Chapter Five - Being One

Severus Snape strode away from the ornately carved stone stairs of Malfoy Manor, and stopped short at the sight of the owl. The snow-white, arctic owl. There were surely more than the one in use in the wizarding world, but Snape suspected that he already knew its owner. The owl took flight as soon as eye-contact was made. Something fluttered to the ground as the bird silently flapped off, toward a stand of trees further from the grand house.

The former professor pulled out his wand and approached warily. Potter's bird, and it had to be his, Snape was sure, was well within the Malfoy blood wards. That should not have been possible, thought Snape. Official Post owls were not excluded, of course, but who they had access to was easily controlled. Personal owls, such as the ones used by the Dark Lord's agents, were allowed through the warding on an individual basis. It was rather doubtful Potter's bird was in either category, and yet it had known he was here and had waited for him. It was difficult to get one's mind around the fact that Potter, little sneak though he had always been, was so easily slipping things past wards that had stood impregnable for centuries.

Perhaps, considered Snape, the Dark Lord had deduced and anticipated this new capability, which would explain his decision to decamp. Just as likely, though, was a desire to escape the wearying presence of Narcissa. The months of captivity for her son, and the lack of progress on freeing her husband had... loosened her grip on sanity. Somewhat, if he felt like being charitable. In the past few months she had taken to her rooms, emerging only to rant. There she spent time talking to one of Lucius' hats. Narcissa was not, knew Snape, reassured at all by his continued health. Rather, she viewed it as a betrayal that his Vow was not slowly killing him. That he was now known to be at Malfoy Manor gave him an excuse to flee as well, lest the Ministry attempt to seize him, but...

There was a scrap of parchment on the ground, at the base of the fence post the owl had perched on. It was secured from blowing away in the evening breeze by the owl droppings it had landed in. The Chosen Buffoon's idea of humor, no doubt. The missive was brief. 'Meet tonight. 100 yards east of the Hogsmeade gate in the Forest.' Not signed, noticed the potion master, though the scribble and the conspicuous owl was enough to identify the author.

Brief though it was, there was much to ponder. Specifying the meeting for tonight, thought Snape, either meant the boy was able to track his whereabouts or was able to use the resources needed for a meeting whenever the owl returned. Probably the latter; Snape prided himself on not being careless. Still, the short notice again implied forethought, as there could be no subtle counter. The same could be said, decided Snape, of the lack of a way to reply. It was a summons, not a parley. If he chose not to go, there may not be another.

The lack of a threat, direct or veiled, against Draco was puzzling. Perhaps, mused Snape, that ploy was being held in reserve, in the event he did not answer this. It was an indication of the company he kept, though, that the missing warning made the message seem incomplete. The confidence shown in the strokes of the pen meant Potter was sure the meeting would go as intended, however. It was, worried Snape, as if Potter actually did know what Draco meant to him.

Snape gathered his black cloak around him. A overconfident student was easy prey. Owl familiars were fast, but not as fast as apparition. The trip would be exhausting, but he would be there before Potter and his gang could set any nasty surprises. That would open the hoops equally, as the saying goes.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter sat dangling his feet into the Hogwarts lake, just near the dock where Hagrid traditionally left off the first years. There had not been many this year. He wondered where they had gone, whether to another school in Britain or abroad, or had just been kept at home. This distraction gave the grindylow he had been teasing an opportunity. It was only a Seeker's peripheral vision that prevented a severe laceration.

Harry was waiting for Ginny Weasley, to either celebrate her success or offer sympathy, depending on how the latest exam had gone. He hoped there was something to celebrate, he told himself, even though sympathy was a far more private affair. Hermione was sitting for her N.E.W.T.s, of course. Harry had tried to convince her that that was not a good idea given all the extracurricular work she was doing, but she felt she could hardly be Head Girl if she did not. Unfortunately for Ron, Hermione saw a parallel there. So Harry, who was quite all right with using his uncertain status to duck out of the ordeal, had revised, drilled, and endlessly quizzed with Ron to pull the Head Boy together. It had been an effort worthy of an Order of Merlin, though he did not feel, as Hermione hinted, that sitting for the exams as well was an excellent way to reward his own efforts.

The screech of an owl, a familiar screech, brought the wizard's head around. His owl Hedwig came flapping down the stone strewn path, half dragging a figure struggling to stay upright.

"That's enough of that, girl," Harry called sharply. He held out his arm for the owl to perch on. The large and clearly annoyed bird settled there. Sharp talons gave some indication as to how annoyed.

"Dobby has brought Harry Potter's owl," explained the little house-elf. He was wearing what might have been a child's rain slicker, and looked decidedly chewed.

"Hedwig! That wasn't very nice of you," scolded Harry. The owl's ruffled feathers pointed to the trip being difficult though. "Go on back to the owlery - I'll bring you a treat or two a bit later." He gave his owl a boost into the air, where it circled menacingly before flying off toward the castle's towers. For a moment, Harry feared Hedwig might dive at Dobby.

"Er, how did it go? Did he get the message?" asked Harry.

"Dobby saw the bad wizard read it, yes."

