~*All You Wanted*~

Chapter Four: Tulips and Sweetpeas

Dove:  In this chapter… we get dark, up the nightmare quotient, and shatter any illusions you may have had of Gabrielle's innocence.  The end is muchly cult-like, for which you may thank my butchering of a Catholic Mass to create… well.  Also, someone we all know and love well dies.  Please no flames.   It's plot development.  And then Harry… well, finally gives in, I guess… though that'd be a lot happier if we didn't know what we know about Gaby at that point… I'm rambling.  Read the chapter.

Bena: Yes! Yes! Read it! Read it and worship my ability to write humor mixed with subtle foreshadowing! Be amazed at Dove's ability to create creepiness! Wander eerie hospital hallways! Meet the mysterious man of the hour! Pretend to speak Latin and Spanish! And wrap it all up with a ritual murder!.... wow, this chapter's a carnival ride... or at least my excessive happiness is making it so... YUKI-CHAN!!!!! *Runs off to stalk her friend some more*

Dove: And French!  There's always French!

Disclaimer: J.K. Doesn't generally kill those who are well-loved, excluding Lily and James.  Therefore, we must not be her.

"It's frustrating when you know all the answers, but nobody bothers to ask you the questions."

Harry frowned, staring into the fireplace in thought. The flames continued to refuse to answer any of his questions, although he'd have settled for just one.

What is it about Gabrielle's family that makes her so nervous?

The fire flickered, reflecting his own uncertainty. There was no doubt in Harry's mind that he had been closer to seeing the real Gabrielle Delacour that night when Li had questioned her, and yet he still didn't know why.

Her sister.... she's the key. What is it about her sister that has her so scared?

"Am I interrupting?

Harry's first thought was that the fire had spoken to him. His second thought was that he was hearing voices. His first idea turned out to be closer-someone was peering at him from the fireplace, a questioning look on his face.

"Oh. Mr. Zabini." Harry pushed his glasses up his nose. "Sorry. I didn't notice you. I was thinking."

"No problem at all." Blaise gave him a vaguely hurt look. "You know, we've worked together longer than a lot of the people at the Ministry, and yet you still won't drop the formality. Why?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You commandeered an international floo room just to question the nature of our relationship?"

"No, it was just an interesting byproduct. I'm supposed to fill you in on what leads we've gotten in your case, seeing as Virginia Weasley is currently tied to a chair screaming at the top of her lungs."

Harry groaned. "You think she'd be resigned to working as all but Draco's personal secretary by now, and wouldn't need to be tied up to do it."

"Actually, she seemed to be quite enjoying it last I checked."

Harry stared at Blaise for a moment, then shook his head. "I'll pretend I didn't understand what you meant by that."

"Suit yourself. I'm just going by hearsay, anyway. Do you want the news or not?"

Harry nodded. "Any new leads? Miss Delacour isn't exactly lending herself to questioning."

Blaise frowned. "Really? She was our best bet. Well, then... there was a note to check out a flower shop on the Rue du Canard on the river."

"A flower shop? Why?"

Blaise's shoulders briefly showed as he shrugged. "It doesn't say, only that someone who matches the description for Miss Delacour frequents there often, and to maybe question the owner about the disappearances. Perhaps he might have overheard her saying something?"

Harry frowned. It sounded so far-fetched...but he had observed enough to point to Gabrielle's love of flowers, and they had so little to go on... "Is that all?"

"For now, yes." Blaise peered at him expectantly. "How's the investigation going so far, by the way?"

"Slow," Harry answered shortly. "I've got almost nothing."

"Really?" Blaise looked away for a moment. "Oh, someone's calling me. I should go back to work. You going to check out the flower shop?"

Harry mentally sighed. "I'll have to. It's one of the only things we've got right now."

"Right then. Good luck, Harry."

"Thanks."

The fire was once again silent, flames dancing almost mockingly. Harry made a face at it, stood, and headed out the door to the flower shop.

Paris was still unseasonably warm, though the sky wasn't quite as clear as it had been, signaling a storm coming before the end of the week.  People wandered the boulevards, though, in the typical French fashion, they looked askance at the man in the long black coat and did not speak, sensing somehow that he was not one of them.  This suited Harry just fine, for his head was in the clouds in any case, and he was spinning questions in his mind rather as he would spin memories in a pensieve, hoping they would somehow make sense the next time around.

