Chapter Twelve - I Cook, I Clean, and Now?

The trouble with Nona, fumed Gabrielle, was that she did not speak French, or even English. She seemed to understand what Gabrielle was saying, especially if Gabrielle was facing the crone, but otherwise Nona communicated by rapping Gabrielle in the head with the ladle. It was not as if there was any kind of code! A thump on her head could mean yes, no, or, most likely, hurry up. How was that communication? Two days had passed already, and while Gabrielle had tried a few words of Albanian, or whatever it was Nona spoke, the old woman had not even bothered with her name.

Gabrielle was cutting carrots with a knife that would give Aunt Laurel nightmares. Nona had assigned the task in her usual way: she whacked Gabrielle with the ladle, demonstrated what she wanted, and then tapped Gabrielle again. It was completely unnecessary, since Gabrielle was already being made to help. A second thought reasonably pointed out that the ladle did not actually hurt, that the noise it made was out of proportion with its impact. Still, thought Gabrielle, it was not the proper way to treat someone who was twelve years old.

Of course, remembered Gabrielle, she got off lightly compared to that Anthony. Nona had bent her stupid ladle over the man's head when she caught him poking around her cauldron when she had not been there. Anthony was much older than George, but not old enough to be Nona's son. Gabrielle guessed that he was either a grandchild or, at least, a glutton for punishment. He towered over her and Nona, and seemed as gangly as Ron Weasley even though he was older. Anthony spoke some Italian, and that helped some, but Gabrielle found herself thinking like Nona must: he was a simpleton.

It bothered Gabrielle that she could not work out whether Nona was a witch or not. That the old woman had bent the ladle over Anthony's head when he was so much taller might mean something, as did the fact that the utensil looked perfectly fine later in the day. Unless it was just another ladle. Gabrielle could see how Nona might go through them quickly if Anthony came by every day. She was as irascible as an Abraxan. Also, Nona, who cooked the meals for the entire encampment, did all the food preparation by hand. Well, now, mostly by Gabrielle's hand. Gabrielle never saw Nona with a wand, and was not allowed to use her own. That was the kind of rule squib households tended to have. Nona was clearly not just a muggle, though. She was unfazed by the wizards around her, and not the least bit thrown by Soleil.

Recalling Soleil's reaction to the slightly bent old woman made Gabrielle reconsider. A baleful glare from Nona had been enough to put an end to Soleil's threatening display and make the animal retreat; he stayed in the shadows of his stall if she were outside it. The big Abraxan, who had kicked and bit four grown wizards before Gabrielle had arrived, shied away from the old hag if she even turned his way. Soleil never gave way so easily, not even for Montaigne. Also, every meal was cooked in the big iron cauldron, and, as far as Gabrielle could see from what she had to peel, cut and chop, all the ingredients were pretty much the same. But what was served was not some version of the gross stews Gabrielle had endured so far, but proper meals that were quite good and very filling. Gabrielle's store of purloined cheese was no longer needed.

So it was likely that Nona really was a witch, concluded Gabrielle. Just not a modern witch. Nona was, after all, pretty old, though not centuries old. She probably did not have the chance to go to Beauxbatons when she was young and learn proper magic. That, decided Gabrielle, explained why Nona was working for Festeller.

The only oddity left without an explanation was the little thatched-roof house. It was quite small, both outside and inside. There was only one room, which was dominated by a massive stone hearth, which held the big black cauldron. The furnishings were sparse. There was a heavy table with two old wooden chairs set before the hearth. In the corner was a larger rocking chair. The gray wool blanket next to it suggested that it also functioned as the bed. Besides some barrels and sacks of supplies, there was hardly anything else in the little cottage. Certainly nothing that explained why it was there. Gabrielle was certain that Nona did not just happen to live right next to the excavation site, in the middle of nowhere. But a magical tent was so much more spacious and comfortable; one had to wonder why the mean little home was conjured up here. Was there even a bathroom? Gabrielle eyed the oak barrels with trepidation. Better not to know, advised a second thought.

Thwock! Nona and her ladle had returned, announcing their presence in the usual way. Gabrielle turned, surprised. She had been lost in thought. Nona snatched up Gabrielle's left hand, and pinched one of her fingers. "Ju jeni gjakderdhje, fëmijë, [1]" said Nona.

