Chapter Eleven - In A Hogwarts Moment

Gagnek closed the ledger, somewhat mollified. His attitude was helped by the fact that there was a ledger to begin with, the numerous transactions carefully obfuscated, recorded, and totalled. There may be hope yet for his nephew's future. Perhaps even a management role, as he was able, with nary a trace of embarrassment, to report that his rebel cell was now called the 'Re-clenched Fist'.

The ledger could tell the experienced Gagnek much, even without auditing it. First, it was a thin, cardboard-bound book, likely of muggle manufacture, instead of the heavy, large, and leather-bound versions he dealt with daily. Gringotts ledgers were a permanent, irrefutable record. His nephew's ledger was therefore likely a personal one; the Re-clenched Fist might not be aware of it. There were usually reasons for this sort of thing, and most of them were not good.

There would, of course, be an audit. Which, unfortunately, would need time, something that was currently unavailable as the access was not quite... voluntary. The scribes at Gringotts could duplicate the ledger in less than a quarter of an hour - Gagnek had minutes to return the secret record to his brother. And, he had neither the desire nor the authority to involve Gringotts' goblins officially, particularly in what might become compromising information to his clan. Magic was needed, and not the usual sort. Which was why he was reluctantly at this particular door. Gagnek knocked twice and entered - warning enough, but he was not seeking permission from a wizard.

"Gaggy! Here I was just thinking the day could not get any worse, and there you are to prove me wrong."

"Weasley," returned a stoic Gagnek. That was about all the small talk he could manage. Bill Weasley was employed by Gringotts as a curse-breaker, and was as different from the master counter as was possible with his ponytail and earring. That his manner was tolerated spoke for his expertise.

"Sit," said the wizard. An invitation, or command? While Gagnek hesitated, Weasley turned and produced two clear tumblers and a bottle. Invitation it was, so Gagnek sat. "What do you want?" asked the curse-breaker.

New relatives, came to Gagnek's mind. Time enough for a goblin's hand to do the task was an alternative. He watched as the wizard poured a generous glass, then set the bottle so that the label was mostly visible. A rakiak from the K'asnovatel distillery. Weasley knew his goblin liquor. "A favor," said Gagnek, a note of resignation in his voice. He revealed the shabby ledger. "I need this -"

"Wait a moment," warned Bill. He took up his wand and waved it at each of the walls in turn, then the floor and ceiling. "Just because you can't be too careful doesn't mean you shouldn't try. Now, go on."

"I need this duplicated." finished Gagnek, placing his nephew's records on the desk. "Quickly," he added, because one needed to be clear with wizards.

"It's not a diary, is it?" asked the wizard suspiciously and, in Gagnek's opinion, oddly.

"No. It is only a… financial record. A family matter."

"Hmm." Bill used his wand to flick open the book and flip through a few pages. "This looks to be in a kind of code, the thing itself is rubbish, and you need it copied right now. What it is, Gaggy, is dodgy. And you're asking a wizard. Family, I wonder? Or clan?" He gathered half a dozen sheets of parchment from a drawer, folded them in half, and placed a pot of ink next to them on the desk.

Gagnek had thought the idea of 'quickly' would immediately suggest wandwork. He neither had the time for nor the trust in a wizard's manual transcription. "I can pay if -"

"Gemino," cast Bill. The loose parchment on the desk transformed into a replica of the smuggled ledger. It took a few moments for him to complete the spell, and then he marked the copy with a stroke of a quill.

Gagnek inspected the work. The duplication looked perfect to his eyes; goblin magic would be able to discern the original, of course.

"Gold I have. A favor owed from a goblin, I don't."

"How long will last?" asked Gagnek, trying to ignore the unspecified debt he had just acquired. Perhaps the 'Re-clenched Fist' would become the 'Beaten About the Head'.

"The material for the copy was better than that of the original, so a week at least, maybe a fortnight," replied the curse-breaker. He took up the glass closest to him. "Now, izpivam."

"Izpivam," echoed Gagnek, downing his glass.

v - v - v - v - v

"It's like advancing a pawn across the board to promote it," explained Harry Potter.

"Like you've ever managed that," said his best mate Ron Weasley. "And it doesn't work because he's not my pawn to start with."