He nearly passed by the flower shop, for, while obviously prosperous, it was also small, the sign understated, as though the patronage was expected to simply know where to find it, and new customers weren't at all welcome or, indeed, needed.  A small bell tinkled demurely as he swung open the door and the strong aroma of roses and… something else, rather akin to the "something else" he smelled in Gabrielle's mansion, immediately accosted his sense of smell.

Behind the small, white counter, a thin man with an immaculate apron over his carefully pressed suit stood, picking through a bouquet of hothouse flowers fastidiously with small, gloved hands.  He looked up when Harry entered, and his eyes flashed with recognition, and then panic for just a moment before he put on an impersonal, polite expression, and asked "Can I 'elp you?" in faintly accented English.

Harry decided he would really have to do something about this "looking foreign" problem.

"Hello, Monsieur," he said as personably as he could.  "You can, as a matter of fact, do a great deal for me."  He smiled, striding closer and delicately fingering an opening rosebud in a vase near the counter.  "Why don't you tell me about Mademoiselle Gabrielle Delacour?"

The man's face stayed completely impassive, though his eyes began to look shifty.  "I know no one by the name, Monsieur."

Harry passed by the roses and studied a display of lilies before fixing a piercing, inquisitive gaze on the man.  He had cause to know that this particular gaze, when employed on the proper individual, nearly always yielded results.  "Oh, come now, Monsieur.  Let me help you a bit.  Several times a month, a young lady, lovely enough to take your breath away comes into the shop, although I expect she wears a cloak with a deep cowl, and you are perhaps not being difficult, because you likely have never fully seen her face.  Her voice is soft, natively southern, conceivably from the area of Marseilles.  She's short, soft-spoken, and has even possibly never given you her name, although you, of course, have found it out by other means.  She buys only the most expensive and pays exclusively in cash, and she comes in alone, although there are likely people accompanying her who wait outside while she makes her purchases."  Harry cocked a brow.  "Well?  Did I help your memory, Monsieur?"

The man looked quite jittery now.  "I… don't want any problems, Monsieur."

Harry grinned.  It worked every time.  "If you do not, then you will certainly tell me exactly what I need to know, and I will leave your establishment in peace.  Well?"

The man fidgeted.  "She was last here four days ago," he finally said, looking down into the suddenly fascinating cash drawer.  "She came in alone, wearing an 'eavy black cloak.  I 'ave grown accustomed to ze fact zat she is never seen wisout it, and did not question 'er, despite ze fact that the weather was exceptional.  She bought Italian roses and Turkish gardenias, which is quite customary for 'er.  She stayed per'aps ten minutes in all."  He smiled absently.  "I believe she may 'ave smiled at me."

Harry sighed.  "Right."  He picked up what was labeled as a gardenia and sniffed.  Seductive.  Strong, nearly overpowering.  The sort of scent he should associate with Gabrielle, except he just couldn't.  "She comes often?"

"Yes, Monsieur," the flower seller said softly.  "But I always sought… per'aps she was being pursued?  She is quiet, and polite, almost… frightened.  She seems a very… euh… what is ze word… 'armless?"

Harry held back a bitter little chuckle.  "Harmless.  Of course.  But Mademoiselle Delacour is not quite as harmless as she appears… tell me, are you aware of the recent disappearance of Camille Genout?"

The man sighed.  "Ah, zat nice young lawyer?"

Harry, knowing very well that Camille Genout's double career as an advocate of both Muggle and wizarding law had made her quite famous in both worlds, smiled.  "Yes, I recall she recently had a very large case come up regarding… smuggling, was it?"

"It was all over ze papers," the shopkeeper nodded.  "But now she is gone-"

"And so is the evidence.  As well as the smugglers themselves."  Harry twirled the gardenia between his fingers.  "A bit strange how no one is looking for her, isn't it?"