Gabrielle suspected that 'fëmijë' meant silly little girl. It was how she was addressed. The finger in the grasp of the old woman had been nicked by the ridiculous knife while Gabrielle's attention wandered. She had not even felt it! Nona spit something white and mushy into her hand, then pressed it around the bleeding digit. Gabrielle wrinkled her nose in disgust, but knew it was pointless to resist the ladle.

Nona had a guest, a plain-looking woman whose smart clothes suggested a more modern, muggle life. It was unexpected, because of the way the old woman was and because there was so much from the magical world just outside the door. There were laws to be obeyed! At least, there were in France. "Nona, you, eh, can not -"

Thwock. "Të shkuar, fëmijë. [2]" There was no doubt for Gabrielle as to what Nona wanted. The distinct push in the direction of the door was enough. Gabrielle wondered about the younger woman, what she might want with Nona, and if she would get the ladle also. This was certainly trouble for someone, in Gabrielle's opinion.

Actually, thought Gabrielle, it could be trouble for the entire expedition. It could even be a reason for the expedition to be canceled. She broke into a grin. Soleil needed exercise, did he not? Would it be her fault that the curious giant, winged, obviously magical horse looked into the cottage window? He was so hard to control. Gabrielle found herself skipping toward the colt's stall, and checked herself. That was childish.

Gabrielle did not make it to Soleil's stall. Professor Festeller appeared behind her with a small bang. Papa, noted Gabrielle smugly, was quieter. "Mademoiselle Delacour, please, yes, come with me. You are needed, yes, in the works," smiled her professor. Gabrielle was immediately suspicious. She had, in her dubious role as guest student, been dragged to the dig site every evening. There was nothing there that interested her, the bits of filthy rubble sieved from the soil of no obvious value. Frankly, most pieces looked like rocks. Gabrielle noticed the way Stanislaw hovered at the table as Abby jammed each piece of debris into the flared brass tubing, waiting for a death rattle from the lashed-together detector. What was the point?

"Eh, I was about to take Soleil for his exercise, Professor," said Gabrielle. That was a truth. "He is, eh, expecting it." That was a bit of a stretch. The needs of Soleil were often able to trump other concerns; it was a useful fact.

"Yes. Later, yes. This is important." Gabrielle's thoughts disagreed.

"Professor, Nona, eh, has a visitor. A muggle," tattled Gabrielle. She felt herself redden for that, feeling just a little guilty about causing Nona to get in trouble.

"From the local town, I believe, yes," nodded Festeller. He took up Gabrielle's arm and apparated to the pit the excavation charms had created.

The pit looked considerably different than it had on the tour the prior evening. The wooden table with the piles of crushed who-knew-what was still there, but now it, and Abby, were on a terrace overlooking a much deeper opening. The new depths had an uneven floor of stone blocks, which was badly tilted and sagging at the edges. It was something Gabrielle had not expected to see, and she was, despite her other thoughts, curious.

"It is the wall of the tower, yes. The remains, yes, of course. The blocks were quarried by muggles. You can see the chipped edges. But see that the joints were magically, yes, welded together," explained Festeller. "The earliest, yes, the technique is known to be used was 1300AD. There is access to the interior. That is where you are needed."

Gabrielle turned sharply at that. He was not really going to make her crawl into some dank, dirty tunnel was he? This whole situation stank like a pile of Abraxan dung. Not only, thought Gabrielle, did she have to move said dung - a metric ton - but she was also helping to prepare meals. And now she was to retrieve broken bits and pieces from a filthy hole? How was this a summer holiday? Maybe, considered Gabrielle, she should try to be more like Fleur. She was sure no one would even consider asking her sister to do such things. It was too bad Festeller was not a lot older, though it was hard to fathom him being more insane. She might have had a chance to enthrall him if he was. If she could get over the creepiness.

"Come. The footing, yes, is solid," said Festeller, waving her forward.

"Eh, Professor, I should, eh, change," requested Gabrielle. She indicated her skirt. The blouse with all the pockets was at least useful, if not very strange. Poisseux could easily fit into the larger ones, provided he kept his promise to stay still. At least, she thought that he had promised - it was hard to tell. But crawling around in a skirt in front of everyone was -not- going to happen.

"There is no time! There is a chamber!" declared Festeller. He was obviously excited, which to Gabrielle meant that he had managed to find an intact bowl or something. The professor liked old things. Maybe, thought Gabrielle, he had found a plate used by - what was it again? - the first Master of Time. Or, she shuddered, perhaps he had found pieces of the first Master of Time.

