Down the pheasant-feeding hill, at the end of the furrow, there's a lake. Locally, they call this place Lac Faisan. Alas, much of pureblood wizardry prefers to call it Lac Fawley. The Chateau Fawley is near its shores.
Ashore, a den of otters awake. They're frisky. They're ready to take their morning swim. They may never come out of the water. Alas, if only there were more fish down there...
From another shore, a den of a pair of minks awake. They've had a very blissful night together. They often do. Nobody knows the bliss of a mink coat quite like a mink.
An anhinga sits on a branch, with its wet wings spread. Its broad wings drip into the water below. It holds its neck high, like a snake's. It holds its long bill open. The sun comes out, and radiates its splendor all over him. He'll be here for a while...
Beneath the surface, much is quiet. More often, bass and sunfish swim here. They don't now. Something VERY scary came down here in the night...and it made that furrow ashore.
Now, it's nowhere to be seen. Even so, the fish still aren't back yet.
Out on the lake, the Delacour family's boating today. They've brought a lot of friends. They seem to having a blast of a time. This becomes literal each time one of them sets of magical fireworks. Too bad the mutant Jubilation Lee isn't here to enjoy it. SHE'D show these French witches a thing or two...
Across a lawn chair on the boat's forecastle, Fleur rests. With a charm, she casts dual shadows over her eyes, shielding them from the French sun.
Near her hand, a cocktail glass sits. It refills itself, each time it's about to run dry. Every now and then, Fleur takes a swig from it. With luck, her friends won't spike it with ink. Or worse, her sister...
Speaking of whom, she sits in a corner of the gunwale, downing a small bottle of strawberry brandy. It's strong. Alas, she wishes she was strong enough to drink it all.
Alas, she can't finish it. Her vanishing spells aren't very good. So, she looks around. Nobody's looking. Perfect; she lowers the brandy bottle over the side, and waits for the right moment to drop it...
Inside the bottle, the brandy sloshes around. It should. This boat is hardly the most stationary thing out here... But then, the surface of the lake isn't either.
Inside the bottle, a tiny portal opens. Flailing, Joaquín Torres falls through it. She screams, right before splashing down into the excess brandy.
Down here, he nearly drowns while struggling to regain his balance. He is NOT used to what just happened...
At just the wrong time, Gabrielle releases the bottle. It splashes down into the lake...but surfaces a few moments later.
Joaquín treads water and brandy while struggling to stay afloat. He's humiliated. This brandy tastes just like the romantic drink that he and Romiette always share.
Via instinct, he relaxes, and lies with his back against the surface. He floats. Relieved, he rests.
Outside, the Delacour's boat gets farther and farther away. Good; the size of that thing intimidates Joaquín. Alas, most things will, when he's this small.
He misses Spectrum's ebony hooters, of course. Alas, he'd never tell Romiette, even if she asked...
Ashore, the Brockelhurst Cuckoos follow the furrow to shore. They all mope, once they see that it dead-ends beyond the threshold between the water and ground.
Marissa's green eyes light up, as she uses her legilimency to probe the lake for the basilisk's thoughts. She won't get a very stable reading. Basilisks don't think like humans. More magizoologists seem to think that basilisks don't think at all, and that's what makes them so dangerous. And yet, they seem to have the discipline not to hunt their prey in broad daylight...or where birds own the sky.
Moments pass. Marissa doesn't react. Desperate for answers, April and May help their sister out. Their blue eyes light up with blue light, as they help Marissa look for the basilisk's psionic energy...however much that's worth.
At last, Marissa blinks. "I can't hear it's thoughts," she tells them. "But I can see the fish's memories. It swam down there about the time the moon set. Most of the fish panicked, and scattered...and hence, didn't see much after that.
"There was, however, a snapper at the lake bottom. He held his ground, while beholding what happened. In the middle of the lake, a portal opened. The basilisk swam right through it, and vanished. A few seconds later, the portal closed behind its fleeing tail. Since then, the portal has not reopened...and the basilisk hasn't appeared anywhere else in the lake. The fish would know. They've been hiding from it all night. Some of them still are. But of course, we all know the goldfish to have a memory of three seconds. The poor creatures probably keep reliving that memory just as often."
At this, May arches her brows. "For once, the fish aren't the most forgetful things known to humanity."
April studies Marissa. "That snapping turtle didn't happen to see what was on the other side of that portal, did he?"
Marissa shakes her head. "His night vision was rusty. But then, turtles of any kind aren't exactly known for their youth."
May scoffs. "CLEARLY you've never heard of a little story that circulates around in muggle world called 'Teenage Mutant Ninja Tortoises,' or something of that sort."
Marissa scoffs. "Sounds horrifying. I have no idea how muggles stay sane in a world without magic...or with scary-sounding stories like THAT to read in lieu of the Tales of Beedle the Bard." She scoffs again. "If I didn't have to help Mother transcend wizardry more often, I just might spend more time studying muggles myself."
April grins. "Not going all blood-traitor on us, are you there, Sis?"
"You know," May flaps her blonde bobbed hair, "the blood-traitor is more of an illusion than anything else. We don't HAVE to be pureblood supremacists, if we don't want to be. Wouldn't help us none. Mum's a half-blood, anyhow."
"We all are," Marissa laments, "by pureblood supremacist standards."
"Well then," April claps her hands, and smiles. "It's just a good thing we're transwizardists rather than pureblood supremacists, right?"
Nearer to the shore, the brandy bottle drifts. Inside, Joaquín can see through the stained glass. It seems the Delacour girls have their family's house-elves remove the labels from the bottles before they're drunk.
Once his situation stabilizes, Joaquín starts treading brandy again. He looks around, and looks ashore, and swims in awe of a very desirable sight.
Three blonde chicks, all with their hair in bobs, shed their clothes. Bikinis magically appear on their bodies. Two wear blue bikinis. One wears a green one.
Ever nearer to the Cuckoos, the brandy bottle drifts. By now, Joaquín's gawking. To them, he would jerk off...if only he didn't value this brandy too much to soil it...