, made a copy."

"Huh," said the twin. It was a very judgemental exhalation.

Hermione's face pinked. "There wasn't time to do it properly!"

"Speaking of time," piped Harry, "when will we get to Delacour Manor?"

"Would have been there by now if you two flobberworms had gotten up earlier."

"We were up," insisted Harry. "We were, er -"

"Hangin' about?" suggested George.

"Yes, you sodding git. Very funny," said Ron from behind the curtain of grass.

"How far are we from their house now?"

George pointed. "See that building over on the next rise?"

"What? You're joking, right?" blurted Ginny.

"Cor, it's a bloody mansion!" exclaimed Ron.

"Ron! It -is- rather large, but it's been in the family for centuries. It's mostly unused," informed Hermione.

"And you know that how?" asked Ginny.

"I asked Fleur. She'd tell you the complete family history from blue-green algae on unless you manage an escape."

"Why didn't we just continue on last night?" complained Harry.

"First, after Fred's little shunt did for the tyre we weren't going any further. Second, do try to acquire some social graces, Harry. Celebrity status only goes so far," explained George.

"I'm not a celebrity," argued Harry. It was George after all.

"More the need for proper etiquette, then. You can't just barge up late in the day looking for money. It is... an imposition," lectured George with his nose in the air.

"Who in Merlin's name are you?" demanded Ginny. "This has got to be an impostor."

"That is deeply wounding, dear sister. I'll have you know I've met the entire Wizengamot, and there's hardly a day that the highest levels of the Ministry do not call."

"You and Fred were brought up before the Wizengamot. That's hardly the same thing as meeting them socially. And Dad is a department head, but him calling to see if you'll come round for dinner hardly counts either."

"You could do with some better manners yourself," said George. "You're speaking out of turn."

"I am not."

"You are."

"Am not! Whose bloody turn do you think it should be?"

"Perhaps mine," said Hermione in her prefect voice. "It is an imposition, Harry. We should probably ask as early as we can."

"I think I'd wait until Fred and Verity return," said George. He nodded at the parked lorry, which was rocking slightly. Slightly, and rhythmically.

"Urgh..."

"Dibs on the front seat!" cried Ginny.

v - v - v - v - v

Delacour Manor was built in the sixteenth century, much along the same lines as the Palace of Versailles, though nowhere near as large. Two wings swept back from a central entrance, all worked stone and tall windows. It was, thought Harry, the grandest wizarding house he had ever seen. It was also right there in front of them, obviously not under a Fidelius or even protected by much in the way of warding.

The delegation to the manor was short Fred and Verity. They had emerged from the back of the lorry trying to look as if nothing had been going on. That was not something the young blond could manage. The first snide snort from Ron and Verity turned so crimson that Harry thought she would burst into flame. She had run off in mortification; Fred later discovered that she had sealed herself into the boot of the Citroën. He might still be trying to talk her out. She might still be trying to castrate him.

They reached the imposing, carved wooden double-doors of the manor house after a pause to examine the strange appearance of an apple tree. The tree was quite old, completely dead on one side, and had twisted metal sunk into its trunk and branches. The strangest thing, however, was the dead-white squirrel that peered down at them from the sickly, bleached canopy. It was the kind of thing that made one think of omens, though that was something Hermione dismissed. George noted the curious circle of healthy grass among the brown.

Before using the dangling bell-pull to alert the house, the group spent a moment trying to figure out what to say. Actually, it was a bit more like arguing about what would be said and by, as Hermione insisted, whom. This was, felt Harry, another example of, well, not bad planning, since they had reached their destination. It was more like... under-planned. A little more preparation, admitted Harry, could have been done; perhaps a little help from the Order could have been used. Harry knew, though, that there would be no way of getting a little help, especially when Mad-Eye was the one to plan. Harry reached over and absently pulled the cord, before realizing what he was doing. Three pure tone sang out, accompanied by a tinkling cascade that made one think of gay laughter. The gorgeous sound got everyone's attention, mostly because it was not supposed to have happened yet. "Er, sorry," said Harry to the staring faces.