"I'm sorry about Hedwig, Dobby. Don't know what got into her. You, erm, all right?" Now that he looked closer, the house-elf seemed to be missing a bit of ear.

The elf noticed Harry's stare. "Dobby's ears were getting too long anyway, Harry Potter," nodded Dobby. "Harry Potter's owl did not like the trip back." Dobby tentatively stuck out his hand, palm up.

"Oh, er, sorry again all the same. Thanks." Harry placed a sickle into the house-elf's hand. For Dobby to practically demand payment it must have a real rough go. A sickle did not seem like enough for the risk, but Dobby would not take more. While he had come to grips with the idea of being paid for work, the elf still had no grasp of value. Harry decided to leave that to Hermione, and for later. For now, he needed her and Ron to get ready. They had to be at the meeting first.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle sat on her hand, which really, really hurt. It was cramping from holding a quill for two solid hours as she wrote furiously, trying to cover every possible topic that might have been marked 'expand.' Gabrielle was very sure that she would not get a chance to rework the exam, and was desperate to get at least an Acceptable in Wand Arts. She had needed a ridiculous meter and a half more parchment than anyone else, and had been the last one to finish.

The cramping hand had not hurt so much at first, but Gabrielle had, she now realized, stupidly allowed Monique to try a spell she said her mother used on her father's leg. The magic had either gone wrong or it was a wonder the two were still married. It did not help that Monique had been one of the first out of the exam, would probably easily earn an Acceptable because of Gabrielle's notes, and was too happily on her way to get more sun when Gabrielle had finally emerged from her personal dungeon. Monique argued that since Gabrielle's leg did not hurt it had not been the spell's fault. Sharp words had been exchanged, for which Gabrielle was already feeling regret. A talent from Fleur, perhaps. A visit from Impudanae would help fix things.

That would have to wait until the shooting pains stopped. At least the marble bench Gabrielle sat on offered cooling relief. A decidedly small, cooling relief. She should probably go to the infirmary and Monsieur Maltranchier, but he had to be the least sympathetic healer in all of France, always sighing heavily after each potion was used from his dwindling stocks. That was not her fault. Most of the really expensive potions and treatments went to Tibault. Which was, technically, almost nearly her fault.

At least the Wand Arts practical had come before the written portion. The plan Gabrielle had come up had worked beautifully. She would write George about that. She had begged Mademoiselle Deudancorp for a delay, explaining that she had misplaced her wand and only had an old practice wand to work with. Mademoiselle Deudancorp - or was it Mademoiselle Deudancorp? - had not been generous at all, and made Gabrielle take her turn. With surprising glee, noted Gabrielle sourly. Gabrielle did not, of course, mention that the 'old' wand was her true wand, nor did she bother to explain that she herself had put the twisted wand with the hair from her Grandmere in a different spot than normal. She had not lied; the professor just had not taken the time to gather all of the information.

The testing had gone better, that was certain. It had just not gone as well as Gabrielle had hoped - had expected! Gabrielle suspected that was because she did not get enough time to practice with the little, blond wand, except for making flames. Or, perhaps, the wand took exception to being called an old practice wand. A nagging thought kept suggesting the minuscule possibility that she actually lacked talent, which was ridiculous. Gabrielle vowed to turn everything into a teapot when she had the chance using her real wand, and levitate it. She did notice that the wand from Grandmere worked quite a bit faster than the little wand, but with less control, as if it were trying to guess what she wanted. The wand would do better, thought Gabrielle, if it did not try so hard.

A sharp twinge, enough to bring tears, made Gabrielle stand up. She still had not settled on where to go. The resident prefect might be able to help as well as the healer, assuming she was not in an exam herself. And was not still siding with Lucretia.

It suddenly occurred to Gabrielle who could, who would help: Professor Elevagre! How often had she seen him set bones in his fingers and soothe burns and staunch bleeding and... Professor Elevagre, thought Gabrielle, really should find another position. Although, came a second thought, would another professor give her so much extra credit?

"It's the Jinx, isn't it? You're, ooh, turning into a harpy?" Two hands, flexed like claws in mimicry of her clenched one, waved at the air.

"Eh, what? No!" It was Roni, an annoying idiot from the sixth class who ordered almost as much Poot Powder as Drago ever had. Wizards and witches from the higher classes were working to keep a strong updraft in place around dorm seven. Roni was not his actual name, but that's all people called him.

"Should I get Silvain?"

Gabrielle gave him a Look, which was spoiled by another bad cramp in her writing hand. She used her other to wipe her eyes. Something had to be done, and the healer was closer. Gabrielle stood up. "No. Eh, I have to go."

