Chapter Twenty-one - First Contact
How, demanded Gabrielle once more of the awful fates that damned her, is this a summer holiday? She was staggering back to her tent, unsteadily, after the evening's chores. Fred may have wanted a word, but what he sent was a letter. Then another, then another, and over and over. He should have just used an owl, thought Gabrielle. She never learned what Fred wanted, because only three words into the message Nona lost her patience. The ladle had harried Gabrielle from her own bedroom, through the common room, and out of the tent. Completely mortifying - it was not the sort of exit that she would have chosen. It was, decided Gabrielle, Fred's fault. What was wrong with an owl?
Nona never regained her patience in Gabrielle's estimation. The old witch was quite put out by the little W's that Gabrielle was carving the potatoes into to celebrate George's arrival. She would have done a more appropriate G, but that proved too difficult. The extra cuts had not taken that much longer! Anyway, the preparations had all gone for naught, since neither George nor any of the others had come to the evening meal. Which, Gabrielle realized in horror, was her fault. She had told them to stay in her room because of Hemorrhoid, and had not had a chance to get them or the unicorn out. Which, noted a relieved second thought, actually made it Nona's fault. Or still Fred's.
After the meal, Gabrielle had to face Soleil, who was quite put out by the lack of attention that he felt he had deserved. The colt was only partially mollified by Gabrielle's recounting of the trouble the mare was causing. Partially mollified for an Abraxan, though, meant that something would soon be kicked, hard. Gabrielle finished the job with lavish praise for his efforts, a brushing that left her arms feeling like lead, and half a pail of single-malt whiskey, straight up. It was treatment fit for a prince; when Soleil got back to Montaigne, thought Gabrielle, one of them was in for a shock.
Nona, it turned out, was not finished with Gabrielle. The dour witch dragged her back into the cottage, where two of Nona's customers waited. Gabrielle could tell it was not a seance because it was not the fancy crystal ball on the table, and because her barrel had not a bit of padding. She sat to the side of Nona, which was unusual, and was not part of the joining of hands or the chanting - the ladle saw to that. Just why her presence was required at all then was a mystery to Gabrielle; she had not even been asked, well, ladled to serve tea. Events became even more mysterious when Nona paused to swallow most of a glass of clear liquid. She passed the remainder of the glass to Gabrielle. Had she, wondered Gabrielle, never heard of hygiene? Gabrielle took the glass, turned it exactly, conspicuously halfway, and swallowed. The bitter drink left a coating on her tongue. A second, appalled thought demanded to know why she had not bothered to even try to ask what it was. Especially after the table and chairs started to sag and drip like melting wax.
The crystal ball on the table filled with an unexpected, roiling mist. Gabrielle could see nothing in it, especially once her barrel began melting as well and she had trouble staying upright. Nona apparently could, though, and finally spoke at length to the pair of matronly women, her standard patrons. They did not seemed pleased, but no one argued with Nona. At least not for long. While the two women gathered their headscarves and handbags, Gabrielle faced Nona's scrutiny. The witch looked into Gabrielle's eyes until the crone's dark pupils were all Gabrielle could see. When Nona pulled back, she looked distinctly disappointed. And drippy, her nose a dribbling candle.
Since Nona had to escort her customers back to what Gabrielle assumed was the muggle world, Gabrielle had to leave the little cottage also. Negotiating the door as it sagged proved impossible, and the jamb twisted at the last moment and smashed into her nose. It was easier just to crawl through the shifting exit.
The after-effects of Nona's potion were one reason Gabrielle was staggering back to her tent. The other was that she was carrying half a bale of hay. It was not magically lightened; aiming her wand was difficult when it kept bending. That actually carrying the dried grass was at all reasonable was a testament to the summer enslavement.
Gabrielle careened through the opening to her tent, having thrown herself sideways away from the writhing edge of Festeller's hole. Her inelegant entry, which ended with her covered in hay after somersaulting over the heavy load, went unnoticed by the occupants of the room. The remains of the room - much of the furniture was toppled, torn, or broken. Even several of the creepy mounted animal heads that decorated the walls had fallen, with more knocked askew. It was easy to see why. The unicorn, the aptly named Hemorrhoid, was rearing and slashing its horn at the stupid little owl. The bird fluttered against the wall near the ceiling, like a moth at a window, keeping out of the horn's reach. Gabrielle was horrified by this, but then the owl dove at the unicorn's hind quarters. Seizing a hair of the silken tail in its beak, the owlet clung to it until Hemorrhoid's own thrashing sent the owl flying, plucking the hair. Gabrielle could tell by the accumulation of fallen locks on the ground that this had been going on for a while. She knew she should have tried to get a real owl instead of this ratty, useless - No, thought Gabrielle suddenly. George had arrived soon after the owl had taken her letter. He could not have travelled all the way from Paris to Albania in one day, unless he had gotten a portkey, and Gabrielle rather doubted that one could even get a portkey to this hinterland. That meant, and this was logic, that the little owl might not have been lying, and had actually delivered her post. The bird, she decided, deserved a name. A good name. Like... eh... Lieutenant Mimsey Plumes, l'hibou courrier de la Maison Delacour.
Of course, that singular accomplishment did not excuse the current behavior. "-What- is going on here?" snapped Gabrielle. Beaked and equine faces turned to her, and the tail-swishing, wing-flapping, whinnying, and hooting commenced. The squirrel, Sauveuret, emerged from the ear on the mounted head of a three-horned water buffalo and added his tail-flicking and chattering. Gabrielle did not know what to make of any of it, other than to see why the indoors was separated from the outdoors.
"I'm very disappointed in you," declared Gabrielle finally. It was a standard from Maman, remembered Gabrielle, from when she and Fleur would squabble. That was before Fleur got a wand and could always win. She moved in closer to get a grip on Hemorrhoid's horn. "Both of you," she added. Gabrielle figured that Maman said that to cover all possibilities. It was the first inkling that Maman was, perhaps, not infallible.