The two young wizards sat in a pub, but not the usual one in Swindon because Mad-Eye Moody once advised them to vary their routines to stay ahead of their foes. They took this to mean that they should sample as many muggle pubs as they could. Currently they were safely, well ahead of their foes, patronizing Cross Keys in Great Woolstone, which did an excellent fish plate. Ron would not touch the calamari that had tentacles.

"Fine. You're on the same side at least, so -"

"He's not on my side - he's in my side, like a thorn. Like a bloody Black-Hearted Crataegues!"

"Look - erm, what?"

"'S used for home defense."

"Right, nevermind that. He's about to be captured, and you'll be putting him back on the board. As your pawn, like a reverse promotion."

"That explains why I get cut down all the time." The voice that admonished the Boy-Who-Lived came from the bishop of the wizard chess set that was currently in a shambles after the last game.

"Shut up," replied Harry. "You don't even try to dodge."

"I'll look like a tit is what I'll look like," complained Ron.

"Do you even know the rules?" demanded the partial piece. An empty glass was upended over the noisy end of the bishop, silencing it.

"It'll look embarrassing to the Ministry so they'll cover it up. Few will know about it, and most that do won't really believe it, even with our 'evidence'. They'll think you're saving a colleague they've known for decades, with nothing to really gain for yourself. He'll owe you for his career and you'll have a cauldron full of goodwill from the rest of the department," argued Harry.

Ron stared at his friend. "This is that Heir of Slytherin thing again, innit?"

v - v - v - v - v

Samuel H. Sterner, Section Chief, First Order - ha!, High Dean of the Training Corps morosely contemplated the three perfectly trimmed quills on the desk. There was not much writing left in them now, since trimming each nib in turn was the last refuge his mind had and he sought it often. That comfort had once been regulation, procedure, and protocol, but he had turned his back on those for one ill-considered moment and it would undo him. Or rather, would have - should have - undone him. Cutting a strand of the net he had lived for and lived on for his entire career had dropped the Section Chief, First Order, High Dean of the Training Corps through into a sea of intrigue he could not yet plumb.

The how it had been discovered, the who that had discovered it - these were not important. The alteration, the -falsification- of the official department record had been found, and there was no point in denying the fact. The why of the current situation - that was what was boiling in his cauldron right now. The culprit that had forged the records, done in the High Dean's hand, kept locked in the High Dean's desk in the High Dean's warded office, and signed off by the High Dean officially was… Ronald Weasley. Just as the inquiry was reaching its undeniable conclusions, the man had stepped forward and confessed to the act. His version of events used an invisibility cloak, Weasley Universal Unlockers (medium), and a goblin device of some sort to break in. It was ludicrous, preposterous, and… accepted. Evidence later emerged that actually implicated Weasley, who claimed to have done it to "skive off another year."

To his shame, the High Dean had not intervened at that point, had not taken responsibility for his act. When the gnawing guilt had finally become too much, well, it was made clear to Sterner, and that lunatic Mad-Eye could be quite clear, that he should remain quiet. The Section Chief could see what was happening, just not why. It fell to him, though, to decide the punishment for Weasley. He suspected that it would be during the coming, regrettable meeting that he would learn the why.

When the knock at his door came, six and one half minutes late, Sterner could practically see his fate before him. One did not arrive late to a meeting with a superior, especially if it was to determine what punishment was meted out. Therefore, Weasley was a hopeless idiot, or, well, was the one in the superior position. Both, perhaps, in this case.

"High Dean, sir?" At least Weasley's tone was appropriate.

"Yes, come in."

"It is -still- High Dean, sir?" That was… less appropriate.

"Yes, Weasley, it is. Now -"

"Yeah, I know. Funny that," said Weasley. Uninvited, he took a seat in the chair in front of the desk.

Sterner sighed. Protocol was waving from the broom as it flew off, and he himself had seen to rules and regulations. It was not likely to be money - Moody's involvement implied more. "Why, Weasley, did you - "

"Took one for the squad, didn't I? Ranks are a bit thin, right? Ministry needs a good training program." Weasley shifted in the chair slightly; it was not meant to make the occupant comfortable, rather the opposite.

Sterner waited, expecting more to the explanation. Expecting the cost really. Was Arthur Weasley involved in some way? He had been close to Dumbledore's old organization, the Order or some such.

Nothing more seemed to be coming, and Weasley was distracted by a search of his robe's pockets, so Sterner cleared his throat and said, "Er, yes, thank you, of course. If it matters, I do regret my actions. Quite a lot, actually."