Access to the interior was not through some burrow-like opening, but down a flight of stairs precisely carved into the surrounding earth. These led down to a kind of civilized cavern, which was also lined with stone blocks. It was disorientating, and it took Gabrielle a moment to realize that they were inside the old tower, and that the tower was laying on its side. A cluster of wizards and witches stood around a hole in the floor, from which a shower of confetti erupted with a noise like that of Nona honing her huge knife, only multiplied by a thousand. Not a hole, corrected a second thought, a doorway.

"Dumme Kühe. You have shown it happens each time. Enough." Gabrielle was unhappy to see Stanislaw there. This time his ire was not directed at her, but the others.

"Mademoiselle Delacour is here, yes. Now we shall see," announced Festeller cryptically. The others turned to face her; Stanislaw covered his eyes with his palm. Gabrielle's second thoughts set off an alarm, and she found herself half-turning back to the stairs. "Mlle Delacour, if you would, please?" The professor beckoned her forward.

"Would what?" demanded Gabrielle somewhat shrilly. It had not been confetti that had rained down, but thin shavings of wood. Each time? They were not going to make her go through that opening!

"It is nothing dangerous," reassured Festeller. "You will take out your wand, yes, and stand just there."

"Why?" demanded Gabrielle suspiciously. There were two witches and five wizards who could be doing just that, but they were not.

"Yes, why? The magic has stood for centuries," muttered Stanislaw. "A child..."

"The Goblet of Fire, yes, chose you. I believe this is why, yes," explained Festeller with a look to his fellow countryman, who shook his head resignedly.

Gabrielle was conflicted. While she would gladly show up the malignant Stanislaw, it was very apparent that this could prove very embarrassing, or disastrous. The spot that Festeller seem to indicate was not that close to the opening, but it was much closer than where she stood now. And she -did- have her blond wand. It was tied to a ribbon around her neck, hidden inside her blouse so that Nona did not see it. Doing some magic other than vanishing Soleil's output would be fun, thought Gabrielle. Failing to do anything in front of everyone, who were now stepping back into a wide semi-circle around the hole, would not be.

In the end, Gabrielle could not see how she could refuse the professor's request. He was a professor, after all. She stepped to the spot, circumscribing a wide arc around the dark opening, and pulled out her wand. Then, when nothing happened, she asked, "Eh, what now?"

"Concentrate, yes, on the opening. Pietre will create another mannequin, yes."

Concentrate, wondered Gabrielle, on a doorway? What is there to concentrate on when it comes to a doorway? A door, yes, it would make sense to concentrate on that. But a doorway was an absence of anything to concentrate on. It made no sense, so Gabrielle concentrated on looking like she was concentrating, all the while wondering if anyone could tell.

The problem was the smell. Gabrielle had not noticed it at first, but now that she was closer to the opening in the floor the musty odor was more intrusive. It was definitely coming from below, and smelled very peculiar. It was familiar, yet not, and then it suddenly came to Gabrielle. It was...

The sweet, sickly-sweet fragrance of her enemies' burning flesh. The fools had come for her in their hordes, and presently scrabbled frantically up the burning corpses of their comrades. How long had she tolerated the vermin whose flesh now melted, allowing them their pathetic lives, only for them to waste themselves against her now? It only made sense if there was another; one who moved hidden in the background. She knew it to be true, how else could her sanctuary, Dragothuan, be breached? The one in the shadows would strike soon, but for now, as the door shattered at a blow, there was chattel to feed to the flames. She raised her staff, her precious Wyrmbreath, but turned at the sound of her name. That voice - it could not be him, could it? He was dead. Yet even as the thought sought reassurance in her memories, her eyes stared at the truth. No, nearly the truth. Dead, or so he should have been, for half a century, yet not one of those years showed on his face. She shifted the staff slightly, so as to allow her to look through the crystal affixed to the carved top. Dead, yet not dead. Undead, and the worst of that ilk. She spun and lashed a wall of flame at the villagers goaded into the assault. She knew what he was, knew that they were unwitting actors, but it did not stay her hand. They would kill her if they could, and she cared not a whit for them in any case. He called her name again, and struck the floor with his heel. The tower shook and heaved, stones crashed, and -

Gabrielle raised her head groggily , and grimaced with pain. Letting her head drop brought another grimace. Her hands went to her head, and found it swaddled in bandages. What had happened? She wondered where she was also until she opened her eyes, then she wondered why she was where she was. Gabrielle knew she was in Nona's rocking chair, covered with the blanket. She double-checked the wrappings on her head. They definitely felt like bandages, and not like Nona's mucus-based poultice. That was a thought to make her shudder.