"You two broke up? I'm sorry, I didn't know. Listen, don't go - I'll, ooh, try and talk to him, yeah. Hey, if I can get him to come over, can I get my next order free? Because I was thinking of getting one of those -"

"Silencio!" barked Gabrielle. Even with her off-hand, even with her off-wand, it had been a good spell. The gibbering Roni now looked more like a fish out of water, his mouth still moving before his tiny brain realized. Poisseux should have seen it.

v - v - v - v - v

Severus Snape reappeared within sight of the Hogsmeade gate, and slipped into the darkness of the Forbidden Forest. Then, with a flash of magical fire that burned away the sticky webbing, slipped back out of the Forbidden Forest. At least until his eyes adjusted to the darkness - the last apparition point had been close to a muggle warehouse and their blasted artificial lights. Perhaps muggles did have an inkling as to what could lurk in the darkness, and sought to banish those with perpetual day. But here in the real world, thought Snape, one needed to see everything as it truly is. Particularly since the acromantulas had apparently set up a new colony.

Snape set off again on a tortuous course intended to deceive any observers alerted by his flashy escape. He slowed as he approached the approximate location, and through the trees spotted a Chudley Cannons pennant on a stick stuck into the ground. About as subtle as expected, he thought. It made the luck hypothesis seem more likely. Snape raised his wand, intending to set some simple proximity alarms. Simple, but well-concealed. He had, after all, the advantage and fully intended to keep it.

"I shouldn't bother, you greasy git." Snape whirled around as Harry stepped from behind a tree, wand ready. "I'm already here."

Snape sneered as he recovered from the surprise. "Still an impressive wit, I see. For a troll." And a champion skulker - how many nights had the boy sat out here under that damned cloak until the owl had delivered the message? It was that, or Potter truly had known his location before sending the owl.

"Better that than a murdering bastard and traitor," spat Harry.

"All alone though? Not very bright for meeting a traitor. As arrogant as ever, Potter." Merlin, even the sight of the boy grated on his nerves.

"'E never said he was alone," growled a new voice. Ah, thought Snape, there he is: the great dunderhead Ronald Weasley, attempting to use menace to cover his lack of skill.

Except, reconsidered Snape quickly, that was the second he had not detected. There was likely a third. A competent third, but one who could be indecisive in battle. Surprise was lost, yes, but it was still possible to gain the upper hand. Disarming Weasley would be trivial; it took him too long to remember an incantation. Something colorful for Potter first, then, planned Snape. His shield was fast, but his spell following it would be slow.

Snape snapped his wand forward, launching a gaudy fireball at Harry. As expected, it was blocked, but the disarming spell on Weasley caught him gaping. As Snape went to flick a chain-binding hex toward Potter, he was surprised when he was hit by a simple Petrificus. The spell was weak, but it had been done non-verbally and by - Weasley? Snape was sure the disarming spell had hit the buffoon, yet somehow he had held onto his wand. Snape immediately began to counter the effects when a vine wood wand emerged from the air. It was held, at his neck, by Granger, the last of the trio. She had the cloak.

"That'll do, please, all of you," ordered Hermione.

"He bloody near pulled my arm from its socket," complained Ron. "And he tried to toast Harry's, er.. well, toast Harry."

"No," said Hermione. "I'd wager that flame would've have barely lit a candle. It was just for distraction."

"I was distracted by it," replied Ron, rubbing his shoulder.

"Yes, I did say. And it was why you nearly lost your wand."

"Full marks for the analysis, Miss Granger, again. You may sit down," said Snape.

"Missing your old life among the decent people? Worshipping a homicidal maniac not working out for you?" asked Harry, returning the sneer.

"Ten points for insolence, and another five for wasting my time."

"Shut up the lot of you," snapped Hermione, giving her wand an extra jab into Snape's neck. He had freed himself from Weasley's spell, though he had not moved yet. "Harry, get on with it."

"Yes, do. I am only here at the Dark Lord's behest," complained Snape. "I have potions waiting."

"No, that's not the only reason," asserted Harry.

Ah, thought the former professor, the reference to Draco he was expecting. "Young Malfoy has lost the Dark Lord's favor, and is no concern of mine now," bluffed Snape.

"I know that is not true," said Harry. A counter-bluff, judged Snape, but best to move on.

"Can I hit him now?" asked Ron. An idiot, came a second judgement.

"Let's get back to the topic, Harry. And put your wand away, slowly, Snape," instructed Hermione. "I know you've countered Ron's spell."

"As could most children." Snape put his wand back inside his robes.

"Still got you, you great dung-breathed bat!" crowed Ron.

"Harry, please. I've, erm, got more revising to do. Arithmancy," pleaded Hermione.

"All right. Look, we want to know about Quirrell." An involuntary blink of surprise interrupted Snape's steely stare of intimidation. It had not been working in any case, as Potter never quite met his gaze. The boy had, against all expectations, learned something. And dealt with Bellatrix and Frenrir, Snape reminded himself.

Snape realized that he had simply forgotten the erratic thought processes of students. He had expected demands for the whereabouts of the Dark Lord, or details of his plans, or even help in defeating him. "Quirrell?" asked Snape. "The man is dead, by your hand - the first of your victims." The taunt was petty, but the boy looked so much like his damned father. Except for Lily's eyes.

"Voldemort under his hat had more to do with that than - "

"Do not say the name!" hissed Snape, before composing himself again. The twitch of the wand at his neck suggested calm would be appreciated.

"Towel," noted Ron. "Quirrell wore a towel on his head."