The doors before them remained the same. That is, shut. The image carved in relief into the wood of the doors did not stay quite the same. Two medieval knights, each holding a lance, changed ever so slightly. It was their eyes; it was easy to believe they were now looking at those desiring entry. George stepped to the front and rapped his knuckles on the forehead of one of the knights. "Come on, Sir Splinters, let us in." There was limit to how baleful a stare the flat wooden eyes could manage, and it was quickly reached.

Madame Delacour answered the door with a disarming smile, which, for one of Veela extraction, could be literally true. She took a moment to survey her visitors, which settled the group as her cool gaze subtly suggested that a bit more decorum would be necessary.

Except for George. "(Good day, Mademoiselle. Is your mother here?)" he asked with a wink.

Madame Delacour appeared momentarily confused. "Oui, my mozzair eez 'ere. You are Molly's children, et Monsieur Potter, and?"

"Je m'appelle Hermione Granger, Madame Delacour," said Hermione, introducing herself. Harry noticed that she entwined her arm with Ron's as she spoke, and then found that Ginny had done the same to his.

"Ah, oui. Please, come in," invited Madame Delacour, leading them to the parlor.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry rubbed his shoulder for the tenth time. He was no healer, but it was possible that Ginny had pulled the aching arm from its socket. Still, he thought the visit had gone well, and said so.

"It was pathetic. You were pathetic," griped Ginny.

"Me?"

"Yeah, you were a complete git. 'I've been in the Prophet.' Honestly," complained Ron. He too was shaking some feeling back into his arm.

"Sod off! You claimed to be the odds-on favorite for Minister of Magic," returned Harry.

"You were both acting ridiculously in there," said Hermione. "I would have thought that being around Fleur and Gigi had given you some practice."

"I don't think practice helps. Weak-minded, you see," diagnosed George.

"Hah! Don't think we didn't see your face when you found out that Gigi wasn't there," said Ginny, rounding on George.

"Gigi wasn't there?" asked Harry.

"You are a pillock. I don't think you heard a bloody word unless the bloody 'Countess' said it." Ginny threw up her hands in exasperation. It might be time, thought Harry, to change the topic. Or dig out the invisibility cloak.

"Er, nice that Madame Delacour gave us the week's Prophets," tried Harry.

"Yes. You acted like it was a load of galleons."

"It was a bit of a surprise that Gigi gets the Prophet to improve her English reading," said Hermione. "I mean, compared to Fleur she seemed a -"

"Hidden depths," said George absently as his attention was on the lorry.

"Oh ho! Listen to him!" said Ginny. "I thought she got it for the pictures of her hero."

"Sorry, what?" said George.

"She used to cut out pictures of Harry. Now she saves Weasley Wizarding Wheezes advertisements. Very twee, and she'll just die of embarrassment when she finds out we know," laughed Hermione.

"I think I'll go on to Albania with you," declared George.

"What?" blurted Harry in surprise. "How did -"

"You really have no idea what you said back there," said a disgusted Ginny.

"It's not all Harry's fault. The Countess was up to something; you could hear it in her voice," said Hermione. "If you could've have understood what Madame Delacour was saying..."

"Yeah, tha's right. It was a conspiracy!" claimed Ron, sensing a way out of the crup-house.

"Against Harry, perhaps. You have no excuse." Right back in.

"Conspiracy? You don't think they support -"

"Don't be daft Harry. It was probably instinct, because you're a bit of a celebrity."

"I'm not a celebrity."

"'I was the youngest Seeker in a century.' 'I was a Tri-Wizard champion.'" recited Ginny. "None of that fills the cauldron? Merlin!"

"What's in Albania?" asked George. "It's the wilds, magically."

"Don't you need to get back to the shop?" asked Ron.

"We left it in good hands - well, trusted hands... It probably won't burn to the ground; Fred hasn't managed it yet," replied the former beater. "Won't be the first time we've been off longer than expected. Anyway, I think Fred and his better half - wait, no, that'd be me - I think Fred and Verity won't be in a hurry to get back either."

"You mean?"

"Might be celebrating something, yeah."

"Merlin, Mum will be over the moon," said Ginny. The implication brought a smile to her face, and Harry hoped the news might make her forget the visit. "Should we ask them, or wait for them to tell us?"

"I'd, er, wait," advised George, nodding toward the lorry. It was once more both stationary, and moving.