The shopkeeper swallowed.  "Well, ze government is pursuing leads, but…"

"But," Harry agreed.  "It doesn't seem to me they're trying very hard."  He smiled icily.  "Maurice Rinaldi?  Alastair du Lac?  Phillippe Carsairs?"  He continued to name names of the vanished, carefully picking the ones that a Muggle would know upon hearing as well.  "You've heard of them, I'm sure."

"All gone, yes, I know," the man said slightly irritably.  "Are you trying to insinuate zat zat sweet girl is responsible?"

Harry did laugh then.  "She is many things, Monsieur, but I'm afraid 'sweet' is not one of them."  A sleek black cat hopped soundlessly onto the countertop and regarded him with eyes the color of amber.  Harry scratched it behind the ears.  "Abyssinian?"

"Purebred," the man said proudly.

"She's lovely," Harry said.  "Better be careful, Monsieur.  Black cats seem to be scarce in Paris these days."  He placed a bouquet of sweet peas on the counter.  "Wrap this up for me, please, Monsieur.  Add a few tulips.  White, I think."

The man sighed.  "You English 'ave very odd taste.  Tulips and sweet peas?  What an odd combination."  He wrapped it up nonetheless.

Harry smiled slightly as he brought the bouquet to his nose and sniffed in the elusive fragrance which had so baffled him at Gabrielle's house.  "Refreshing," he disagreed absently.  "Keep an eye on Fifi, Monsieur.  Here's a phone number if you remember that you've left something out."  Tossing a card with the inn's number and a few bills for the bouquet on the counter, he took his flowers and left, realizing he would get nothing else from him.

***

            On the sunny outskirts of Paris, well-aware that Harry Potter had come to regard Mondays as a day the Delacour household wasn't receiving, Gabrielle sat blissfully alone in her garden.  The sleeves of an old, worn men's shirt were rolled up to her elbows, she wore Muggle jeans, and her luxurious hair was pulled severely back into a tight braid.  Her face was free of make-up, and a large, floppy straw hat to keep her skin from tanning adorned her head.

            All in all, Gabrielle Delacour looked nothing like her usual self although she was, quite obviously, in her element.

            She hummed an old chanson as she weeded the flower bed in front of her, her face relaxed into a young, almost innocent expression.  She carefully smoothed the ground around the bed of late roses, sat back on her heels, and sighed, a small tear escaping and falling to the ground as she looked out through the wrought iron fence which held her as surely as a cage.

            Suddenly, a house-elf popped up next to her.  "Mademoiselle, Monsieur Potter est là," the little thing said.

            Gabrielle looked up in surprise, then shook her head and angrily wiped the trace of the single tear from her cheek.  "Ce n'est pas important.  Je ne peux pas le voir aujourd'hui," she replied.

            The house-elf nodded and popped out of sight.

            Ten minutes later, when she was sure he had gone, Gabrielle went to the front gate.  Into the curlicues of the gate had been stuck a bouquet wrapped in pale gold paper.  She carefully extracted it, then held it close and breathed in the fragrance of her perfume.  Only then did she begin to cry.

***

            Harry wandered the halls of St. Jean's that afternoon, feeling his skin creeping farther up his spine as he did so. No wonder if Gabrielle never visits her sister... this place is eerie.

The main part of the hospital had been friendly enough. Small children played in the sick playroom, people smiled as he passed by, and there was a warm light everywhere from where the many windows let in the sun from outside. However, as he got closer to the intensive care wing where Fleur Delacour resided, the smiles grew less, the laughter faded, and the light grew colder and fainter until he was walking down corridors as cold and silent as the terminally ill they housed.

Harry suppressed another shiver. All's silent in the halls of the dead.

No... not all. Because these people aren't dead. And that's even worse.

The only sounds to be heard were the faint beeps of the life support systems in the rooms, and the clicking of shoes, his and others, on the tiled floors. Silent as those noises were, they were almost oppressively loud in the otherwise dead air. The light was all artificial here, the bulbs yellowed to try and mimic sunshine, but succeeding only in giving the corridors a look of supreme sickliness, as bad as hose who rested here. The air was too cold from the controlled temperatures, and too still, as if no one had moved here in a very long time. All's silent in the halls of the dead, and all's dead in the halls of the living.