"Turban, actually," clarified Hermione. "Like the Sikhs of India are known for. It's useful when -"

"When you have a Dark Lord sticking out of you, yeah," interrupted Harry. "Did he, Quirrell that is, ever mention where in Albania he had gone?"

This was why, thought Snape, he never liked speaking with students. Too much gibberish to parse out, and too little left to make sense. At least subtle dissembling was impossible. "No. Quirrell never spoke of it and I had no interest in his little, so-called achievements."

"Why is Wormtail in Albania?" asked the Boy-Who-Lived.

Another surprise, but one that suggested a goal to Snape, and hinted at a darker side to the boy: he had a list of enemies, and was working through it. What had he told Granger that she would be an accomplice? Where was he on the list? Probably, guessed Snape, near the bottom, as his information would be invaluable for ensnaring others. This could prove useful, though. "How do you know Wormtail is in Albania?"

"Oy! We're askin' the questions here," barked Weasley. A glare was sufficient to make him shrink back.

"A friend, erm, saw him there," explained Potter. "Hiding."

It did not feel like a lie. Pettigrew, smirked Snape, has been careless. The Dark Lord might find that tidbit interesting. Snape replied, "I do not know the nature of the errand the rat was sent on, only that the Dark Lord is displeased enough to deal with Wormtail... personally." That, judged the spy, should be adequate warning.

At least for Granger it was. For Potter and Weasley, it seemed to confirm something else, based on the exchanged glances. "Personally? He has a new body?" asked the girl.

"Not his own. I suspect you three had a hand in seeing to that, judging by the crude, obnoxious technique." Weasley looked like he would burst from pride. Harry's face flashed to a pained expression. Snape noted it - the boy and the Dark Lord still had a connection. "He has become quite adept at using the ones belonging to others."

"It's not a potion or glamour - he could easily travel incognito," worried Hermione. Ten points for that, thought Snape. The Dark Lord was currently in a weak host, though. Ron swallowed an expletive he had started at her glare.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle pushed open the door to the infirmary. It was deserted of students at the moment. Mordant, Monsieur Maltranchier's large black raven, turned on his perch, made of twin, entwined snakes, to look at her. "Eh, my hands hurts," explained Gabrielle politely. She held up the offending appendage. Mordant sidled silently along his perch. "Monsieur Maltranchier is in?" Mordant usually announced visitors, but instead the bird hopped down to the desk to peck at a pile of cards. "It, eh, hurts a lot," Gabrielle hinted. In turn, Mordant hopped over to her with a card in its beak. On it was a number, the number two. Gabrielle stared at it; this was new.

Mordant fluttered back to the perch, his eyes of coal looking past Gabrielle to the hard, wooden bench along the wall. Gabrielle frowned, sighed, and sat down. Monsieur Maltranchier should have a little sign, thought Gabrielle, to show whether he is in or not. Perhaps two is when he will be back? She had barely settled back when the raven croaked out his announcing call.

A louder, heavier sigh preceded Maltranchier's entrance. The healer opened the door to the back. "Of course. Mademoiselle Delacour."

Gabrielle smiled in the face of that, and stood up. "Good afternoon, Monsieur Maltranchier. Eh, it is my -" A loud squawk of avian indignation interrupted her. The source, Mordant, was now pecking a small chalkboard with something scrawled on it. The healer turned to it with barely masked exasperation.

Gabrielle could not read what was written, though it appeared to be words. "Eh, please, what does it say?"

"I should have gotten a bird who could speak, instead of this old fellow who thinks he can write," started Maltranchier. "His spelling is atrocious. I believe it is trying to say that we are now serving... one." He looked at Gabrielle, who looked at her card with the number two and then the otherwise empty waiting room.

"But there is no one else!" blurted Gabrielle.

"We'll just give whomever it is a little more time," assured the healer. "Then we'll skip ahead." He backed from the room, and pulled the door closed behind him. Gabrielle watched dumbly. This was not right.

Gabrielle thought of complaining to the raven that he had given her the wrong number, that she should be seen now, but decided against it. She didn't understand raven - she was barely capable in toad. Instead, she casually strolled over to the desk to see if she could spot the card with the right number on it. Beady black eyes glared at her with affront. Unfortunately the cards were turned over. Gabrielle might have peeked under them just to check, but a raven's beak is quite sharp. "You should keep them stacked more neatly," she criticized on the way back to the bench.

That piece of unsolicited advice probably earned her an extra five minutes of sitting on the hard bench, but eventually Mordant hopped over to the chalkboard. There he took up a cloth in his beak, and began erasing part of the chalked message with pecking motions. It took several more minutes; the raven was very thorough. Then the bird took up a piece of chalk and began to, well, write using the same pecking technique. No small wonder, thought Gabrielle, that it was so hard to read. The markings were made of barely connected, dusty impacts. And Monsieur Maltranchier must go through a lot of chalk. White splinters flew with each peck.

Gabrielle could see what the bird was doing, and was pulling out a quill even before she heard Healer Maltranchier rise. It did nothing for her hand except to renew the pangs.