"Urghh."

v - v - v - v - v

"Severus," groaned the body used by Lord Voldemort's vital essence, which, though far stronger than the flesh that contained it, could not end the tremors that shook his wand arm. It was a disgusting display of weakness, and a dangerous one. The Dark Lord knew he was becoming too dependent on the potions, on the brewer, for comfort. Snape had gained much in the course of events following his initial collapse. How long would it be before he tried for it all?

Perhaps long enough, thought Lord Voldemort while downing the fortifying elixirs, to rectify the current corporeal capacity. Snape's hand may be stayed by the knowledge that while Lord Voldemort could not be killed, the potion master could. But surely, thought the Dark Lord, Snape must know that if he struck now then the effect would be nearly the same. He could be neutralized for years. No, decades, if the proper precautions were taken. The problem, considered the Dark Lord as the potions soothed his quaking muscles and twitching nerves, was that it was not clear what motivated Snape. The former professor had the trust and prestige of Hogwarts once, but turned his back on it in a moment for the son of another man. Now that scion was taken, leaving Severus curiously unperturbed. He was either a loyal, cold-blooded servant living only for the greater glory of Lord Voldemort, or there was something more.

It was a matter to be explored later. That -would- be explored later. Fortune, thought the Dark Lord, a stranger to him for so long, had presented him with an opportunity too good to not exploit. The coming voyage could well be a decisive turning point. The question remained as to whether the potions master should accompany him or not. It might be wise to leave his most trusted minion to oversee the operation to clear the parasites in Britain. The magic would be his! That is, if that minion could be trusted.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry lay back, on a blanket on the ground, in Monsieur Chiennez's back garden. Only the brightest stars could be seen, the rest were washed out by the glow of Paris at night. The Chiennez's flat was too small, but the wizard couple had allowed Harry and the others to set up the tent in the back garden. More correctly, realized Harry, the Chiennez's had allowed George and his companions to camp.

Fred and Verity, once evicted from their retreat in the boot of the Citroën, which Ginny referred to as the honeymoon suite, took their leave. George had done the evicting by using a bee-summoning spell, so Fred had not been in a sharing mood. His mood had, in fact, been just short of murderous. Ginny's and Hermione's close scrutiny of Verity left the young woman pink, in addition to slightly swollen by the bee-stings. The two girls declared that they could not detect any signs of matrimony. The couple did not enlighten them before leaving in the lorry. There was a gearbox in the lorry too, and it announced that it was not happy.

The Citroën had needed extensive repairs before they continued into Paris, owing to the paper bomb that Fred had left for George. George's denims had needed extensive repairs as well. The needed healing had to wait until Hermione conjured a privacy screen. George, in between jibes at Ron, had explained that the bombs were of Japanese import. Harry had wondered if the comments were wise, given where Ron's wand was pointing. The twins were attempting a cheaper, and funnier, knock-off of the expensive product, without much success yet.

Paris was a wonder. They had wandered through it, taking in the sights. It was beautiful and busy and bewildering. Harry had to wonder if London would be like that also, if he could do a proper visit. His few forays into London had always been hurried and furtive, to get to Diagon Alley or the Ministry. The Dursley's, of course, had taken him only once, on the disastrous outing to the zoo.

There was a wizard bookshop in Paris, near, well, Hermione knew. The Pont Noof, or something. It was attached to the rear of a small muggle booksellers, the clerk of which paid absolutely no attention to the rather elderly owl that Harry and the others had followed as it led them to the back, fluttering from display to display. Hermione had bought a crumbling tome which cost nearly a third of the value of the sickles left in the Black family's vault. Ron had tried to buy one that translated as 'Dancing Without Drawers', but Hermione had taken it from him. The quidditch books, Harry had found, were all in French.

Once night began to fall, talk had turned to where to set up the tent. George had taken over then, asking for the papers from Philippe. He had paged through the thick report, needing two Ennervates just to keep him going, until he had found a page of addresses. They had set off in a zigzagging course after that, owing to the antiquated map in the Citroën and Hermione's refusal to try the car down the occasional stairway.

They ended up on a street of quite normal-looking flats. The one they sought did not stand out as magical in any way, until they were shown the back garden, which was easily three times the width of the apartment while still being bounded by it.