Harry had never wanted to get out of a place more desperately in his entire life.

St. Jean's was a good hospital-that wasn't the issue. It was simply the fact that this one area, where so many witches and wizards still resided from the days of Voldemort, had such an air of mortality about it. It was as if simply by walking down the halls, your life was being sucked out of you-because those who rested here needed every little spark of life just to take a single respirator assisted breath.

Fleur's room was the third to the last in this hall. Harry opened the door, wincing at the still, heavy, oppressive air within, even worse here than in the hall, and stepped inside.

His eyes widened. "Sirius?"

Sirius Black looked back at him, eyes hollowed, looking as transparent as the pale woman whose bed he sat beside. He didn't even look a bit startled.

"Hello, Harry. Why are you here?"

Harry did his very best not to goggle.  "Sirius?" he repeated.

"Yes, that's right," Sirius said with a weary sigh.  "That was my name the last time I checked."

"What are you doing here of all places?" Harry asked.

"I asked first," Sirius said with a ghostly shadow of a smile.

Harry sat down in the other chair-hard and uncomfortable-and continued to stare at Sirius, not sure what to make of him.  "Investigative purposes," he finally said.  "And you?"

"Visiting an old friend," Sirius said, glancing down at Fleur's face.

Harry shook his head.  "Of all the… I didn't know you knew her.  Family friend?"

Sirius gave a hollow little laugh.  "Something of the sort.  I've spent some time with the family, certainly.  I hear you took Gabrielle Delacour out to dinner."

It was Harry's turn to laugh hollowly.  "For all the good that did me," he said.

Sirius shook his head and smoothed Fleur's hair with an air of one accustomed to doing it often.  "Yes, she was a difficult sort of child, last I saw her."

"Difficult," Harry repeated dully.  "Yes, I suppose she is that, anyway.  I heard her called 'sweet' today, though... and that, she most certainly is not."

Sirius looked surprised.  "Really?  Last time I saw her… oh… three years ago, I suppose… she was nigh near angelic.  Has she really changed that much?"

Harry felt inexplicably sad for some reason.  He looked down at Fleur, lovely as her sister, lying cold and still and nearly lifeless, her skin the color of paper and her hands lying laxly at her sides.  He remembered how Fleur, the one time he had known her all those years ago, had loved Gabrielle more than anything in the world.  And how Gabrielle claimed to be completely indifferent to her.  "Yes," he said.  "Yes, Sirius, she has."

Sirius looked pained.  "Harry, this family…"  He sighed.  "Fleur… and Gabrielle too… They're just-"

"Oh, please don't talk to me about Gabrielle Delacour," Harry said wearily, somehow wanting nothing less than to involve Sirius in this whole mess.  "I have enough contrasting sources talking to me about Gabrielle Delacour."

Sirius' eyebrows shot up.  "I recall you having a rule about never dating a suspect.  So I suppose I can assume-"

"Yes, well, I'm not dating her," Harry said seriously.

"Oh God," Sirius said.  "What did she do?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," Harry said flatly.  "I sincerely hope nothing."

"By your eyes," Sirius said slowly, "I can ascertain that all the talk about not dating her is a load of dung, Harry.  What the hell are you playing at?"

"I'm not dating her," Harry replied just as flatly as before.

"But you're attached, aren't you?"

"I'm… intrigued," Harry said, finally picking up the right word.

"It's remarkably difficult to stay simply 'intrigued' with a Delacour woman, Harry," Sirius said.  "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get to work."  He leaned over and brushed a light kiss on Fleur's cheek.

"How often are you here, Sirius?" Harry said.

"As often as I can be," Sirius said.  "See you, Harry."  With that, he left, leaving Harry to wonder what the hell he had obviously missed.

***

"Coffee, anyone?" Lavender set down the tray of mugs, and grabbed hers before settling into a chair. "We've got decaf, mocha, a couple espressos...."

The rush to the tray at that was akin to a herd of rampaging teenage girls at a pop concert who'd just learned that the lead singer had lost his clothes. Lavender somehow managed to make herself heard over the din. "I said a couple! You can't all have one!"