The ebony, spiral horn felt sticky. Gabrielle looked at her hand. There was blood smeared on it. If she was at Beauxbatons, Gabrielle would not have been surprised. Professor Elevagre was often too busy bandaging himself to clean up his charges right away. That was very gross, but Gabrielle found she could put up with quite a lot for the Outstanding. But, he was not here, and neither the owl not the squirrel looked injured. Physically injured - they certainly seemed to be insisting that they had been wronged somehow. "Eh, whose blood is this?" she asked, scanning the floor for more stains. Or, she thought with a shudder, a body. That did a lot to clear her head.
It was not a good question, and all the flailing of tails was not going to provide an answer. Gabrielle was already heading for her room, because that was where the victim had most likely come from. Had she not told them to stay inside? Of the five, she knew that three were most likely to upset the unicorn. And of those three, well, she could not see Harry Potter getting killed by the creature. He had survived the centaur attack before the wedding, after all. That left only two, and in her mind Ron was easily twice as likely to annoy Hemorrhoid as George. But, logically, or perhaps numerically, that still left one chance in three that George had a gaping hole right through him, like Pippin Elmsley had had. An inappropriately pleased thought noted that George would need a lot of care to heal, and many visits. Gabrielle mentally pledged to stay at his bedside until he was fully recovered. Unless, came a more appropriately worried thought, Hemorrhoid's aim had been truer than Impy's, and George lay dying without the comfort of his one true love. She started to run.
Which would have made for a dramatic entrance, except that the door to her room did not budge at all when she collided with it. The door had been magically sealed. Gabrielle picked herself off the floor. She was locked out of her own room, which would have left her quite miffed if this had not been a crisis. She pulled out her wand and tried the curse-breaking spell. The fact that the end of her wand wobbled back and forth limply to her eyes did not matter, since she was supposed to feel around for the 'verklunk', or whatever.
Fortunately, metal overshoes make excellent door knockers, and they worked both on the door and the wall next to it. Gabrielle was guessing that the door had been Imperturbed in addition to being sealed, but she doubted the walls had the same. She tried for a clearly non-unicorn pattern of knocks: 'wand and a cauldron, broomstick'. More like resounding clangs than knocks, really, but this was an emergency.
The door opened a few, cautious inches and the end of a willow wand emerged. "[You don't have to bash the bloody walls down,]" complained Ron, and Gabrielle's heart sank. If Ron was able to answer the door, then it was George's blood, and it was George who might even now be hovering near death, barely clinging to this world. She had to get to him, she had to be the presence that anchored his soul to this world. Gabrielle wedged herself rudely through the door and past Ron.
"[Where is 'e?]" cried Gabrielle once she had dashed through the sitting area to the bedroom. "[Is 'e still alive...]" George, Gabrielle could see, was lying, and here her breath caught a little, on her actual bed, but not covered in blood or bandages. In fact, no one appeared injured in anyway. "[Eh...]"
"[Cheers, luv,]" greeted George without the usual volume.
"[You're bloody welcome,]" groused Ron, coming up behind her.
"[Where's the fire Gigi?]"
Confused by the unexpected health, Gabrielle began to answer before thinking. "[Ze fire? It is over. Zere, zere were zese, eh, bags zat... Eh, none of you are hurt?]"
"[Disappointed are you? You might have said something about the unicorn,]" growled Ginny. Her eyes, noted Gabrielle, were reddened. More trouble with Harry.
"[So there was a fire?]" asked Hermione.
Gabrielle's more alert thoughts caught up and she ignored that question. "[I, eh, did not say? I am certain zat I did,]" said Gabrielle, though she was not very certain.
"[No, you didn't. Not specifically,]" said Hermione. Ron went over to sit back down next to her, and she leaned into him.
"[We thought the 'fiercely shy creature' was the squirrel,]" explained Ginny.
"[Sauveuret? No, Hémorroïde is ze unicorn. And I said fierce and shy, I zink,]" said Gabrielle.
"[Hémorroïde? Like piles on your bum? What sort of name is that for a unicorn?]" asked Hermione.
Not a polite name, frowned Gabrielle. She wished now that she had not given such a rude name; the mare would be very embarrassed if they laughed at her. Remembering, she held up her hand. "[Zen, eh, whose blood is zis?]"
"[Probably one of those German blokes,]" guessed George. He rolled onto his side to face her. German? That could be either Stanislaw or Festeller, thought Gabrielle.
"[Did he, eh, say 'oui' very much?]" Gabrielle tried to sound curious instead of hopeful.
"[We couldn't really hear all that well,]" replied Harry from where he was laying on the extra mattresses. He sounded depressed to Gabrielle, which meant that she had been right about him and Ginny. "[One of them was calling for a Mesulina.]"
"[Eh, do you mean Melusina?]" Harry shrugged, but Gabrielle had already concluded that he did. "[Oh mon Dieu! It is Herr Schnit-somezing! I told him to watch out for ze unicorns.]"
No one else seemed to share the same sense of dread and potential disaster as she did, which Gabrielle found strange, but not as strange as the overwhelming lethargy from her guests. Something had happened; something more than Ginny and Harry quarreling. Then Gabrielle remembered. "[What did Fred say?]"
v - v - v - v - v
Lord Voldemort gazed out over the darkened land below. The hills fell away to farmland, which then gave way to an empty floodplain. He preferred heights, and had drawn from the rocks and ground a tower befitting a wizard. Severus, as was his nature, skulked in a tent nearby, and below. The edifice was an extravagant use of power, but the magic here in the isolation just north-east of Albania was plentiful, and his recuperation was swift.