The room was very dim, but there was light at the edges of the windows. Nona had another guest, an older woman who wept into a handkerchief. That did not seem to elicit much sympathy from the old witch. A curious scene, but what Gabrielle focused on was something that she could barely see. Between the crying woman and Nona was - a crystal ball! Nona was a Seer as well! Surely she would let Gabrielle use the crystal, just for a quick scrying attempt, or two, to see how George was doing.

Or, came a meaner thought, Nona was a fraud, fleecing Confunded muggles for money. That would probably mean that the crystal ball was not a real one, though, which would not be as useful to Gabrielle. It was better to assume that the old woman could sense the Hidden Realm, and... Well, asking was another problem entirely. Gabrielle would just have to hope Nona somehow guessed what she wanted.

It was then that Gabrielle noticed that Nona was looking right at her, in the way she would look over whatever groceries Anthony brought by before beginning the evening meal. The scrutiny made Gabrielle uncomfortable, so she quickly shut her eyes to feign sleep.

Too late. Gabrielle heard the scrape of the chair, and Nona's strong grip was already pulling her upright. "I am sorry!" blurted Gabrielle by instinct, although, a second thought pointed out, she -might- not have done anything wrong. Gabrielle was not completely sure, because she did not exactly know what had happened to her head.

"Ju do të ndihmojë, fëmijë, [3]" announced Nona. Gabrielle staggered unsteadily after the old hag. Should she not be resting? Nona dragged her to the table, and made her sit on a barrel. Gabrielle glanced at the visitor, who was not presently crying, but shrank away from the affronted look. Gabrielle did not know what was going to happen, but the other woman clearly did not want her to be there. It was the same thought Gabrielle had. Nona must have sensed it, and banged her ladle on the table. Was that because her head was injured, or because the bandages would provide too much cushioning?

With one hand gripped tightly by Nona and the other reluctantly by her guest, Gabrielle stared at the crystal and tried to become invisible. Nona began chanting. The repeated lines meant nothing to Gabrielle. She wondered if they meant anything to the other woman. Madame Sombrevoir never had students hold hands to use the big crystal ball, or used chants. The fraud thought crept back into Gabrielle's head, where it was chased out when her hand was suddenly crushed painfully in Nona's. Gabrielle gave out a sharp cry, then turned angrily to give Nona a Fleur-like Look of Death, only to find Nona's eyes boring into hers.

Then, then the dour little cottage was gone, replaced by the ugly exterior of a concrete apartment building painted, optimistically, a cheerful red and white. There were words on the sign outside that Gabrielle could not read, but at the same time knew read "Colony Inn". A young woman, dressed well, pushed a pram up the block toward the steps. Behind her trailed a very young child, who kept up in bursts. Gabrielle could not decide whether it was a little girl or boy. From the building came a young man, dressed in clothes expensive enough to look worn on purpose, with long hair held back in a ponytail. The toddler ran toward him, tripped and fell over nothing, then bounced back up to complete the journey. Definitely a boy, decided Gabrielle. The young man picked up the child in a swinging arc, and carried him back to the woman, whom he kissed in greeting. They walked back together to the steps of the building. The woman plucked an infant from the pram; the man slung the pram over his shoulder easily, and carried it and the boy up the steps. They entered the apartment building, and the scene slowly faded from Gabrielle's eyes until the gleaming ball was again what she saw.

Nona was up quickly, gently pulling Gabrielle's hand from that of her guest, who was weeping again. Gabrielle's head was spinning, and hurting, so Nona ended up carrying her back to the rocking chair. She tucked the blanket around Gabrielle, then put her hand over Gabrielle's eyes. "Fle. [4]"

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter lay on his back on the roof of the warehouse behind which the tent was pitched. George, it seemed, had run out of contacts this far south. They had chosen the site based on the heavy chain across the gate, and the layer of rust that suggested that neither gate nor lock had opened in years. Hermione had cast a variety of charms and wards anyway.