"Ahem. I'll now take number, hmm, three?" announced Maltranchier uncertainly. His raven preened smugly.

"That is me," declared Gabrielle, showing her card which now had a number three on it. The ink still glistened.

Even as the healer motioned for her to enter, Mordant was croaking his complaints and scattering cards messily on the desk. Gabrielle smiled in triumph, and could not resist reminding the annoyed creature, "I told you to stack them neatly, did I not?" She kept the altered card with her as she followed Maltranchier. She would need to remove the ink later.

The infirmary was familiar to Gabrielle. She had been there dozens of times, several of which were just for visits. A smell similar to bacon made her pause to look in on Drago. The burly boy from the fifth class slept in the dimness of the room. He had hair now; it could not be long until he was able to leave. Or be interrogated. Two doors further down was where Tibault lay. The screen normally blocking the door had been removed, and Gabrielle could see his wasted face for the first time in months. He also looked like he would be able to leave soon. That was a little unnerving.

When Gabrielle and Maltranchier reached the examination room, the healer sat down on the room's stool. Gabrielle perched on the edge of the bed. "You are not bleeding, nor smouldering, and you are able to walk under your own power. What brings you here, Mademoiselle Delacour, hmm?" asked Maltranchier.

No sympathy, thought Gabrielle. The healers in Paris were far more caring. That might have been because Papa was paying them, noted a second thought. "It is my hand. It is cramping from the exam, from, eh, writing too much." Gabrielle decided not to mention Monique's attempt.

"Why, that's almost normal," said Monsieur Maltranchier in surprise. "It's caused by muscle spasms. Heat and relaxing the muscles will have it right in no time. Let me see the hand." He took Gabrielle's hand, which was partly clenched like a claw again. The healer kneaded the base of the palm near the wrist. "Hmm. This was the one that was -"

"Yes," said Gabrielle curtly. "That is the hand."

"Amazing, really. This will feel a little odd," he warned. The healer's wand, an ornately turned baton of some age-darkened wood, touched a spot on Gabrielle 's wrist.

A jolt shot from that spot to her fingertips and elbow, and her hand flopped limply. Unexpectedly, an identical sensation raced from her knee to her toes and hip. Since Gabrielle was only mostly sitting on the bed, the sudden loss of muscle tone in her leg made her slide to the floor. "Waagh!" she exclaimed.

Then Gabrielle was back up, being levitated once more onto the bed by Monsieur Maltranchier. He reached for a vial, with a heavy sigh, and put it to her lips. It was unfamiliar, but not horrible. She would have said that it was not necessary, that she was mostly fine, but her mouth was full of the potion. Which, thought Gabrielle, was spicy, like the way a curry house smelled, and tasted vaguely of... snake. She could see the snake in front of her, bobbing and hissing with its hood spread wide. It was Sheitan, as ill-tempered as ever and so dark you could almost not see its markings. Gabrielle's wiry brown arm waved the woven straw lid of Sheitan's basket off to one side. It did not distract the wary serpent. That was bad news for the both of them, thought Gabrielle. Sheitan would die this day. It was too dangerous anymore to gather his venom and his precious tears. The question was whether she herself would be killed as well. Gabrielle swung the lid quickly part way toward the snake. Sheitan struck at the lid not once, but twice. The snake may know his fate, thought Gabrielle. Sheitan turned back to her, the golden eyes blazing like, becoming, the sun.

Gabrielle tried to turn her face away from the blinding light, but a strong hand held her in place and her eye open. She swallowed the mouthful of potion she had, and tried to push the flaring wand away. Her arm flopped uselessly.

"Can you tell me your name?" asked Maltranchier.

"It is Gabrielle, of course. Eh, 'G' is for Gabrielle," replied Gabrielle automatically. She tried to raise herself up, but only half her appendages seemed to work properly. All of them tingled and twitched.

"Hmm. What day is it?'

"It is.. it is, eh..." Gabrielle was not completely sure what day of the week it was - they had blurred - but she sure knew what day it was. "It is the day of the Wand Arts exam. Please, I am fine. Eh, except for my leg. Legs, and arms."

"Bad reaction to the muscle-relaxing charm," explained the healer tersely. "Followed by a bad reaction to the potion to reverse its effects. The charm may have been affected by the residual magic left from the reattachment."

"Eh..." began Gabrielle. She told him about Monique's spell attempt, and received a scolding for not mentioning it before his treatment. The healer was, however, relieved to hear about the Seeing, while at the same time somewhat disappointed. He confessed to imagining working up a case-study to publish on the residual healing magic interaction.

"Still, better not to be catatonic, hmm?" said Maltranchier. "Tedious care." Gabrielle noticed his glance down the hall

"Eh... Tibault - he will be able to leave soon?"

"Not until he regains consciousness."