The Dark Lord's hand strayed to his wand as his thoughts turned angry. At least, the wand he currently used. His wand, the Wand, was at Hogwarts; he was sure of it now. He shook himself though. The isolation also meant there was no target for his irritation. The so-called Waverly fields creating the two smaller sanctuaries had been collapsed, vanishing hundreds of wizards and witches into the nothingness, but many times that number had escaped when his servants had failed to completely collapse the largest. Dolohov could stay in his little cabinets at Azkaban until he rotted, but Rowle must -feel- Lord Voldemort's displeasure. The Death Eater would not be able to hide in France for long, because he was an idiot. The Dark Lord's spies in the Ministry would inform him when the fool was returned to Britain.
The Ministry - Thicknesse was surely finished now and, as the one putatively behind his elevation, so was the Chairman. The loss of the persona, considered the Dark Lord, was only a setback if the Ministry was the prize. His aim now was the extermination of the parasites feeding off the magic, his magic, Lord Voldemort's very essence. The vermin had eluded his trap, however, and there could be no second attempt.
Lord Voldemort, an immortal soul in a taken body, turned to face the breeze. He could practically taste the magic in the air. To the south of the tower was a lake, the middle of which was the border. On its shore, now lit by artificial light as dusk gave way to night, was a stiffly formal building that, one imagined, was expected to show the Worker's pride in constructing it. Tedious muggle architecture had been everywhere when he had last travelled here, decades ago. The Dark Lord recalled his investigation of the immortality of vampires. He had been truly surprised at how vulnerable the creatures actually were, assuming one was at least slightly adept at Occlumency. The path had proved a false one, but a foolish old wizard there, who dared think himself an expert on vampires, although having carefully avoided any, had a grimoire in which was found the way to the right path. The wizard had been reluctant to part with the tome. The spot where he fell marked where the Cup had been hidden, which the wretch Wormtail had retrieved.Was supposed to have retrieved - it was not, the Dark Lord thought irritably, yet within his grasp. The Horcrux, encumbered with protective magic as it was, would be detectable by any competent Ministry. That probably, the Dark Lord smirked cynically, meant it was perfectly safe. Not that the various ministries would be looking for such. The effort would be for the duties collected on imported magical items. The secret hidden within the relic would, Lord Voldemort felt certain, remain as such, but the item itself would not be in his control. Wormtail was nothing more than a marionette, the Hand of Lord Voldemort, but the strings of the marionette had been lost when his own body had failed. Perhaps a new Mark for Wormtail would reconnect the rat to his master's will. Or perhaps a relatively quick death would be a suitable reward for the Gryffindor traitor's service.
The lights of the distant towns were now noticeable. They seemed brighter and more colorful than the Dark Lord remembered. Then, the region had been suffering through the socialist revolutions that had followed Grindelwald's war. The regimes sucked at the souls and will of the inhabitants nearly as well as dementors. The number of wizards and witches in these areas had continued to dwindle. The war, the Dark Lord knew, had not greatly affected the populace of Great Britain, so the history of it and of the wizard behind the conflict were glossed over. Only two or three lectures covered the decade long rise and fall of the wizard who now literally rotted in Nurmengard. Only curiosity-driven study gave a fuller picture, and only touring the countryside and speaking to survivors revealed what the Dark Lord now realized was the true lesson of the war. Like many hard-won bits of knowledge, it was deceptively simple: it was difficult for one wizard to kill another. While he, Lord Voldemort, had killed dozens, and his plots had now killed hundreds, it was decidedly slow-going. That was not a concern when all he had sought was obedience, but to accomplish oblivion a certain level of... efficiency... was needed. Muggles, the war had shown, could be extremely efficient in slaughter. What should be keeping Ministers of Magic awake at night the world over was that the muggle armies' capacity for carnage was not limited only to their fellow lesser beings. Entire magical villages, enclaves, and reserves had been lost to the muggle penchant for flying metal shards.
Not, of course, due to conscious effort by the muggles. Guiding their armies with an unseen hand was the power Grindelwald had wielded. After that, it was simply a matter of numbers and time. Perhaps, thought the Dark Lord, another smirk playing across his youthful face, that was why the history of magic had become the history of ancient magic. History, it is said, is written by the victors, and the victors were not the ones who were afraid. A study of the current state of international politics, the muggle variety, was needed. For the moment, however, it was time to catch a rat.
v - v - v - v - v
This, thought Gabrielle, was more like it. Fred's message had brought word of the catastrophe, with hundreds having been lost. Which, obviously, was not the good part. The repetition of the terrible news brought a mournful lull, during which Gabrielle excused herself to the de-Abraxanation chamber to get cleaned up. She knew that she, and her clothes, smelled of Soleil. Stank, if one was not inured to it. Gabrielle selected the skirt and stretchy green top that she had wanted, but quietly. Now did not seem like the time to rub Ginny's nose in it. When she changed, she hiked the skirt up a few centimeters - all she could manage without some rope to hold it in place.
Presently, Gabrielle was back in her bedroom, looking, to her eye, decidedly more mature. She lay on the bed with George. Not exactly next to him, not yet, but she was slowly shifting toward him. He should have someone to comfort him too! Eventually she would have to move the jealous Pepi-Z out of the way. Her owl, Lieutenant Mimsey Plumes, was also on the bed, at the foot of it. He was looking quite squashed, and that was probably his own fault. Gabrielle had found the unicorn quietly munching the hay while leaning her rear flank against the wall of the tent. At first, Gabrielle had worried that the mare's leg had gotten worse, but then she noticed the mottled brown wing poking up from between unicorn and wall. She did not bother scolding either of the animals, scooping up both the flattened bird and the scattered unicorn hair. Gabrielle would figure out a way to re-inflate the Lieutenant later; reattaching the tail hairs just meant tying a lot of knots.