The tall redhead, the shame of the training corps, pulled a - not a scroll of parchment, the only true description was wad - from his field robes and reinforced his ranking, "Found it! Bloody robe is practic'lly all pocket. Er, sorry, did you say something?"

"Why are you here, Weasley?"

"I'm here to be punished for the crime I didn't commit. Theoret'cly. Sir," said Ron sharply.

Rank, thought Sterner, smoothing the desk blotter with his fingers, only has meaning where rules and regulations are followed. That was a place he never should have left. "Yes, well, I suppose, given the unfortunate circumstances -"

"Look, there's a load I was supposed to say to, you know, make it clear that you're well and done up." Weasley flapped his parchment wad to uncrumple it. "But let's just get to what Harry wants."

"Harry?" wondered Sterner, not realizing he had spoken. That had to be Potter. What would Potter - of course. It was just like with the Cannons; looking to start without putting in the work, the effort up front. Well, thought Sterner sourly, thinking of Blanning, raw talent is not the only consideration.

"Yeah, Harry. Harry Potter. You know, Chosen One, lightning scar, best seeker the Cannons have had in centuries," said Ron. "Ever, really. Sort of has a grudge against You-Know-Who. That Harry."

"Wants to be appointed to a position, does he? Ranking officer too, I'll wager. I can not make that happen," declared Sterner. And just as well, putting Potter in charge, by fiat, of more experienced aurors would create dissension in the ranks. There had been enough upheaval already. Mad-Eye has given Potter bleeding airs. "I could place him in the same class as yourself?"

"Blow that. Harry just wants to exchange information with, you know, no questions asked. He's only after You-Know-Who - would rather play quidditch than chase after thin-bottomed cauldrons. You look into what he finds, we get to see what you find. Simple, yeah?"

Sterner frowned. Simple, yes, because the proposal was unbounded by any rules and regulations, not defined by any protocol. He doubted that he would be privy to anything Potter would want. Unless there was a far wider organization - no, conspiracy in place already, confirming what he already suspected. Was it too late to confess?

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle stared at the broad, muscular back that lay next to her on her bed, well within arm's reach. Stared was not quite right. She glowered at the broad, muscular back which was, incongruously, clad in pink flannel with a pattern of overflowing beer steins on it. The back belonged to a sleeping Mount Malachite, which meant that Gabrielle could nothing about it short of setting her own bed on fire. She huffed indignantly, again, which, again, had no effect on the sleeping intruder, so she turned over. A second thought quietly noted that it -was- warmer now. However true the thought was, it was a traitor to the primary complaint, which was that she was a mature young woman and not a silly little girl that need to be tended like a toddler.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle closed the beetle's wing, and then slid her feet back and forth under the blanket, using the friction to try and warm the bed. George was being… coy about the Halloween dance, so she made sure to remind him how many days off it was, every night. He was being coy about things Browning too, which was not helpful. It was colder now, at least to her, at the start of October. She wore socks to bed. Gabrielle had hoped that Sauvereut would help with the chill, but he had somehow managed to find a supply of acorns and so was banished from her bed. The seeds did nothing to help and the squirrel did not clean them before hiding them beneath the covers. Sauvereut now slept in a thing that could only be described as a knitted cauldron. She had gotten the misshapen thing from a house-elf.

"I'm not havin' it," declared Mal. Gabrielle had originally thought the word growled fit better. The, eh, sturdily-built girl was always in a foul mood lately.

"Ye canna' back out nigh. We all agreed," argued Catherine. She, thought Gabrielle, always argued. Gabrielle hoped this would be a short contest of wills. She knew the conflict would not lead to anything much because, well, Hufflepuff. The other Cats stood behind Cath for solidarity.

"Yeah, but that was before I found out how often you'd be climbing over me. It's History of Magic in the morning - I can't hardly stay awake in it."

"I will take turn," offered Sukiya. That caught Gabrielle's attention. What were they talking about?

"You? You're easily the worst, what with 'gomen nasty' this and 'summy nazzy' that," dismissed Mount Mal.

"Gomen nasai," muttered Suki-chan, looking hurt. Gabrielle frowned. Suki-chan was polite and tried to be nice to everyone, a true 'Puff. She did not deserve the rebuke for trying to help with whatever was going on.