"Oh. I thought that because, eh, the screen was moved -"

"No. The holes in his chest and organs finally closed, making the sight of him less nauseating to visitors. Granencole should be able to sit up, but he is still unresponsive," explained Healer Maltranchier as he guided Gabrielle's injured hand into the cauldron of paraffin he had set up. The melted wax blooped, and was hot. Very hot. As Gabrielle yelped and breathed loudly through gritted teeth, the healer continued, "It may be that his head was injured in a way we can not detect. It may be the magic in the unicorn's horn has disrupted the flow of one of his humours. It may even be his conscience has turned his own magic against himself - those who would kill a unicorn are cursed. Or, it may - Would you please stop fussing?"

"Hot," panted Gabrielle. "Too hot."

"The heat prevents the cramps from returning once the charm ends."

Gabrielle had wanted to know why Granencole, or Drago and his accomplice for that matter, had not been transferred to the very good hospital in Paris. But now all she wanted to know is if what smelled like cooked meat was from her or not. She could imagine pulling her arm out of the cauldron, and finding it had been rendered away to nothing, like the meat and bones in pork soup. "Please," whimpered Gabrielle.

To no avail - Monsieur Maltranchier was sitting down to eat an early dinner. Which, thankfully, was the source of the aroma. No sympathy, thought Gabrielle.

v - v - v - v - v

Lord Voldemort leaned against the crenelations at the top of the tower, and looked out over the dark seas. The waves were barely visible in the starlight. He was tired. No, he corrected the thought. The body was tired, not truly himself. Molding and toughening the local chalk to create the solitary tower took longer than it should have, and more effort than it should have. He felt imprisoned in this weakling of a wizard, whose being he so easily subsumed.

The solitude atop the tower was refreshing though. The tower had always been a wizard's first choice in architecture throughout history, if one viewed pyramids as a particularly stable form of tower. The location was, decided the Dark Lord, as good as he had judged the headland, with its large outcrop of chalk, to be. Even the local name was pleasing: Ravenscar. The North Sea on one side, the moors of North Yorkshire on the other - it was a setting ripe for magic.

The first of the magic, resolved Lord Voldemort, would address the woeful state of his corporeal existence. The original method was now lost along with the bones of his treacherous father. The failure had enraged him at the time, but now the Dark Lord was almost glad the filthy things were gone. He was not half-dead as some hoped; he was a being of magic, transcending mere wizards as they did mere men. Usurping the existence of another was becoming trivial, but consent, true consent, was still needed. That meant only the truly weak - in mind, magic, or body - would be willing. What was needed instead was vigor, and an affinity for the magic he knew he was capable of. There -had- to be another way; perhaps the chimera Severus was struggling to create would prove useful.

That determination also led him to reexamine the legends of golems. The ancient stories made it sound as if the clay figures were not just animated, but sentient. Hollow clay men filled with fire was the common theme, but, wondered the reflective Lord Voldemort, suppose it was really clay filled with a magical presence? That was the sort of idea he was after. If, by the sheer force of his will and magic, he was able to use another's body as a puppet, then why not an otherwise inanimate shell? Perhaps having the whole of a body was just a habit of thought.

The Dark Lord let loose a laugh. Standing in the night air, on top of a tower with an inspiring view, and contemplating magic no one else had tried before - it reminded him forcefully of the days when he was Head Boy at Hogwarts, when he was beginning to take on the persona of Lord Voldemort. Then, as now, he was working to create himself anew. Politically then, physically now.

The parallel pulled another thought to the fore. History had been shaped many times by lone wizards. Lone wizards, ruling from their towers or pulling the strings of duped muggle kings. These mighty wizards wielded great magic; legendary, almost mythical, magic that was nearly beyond any he himself had done. The feats accomplished in the lost past were unheard of today. Four wizards had together raised Hogwarts Castle; it took six wizards today to create a bungalow.

The decline in the power of wizardry had been noted, and was explained, to the satisfaction of some, by the idea of diluted blood, or rather, bloodlines. It was a sensible theory, thought Lord Voldemort, but his own origins and efforts in recruiting had provided numerous counter-examples. What, considered the Dark Lord, if it was a dilution of magic itself instead? What if magic resided not in the blood, but in the world around? After all, he retained his magical capabilities even as he moved between flesh vessels, so the essence of a wizard was more important than the blood. In addition, resting clearly refreshed the ability to create magic. That meant, reasoned the Dark Lord, that either a wizard's essence was the very source of magic, or it was attuned to the magic of the world, absorbing and concentrating it.

Which brought him back to history's lone wizards. Lone, as in alone or only. Lord Voldemort knew his greatest magical accomplishments had been done in seclusion. Even now, far from the wizard population of London, he could feel himself recovering more quickly. The conclusion was obvious. The more wizards in a given area, the less magic was available to each one. As an entity composed of that very magic, realized the Dark Lord, it was as if other wizards were depriving him of food, air. Muggles were vermin, but other wizards were... parasites.

This epiphany sent Lord Voldemort's ruminations racing along a new course. His machinations to have the Ministry of Magic handed to him to rule would debase him; reduce him to the mediocrity of the others. Ridding the world of muggles and turning it over to wizardom now appeared to be the polar opposite of attaining magical supremacy. Wizards were the true threat. Muggles were only chattel. The plan would need to be redirected, but subtly.