Oddly, or disappointingly, depending on how Gabrielle thought of it, the display of her shapely, well, at least toned, legs appeared to have little effect on George. She knew how boys pretended not to stare at parts of Monique; George was not doing that. She was definitely not just knees and elbows anymore, and there was not a red ear tip on him in the least. Had it all been the pink goose eggs of Mrs. Udderly's Magical Mammaries? It was not fair! Gabrielle could feel the perfect life she had dreamed of slipping away.
Yet, George did talk to her. With her. First about the calamity, as Gabrielle tried to understand why they were so afraid of muggles. Her own family mixed with muggles all the time. It could hardly be avoided if one wanted some decent shopping. Or coffee. George explained that individual muggles were all right, if a bit dim, but their governments could call up huge, organized lots of them and, in a pinch, burn mile-wide craters half a mile deep into the ground. He had not laughed when he said that, so Gabrielle believed it, but questioned if she really could. That did not seem like the kind of thing muggles did, except in movies Philippe liked. Everything exploded in those.
Since George's replies were getting shorter and shorter with each of her questions about the sanctuaries, Gabrielle moved on and told him about how she was learning the art of curse-breaking. It was a grandiose introduction to a topic which quickly narrowed down to the events in the fallen tower. She thought she told the story well, with drama and suspense, and speculated how many other people would find a vampire attack and the horrible treatment afterwards amusing. Obviously, guessed a second thought, at least one in his twin. Gabrielle did not want to put on airs though, not to George, so she admitted to the trick with the nullified iron. She hoped that made her look clever rather than hopelessly pathetic.
George laughed quietly at that too, then paused with furrowed brow. "[You mean those things you had on earlier?]"
"[Oui. I wear zem when I see Soleil,]" explained Gabrielle, just in case he thought that was her idea of fashion, although she was beginning to doubt he would even notice such things.
"[Oil them everyday, do you?]"
"[Eh, what? No. Zey, eh, do not need oil,]" replied Gabrielle. At least, no one had ever told her that the iron overshoes did. They could not blame her if no one had said!
"[I doubt it's proper nullified iron then. That stuff rusts if you even look at it. Never buy more than a three day supply unless you've got a barrel of cetacean oil for the rest. Or a whacking great need for red-brown dust,]" advised George.
"[Oh, eh, okay,]" said Gabrielle. She wondered if she should take notes. Did he not see how her skirt had slid upwards just a little more as she had shifted to get 'comfortable'? The hemline was past Maman's limit and nearing Fleur's; Papa's idea of modesty was exceeded even if she wore the skirt properly, because he was silly. It took a lot of effort to be so subtle.
"[Who is Soleil?]" asked Ginny. An innocent question that came with a look of disapproval aimed at the creeping fashion. "[Another student? This is a mixed dorm, right?]"
Gabrielle rolled her eyes at such a weak attempt. George knew who, and what, Soleil was because, well, he does write, and she had written to him about the colt. "[Zat is being silly, Ginny. Soleil, he is ze Abraxan, one of ze very famous flying horses of Beauxbatons.]"
"[I know what an Abraxan is,]" muttered Ginny. It suddenly occurred to Gabrielle that if Ginny did not know who Soleil was, then George had kept her letters private.
"[They brought one of those? Here? You can see muggle buildings from here!]" exclaimed Hermione.
"[Zat is not a problem. I use ze diadem when I ride him.]" Gabrielle could see that if she were going to have an adult, private, and uninterrupted conversation with George, with possible snuggling, and also a real kiss at the end of the night, then she would have to get the others, especially Ginny, out of her room. A demure second thought considered if she should not have George leave as well - Papa would explode if he knew. Gabrielle ignored this, deciding that what they did was more important than where they did it. A memory of the woodcut images from her Grandmere's book played through Gabrielle's mind; perhaps staying in her room, on the bed, was not the best idea. She could feel herself starting to blush.
"[You can ride an Abraxan? I thought they hated wizards,]" said Ginny.
Gabrielle, who was not interested in talking about Soleil with Ginny, answered, "[Zey do not like, eh, many zings, but it is not hard if zey know you.]"
"[And that's the trick, luv, isn't it? Hagrid gets on with most creatures, but even he took a kick to the eggs that had him talking like Flitwick for a week!]" recounted George, getting laughs and groans from the others. Gabrielle smiled, but did not join in. She was losing the moment.
"[What was that about a diadem?]" asked Hermione.
Gabrielle sighed quietly. George had scooted himself up so that he now sat against the headboard of the bed. Why, she thought with regret, would anyone care? "[Ze diadem, it makes you and ze animal invisible. When you, eh, ride. It is ze Diadem, of, of, eh...]" Gabrielle could not quite remember. The sudden realization, since George had rearranged himself, of where she would, to others, judgemental others, appear to be staring had flustered her. Also, it was not like that piece of trivia was going to be on an exam. Gabrielle moved to copy George's position.
"[You don't know?]" prompted Ginny.
"[I forget,]" replied Gabrielle offhandedly. Sitting was not nearly as intimate, or potentially intimate, but when she had shifted it had been closer to George. Pepi-Z's feeble protests were short-lived; Gabrielle dropped him to the floor. She was now, with only a slight lean, in physical contact with him. Victory!
All right, Gabrielle chided herself, that was a little ridiculous. She continued, "[You can ask Professor Festeller. He, eh, likes zese old zings.]"
"[Think he might know about the things from the Hogwarts founders?]" asked Harry.
"[What's a diadem anyway?]" This was from Ron.
"[It's a decorative band that goes around your head,]" explained Hermione.
"[Oh, you mean like a crown, sort of thing?]"
"[No. Crowns go on your head, like a hat.]"
"[Fleur wore one at the wedding, right?]"
"[No, Harry. That was a tiara, which one wears in one's hair. A diadem goes across your forehead.]"
"[So, like one of them tiara things but too big and slips down?]" suggested Ron.