"So ye are heading back on yer word. And here I thought ye - "

"I said I wasn't. I'm just saying it's goin' to change." Gabrielle watched as Mal turned her back on the Cats and headed for the stacked bed they shared. That did not seem like the end of the tiff, but Gabrielle supposed a little sleep might make Mal less cranky. Honestly, thought Gabrielle, it was good that she did not interact much with -

"Budge up, Delacour," demanded Mal. She had not gone into her bed but had unexpectedly climbed the ladder to the upper bunk. Gabrielle's bunk.

"Eh, what?"

"Budge up. Move over. Le move ov-air."

"What - no! What are you doing?" Gabrielle was ill-prepared for the assault on her position, and her belated efforts did not deter Malachite in the least.

"Gigi-chan!"

"Hey now!"

"There. Now it'll be dead easy to keep you quiet," said Mal, as if that was a clear rational for her outrageous behavior. She was using more than half of the blanket, and most of the pillow!

Gabrielle had just finished using her beetle, which needed her wand, which was right there and which was now in her hand. Fire was out of the question, again, since this was her own bed. Herr Korbel had described many terrible curses, but not really taught them. His recounting of the horrors was intended to motivate students in learning the shield spell. The only hexes he had provided tuition on so far were little more than the Sneezing hex. Gabrielle knew the Compunctio, but she was not certain that the small, very slight, curse would make Mal move. It might only make the girl angry, so that she would roll over and crush Gabrielle into paté. The Petrificous would work too, if Gabrielle had a chance for a couple of practice tries, but that would still leave the over-sized girl in the bed. With these thoughts in mind, Gabrielle settled for poking. "Zis is my bed! Get out!" Poke, poke, jab - which was like a poke but more emphatic.

"Ow! Knock that off or I swear I'll snap it. It's almost lights out, and I'm really tired."

"Zen go back to your own bed." Poke, poke. Did the others somehow miss that this ridiculous act was going on?

"I'd stay in my bed if your screams stayed in yours. Now stop it or I really will snap your wand."

"Eh, what? Zat make no sense," said Gabrielle. No more poking though. She sat up to see over Mount Malachite. Where were the others? "Suki-chan?"

"It is true," said Suki-chan. "But it was only two or three times a night."

"Sure, and di'n' you agree to take turns seeing to her too?" asked Catherine. "Mal's idea is a gran' one."

"I do not zink so," protested Gabrielle, though not as stridently as before. Were - were they talking about her nightmares? Those had gotten worse since the term had begun.

"It's not that we minded, mind you," added Kathleen. "Better to lose sleep once every five nights than every single night."

"And you'll probably grow out of them when you're older," assured Katherine.

"But, well, we did have to climb up past Mal, so this really is better."

"I do not zink zat it is," repeated Gabrielle. "I zink -"

"No one is asking you," yawned Mal.

"An' since the secret is out, ye can tell us all about this So-lay in the morn," said Catherine. "Might help you."

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle stared into her cup of tea and sighed unhappily. Asking for her tea to be stronger did not make any closer to coffee. The request just transfigured the drink from uninteresting to unpleasant. She wondered if she should try taking the beverage as Suki-chan did, with half a cup of milk and four spoons of sugar.

It was breakfast in the Great Hall; Gabrielle sat between Suki-chan and Saruchi. That was fairly normal, of course, but this morning the arrangement felt more like decorative fencing around a garden - just enough to keep the neighbors out but not enough to offend. No one sat across from her, which was different. Walls, thought Gabrielle, might be the preference as Mal's hand came down on her head. Her eyeballs rattled as her hair was tousled. Hair, head, and neck.

"Cheer up, Delacour," encouraged Malachite. "What's done is done," added the expert in grief counseling.

It was not truly grief, though, reflected Gabrielle. More melancholy, a direct result of recounting the whole awful expedition for Hufflepuff ears. Gabrielle would have shown them the little memorial doll that Nona had made for her, but that was still in its special box in her handbag, which itself was still a secret.

"I think it might be a touch of Marlburger Catatonia. Do you see any blue spots on her?" asked Saruchi. "It's one hundred percent fatal! Unless treated with a tincture of Spanish yew and lacewing extract."

"Eh, what?"

"Gigi-chan, Gigi-chan. Can I see what you did for third question?" asked Sukiya.