He lay marveling at how thoroughly city lights could wash out the night sky. Mars would have to be really bright to even be seen through the glare. That thought made him wonder how Firenze and the remaining centaurs were doing. Harry knew they were actively avoiding Hagrid, who left supplies out for them anyway. The herd had had their fill of wizards, suspected Harry. Which brought him back to the reason he had sought out a quiet place to think. George had said that no wizard or witch could make a spell work with just the incantation if they did not know what the spell was supposed to do. Harry had wondered at that, because he had, he was sure, done just that. Both the Levicorpus and the Sectumsempra had just been words scrawled in the margins of a book, and yet he had managed to cast both with nothing more. That was not supposed to be possible. So, either George was wrong, or...

Or, thought Harry, it had something to do with the powers Voldemort had accidentally transferred to him when he was an infant. That had been Dumbledore's explanation for the Parseltongue ability, and it could explain the spells. Except... having some sort of prior experience with a spell seemed more like a memory, a bit of knowledge. Which was decidedly more worrisome, because he was, after all, chasing down items with bits of Voldemort transferred into them. The diary had held memories, while the snake, Nagini, had been both alive and a... Harry did not even want to think it. Even not thinking it left him nauseated. He remembered the twin, twisting columns of smoke that Professor Dumbledore had examined after Mister Weasley had been attacked. In essence, divided. That had seemed like good news at the time, but now Harry wondered if the Headmaster had missed something far more sinister. Not to mention bloody inconvenient! How was he supposed to eliminate all the horcruxes if, if... Would Dumbledore have told him? Merlin! Harry needed someone to talk to about this. He couldn't see it being Ginny, Ron, or Hermione, though. All the reactions he could imagine - well, he'd rather face the backside of a Blast-Ended Skrewt than that. Moony - that's who he needed. If they were muggles, thought Harry, he would just ring him up. But with neither Hedwig or the Floo network available, he was a little lost as to how he could contact his guardian.

"Hello, Harry," said Ginny. She rose above the lip of the rooftop, then hopped off the Firebolt. A glance at his face and she asked, "What's wrong?"

Harry looked up as Ginny spoke, then down, before reminding himself of manners. Ginny wore one of Dudley's old pullovers that did not fit Harry even after a growth spurt, and, here he swallowed hard as his imagination ran free, possibly nothing else. Her lithe, alabaster legs were wonderfully bare, and the neck had slipped down and exposed a freckled shoulder. "Nothing," he replied. What could be wrong? "I was just, um, admiring the sky."

"Not much to admire in it - you can hardly see the stars," noted Ginny. She stretched, and Harry watched the hem of the pullover rise and fall an inch more.

"Yeah," agreed Harry. That was pathetic Potter, he upbraided himself. Try harder. "You look nice." In Dudley's old cast-offs - absolutely brilliant, git.

Ginny said nothing to that, but settled on her side next to him. "George is off on an errand; Ron and Hermione are having another of their 'flying lessons'."

"What's that face for? I think it's really good she's getting over her fear. That's really hard," said Harry.

"Something's hard all right. Did you ever wonder why she's in front of Ron?" asked Ginny.

"Well, so he could keep her on the broomstick, I suppose."

"Hah! She's riding a broomstick all right, and it's not the Firebolt. Didn't you ever notice she only screams at the end?"

Harry's eyes bulged. "What?! You mean - You're joking, right?"

"She'd never admit it, but I used your cloak. It's disgusting, and then she has the nerve to give me a hard time," complained Ginny.

Ron, thought Harry, has to be the luckiest bloke in Merlin's realm. Harry was not sure how to respond to Ginny, though. She had said it was disgusting, but it sounded like fun and she -had- brought the broom... "George is off too?" he asked instead of making the suggestion. This must be the Tower of the Mind thing, thought Harry, to say something besides what you really, really want to.

"Yeah. He's off looking for an owl, even if he says otherwise." Ginny moved closer, and draped an arm and leg over Harry.

"An owl?" asked Harry, though he was suddenly no longer interested in a solution to some problem he was having in what seemed ages ago.

"He does write to her. Gigi, I mean. He'll say it's about the Wheezes, but I'm starting to wonder if Fred's right and she did really get to him," whispered Ginny, her lips close to his ear. "I was wondering if we could go back to the tent and... do a little magic?"

"You mean?"