"[Er, well, yes, I suppose you could think of it like that,]" agreed Hermione reluctantly.
"[Why do we care?]" asked Ginny.
It was a good question, thought Gabrielle. She certainly did not care to discuss a comparative study of decorative headgear through the ages. Although, that did remind her that if she did not bring Hemorrhoid back to the forest then it would be very crowded in her room tonight. "[I will show you it, zen I will ride Hemor-, eh, Hemma back to the forest.]"
"[You can ride the unicorn too?]" asked Hermione. Was it surprise or doubt? Gabrielle could not tell.
"[Of course,]" replied Gabrielle as if it were only natural. She glanced at George, but could not tell from his face if he was proud of her. Or even listening - he had the metal bug out again.
"[You're going to ride starkers through the camp?!]" blurted Ginny.
"[Eh, what? No. Zat is only ze myzz anyway. You should know zis. Also, eh, Hemma is a filly, so it is easy, I zink,]" explained Gabrielle. "[Wizz ze diadem no one will see her.]"
"[Can I try riding her, just a little? I rode a thestral once,]" pleaded Ginny. Gabrielle thought about that and smiled, sensing possible leverage in getting the redhead to butt out. "[What are you cackling about?]"
"[I do not cackle!]"
v - v - v - v - v
"[But why's it got a half-eaten, dead bird stuck to it?]"
"[I have already explained zis! Ze diadem makes everyzing below it, eh, invisible when you are riding. Zat means ze top of your head can be seen.]"
"[Yeah, right, that quaffle is through the hoop. Pretty daft of that Gross Bull witch. But the half-eaten bird?]"
"[Zat covers you head, so no one sees.]"
"[It's Grosboule, Ginny,]" corrected Hermione.
"[But the half-]"
"[It was not eaten before!]" snapped Gabrielle. Hemorrhoid tossed her head at the outburst, picking Gabrielle up into the air as she clung to the horn.
"[Oh, oh! I think you're startling her,]" warned Hermione, stepping back quickly. She was whispering; why was a mystery to Gabrielle.
"[I don't zink she is afraid of me,] said Gabrielle. "[And she was making a lot of noise before too.]" Gabrielle gently tugged at the unicorn's chin hair anyway. Unicorns liked that. When the creature's head dipped again, Gabrielle asked, "Your leg is better, no? It does not hurt?" The was no apparent reply, but Gabrielle could see Hemorrhoid shift her weight back and forth, so she assumed that meant that the salve had worked. "Good! Then we can go back to the forest."
"[Will she let me ride?]" asked Ginny anxiously. She was bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. Gabrielle noted it, and stored it away for future use. Who was a child?
"[I have not asked zis yet,]" said Gabrielle. She resisted the urge to be Fleur.
"[How do you know what she is saying?]" whispered Hermione.
Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders. As far as she was concerned, the unicorn did not say anything. Hemorrhoid would either agree, or someone might end up gored. "[Zey, eh, do not speak. But, eh, we will know if she does not want to.]" Gabrielle added the last in case Hermione would then think it stupid to talk to the unicorn at all. Said unicorn was now beginning to irritate Gabrielle. Hemorrhoid had apparently decided that Gabrielle's hair needed chewing. As the side closest to the animal had very little, nearly a meter of sharp, dangerous horn swung up and around. Hermione retreated behind Ginny, who did not seem to recognise the potential disaster, as Gabrielle struggled to stay clear of it.
With the direction of the spiral rapier, and who was in front of it, decided, Hemorrhoid nibbled gently. If it were not for the occasional tugs, Gabrielle would have hardly noticed. At least, in comparison to Soleil. She did notice though, because when the spell she had used on her hair wore off both sides would now be a complete mess. "Will you let them ride?" murmured Gabrielle. "Just, eh, around the tent?" Definitely not outside, just in case it was possible to be One with an ordinary muggle forest also.
The mare turned a dark eye to Gabrielle, seemingly considering the idea while quietly crunching - Crunching? Gabrielle's hand flew to her hair. Several of the transfigured beads were missing, though it was more correct to say that they were now somewhere else. Somewhere that they should not be. "Non, non! You can not eat those!" warned Gabrielle. "They are made from soap." She pried at the rubbery lips and put her hand into the mare's mouth. If you do not watch every second, thought Gabrielle irritably. She felt around for the pieces, and Hemorrhoid's head reared a little at the intrusion. Gabrielle's fingers closed on a piece of bead just as she was grabbed around her middle and suddenly yanked backwards. Since she had a very firm grip on the mare's horn - the metric ton - she did not go far, but her feet dangled in the air as she was suspended between opposing forces.
"What are you doing?" shouted Gabrielle. Hermione was pulling hard against Gabrielle's grip.
"What are -you- doing?" repeated Hermione. "[You'll lose that hand!]"
"[Eh, what?]" That, thought Gabrielle, was a very odd thing to say. She had to know that unicorns were herbivores. "[Let go!]" Hemorrhoid, more annoyed than startled, twisted away from the bushy-haired witch and kicked out with a rear hoof.
Fortunately, the two witches both had a tenacious, or desperate, hold on what was in their grasp. Gabrielle's arm was stretched painfully as Hermione was pulled off her feet and dragged after her. The kick missed its target, and the mare trotted a short distance away with neither of the girls in tow as the horn slipped free.
"Herm-my-onee!" whined Ginny. "Now look what you've done."
"Was I supposed to just let her get hurt?" Gabrielle, who was currently under the older girl, wondered if she should point out the obvious. How were skinned knees in anyway mature?
v - v - v - v - v
That, vowed Gabrielle, was enough of unicorns. She was picking her way back carefully across the moonlit fields after returning Hemorrhoid back to the forest. She no longer felt bad about choosing that name, and she hoped to Merlin that she would be able to find her other shoe. Her attempts to summon it had not succeeded, and the bark and tree leaves she had transfigured had crumbled.