"Of course, that was only one possibility," muttered Saruchi. She took the last banana.

Gabrielle sighed again and passed over her potions assignment. "Yes, all right. But zis is ze last time!" It was an empty threat, though. Suki-chan was trying, which mattered. Especially in Hufflepuff. And in the same vein as the idea of trying, Gabrielle drew her wand, thought for a moment, and cast, "Verwanlium!"

"Hey! Ow!" complained Saruchi as an errant elbow hit her. Spells were coming easier for Gabrielle now, but they still needed exaggerated movements. The cup holding the bitter, over-brewed tea became, well, not the taller but elegantly proportioned cup of Gabrielle's imagination, but something a bit more like a soup bowl with a knob. The important thing, judged Gabrielle, was that the capacity of the cup was greater. And, that it was not leaking. She began pouring in milk and spooning in sugar.

"Verwanlium," commanded Saruchi quietly. Her cup bloomed into a porcelain rosebud, with a second, smaller bud with a stem forming the handle. She, Gabrielle knew, was showing off, which Gabrielle had not been doing and so had not taken the extra time to envision such a complicated transfiguration. So Gabrielle was not annoyed at all. Really. And, the handle was full of thorns anyway.

To her left, Suki-chan busied herself with her brush and ink. That was futile, since the professors were not going to accept the extra length needed for brushstrokes in lieu of the required work. She, thought Gabrielle, should know this, having tried it twice already. Gabrielle sipped her nearly white tea. It was still bad, but in a newly sweet and awful way. She vanished it and, merde, the cup, which was really all right since she could not think of an excuse for more transfiguration. Other than she had not tried very hard the first time.

Sukiya placed her teacup in the center of the double circle she had drawn. Between the inner and outer lines were runes of some sort, probably Japanese ones, thought Gabrielle, but perhaps not. A quill was far pointier than a brush after all.

"Kassei-ka suru," said Suki-chan after a couple of deep calming breaths. There was a flash of bright yellow light, bright enough to make Gabrielle turn away as the circle was consumed. The radiance died away quickly, revealing a very detailed and realistic chrysanthemum, with delicate porcelain petals and, this made Gabrielle feel better, absolutely no way to contain liquid.

"It'll be five points each for defacing school property, if you don't knock it off now," warned the boy Gabrielle only knew as Bloxham. He was a prefect from Ravenclaw.

"It's only minor transfiguration, Blockhead." This came from Saruchi, and was surprisingly strident to Gabrielle's ears. "Ravenclaw's standards have certainly fallen."

"Not far enough for -you- though, Merry-Ole'Glander."

"Blind minion!"

"Psuedo-intellect!"

"Chav!"

"Bint!"

"This is how Ravenclaws argue?" asked Mal, slumping in her chair. "Slytherins are more interesting and Gryffindor punch-ups are more fun."

"Ze Post," announced Gabrielle, because the owls were sweeping down from above and because the conflict could either end or escalate. It felt like a very Hufflepuff thing to do, which was a thought she had briefly to be replaced by mild panic. Panic, because one of the owls was a snow-white Artic owl that she was almost certain she recognized. Mild, though, because even if she was supposed to help Harry Potter there was obviously a limit as to what she could do while at school. At least, she thought there should be, what with the assignments and unearned detentions.

Four owls landed near Gabrielle, which was quite a lot of owl in not very much space. Two of the owls shared their burden, which was a long, thick box wrapped in black straps. The birds used it to their advantage, forcing Suki-chan's owl Fulheim, eh, dodo? to take a hop to the side. Talons ended up in a jam pot; Suki-chan slapped her hand over her mouth. Harry Potter's owl, Hedwig, landed last, dropping her parcel on top of the larger package.

Gabrielle watched the owls tussle, with amusement at first which then turned to annoyance. She was not going open either package in the Great Hall, so it really did not matter which one was on top. The constant reshuffling was knocking over glasses and nearly sending plates to the floor. The owls' behavior was in no way dignified, and that was further upsetting Fulheim-dodo. Suki-chan's owl was clearly embarrassed by its jam-covered talons, unhappy with Suki-chan's attempt to clean them, and quite put out by the accidental nudges as the unwieldy, long box was repeatedly returned to the top.