Monsieur Chiennez was tall and thin; Harry judged him to be quite a bit older than Mr. Weasley. He was also down-right ugly, more so than any potential love-child of Crabbe and Goyle. Madame Chiennez was no picture either, with a face whose natural set was dour, but which nevertheless attempted a smile when faced with unexpected guests. The small out-building at the end of the garden was her's. It was a small workshop, where she did piece-work for the twins.

While the French wizard and witch had recognized Harry's name and scar, if not his face, it was clear that George was the honored guest. Monsieur Chiennez had cooked a brilliant meal for them. Both salmon and lamb had been served, with sauces one hardly noticed until there was no more and the full tragedy of such was realized. Wine had been served with the many courses, even for Ginny. Harry was stuffed, and a little dozy. Ron had had his fill also, and was now intent on being as close to Hermione as he could get. In case, supposed Harry, that she had had too much wine. He wondered if they would try the car's boot. Hermione, for her part, was slitting the wrapping on a Prophet with her fingernail. Ginny, yawning, wandered over to join him on the blanket, laying her head on his stomach. Harry found that to be uncomfortable considering its current fullness, but he did not want the redhead to leave either. He would shift in a bit.

His opportunity came as quick as the wrapper came off, when Hermione suddenly blurted, "Merlin's nasty bits!" She flapped the newsprint straighter.

"What? Did the Cannons win?" asked Ron, putting his head next to hers to read the paper over her shoulder. Harry was not fooled at all, though. Ron had managed to maneuver himself one head turn away from a snog.

"What's that?" asked Harry, raising himself to a sitting position and causing Ginny to shift to his lap, which was not so full of lamb.

"Nasty bits?" giggled Ginny.

"Bloody hell!" exclaimed Ron.

"Let us see it too," insisted Ginny, though she didn't move.

Hermione turned the Prophet around to show the front page, where three-inch print proclaimed 'They See Us!' Underneath was a smaller headline, 'Muggles Map Magic,' and under that was a dark blob with several lighter patches. Inset was another square, with more scattered patches. "Yesterday's Prophet."

It did not, thought Harry, seem alarming. "Erm, what's this about?" he asked.

"Those are muggle maps, Harry. Muggle! The large one shows the location of Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, and Hogwarts," explained Hermione in a single horrified breath. "The small one is London, with the Ministry, St. Mungo's, even the part of King's Cross station where the Hogwarts Express departs shown."

"And all that got was a 'nasty bits'?" commented Ginny.

"Wait - I thought Hogwarts and Diagon Alley were - "

"Unplottable? They -are,- Harry, but that only works if the mapmaker has a brain that can be fooled," explained Hermione. "Unplottable doesn't work if the mapmaker doesn't have a mind." She passed the paper to Harry. He wondered about the Burrow, and the Fidelius.

"So, Ron did this?"

"Ginny, please. The article says that they used a, well, I think they mean an artificial neural net, to make the maps. Honestly, would it hurt to at least try to check the spellings? Officials from the muggle Ministry presented it, apparently as a warning."

"What's an artificial new-all net?"

"Neural net. It's, er, like a mechanical brain."

"A mechanical brain?" doubted Ron.

"More like an electrical brain."

"A brain with plugs? That's balmy. I don't believe it," declared Ron. Harry wondered at that; Ron had seen brains with tentacles before.

"You're not alone there," said Harry. "It says that Thicknesse suspects a traitor. He claims that Scrimgeour did nothing about this for months."

"I can't see how it would work," said Ginny as she sat up. "Muggle Studies explained these, er, computators. They can only do what muggles write down in, er... some kind of code, right? The Unplottable spell should still work."

"Neural nets are meant to learn by themselves. The warding wouldn't affect them," replied Hermione. She leaned back against Ron. "It sounds fantastical. If it was a secret military experiment..."

"Bloody computers. They'll be the end of wizards yet," said George. He was just exiting the flat, rolling up an extremely thin, pink string as he went. Harry frowned, and looked for the other end. "I've seen Philippe take down three wizards with a mere twenty pages of Powered Points. If it wasn't for the restorative properties of brandy, I don't think our hosts would have survived."

"So it's true?" asked Ginny.

"When did Extendable Ears get so small?" asked Harry. The string he held was like floss.

"They didn't; you got bigger," replied George. "The Ministry thinks the map is real; Dad says that they're not sure they believe how it came about."