Farm fields, Gabrielle tried to remember, were not supposed to be full of rocks, were they? She did not recall, and if they were not then no one had told this farmer. Certainly she had stepped on a lot of sharp ones. Gabrielle could not be certain where the missing shoe was because she had not been wearing her shoes, nor anything else save the diadem, when she had set out. It was all, she decided, Ginny's fault. Gabrielle had told the youngest Weasley repeatedly that there was no actual requirement for nudity, but Ginny did not listen anymore than Monique had. And if Ginny had a List of embarrassing moments, then the ridiculous squeaking and squealing she had done as Hemorrhoid moved with some sort of jarring half-prance, half-walk would be on it. After panting out a demand for more time, the red-haired witch then nearly collapsed onto the floor from the mare's back. Ginny had completely lost her senses.
Hermione was no better. After shying away from the creature before, she was shedding her clothes and climbing onto the chair almost before Ginny finished sliding off. Gabrielle had expected more... sanity. After all, Hermione knew almost everything and could do all kinds of magic. She did not know that this was not necessary? It made no sense to Gabrielle, but then she remembered that Hermione talked to her cat and was dating Ron. Ginny, from the floor, claimed that magic was stronger when one was 'starkers', but Gabrielle did not see what that had to do with riding.
All of their stupid behavior meant that, when it was time to leave, Hemorrhoid was not going to let Gabrielle ride with any of her clothes on. The mare had made that clear, pointedly, as it were, clear. The diadem of course, with a petrified Lieutenant Mimsey affixed to it in place of his impromptu dinner, kept Gabrielle invisible, but invisible was not silent. That was something Philippe would say, and it was true. Every time someone's head turned toward the thud of hooves, Gabrielle turned pink.
Powerful magic or not, Gabrielle had no intention of sneaking back into camp like she had left it. She took her clothes, neatly folded, the apron, and one, if not both, of her shoes. She also took a blanket to sit on as she rode because, after Ginny and Hermione, well, eww. The apron would keep her hidden from any muggles when she walked back, not that it was likely that she would meet one in the dark fields. It also hid her from the wizards and witches in the camp, so, since she had to find her shoe, Gabrielle just happened to take the long way around to the far side of the other tents, where the laughter and hooting usually came from. And where it was coming from now. There were six wizards and two witches sitting around a small fire. One of the witches was Abby. The other witch was turned away from Gabrielle, and involved in some serious kissing with one of the wizards. It looked to Gabrielle like Abby wanted to do the same as she was practically climbing on - was it Pietre? He was definitely not returning the attention with any enthusiasm, and seemed more interested in the raucous discussion of Bulgaria's national quidditch team. A gleam caught Gabrielle's eye, which came from a bottle being raised to another wizard's lips. She could not see it clearly, but the shape looked to be different than those in Soleil's supply. Perhaps the Poot Powder (EXP) had done the job after all.
The wayward shoe did not respond to Gabrielle's leaping Accio spells until she was nearly at her tent. The footwear hit her in the back of her head, because she did not expect for it to come from that direction. She guessed that she had dropped it right off. Gabrielle was relieved to have retrieved it finally. She was wondering if she would need to resort to the wand with her Grandmere's hair at the core for the task, since it usually gave her a better range.
It was too late to bother putting her shoes on now, so Gabrielle padded into her tent through the open flap. The reason the flap was left open was obvious. A stiff magical breeze was airing out what was recently a part-time stable. What was also obvious was that George and the others had been busy cleaning and repairing furniture, floors, and walls as well, and they now sat in the common area. Ginny and Harry sat together holding hands, with Ginny leaning heavily against the Boy-Who-Lived. Hermione sat on Ron's lap with her arms around his neck because, Gabrielle suspected, subtlety would be lost on him. George looked lonely, thought Gabrielle, though he was doing his best to hide it by having a serious conversation. She moved closer, around behind where Harry and the insane Ginny sat; Harry Potter had a knack for spotting what should be invisible.
"[Had to be You-Know-Who, didn't it? Why else would they go all at once?]" reasoned Ron.
"[Well, the Waverly fields were all put up at the same time, so it's possible they all had the same fatal flaw,]" said Hermione. "[But I agree that -he- is most likely behind it.]"
"[Was there a Dark Mark put up over any of the sites?]" asked Harry.
"[No mention of it,]" replied George.
"[You-Know-Who's definitely behind it,]" asserted Ginny.
"[Voldemort,]" insisted Harry. Gabrielle wished he would give a warning when he was going to do that.
"[Yeah. Not his usual modes of operanding though. No muggles were killed, for starters,]" noted George.
"[The Death-Eaters have attacked wizard events before. Like the Quidditch World Cup.]"
"[Only to frighten folks into not fighting back. They didn't kill -]"
"[They did at the Tri-Wizard tournament.]" Gabrielle had been there, but Fleur had been attacked and injured, so she had only found that out later.
"[Yes, Harry. That's true. The murders before were people who happened to be in You-Know-]"
"[Moldy Old Voldy.]"
"[Yes, thank you, Ron. The wizards and witches he killed before were in his way, either intentionally or inadvertently. This was a bit, erm, indiscriminate,]" argued Hermione.
"[Hey, just a mo'. Didn't you, you know, feel anything?]" asked Ron, rubbing his forehead with a finger in a zigzag pattern. "[Did you see anything? Was Moldy happy or angry?]"
"[Angry. He was definitely - ]" said Ginny before quickly ducking her head into Harry's shoulder.
"[Not suspicious at all, is she? Subtlety matched only by a flatulent dragon,]" said George. Gabrielle almost laughed, which would have given her away.
"[My scar didn't hurt at all,]" said Harry, looking puzzled. "[I didn't feel anything.]"
"[It seems Ginny did,]" observed Hermione. "[How is it that you did?]"