Spells can be affected by a witch's mood, which was something to remember when using vanishing spells. Gabrielle had aimed hers at the coated feathers and talons of the cranky owl. Owls were safe from magic and jam was not, so the spell worked. The magic also worked on the pot of jam itself, the butter dish, and the remaining rack of toast. "Zank you," Gabrielle said in the moment of quiet when all avian attention had turned to the disappeared breakfast, "for all your hard work." This was something Suki-chan would say at the end of the TC23 meetings. It was never clear to whom she was saying it, but it had the tone of conclusion, of formal dismissal. Gabrielle stood up.

The pronouncement meant nothing to the owls, if they had noticed it at all. A bit of bacon, or two, would work for certain, but there was never any bacon leftover near Malachite. Gabrielle sighed and reached into the pocket of her robes for her own, private owl treats that had cost her her very own sickles.

What her hand found, however, was a toad, one of the Sisters, the one missing part of a toe. It was a toad so full of owl treats that it could not swallow properly. Gabrielle gave it a good squeeze, and aimed the gape-mouthed amphibian at the owls. "Would you like somezing to eat? It is still, eh, good, I zink." She was being purposefully vague.

The two owls that had delivered the large package were not above snatching food from the useless toad, and Gabrielle let them take as much as they wanted, because she was. If one of the birds had misunderstood her offer and gone after the toad itself that would have been fine too. Sukiya's owl left in a huff; Hedwig left as well, but not before moving her delivery to the top one last time.

v - v - v - v - v

The contents of the packages had to wait until after her Wednesday preemptive detention with Professor Trelawney, who was what Gabrielle very charitably called distracted as of late. A student more deserving of the unearned penalties, though, thought Gabrielle, might suggest a dose of So-Bored-Now. The identities of the senders of the Post did not have to wait for a more opportune moment. The one delivered by Hedwig was addressed in Hermione's tidy script. That did not mean that the contents would not begin a long series of events that would lead to more nightmares, but it did make it more likely that it would all be polite and well-thought out. Unless, of course, Ron was involved.

The heavy parcel with the strapping was addressed to 'Fraulein Delacour' in a handwriting that she did not recognize, but could guess. The address used, 'Check the Infirmary or any Ruins', meant that the package was from Herr Sammlermacher and was definitely going to cost him galleons. At least Gabrielle hoped it was from Herr Sammlermacher. The only other possibility was that creepy healer, and anything from him would go straight into the fire.

But, first there was History of Magic, where Gabrielle learned two things. The first was that, despite her gloating over the restfulness of the night's sleep, Malachite still struggled to stay awake in class. The second lesson Gabrielle learned was that, if one was willing to devote an entire period, it was possible for her to summon an inkpot with a barely whispered 'Accio' and the barest of twitches of her wand. The sustained effort only slid the inkpot a mere hand's length, but that was enough to topple it into a barely conscious Mal's lap.

Actually, Gabrielle learned a third thing as well. She learned that Professor Binns, who taught History of Magic and was definitely a ghost, never varied his lesson plan. The notes loaned from Hermione were accurate to the day, counting from the start of term. That meant that while Gabrielle's much-envied Accu-Scribe quill had written 'Durga Voinak' as she was urging the inkpot to the edge, the meaning in Gobbledygook, Bore War, was simple to find later.

If there was a fourth lesson to be had, then Gabrielle supposed that it was that casting a spell over and over for the better part of an hour could leave one rather tired. Fortunately, her next class was Divination, which was, disappointedly, a class where a wandering, inattentive mind was no detriment. Professor Trelawney was covering the basics of palmistry, which, an appalled Gabrielle was astonished to learn, seemed to be just the location of the palm on a human body, and the vaguest of notions that there were lines on that palm. This was a third-year course? Gabrielle had learned far more in her short time at, eh, the other school, where Madame Sombrevoir did not fall asleep in class after assigning some reading.

Which was very awkward, because Gabrielle could not leave with the rest of her House when the period ended. She was expected to help with the next class for the ongoing travesty of justice, so her first task was, therefore, to wake the Professor.

Of course, there were many ways to wake a person. Gabrielle chose not to clear her throat loudly and indignantly, but went instead with a method that might curry some favor, and thus possibly reduce the end of the week chores. She took out her quill and some parchment, and tried for an earnest, hopeful expression tinged with an undercurrent of dread. "Is it a vision?" Gabrielle asked loudly, since waking the Professor was the point. "Can you See the Hidden Realm?"