Muggles -were- vermin, however, so Lord Voldemort celebrated his new understanding by summoning a huge wave of water, higher than the seaside cliffs. He was pleased with his efforts, though the body fatigued. The crashing wave turned out the street lamps by sections in the otherwise darkened town, the splintering of the buildings audible over the water.

v - v - v - v - v

The quiet chiming of the metal galoshes and the soft sounds Impudanae made as he walked beside her would be enough that Monique would normally sit up from her sunning to greet them. Gabrielle guessed that the brunette's current indifference meant that Monique was still upset with her. Well, Gabrielle had a plan to get Monique to forgive her. Hopefully it would work, since Gabrielle had already spent two hours preparing.

Exams were over for the year, and tonight would be the Summer Feast followed by the Rising dance. Then the mass exodus would begin. But for now, there was nothing for the students to do except to try to unwind. Monique did that by setting out her towel by the river and baking in the sun. She was already a glowing bronze, and her curly hair had highlights from the sunlight. Next year they could use the path to the beach. Gabrielle wondered if she would ever see Monique anywhere else. Today Monique wore a new two-piece suit. There was not much to it. Gabrielle had to wonder if Monique's parents knew the girl had it. It was clear why she needed a new one; it was clear to a lot of the boys as well. Monique was well on her way to a spectacular figure. It was something Gabrielle tried not to think about. She knew she was a late-bloomer, and perfectly normal. It just seemed like all the other girls she knew had grown several centimeters upward, and the same outward, while she had barely managed not to shrink. Even Dilly was offering her clothes that no longer fit. Not that that was all bad. Nelle's friend Varook - her real name was Vafara and it was not explained - had given her a stretchy green top trimmed in black lace. Varook claimed that she had got it at Serré, putatively -the- shop for young witches, but Gabrielle recognized the muggle manufacturer's mark. She did not say anything though, because it was a nice top.

"Monique?" asked Gabrielle.

"Hmmph. Come to blame me for Alchemical Arts?"

Since Monique was not looking her way, Gabrielle rolled her eyes. She had hoped Monique would not play the drama queen. The Alchemical Arts exam had been a disaster only because of the Wand Arts exam, really. And because Gabrielle had, she was ashamed to admit, been rather counting on old, insane Professor Pleinbouillois being there to take her paper. A bright smile for him, a little awkward conversation, and Gabrielle had sort of expected he would mark her paper right there. Instead, there had only been the proctor present: a witch from the upper class, one of the ones who had watched George so covetously. She took Gabrielle's paper with malicious glee. It was not Monique's fault, though. "I am, eh, sorry for what I said," apologized Gabrielle. Which was mostly true. She was sorry if Monique was sorry, otherwise she was not, since what Gabrielle had said was also mostly true.

"Hmmph," huffed Monique again, though less stridently. She did not say anything else for a while. Neither did Gabrielle. She just tugged gently on the unicorn's beard, to keep him in a relaxed mood. "I'm sorry too," said Monique finally, not looking at Gabrielle. "I was only trying to help."

"I know, that is why I am sorry," repeated Gabrielle. She tapped her metal footwear together.

"You brought Impy, didn't you?" asked Monique as she finally turned around. Gabrielle let that go by. She was outside the Palace's walls; of course Impy would be there. That's why she had metal shoes.

"Yes. I, eh, think he will let you ride." After two hours of grooming, the unicorn was in such a mellow mood that Tristen might have been able to touch him. And, eh, live.

"Really? Oh Gi - Gabrielle, you're the best!"

"Move slowly," warned Gabrielle. Monique had jumped up, and Impudanae had tensed. Monique, now with exaggerated slowness, moved next to the unicorn. She began stroking the unicorn's side.

"It is so-o-o silky," gushed Monique. It ought to be, thought Gabrielle, given the amount of brushing done. Her arms felt like rubber.

"Eh, what are you doing?" asked Gabrielle. Monique was not just using her hands now, but her face and chest as well.

"His hair feels amazing," purred Monique. "Will he really let me ride?"

"I think so. Down, Impudanae. Down. Down," urged Gabrielle. The unicorn had learned two commands during his convalescence. The other was 'open', as in his mouth. They were really more requests than commands. Unicorns were free. Still, the huge animal lowered itself carefully to the ground. It did not make Impy's back any more accessible. Should have brought the ladder, thought Gabrielle. "Eh, do you think you can climb - What are you doing? Oh mon Dieu! Have you lost your senses?"

"You've got to ride a unicorn naked. Everybody knows that," insisted Monique giddily as she undid the strings of her bottoms, which would soon join her top on the ground.

"I don't think that's true. Monique, people will see!"

"No one is around. Find something for me to stand on," ordered Monique. She had tried to hook her leg onto the animal's back in a decidedly lewd display, but could not reach. Gabrielle did not know where her best friend was looking, but Gabrielle could see several heads. There were always boys around when Monique went for sun.

"Monique! Please, put your swimsuit back on," begged Gabrielle. Monique reached down to pull a branch over. One of the heads now had a nosebleed. Impy snuffled the air.

"Maybe we could pile up branches..."