Grumbling, everyone flopped back into their chairs, except for the triumphant Alex and Ginny, who all but floated to their spots, holding the espressos above their heads like trophies. "What happened to the friendly neighborhood coffee girl?" Parvati growled.

"She discovered she didn't like waiting for forty espressos and got smart." Lavender smiled and winked. "Besides, she's more outgoing this way."

Parvati made a face back at her, eyes sparkling. "Shut up and drink your coffee."

Ron stared at the group in confusion. "Is Hermione the only one here that ever works?"

Ginny sighed. "I'd work, if that bastard Minister wouldn't keep me locked up as his personal slave..."

"I am working," Lavender protested. "You heard Parvati. I'm Your Friendly Neighborhood Coffee Girl."

"I thought you were supposed to be my wife's secretary."

"It amounts to the same thing in the long run."

"Besides," Parvati interjected, "I'm supposed to be Alex's secretary, and now I'm head of Anti-War Defense."

Alex made a face. "Ha, ha. I've got the espresso, so bugger off."

"How'd he get to be Ambassador again?" Lavender wondered.

Ron shrugged. "Well, he always managed to get out of trouble at school."

"Hey!" The coffee was working. Ginny stared at Ron hard. "What are you doing here? Don't you have practice?"

"Visiting Hermione." Ron raised an eyebrow. "In case you forgot, she's pregnant. I thought I'd come make her feel better. Oh!" He turned to Parvati. "And Fred and George might be stopping by later, too. George wants to harass Percy about the inquiry about the Vegas thing, and he and Fred were going to drag Alicia and Angelina out to lunch."

"Angelina's not here today," Alex said. "She never showed up."

Ron blinked. "That's not like her to miss work. Wonder where she is?"

Lavender giggled. "Flirting with foreign ministers?"

"That's Alicia," Ginny corrected.

"And Alex," Parvati added.

An empty espresso cup flew at her head.

Ron reclined, and glanced at the other occupants of the room. It was mostly secretaries on break, a few others from assorted departments just trying to wake up and a young man with dark features sitting next to Alex. Other than that, there were no other Ambassadors or departments heads of any sort to be seen. Ron gestured to the strange man. "Who's he?"

"Alejandro," Alex said at the same time Parvati answered, "One of the Spanish ambassadors."

"He's both," Lavender supplied.

"Wasn't he the one that-" Ginny began.

"No!" Alex protested.

"Yes," Parvati groaned.

Alejandro looked confused, and turned to Alex. "¿Cómo te dijeron ellos?"

"Nada, Alejandro, nada." Alex glared. "Let's drop it."

Right about then, the decision was taken out of their hands. Draco stormed in. "Angelina Weasley!"

"She didn't come in," everyone chorused together.

Draco looked at them, and hectic fever patches appeared on his cheeks. "What?"

Parvati and Lavender studied their coffee studiously while Ron glared at Draco covertly and the two Ambassadors pretended they weren't there. Ginny sighed. "Fine, I'll do it. She didn't come in today, Minister Malfoy. We don't know where she is. She might have just had some trouble getting here and gone home."

Draco's voice rose to thunderous volume. "I've got Potter fooling around in flower shops and hospitals instead of tracking our suspect, no one can get him in line, and my head Auror didn't come in today?"

"That's what I said," Ginny answered calmly, sitting again. "I could talk to him."

"No one can find him." Draco glared at the whole room. "That's the problem. I've got Zabini and Carrington keeping tabs on him, and he's just strolling around Paris, taking his sweet time about it, and so he's never where anyone can get to him!"

"Coffee?" Lavender offered sweetly.

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Do you ever work?"

"Alejandro, es el tiempo que tú sales a España. Ahora."

 Alejandro nodded. "Sí. Vamos."

They shot out of the room before Draco could say another word. Parvati followed sedately. "I'll get a room open!" she called to them.

Draco shot another glare at everyone, and stormed out. "If you see Angelina, get her into my office now!"

The door slammed, and Ron sighed. "Same old Malfoy."

Lavender nodded. "So, who wants more espresso?"

***

            Angelina awoke alone, in the dark, with a terrible headache.  Impulse and habit had her attempting to reach for Fred on the other side of the bed.  In short order, she realized she couldn't move.  Only then did she begin to panic.