"Huh? Whu? What?" Trelawney raised her head, her dozen or more amulets and charm necklaces jangling.

"Did you See?" Gabrielle showed her quill and parchment in an expectant manner. This blatant pandering had better be worth it.

"Not this time, child. The visions that have gripped - Are you all right? I presume you know where the girls' bathroom is?"

"Eh, what?"

"It's just the way you look I thought you were perhaps feeling a bit sick," explained Trelawney.

Gabrielle put her things away, as a way to buy time to count and to decide what to say. Asking the Professor if -she- was feeling all right, because she had just fallen asleep in her very own class, was an entirely legitimate question, though one which would have her polishing the crystal balls again. Asking what qualified her to be a professor in the first place was not a legitimate question, and surely rude. How many of the accrued pre-offense punishments would that use up? The best strategy, Gabrielle decided, was to continue the charade of mentor and pupil. "But zere are visions?"

"Terrible visions! There is fire! There are goblins! There are knights, armored and wielding deadly… things. Rare for me now are the blessings of Somnus," described Trelawney. She put a hand to her forehead, possibly to look wilted.

"Eh," began Gabrielle. Those were not the sort of visions she had, but then she could only See the Past. And, perhaps, the Nearly Past. The future might be more, eh, unclear. Gabrielle definitely did not like the mention of fire, though.

"Be a dear and set the first-years to their tea leaves? I just need to freshen up a bit. Good," said Trelawney, though Gabrielle had not responded yet. The bespectacled seer got up from her chair.

"Eh, what?"

"You know what to do, child."

Gabrielle lips tightened at being called a child again. She decided that Trelawney was older than she looked. Or rather, looked as old as she was. Eh, which was was old.

"I'll just be a moment or two," assured the Professor as she headed for the door. "This is Minerva's doing. Waste of the mystic energies teaching first-years anyway."

Soon, Gabrielle was forced to stop staring at the door while wondering how long a moment was supposed to last, to instead stare back at the seated students in front of her. None of whom she felt taller than. This, decided Gabrielle, was not right. She cleared her throat, "Eh…"

"Where is Professor Trelawney?" asked a blonde boy. "Is class canceled?"

"She is, eh, recovering from zee, eh, visions," said Gabrielle, though she did not believe it herself.

"Visions of sherry," suggested someone from at the back.

"Can we leave?"

"Eh… no. No. Ze Professor will only be a moment. Or, eh, two. Possibly zeree."

"Yeah, sure. I'm leaving," declared a tall Gryffindor boy, though he looked around for support. Gabrielle wondered if she was supposed to have learned their names. She took out her wand because it seemed like that would put her in charge - they were only first-years. What to do with it was the problem.

The answer came too quickly from a part of her that would not listen to the second thoughts worrying about visions. Gabrielle conjured a large ball of angry-looking flames, and kept it turning on itself in the air. A few "oohs" encouraged her. "I zink not. I zink you should sit."

There was a moment, an actual moment, not a Hogwarts professorial moment, of hesitation, during which Gabrielle was certain that someone had claimed that she had burned down the tower at, at her earlier school, which was followed by the rebel taking his seat. Gabrielle was not able to discern who had made the false accusation though, because the flames were quite large - large, a little unstable, and she had not taken care to conjure them over a fire-proof surface. Thankfully she could let the writhing ball - it was very impressive, at least to her eye - dissipate after a quick toss upward.

The performance had everyone's attention, either because they were impressed by the spellwork or had recognized the danger in the cloth-covered, wooden tables and the room full of tufted, tasseled cushions. Gabrielle decided to take a page from Madame Sombrevoir's tome. "Everyone is to, eh, pair up wizz someone. That is, from ze same House." The two Houses were traditional rivals, after all. There would be less trouble, for certain. Gabrielle then had an even better idea, one that would save her effort, "After zat, you may get ze teapot and cups. Use ze period as ze study if you wish, but you must be quiet. If you wish to sense ze Hidden Realm, zen, eh, move to ze front."

This, thought Gabrielle, was the way to run things. The French way. She did not need a poor mistreated student to pass out tea at all, for instance.

"Can we form groups of three or more?" asked a Gryffindor girl.

"Non. Ze pair is two; you must know zis," explained Gabrielle patiently. Mostly. "If you 'ave no partner, zen sit wizz me."