"So, what will the Ministry do?" asked Harry.

"Well, Scrimgeour was trying to stop the attacks on muggles, and hid this. I don't know what Thicknesse will do, but since this came out I'd wager that cooperating with the muggles is off the table."

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle stood, rake poised and breath held, over a large pile of manure. The fumes wavered in the air. Her watering eyes were trained on Poisseux, who sat on the top of a tent a good distance away from the quarantine stall. She was sure he was turned away from her, though he was hard to make out. Gabrielle waited and waited until she was forced to take as small a breath as life required. The contents of the pile were very... fresh. Finally, the light reflecting off of Poisseux's spellotape skin changed to red. He had turned, Pepi-Z held in his mouth. It was the signal! Gabrielle swung the rake, pitching some of the pile out of the stall.

"Merlin's Eier! [1]" came the shout. Gabrielle reloaded and launched more of the stinking mass out. "Pforten der Hölle! Protego! [2]" She was too far inside the stall to have seen who was coming, but she knew, of course. It was Stanislaw. Gabrielle had become quite tired of the looks she was getting from him; there was no way that the crushed brass tubing was her fault. The look he gave her right now was quite frightening.

Or would have been, had Soleil's great bulk not been just behind her. The Abaraxan colt was half in the stall and half out of it. Gabrielle smiled at the fuming wizard. "Eh, I am sorry?" Stanislaw took an angry step toward her; Soleil crashed a hoof to the floor of the stall and neighed, showing his teeth.

Somewhat disappointedly, Stanislaw turned to go. "Wie viele Liter Klebstoff würde er machen? [3]" he muttered. Gabrielle did not answer because she did not know German, and it was probably rude in any case. She was not, in fact, sorry at all. Gabrielle had spent the night worrying if her little zombie pets would be safe as they got into position. She was so relieved that they had that the prank itself was secondary. She would write George about it, though, he -

Oh yes, remembered Gabrielle, there would be no more letters. The full moon had come and gone, and there was no owl. Even allowing an extra day, or two, to account for her sudden, forced relocation, there was nothing. Gabrielle wished that her friend Allie had not said anything; she could have kept her hopes up for longer. For all the good that would do! Gabrielle's worst fears were realized. George had seen her, seen her scrying, and was angry. Angry, and likely taken aback by the completely zinzin, completely stupid little girl invading his privacy. Gabrielle would have chanced a scrying attempt to see if it was true, but the hurried packing meant that she had managed to leave the ink behind. It was probably still in the place she had hid it from herself. She could not even apologize and beg his forgiveness. Gabrielle had no owl of her own, and not enough funds for an International Post owl even if she could find one. Gabrielle now wished that she had also purchased a zombie owl when she had bought Poisseux. The damaged birds had been half off! She could probably give a very small message to Poisseux if she got desperate enough. Gabrielle was sure the stubborn little toad would keep at it until he accomplished his goal; if only she could wait that long. Or live that long.

Gabrielle sighed, the deeper breath bringing a fragrant reminder of the current task. Soleil, sensing her mood, brought his head low to nuzzle her. His head, fully the length of her torso, shoved Gabrielle up against the wall, but she patted his nose in thanks anyway. It was a disloyal thought, but the huge colt was warm and soft and, well, alive; qualities that Poisseux and Pepi-Z did not have. Given how hard the two zombies had tried to cheer her up, it was a thought that made Gabrielle feel ashamed to have had. On the other hand, frowned Gabrielle, neither the former toad or the former puffskein nibbled her skirts, which Soleil was doing and which earned him a slap.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle shifted the gray lumps in her bowl around. Some were meat, some had once been vegetable. The food really was awful. She did not see why the others ate so much of it. If it were not for the bread and cheese she snuck, using the apron from Mrs. Weasley, she would surely starve. No one mentioned the missing supplies, and she wondered if anyone had even noticed. She did try to be careful, but cheese was either there or not. Gabrielle had herself noticed that two big bottles of the Abraxan's special whiskey had gone missing. She, needing no reason, suspected Stanislaw. She had not said anything to Professor Festeller, though, because what did it matter anyway?