"I found where Hermione was keeping her notes," breathed the youngest Weasley.

v - v - v - v - v

Snape stared at the wizard who stood at the stained-glass window. The pane, dimly lit by the candles, looked out over an expanse of dark forest, and showed a horrific scene in which an obvious wizard had freed himself from the stake he was meant to be burned at, and was laying waste to the gathered crowd. Red dominated the palette. The man showed an anxious nervousness not unexpected when one faced the Dark Lord. In this case, however, the wizard had met the Dark Lord with relief and gratitude, and was now merely awaiting the outcome of the Dark Lord's intervention.

This wizard that Snape watched spoke only French, of which the former professor knew just a smattering. This was a quiet vigil. The Dark Lord, a more accomplished Legilimens than possibly even Dumbledore had been, used that to communicate with their host. It seemed inconceivable to Snape that the first task upon reaching France was to travel to this remote village, near the eastern border, on a mission of mercy. The French wizard had had the temerity to beg the Dark Lord for an audience, a boon, in exchange for his servitude, if the Dark Lord would use his power to heal his son. Such an impertinent request would normally be granted only if the lost Nagini needed food. The usual response depended on which of the Death Eaters was sent, but it was always unpleasant. Today, again, inconceivably, the Dark Lord had commiserated with the father before gathering the potions to see to the boy. The best healers in France had allegedly examined the youth, so Snape wondered at the charade. It had been nearly an hour since the Dark Lord had entered the bedroom and sealed the door. What did it all mean?

When the door finally opened, it was the boy who stepped across the threshold. He was pale and thin, with sunken cheeks, but obviously no longer unconscious. He looked like a third year, judged Snape. The potions master moved to view the room beyond the boy, and could not suppress a gasp of shock. The Dark Lord lay, eyes wide, in a spreading pool of blood, unmoving. No, thought Snape, his eyes snapping to the boy, who held a wand behind his back.

"Father," called the son. In English, noted Snape. He understood now.

"(My son! My beautiful boy!)" cried the French wizard joyously, moving to the boy quickly to embrace.

"Avada Kedavra."

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy-Who-Lived, rolled onto his side, pulling the sodden bedroll to cover his head. His scar burned, his skull ached, and his eye twitched. And, of course, he was bloody near drowned.

"I don't think that helped, Ron," observed Hermione.

"It did. 'E's not shouting anymore."

"That wasn't the hoop we were aiming for, you thick git!" complained Ginny.

"It's a start. I've had more experience with this than you."

Harry found that the wet blanket, while soothing to his damned scar and his eyes, was not otherwise comfortable and hard to breathe through. He wondered if a groan would be good enough, or would Ron just refill his bucket. His scar had not hurt like that for ages. Voldemort, Riddle, was happy. Ecstatic, even, and feeling confident.

"Harry?" called Ginny, her hands on his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Yes, thought Harry, her touch making his stomach do flips. Perhaps there was a ritual that could break the link. The earlier attempted ritual had not gone as Ginny had expected. There was no blue magical aura, least that he noticed. But he had been more than happy to give it a second try! Ginny had seemed pleased after the second attempt, which automatically meant that Harry was pleased. He promised himself to pay closer attention in the future as to what the magic was supposed to be for, though.

"Snap out of it, Potter. Ron's gone for more water," warned Ginny.

Harry rolled over. "I'm fine."

"What was it, Harry? What did you see?" asked Hermione at once.

"Voldemort's happy again," started Harry. He tried to judge which was worse for him, Voldemort happy, or angry. "I dunno why though. He killed two people."

"Death Eaters?" asked Ron hopefully. He had indeed returned with a full bucket. "He takes out more'n we do."

"Dunno - they didn't have masks, and I never saw them before. He called one of them, er, father?" reported Harry uncertainly. That made no sense. Riddle had killed his own father decades ago.

"A priest perhaps?" guessed Hermione. "Could you see the room? Did it look like a church?"

"Erm, it looked like a regular room, I suppose. A little like Grimauld Place, actually," replied Harry, but he was thinking about Voldemort calling someone father.

"What's the odd bit you're thinking about now?" asked Ginny.

"It's just, er, the man Riddle called 'father'. He was speaking French, but I could understand it. He called Voldemort 'son', and a 'boy'," related Harry.

"French?" barked Ron in surprise. "He bloody knows we're here?"

"That is one possibility. He could also be on his way to Durmstrang, instead," offered Hermione.