"Oh Merlin. Don't bend over! I will do it." It is good that classes are at an end, thought Gabrielle. Monique would surely be too embarrassed to attend them. "Accio log! Eh, no, the other one please. Accio!" Thankfully the log was mostly round, and could roll. When it finally reached the girls, Gabrielle transfigured it into something not round. It was not the stool she had envisioned either; it looked like a table that had tried to touch its toes, if it had toes. But it would not shift when Monique climbed up.

"Oh mon Dieu! Oh mon Dieu! I'm really going to ride a unicorn," whispered Monique excitedly as she clambered onto the unicorn's back. She sat up at first, undoubtedly giving her voyeurs a better view, then she slid forward to lie flat on her stomach, her arms and legs dangling over Impy's sides. "Oh - oh - ohhh... I love you, Impy."

This, thought Gabrielle as Monique wriggled away in her own world, may be bad. She lifted up Impy's muzzle; the rest of the beast followed. Monique squealed in delight. "Eh, we will go into the forest, I think," said Gabrielle to the unicorn, his large eyes looking into hers. There would be little to fear while the unicorn was with them, and fewer observers. Monique is definitely going to regret this. She started forward, and turned toward the path that led deeper into the Fey Wild. She stopped short because Impudanae had not turned with her, and now blocked her way. Gabrielle gripped his horn, just in case, and prayed that he had not just noticed Monique and was about to throw her. "It is all right, Impudanae," soothed Gabrielle. Monique was quietly singing a children's song about unicorns. Perhaps there was such a thing as too much sun, even for her. "She has lost her senses. I am sorry about that."

The great unicorn seemed to think on that for a moment, idly chewing Gabrielle's hair as was his habit, an annoying one at that. And people wondered, thought Gabrielle, why she did not grow her hair out like Fleur had done. Then Impy raised his head up and shook it, looked to the forest, and... bolted.

"Impudanae! Stop!" cried Gabrielle in horror. Monique clung to his back, her upturned rump bouncing as the animal galloped. In a moment they were gone. Gabrielle at first gave chase, but it was useless. First, running shoes were seldom made from iron. And second, wizards and witches used the paths; unicorns did not. She turned around to go back to the Palace, to the stables, for Professor Elevagre, but remembered that Impy did not like him much. She did not want her Outstanding gored! Rather selfish, noted a second thought. She then thought to get Madame Maxime herself. The Headmistress had no trouble working the Abraxans. But that would not work. The Headmistress was, according to Professor Elevagre, out looking at marble for the new tower, and was best not to be near, thought Gabrielle, when she was thinking about towers. And again, added a guilty thought.

Gabrielle was almost, very nearly, pretty sure that Impudanae would not hurt Monique. Not intentionally hurt Monique. She decided to wait there, and guard Monique's clothes. Monique would need them to get back to the Palace.

v - v - v - v - v

Monique reappeared a little more than an hour later as the sun moved, or several hours later as Gabrielle's guilt-ridden and panicked mind judged. Impudanae was not with her. Monique staggered out of the woods covered in scratches, muddy all up one side of her still naked body, and wearing a beatific grin on her face. Her curly brown hair now had a shock of silver on the right. Gabrielle ran to her. "Monique! Oh Monique, you're alive! What happened? Are you hurt? I am -so- sorry! I didn't think that stupid Impudanae would do that. Are you okay? Please, Monique, say something. Here are your robes. What happened?"

"I became one with the Forest," said Monique quietly.

"Eh, what?"

"I became one with the Forest," repeated Monique grinning.

"Eh... that is, eh, good. Right? Did Impy throw you? You are all scratched up." Monique's eyes were a little glazed, so Gabrielle repeated the question. At least Gabrielle was able to begin to dress the girl.

"The blackberry bushes caught me. I ate some of their berries," explained Monique. "They are faster than they look."

"Do you know what happened to your hair?"

"I became one with the Forest," said Monique, smilingly enigmatically.

"Oh, eh, yes. You said that," nodded Gabrielle. Becoming one with the forest, she noted, apparently addles your brain. "What about Impy?" She pulled Monique along anxiously. Healer Maltranchier had better be in, and Mordant out.

"Oh Gabrielle," breathed Monique in awe. "It was the best thing ever. He took me to a spring in a hidden glen. There was moss everywhere, and fairies and nymphs, and the biggest mushrooms ever. The fairies tried to help me off Impy, but I fell." She indicated the mud.

From Gabrielle 's own experience with fairies, she rather suspected that they had pushed Monique off. Monique had not eaten any of the mushrooms, had she? "Where is Impy? Did he come back with you?" Gabrielle would make sure he knew she was unhappy about what he did.

"Mmmm, no?"

"How did you find your way back then? You didn't even have your wand." Certainly she had had no place to put it.

"I am one with the Forest," explained Monique.

"And that means what?" asked Gabrielle, starting to feel annoyed by her friend's smile. Gabrielle hoped the healer would be able to do something about that. Otherwise Maman was sure to hear about this from Monique's mother. Then Maman would - would not allow her to go on the expedition!

That immediately made Gabrielle feel guilty again, and she dragged Monique along faster.