"[It - it was, er, just a guess.]" Ginny's ears were practically glowing as they reddened.
"[And now you're lying.]"
"[Bugger off!]"
"[Hmmph. A secret protection done secretly using a secret? I think I know what you did, but -wherever- did you find it?]" asked Hermione. "[And, by the way, I don't find that phrase so shocking now.]" Gabrielle, who had made herself comfortable sitting against the wall, was not able to follow all of the conversation, but suspected that the secret of the secret protection was one of the rituals from Grandmere's book.
"[Ginny? What does she mean?]" prompted Harry. His tone bristled.
"[She means that Ron took the wand nature gave him and stuck it - ]"
"[Mum is going to be so disappointed in you lot.]" interrupted George.
"[Wait, so now Ginny has You-Know-Who in her head?]"
"[Don't be stupid Ron. I'm just, er... taking... some of it,]" admitted Ginny.
"[You're what? Ginny!]" exploded Harry.
"[Shut it Harry. It's done, all right? You always worried about your scar, about what would happen if V-Voldemort got close. Well, now you don't,]" said Ginny fiercely. Gabrielle thought that either Harry shrank in the force of her determination, or Ginny grew.
"[I... You - but, how?]"
"[Another eloquent discourse from that Potter fellow, eh? There's one to watch for the Minister of Magic stakes,]" teased George. He paused, then fished out the metal bug and consulted what was beneath the wing casings. "[Speak of the devil - Thicknesse has been sacked.]" George squinted at the faux insect, then looked up and in the direction of where Gabrielle sat. She froze - she knew that if she spoke or moved suddenly the apron's charm would break. Then she would have to explain her eavesdropping.
"[It's a little like what your Mum did for you,]" explained Ginny. "[Er, very little, actually. Almost completely different. I think I just feel what you would have felt from your scar.]"
"[You think? Can you undo it?]" asked Harry.
"[I dunno, but I wouldn't do that anyway.]"
"[Ginny, you can't -]"
"[I can and I did! I know you don't want me near any fighting - you and Ron don't really know how to whisper,]" said Ginny.
"[All you have to do to hear is to press an ear up to the wall,] added George with a grin. He drew out his wand.
"[Now I don't have to be right there to help you.]"
"[It'll be like Voldemort is in your head,]" warned Harry.
"[Riddle, Harry. Like Riddle is in my head. Think what you're saying, to me,]" challenged Ginny.
"[Oh. Erm, right,]" deflated Harry. "[I still don't like it.]"
"[So where's the Dark Turd now? What was he doing?]" asked Ron. George waggled his wand in big loopy patterns. Gabrielle watched eagerly. Something interesting was bound to happen.
"[I didn't get that much,]" shrugged Ginny. "[He was angry, that was about it. And a name, like Rolls or Rolly.]"
"[Rowle, perhaps?]" suggested Hermione distractedly. She was looking over her shoulder at something near the ceiling. Gabrielle followed her gaze, and stared at the large, pink, wobbly ball above her. The large, -falling- , pink, wobbly ball. "[He was one of the Death Eaters identified in the Hogwarts attack,]" finished Hermione.
"[What in Merlin's name - ]" began Harry.
There was a splash, and a squeal. Gabrielle had tried to roll sideways to escape, but had only been partially successful. She was soaked from her waist down, and lay in the spreading puddle. It was colder than she had expected, and Gabrielle desperately hoped it actually was only water. Everyone was looking now, and she knew that the apron's charm was broken. With a reflex handed down from generation to generation, Gabrielle smiled. It was the angelic smile of an innocent, mostly used when the opposite was true. "[Oh, eh, I am, eh, back.]"
v - v - v - v - v
The sleeping arrangements took more time to work out than Gabrielle expected. There were seven suites, one for each year, and six people. But one of the rooms smelled, possibly permanently, of Abraxan. Another suite's furniture had been kicked to pieces by the bored, or annoyed, unicorn. The wreckage would, according to Hermione, need to sit in moonlight for three nights before spells would work to repair it. Gabrielle asked if that was true for Abraxans as well - it would explain the stuff Professor Elevagre had piled outside the stables. Hermione thought it possible but could not be sure. The repair delay left the number of beds one shy of the needed number. Hermione and Ginny immediately volunteered to share a room. Which room was what occupied them. Gabrielle had a flashback to Fleur carefully arranging tables of guests for the wedding. It seemed very important to the two girls to work out who would be next to whom, and, Gabrielle could not help but notice, how far from her George could be put!
A second thought, one that had been listening to what the older girls were almost saying, made Gabrielle reconsider. It seemed to be a matter of what arrangement would, eh, disturb George less. Which, now that Gabrielle was suspicious, she translated into what arrangement would be least likely to make George suspicious also. And that translated into what was less likely to get them caught. Logically, concluded Gabrielle, the girls were going to sneak into the boys' rooms. And so, decided Gabrielle, so would she. It was unfair to George that he had no one to comfort him after the tragic news - a thought that, even to her, sounded like a lame rationalization. Except that it was true, so it was good enough.
Which was why, at the moment, Gabrielle stood silently in the shadows cast by the candles watching Hermione steal across the common area. Gabrielle wore the apron again, and George's old quidditch shirt. That had not been her original plan, which had been to copy Ginny's boldness at the Burrow and sneak into George's room wearing -only- the apron. Two things had stopped her. One was her inability to open her door quietly with her hands shaking so much. The second was her ill-timed boast that she 'did not need a cloak to become invisible' as a way to explain her sudden, drenched appearance. Only Harry seemed to take any note of it, but if Hermione or Ginny decided to use their wands to watch for her, well, Gabrielle did not want to be caught so... exposed. So while she was, in fact, completely nude, it was only under the oversized quidditch shirt.