"Voldemort seemed shorter than usual, too," added Harry thoughtfully. "Like the mantel over the fireplace was much higher than normal."

"Not a good look for a Dark Lord," noted Ginny.

"One doesn't have to be that tall if everyone else is grovelling," said Hermione.

"There's a cheery thought."

"Should we have guards or something?" asked Ron. "You know - in case?"

"I rather doubt that would stop him," came a voice from the corner of the tent. "We'll travel faster if we aren't knackered," hinted George.

"I suppose," agreed Hermione. Harry shifted his soggy bedroll.

"My blanket's dry, Harry," cooed Ginny.

"So is his, once he uses his wand," reminded George firmly.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle woke, and found herself in her own bed. She did not remember getting up, so someone must have moved her. Her head was still bandaged; a visit to the camp's healer was needed. But first, she would -

No, first was Soleil! If no had fed him then he was bound to be furious, and the stall was only made of wood. He would get out and stomp, kick, and bite things, people. For which, Gabrielle knew, she would be unfairly blamed.

A rumble from her stomach made Gabrielle think again. There was no screaming and shouting, nor the crunch of curly brass tubes under hoof. She did not remember having dinner, so first she would have some breakfast herself. The bread she had hidden in her handbag was probably stale by now, and the cheese somewhat crusty, but both could be fixed with the careful application of heat. While the tent had nothing to cook with or on, Gabrielle needed nothing but her wand. The cool trick with the swirling ball of flames could, if one was very careful with how close things got, make toast and melt cheese. Or, incinerate both. Gabrielle had used the technique three times in the dorms at Beauxbatons; twice successfully, once - well, a Howler from Maman had covered that ground already.

When she got to the table in the tent's eating area, though, Gabrielle found a plate with fresh bread, eggs, and farm cheese warm and waiting for her. It was a complete surprise for Gabrielle. When she first arrived, she had not even been called for meals, and now her breakfast was brought to her? This was definitely better! Gabrielle discarded her stale bread, but put the cheese back in the handbag. It was still edible, and she did not know how long this new arrangement would last. She took up the fork set next to the plate. A cynical thought wondered if it had been Abby, feeling sorry for her again; Nona, missing the kitchen help; or Festeller, feeling guilty about making her stand there, who had brought the food.

Suspecting Festeller made Gabrielle wonder again what had happened. She had some strange memories, but none explained why her head was wrapped. Gabrielle remembered the musty odor from the opening that, due to her grounding in the sensory humours, had brought on a Seer's trance. That explained why she had very vivid, and very disturbing, memories of people burning. Of burning people, with magic. And, there had been a vampire!

How that had resulted in a head injury, though, was still a mystery. Gabrielle would have guessed that she had fallen into the hole, or doorway, but she was not confetti. The next logical answer was that the cavern - no, the tower - the fallen tower had... fallen some more. It was clearly an unsafe situation for a student to be placed in! Papa, when he hears of it, envisioned Gabrielle, will change Maman's mind, and her days of peeling vegetables and vanishing filth will be at an end. She could have a proper holiday then. One that involved laying in the sun, however pointlessly, with Monique, or even visiting Fleur, and the Burrow, in Britain.

Britain, though she tried not to consciously think it, meant possibly seeing George, and either apologizing on her knees or slapping him silly. She alternated between the two, depending on how mortified she felt at getting caught versus how much she felt George had over-reacted. Gabrielle's heart had leapt and she had nearly sliced off a finger with excitement when she saw the owl with the thick letter sweeping in low. The correspondence had only been from Maman, reminding her of the importance of the opportunity, how to politely address her professors, and many other things which Gabrielle had skipped over. The owl had been thoroughly unpleasant, and while it had waited for her to quickly write reassurances to her Maman that she was doing everything the letter suggested, whatever that was, it would not take a second letter to George. The bird refused even after Gabrielle showed that her two messages together weighed less than Maman's original missive - Maman had very specific, detailed ideas as to proper behavior. Gabrielle had amended her reply to ask Papa for some galleons so she could pay the next owl.

Finished with her breakfast, Gabrielle put on the metal overshoes and clumped her way to Soleil's stall. She expected it to be half-collapsed from his impatient kicking if he had not been fed. He was, after all, thought Gabrielle, still growing - poor Montaigne. From the outside, the stall looked whole. Gabrielle decided that Soleil deserved an extra measure of oats soaked in the liquor for self-control. That might be spoiling him, thought Gabrielle, unless he had not been fed, in which case it was only catching him up.