The evening meals were served in the professor's tent, and he would lecture or make announcements then. Most of the other witches and wizards in the camp, no longer in school and not required to be there, appeared enthusiastic. The expedition members sat at two long tables, and Gabrielle sat at whichever one Stanislaw was not seated at. Her place was at the far end of the table, furthest from where the professor held forth. The seats immediately next to her were usually empty, or would empty. Time with an Abraxan tended to linger, as it were, and Gabrielle hoped it was only on Maman's special outfits.

The professor, who was fully recovered from -his- accident, was becoming excited. One could tell because he spoke more and more quickly about lesser and lesser minutiae. That was the only challenge to his class: being able to keep up and pick out what would be on the exam. The Accu-Scribe quill was her savior there. Professor Festeller was announcing the expedition's departure, and describing the destination's history as picked out by broken shards. Gabrielle was not really listening. She already knew that they would be leaving because Professor Elevagre had returned with his harness, which Gabrielle did not plan to use. That was because the harness was to be fitted on her instead of Soleil, and it was ridiculous that she would be tied to the Abraxan. She had to admit, though, that he had put quite a lot of effort into it. The web of leather straps reminded her of the impractical undergarments in Monsieur Lunky's shop.

Gabrielle sighed and felt her appetite leave her. Not, groused a second thought, that the food had helped. Those were two more memories of George. He had sent her the authentic Accu-Scribe, and he had taken her to the leatherworker's shop to get her the beautiful dragon-hide gloves. Was it really over already? Gabrielle knew she had to come up with a way to see him, or send him a message, to apologize, if not win him back.

"Hey, you're Gabby? Delacour, right? I went to school with Fleur. I'm Abby," said a tall witch with long dark hair. The young woman's face had surprisingly angular features, almost rough, topped with very dark eyebrows. She was oddly attractive, but her manners, thought Gabrielle, were not. "You're kind of mopey. Are you homesick?"

"It is Gabrielle," corrected Gabrielle a little sharply. She recognized this Abby. The witch had not given up on the Gleasson thingies, and spent a lot of time trying to rebuild one, whatever it was, from the mangled bits of the others. Which was not at all Gabrielle's fault. Gabrielle felt a breeze on her face, though the tent's opening was closed. It implied that she smelled, which she did not like whether it was true or not. "I am fine."

"I just thought I would ask. You don't say much, and there were supposed to be other students, but you're all alone," explained the witch gently.

Gabrielle was going to say that she talked all the time, but perhaps Soleil would not count. She had not felt alone until she had realized there would be no more letters from George. And that made her feel bad about her quick retort before. "Eh, people call me Gigi," said Gabrielle, though it pained her some to do so. "I am fine, really." Except for the heartache, added a theatrical second thought.

"Gigi? Really? I'd think I'd prefer Gabby," said Abby. "So... We're heading for Albania tomorrow. That's exciting, right?"

Why, Gabrielle wanted to ask. Instead, she tried to smile and said, "Yes, I, eh..."

"You're going to ride that Abraxan the whole way?" Gabrielle nodded in confirmation. She suspected that Abby could carry both sides of the conversation. Abby continued, "I was too afraid to even visit them when I was at Beauxbatons."

Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders. "I help Professor Elevagre with them."

Professor Elevagre was one of Abby's favorites, for flying, and so was Festeller, of course. While the dark-haired witch reviewed the teaching staff, Gabrielle reviewed a more intriguing idea. She did not have to follow the expedition! Soleil was happy to follow her pointing. If she could find out where she was and if she could, eh, borrow a map, she could fly home to Delacour Manor, get the ink, and see for herself how George - wait, no. That would be stupid. The ink, from Fred, accused a second thought, had got her into trouble in the first place. But this couldn't be the end. They had, after all, shared a perfect moment, and he does write. Did write. Gabrielle would, if she took the chance, be able to read his mood, and would also be able to get an owl. Maman would be suspicious, though, and there was no way to hide Soleil. If she had time to plan she could -

"Hello-o-o?" said Abby.

"I am sorry," apologized Gabrielle.

"Come on, cheer up. The dig will be so interesting! That will keep your mind off of your family and friends," tried Abby. Gabrielle barely resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Could Soleil fly her to Britain, to the Burrow?

1 Merlin's eggs!

2 Gates of Hell! Protego!

3 How many liters of glue would he make?