Hermione slipped into the room Ron slept in, the momentarily open door making his snoring louder before it was abruptly and completely silenced. Ginny had passed by earlier, the greater distance to their destinations was meant to blind George's supposedly watchful eye. Which, given what they had nearly admitted to getting up to already behind his back, was probably wasted effort.
Mulling her sister witches' strategies was, though, nothing more than a way for Gabrielle to delay having to make her own brief trip. She was still determined; she was not a child. It was just... hard.
But not impossible. The first few steps were somewhat tottering as Gabrielle regained command of her frozen legs, but after those her passage was more of a scurry, as if Maman were about to catch up to her. It was best, advised a second thought, not to think of Maman. It was all right to think of breathing though, which Gabrielle found she had not been doing. Her heart was pounding as well. Her insides were not right either, and Gabrielle once more scurried, this time back to her suite to use the bathroom. Again.
Having made the trip once made the second easier. Gabrielle strode confidently across the common area, at least until the sabre-horned deer head on the wall rattled its antlers, startling her. She sprinted the rest of the way to George's door.
The door loomed. There was no other way for Gabrielle to see it. The plain wooden portal guarded the boundary between the girl and the woman, dreams and reality, paradise and perdition. Stepping through the door could mean entering the strong, welcoming embrace of true love, or it could mean complete humiliation for being utterly stupid. Gabrielle was certain that George loved her and that they were destined for each other. Very sure, at the least. Nearly sure. No, she stopped herself; there had been the kiss at Fleur's wedding. That had to mean something. What, wondered Gabrielle, would Fleur do?
Fleur, Gabrielle knew, would be behind a thrice-warded door of her own as boys tried to sneak into -her- room. Which was not any help here, other than to remind Gabrielle that she too had some Veela heritage. And if George was at least a century old, then she would be sure it mattered. But the brief boost was enough to get her through the door.
Thankfully there were no wards or spells, possibilities Gabrielle had only thought about -after- opening the door. What if she had ended up dangling upside down by her ankle again? Dressed, or not, as she was? It was good that Fred was not here.
George's suite was dark, so Gabrielle conjured a small blue flame, which danced lightly on the tip of her wand. She knew how to cast a light spell - who did not? She just preferred the happy little fire more. It was like a little friend.
George was, perhaps unsurprisingly, asleep. Which was good, since Gabrielle suddenly realized that she could not be even slightly invisible holding the conjured fire. Although, noted a second thought, that made absolutely no sense. If the intent was provide comfort, then how was she to do that if George was unaware of her presence? Gabrielle canceled the flame, and considered the question in the gloom for minute or two before coming to a decision. A cheering charm was out of the question, ever since that time with Dilly, but Gabrielle could simply radiate concern and good will, a bright beacon to guide George's spirit. Her second thoughts were too disgusted to comment.
An awkward minute and a half later, Gabrielle decided that although this method was bound to work, she really did not know how close George needed to be. What if, having never tried to do this before, her range was less than a meter? What if, on a first attempt, it was only centimeters? George lay on the far side of the bed, on his side, facing away. That put him more than an arm's length away, easily outside the effect. It also, noted Gabrielle, left, coincidentally, a narrow space next to him on the bed, on his bed. Which, she could see, would let her get close enough so that she could be a beacon.
Gabrielle pulled off the apron, and took a few deep breaths to calm her racing heart. She fingered the hem of the shirt for a moment, but suspected that she would die of a heart attack if she took it off. Gabrielle slipped forward unsteadily and sat gently, quietly on the edge of the bed. The sound of George's breathing did not change at all. Gabrielle wondered at that, given the way her heart was hammering in her ears. She recalled her friend Philippe talking about antennas once. The muggle kind, of course, not the regular ones found on insects. She had not bothered to follow most of it, but she did remember something about the way the metal rods were pointed as being important. Philippe had a trick when touching the back of the box of the télé. If he held his arm one way, the picture that it showed was clear. If he held his arm another way, there was hardly a picture at all. What it meant, in the current situation, logically, was that she ought to lie down. Gabrielle slowly, carefully slid herself under the sheets. That, also logically, would provide an unobstructed ether for her radiating.
In the back of her mind, second thoughts reeled at the idea of actually sleeping with a boy. Of course, Gabrielle was not at all asleep, and sleeping with someone was a euphemism for something else entirely, but, more or less, she was sleeping with George. It felt...
It felt like it would normally feel if she were perched on the very edge of her own bed trying not to move or make a sound. So far, Gabrielle found the whole experience somewhat disappointing. The only evidence for George being in the room was the rhythmic breathing, and the only change since getting into the bed was that she had developed a sniffle. Gabrielle decided that what was needed was a more palpable sense of George's presence. She shifted her hips backwards slowly, then her shoulders and legs, like a very slow-moving, sand-crawling snake that happened to be going in reverse.
Contact came at last, along with the nearly heart-stopping moment when the soothing sound of George's exhalations changed abruptly. Gabrielle barely breathed before they resumed again. Things were different now. For one, it was much warmer, either because of George's body heat or because of near terminal nervousness. Gabrielle carefully squirmed to increase the area of contact. That would be important for the plan, reasoned Gabrielle. It was like touching the télé box. Very romantic, teased a second thought.
George, who, up until this time, had been very cooperative, suddenly said, "Mwum 'uv." Then he turned as suddenly, rolling over and jostling Gabrielle. She froze at first in panic, then tried to slide away off the bed. It was too late, though. George's arm flopped over her, trapping her next to his chest. Her sniffle became a runny nose, except that the mineral taste at the back of throat meant that she had a nosebleed. Even worse, her arms were now pinned, unless she wanted to risk waking George. She did not have a handkerchief anyway. And his hand - Gabrielle tried not to think of what his hand, clasped to her chest, just happened to be touching. Mostly because it would make her head explode, and her nose worse.
All in all, came a second thought, success!