Actually, now that Gabrielle thought about it, Soleil was never this quiet even if everything was to his satisfaction. She had the idea that the colt liked everyone else to know he was around, to remind them that things should stay to his satisfaction. Fleur was a little like that. Soleil could not, wondered Gabrielle, starve to death in a single night, could he? She hurried forward with the heavy bucket of feed, noting even as she did that yet another bottle seemed to have gone missing. She would have to tell Festeller to look into it, unless another rampage was fine with him.

"Soleil?" called Gabrielle from the stall's door. No boisterous response today, just a quiet snuffle from the shadows. The hairs went up on the back of Gabrielle's neck - something was very wrong. "I am sorry, Soleil. I was, eh, hurt yesterday and..." She trailed off. With her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see that the huge Abraxan had pressed himself against the back wall of the stall, and looked as if it had seen a dragon. There was not a bit of hay left in the box. He should have been nosing the pail before she had even stepped through the gate, but instead the animal shuffled nervously. Gabrielle set the bucket down and went directly to him. The towering creature seem to try to hide behind her. "What is wrong? Did you eat something you were not supposed to?" He shook his massive head, but it was probably coincidence. She looked around the stall. There was some damage, but nothing that appeared half-eaten.

Gabrielle spotted it hung on a nail near the front corner of the enclosure. A bizarre little figure, made from thin, twisted twigs of hazel. Where had that come from? Gabrielle took down the crude doll from the wall, and turned to Soleil. "Who put this up?" she asked, more to herself that to the colt. Even if he knew, she was not likely to understand the answer.

She had barely finished the rhetorical question when Soleil reared and neighed in fear, front hooves lashing out. Gabrielle startled, stepped back, and tripped over the bucket of whiskey and oats. "Soleil! Stop that!" she scolded, angry because the dripping mass had spilled and because she was covered in it. One night of hunger, thought Gabrielle in irritation, and Soleil has completely lost his senses! "It is just some twigs." Gabrielle held it up and the animal bridled again. Oh mon Dieu, thought Gabrielle. How ridiculous was this? A pathetic display - he is lucky the herd is not here to see. Gabrielle got to her feet with her back turned, hiding the offending item. She carried it out of the stall, set it on the ground, and called back to Soleil, "Watch." With practiced ease, she conjured the hungry yellow flames and set the strange totem alight. It burned with an oddly intense, twisting green flame and, just for a moment, she imagined she could see Nona's dark eyes in the fire. These were things Gabrielle's mind noted, but only recalled later.

That was because one should not conjure flame if one has been soaked in 180 proof whiskey. Pretty, bluish, nearly invisible flames raced up her sleeves and spread across her front. These were followed by smokier, sturdier flames as the fabric of the blouse began to burn. Beneath the fabric was her skin, which sent very clear, very important messages to her brain. Those enabled her to move very quickly from surprise to panic. Gabrielle screamed and batted at the burning blouse.

"Aguamenti!" A torrent of water doused Gabrielle, except it had been from behind. She spun around to face the source, another gush from which was on its way from Abby's wand. "Merlin, Gabby! Are you all right?"

Gabrielle did not feel like answering. Was it ever possible to be on fire and be all right? With the doll's destruction and Abby's arrival, Soleil decided that it was time to reassert himself. His sudden appearance, loud neighing, and bared teeth sent Abby into retreat with a shriek. It sent Gabrielle into a rage. She turned on Abraxan, slightly toasted and thoroughly wet. "Non! Not after the way you were earlier! You are like this after being afraid of a doll? Non, you, eh, [bugger bastard]!" Gabrielle stomped back to the stall, furious. The confused colt turned and retreated back to the rear wall. Disgusted, because she did not think that he should cower anymore than he should strut, Gabrielle spun again, parried, and thrust her wand out. She snapped, "Accio hay bale!" The result infuriated her more, since when the hay bale did arrive she had no way to stop it, and it sent her tumbling. Landing on the floor in the deep recesses of an Abraxan's stall was not pleasant, and definitely not hygienic. Gabrielle threw caution to the wind, and started vanishing everything that displeased her. Except Soleil.

1 You are bleeding, little one.

2 Leave now, little one.

3 You will help, little one.

4 Sleep.