            The darkness wasn't that of her own bedroom.  She knew this instinctually, for the air hung heavy with the smell of incense, and she had ever hated the stuff.  Her head was pounding, and she was finding it very difficult to think.  She tried her very best to reconstruct the circumstances that had brought her here.

            She had been doing research to send Harry's way.  Violette Delacour… the mysteriously missing mother seemed to be the link in Harry's mind, and she had never known his instincts to prove him wrong.  She winces as her head pounded, but made herself think.  What had she discovered?

            Sealed records.  There was no knowing what they were hiding for sure, but she was rather fond of the idea that it was a name change.  Violette Delacour had vanished without a trace.  She had not died-the death of a witch or wizard was expounded nowadays, especially one as young and promising as Violette Delacour.  She had been a doctor, brilliant and talented, and there had been talk of her taking up politics.  A beautiful woman, one who lived in the public eye with her picture-perfect children, did not simply vanish without a trace.  And so Angelina had searched, and when she found nothing but the files, she had begun hypothesizing.  Violette Delacour would stay in the public eye, she was sure.  The woman seemed born for it.  All they had to do was find someone who more or less fit the requirements and bring her in for questioning.

Angelina had come up with five possible women, all blonde, blue-eyed, beautiful, and figures in the public eye.  Some of the options had been… surprising, to say the least, but she had continued digging, looking for the histories of researchers, authors and even the Minister of Magic.

As she thought, Angelina furiously worked at her bindings, but she was obviously being held by magic, and her wand was far from her reach.

What had happened?  She had worked late into the night, and the door of her office had opened… she hadn't been worried, the Ministry building was well-warded… coffee.  He had brought her coffee.  She had smiled and accepted his kind gesture because, well, who wouldn't trust…

But no… no, it couldn't be him!  He was probably the most trusted… despite his being in the category Harry jokingly called "Redeemed Slytherin"… who wouldn't trust him, indeed?  Angelina had trusted her life to him before.  It couldn't be him, not with his impeccable manners, perfect breeding, and biting sense of humor…

He walked in the door, holding a candle and looking nonplussed.  "Awake, Angelina?  Oh, good."

"You…" she said, trying to gather her thoughts.  Her head still hurt like hell.

"Yes, bit of a shock, I know," he said comfortably, setting down the candle.  Angelina looked around by its scant light, seeing only blank walls.  A small room in a manor of some sort… could be anywhere.  "I drugged the coffee, incidentally.  Are you feeling quite yourself again?"

Angelina glared as best she could with her thoughts swimming.  "You sick bastard!  They all trust you!  I trusted you!  What the hell-"

"Just doing my job, Mrs. Weasley," he quipped.  "Your research had been destroyed.  You're in Paris, incidentally.  In a nice, quiet house belonging to a Georgette Dubois which Harry Potter believes isn't in use…"

Angelina felt a sickening sort of dread settle in her stomach.  Like the top-notch Auror she was, she put it away.  "You're going to kill me," she said calmly.  "As a message?" she hazarded a guess.  "Well, the serpent's right among them; I suppose you're really quite clever."

"Indeed, I am," he said.  "Incidentally, I'm not going to kill you."  He smiled almost sweetly, and she saw a gleam in his eyes which wasn't quite sane.  "No, that's not my job."

"What in the world are you trying to pull here-"

He pointed a wand at her and lazily drawled "Silencio."  He looked her over and sighed, shaking his head.  "You don't speak my name here, Angelina.  I'm naught but a shadow."  And indeed, he melted into the shadows as two others entered the room, picked her up from the couch on which she was lying, immobilized, and carried her out of the room.

There were hallways, and stairs, but in the end, they came to a large, open room with thick black curtains over the windows, which was lit by black candles.  Angelina was set down carefully on a table near the front, and the two drones went to the back where a tall fire burned, unhealthily red.