"Can I have a cuppa if I'm just going to study?" Another Gryffindor.

"Eh… yes. I zink zat is allowed."

"What if, while just revising, there's - " began a Slytherin.

Oh mon Dieu, thought Gabrielle. She was certain that Hufflepuffs would be lining up to get their teapots by now, probably organized by an impromptu clique called 'The All-Seeing Tea Union of the Pillow Sea' or something. "Zat is enough! Find ze partner, get ze tea, zen study leaves or books!" How hard was this?

Harder than Gabrielle supposed, obviously, as three students approached. Three, even though if there were an odd number from each House in class then one would rightfully expect two. There were two boys, one from Slytherin who was thin and blonde and one from Gryffindor who had dark hair and was more burly. The third was a Gryffindor girl. There was, thought Gabrielle, no way that wearing unavoidably black clothing, and not by choice, deserved this punishment.

"Is zere some reason zat Gryffindors can not, eh, count to two?" sighed Gabrielle. The Slytherin boy laughed.

"Shut it, Flannagan."

"Give me -two- reasons, Ghomley."

"Messieurs Flannagan and Ghomley. Et?" interrupted Gabrielle. Next time, not that there should ever be a next time, next time she would allow up to three in a group. Especially for the Gryffindors.

"M-Magdeline Berrycloth!" Stumbled the girl. She had a rather round face, which was now turning red, and straight brunette hair that curled in just a bit when it passed her chin. The most notable aspect of her appearance was her school uniform. It was damp and muddy in places. Gabrielle had to wonder if she had gotten detentions for it.

"Mademoiselle Berrycloth. You could not find a partner?" hinted Gabrielle, looking from her to Ghomley.

"There was an odd number of Gryffindor girls," explained the girl. "Should I fetch the tea? I'll fetch the tea! Do you have a special teacup? I'll find it!"

Gabrielle watched the the excitable Gryffindor plow through the more orderly students getting the tea. A stimulating beverage might not be a good idea there. Thank Merlin coffee grounds held no portents. These thoughts came in the brief, peaceful interlude.

"So much for Halloween, then, Romeo," teased Flannagan with a smirk. The non sequitur resulted in Ghomley punching the Slytherin in the shoulder.

v - v - v - v - v

"Miss Delacour," began Madame Pomfrey, having sent off nearly the last of the first-years with the needed doses of soothing salves. "When I learned that you be joining, er, joining us at Hogwarts, l felt it well within reason to expect to be busy."

Gabrielle said nothing, yet. She fully expected to be blamed for the, eh, incident, since Professor Trelawney had only been gone 'moments'. A second thought replaced 'incident' with 'riot'. That was just semantics, and did not really matter. Gabrielle would save her arguing to counter any punishments that might be proposed. She wondered if she could have Professor Hagrid and Professor Trelawney issue her vouchers of some sort.

"And so I am. I just assumed that it would be -you- that required care, not the rest of the student body."

That was a complete exaggeration, but still Gabrielle said nothing. The pushing and shoving between Ghomley and Flannagan had not even looked serious. And, aside from shouts of encouragement, no one else had moved to join in. It was only for the look of the thing, because she -had- been left in charge, that Gabrielle tried to intervene. She was bowled over by the two larger, wrestling boys.

That was nothing more than, well, expected, but it made the insane girl Berrycloth charge the boys, swinging her teapot and sending scalding water everywhere. Which, viewed from the rest of the class, looked like two Gryffindors against one Slytherin. Reinforcements arrived from both sides, witches first for Flannagan, and the fracas (much smaller than a riot) escalated quickly until, until… Well, until it ended. The fire was out now - thank Merlin there was so much tea available - and no had been too badly injured.

"Still, that was not too bad for your first time. According to accounts from the time, the late Headmaster's first potion class had to be picked from the trees, and the classroom had been in the dungeons!" described Madame Pomfrey.

"Eh, okay," said Gabrielle. This did not sound like a preamble to expulsion.

"Now, be a dear and fetch Miss Berrycloth a clean uniform. I think the older girls threw her into the lake again."

"Eh, what? Why would zey do zat?" asked Gabrielle cautiously. Was that the only price she would pay? Of course Madame Pomfrey must know about the built up preemptive detentions.

"I imagine it's because they know she cannot swim."