She had only a moment to wonder before the room began filling up.  One by one people entered, heads downcast, all wearing black cloaks with hoods.  It was frightening how it reminded her of the Death Eater gatherings of old.  For a while, the room was noisy.  Suddenly, a hushed silence fell upon the group, and they all lifted their heads, folded their hands and removed their hoods, looking raptly to a point behind Angelina.  She craned her head to see a young woman, ethereally beautiful, in black robes.  Her hair cascaded down her back and her lips, almost smiling, were the color of fresh blood, slick and shiny.  Different from the girl in the photographs, but she was exactly as Harry had described her.  She said nothing at first, only came to stand directly above Angelina and to look out upon the sea of faces.

Oh, Lord, there were so many.

Then, she opened her mouth and spoke in melodious French.  As she greeted her followers, Angelina noted the piercingly blue eyes held the vacant look of someone in shock or under complete mental control.  The people were unmoving, listening in adoring silence.

So many.  So many of them… there had never been so many Death Eaters in the Inner Circle…

Gabrielle Delacour looked dispassionately down at Angelina and ran a cool hand over her forehead.  Then she spoke again, this time in mellifluous Latin.  "Oremus."  The room became darker as the light of the candles flickered, and the crowd bowed their head as one.  The smell of incense was getting stronger by the moment.

Angelina did her best to translate in her swimming head.  "Sed libera nos a lux."  But from all light, deliver us.  Angelina, for the first time in years, tired to pray.

There was a feeling of magic building, of power.  Angelina felt her strength being sapped as Gabrielle's voice grew stronger.

"…Non sum dignus."

The crowd muttered with her.  "Non sum dignus. "

I am not worthy.

"…Sanguis sacrificium nostri…"

Angelina wished she could understand, but her Latin was nothing if not rusty.  Something about blood, something about sacrifice.

"…sacrificium nostri…"

Our sacrifice.

Gabrielle's arms were in the air, her eyes closed, but still she spoke.  "Suscipe hanc oblationem quam tibi offerimus… sacrificium de manibus meas…"

"Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum."

Fire burned around Gabrielle now, and a long, carved knife appeared in her hand.  "…in saecula saeculorum…"

And world without end…

There was a flash of grief, pain, and resistance in Gabrielle's eyes as the knife fell.

***

            Gabrielle sat the next day, eyes downcast, fingers never quite still, picking at her immaculate robes, running over the arms of the chair she sat in, smoothing back her hair, or clasping, white.  That was how Harry found her, let in, for the first time, by a house-elf.  His thoughts were troubled-Angelina Weasley was still missing, and hadn't been seen by any of her family.  There was a search ongoing, and Fred was frantic, obviously blaming himself and some explosion he had caused for her disappearance.  The Ministry had more grim views.  None of them were released to the public.  The search continued.

            There was a strong magical residue around the house he hadn't bothered looking at first, but Gabrielle was obviously here and not there…

            She didn't look quite like herself.  She was immaculate as usual but the light usually present in her eyes wasn't there and the cat's smile didn't grace her perfectly painted mouth.  She looked almost jittery as she looked up at him and tried to seem relaxed.  "'Ello, 'Arry."

            "Hello, Gabrielle," he said.  He had done a lot of thinking, lying awake at night, playing Sirius' words back in his mind.  There was chemistry, certainly.  And now that he saw her in this state, looking weak and vulnerable, his heart went out to her.

She couldn't-simply couldn't-be guilty of anything.

"Are you all right?" he asked, coming up to her and tilting her chin up.  "You look worried."

"Fine," she said shortly, her voice not entirely stable.  "I am seemply… tired."

He nodded, but didn't believe.

"I… enjoyed dinner… Sunday," she finally said.  "Ze outside world is sometimes pleasant."

"I went and saw your sister," Harry said abruptly.

"I… don't care… about Fleur."  But despite all the training, despite screaming inwardly at herself, she couldn't stop two tears from meandering down her cheeks.

Harry, looking closely at her, wordlessly gathered her into his arms and felt her shudder.  He didn't know what was wrong, but she was clearly very upset, and he was… well, he was a great many things, a fool among them.

"You 'ave never let me touch you before," she said.

"Priorities change," Harry murmured, looking down and discovering that she had turned eyes sparkling with unshed tears up to him.  And even like this, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.  Perhaps more so, now.

She saw it in his eyes.  "'Arry, you don't want to-"

"Yes I do," he cut her off.

Then he kissed her.