Chapter Six - Phase Two

Early July.

Madame Maxime picked up two of the three marble cubes on the table before her. The samples were nearly a third of a meter on a side, but the headmistress handled them as easily as she would a large mug. It was so hard to decide, she sighed, and her staff was being completely useless about it. The marble blocks, quarried from three distinct regions of Italy, were not at all 'just white'. The color, in the first place, was a pale alabaster. And there was texture and inclusions to consider too. Madame Maxime had been able to narrow the choices down to three, but now found herself unable to make the final selection. A ballot of the staff had produced a three-way tie, and a loud argument about whether one could vote more than once or not, since that had not been explicitly excluded by a formal declaration of rules. Madame Maxime sighed again, and let the cubes drop onto the heavy table. The thundering crash gained the teaching staff's attention.

"The final item on the agenda..." started Madame Maxime before she noticed that the latest petition from the house-elves in the library was no longer the final item. She would have to look into new document security spells, preferably from an outside source. "I see Mademoiselle Delacour is to be discussed again."

"If this is about the unicorn, there's no evidence that the animal intended any harm to the Etoilebois girl." declared Professor Elevagre. His voice was slightly muffled by the bandages covering the left side of his face, which was healing well.

"It -is- the third attack on a student," noted Mademoiselle Duedancorp. The two sisters sat together with one set of notes between them.

"Mmm... not at all. Other than to provide something to fall from, and transport to something to fall into, the unicorn did not injure her in any physical way. The blackberry bushes - " argued Healer Maltranchier. He was interrupted.

"Probably Leckerbeeren Scharfedom Vindictus, actually. There's a thicket of it roaming the Fey Wild. Not sure how it got here - it's not native," corrected the Natural Arts professor.

"They make an excellent strudel," offered professor Korbel. It was an uncharacteristic comment from the Martial Arts professor.

"Leckerbeeren, mmm? The berries contain an entertaining alkaloid, I believe," said the healer thoughtfully.

"That is cooked away, yes, during baking. The strudel is vunderful, yes," seconded Professor Festeller.

"The berries would explain much," noted Maltranchier. "Except the hair."

"We are not discussing the unicorn," stated the other Mlle. Duedancorp.

"Are we discussing the lingering presence of dorm seven?" asked Madame Sombrevoir from behind her trademark veil, which lately had been hung with fresh flowers to provide relief.

"Delacour is the source of the contraband," denounced Mlle. Duedancorp.

"I am sure of it!" added the Mlle. Duedancorp next to her.

Madam Maxime looked at the marble samples, and wondered at how they were so much less dense than the teaching staff. "Of course she is the source. One only had to be observant to have noticed it; it is not like the girl was terribly clever at hiding it."

"Then - then why was she not punished?" asked an affronted Mlle. Duedancorp. "Expelled?"

"Which leads directly to the question of the Delacour girl's marks, and the obvious influence she was able to exert!" burst out a different, but equally affronted, Mlle. Duedancorp.

Madame Maxime, in the expectant silence that followed, spared a quick glance for old Taillefer Pleinbouillois, the Alchemical Arts professor, who was upright but had his eyes closed. There had been complaints, but not nearly as many as Fleur Delacour had engendered. Those had almost always been motivated by spite and jealousy in any case. The headmistress cleared her throat. "The Beauxbatons Academy of Magic is as an Abraxan about to take to the air. Our academic reputation grows with each passing year, and our learning environment is safe, secure. This is the moment of destiny; the moment to take our place foremost! The only remaining tarnish is the belief that the atmosphere at the school is too formal, too stuffy."

"Stuffy is not the description I would use for dorm seven."

Madame Maxime ignored the interjection. "To correct those impressions, I have added a number of modern services. That is progressive." She ignored the sour faces as well. "The small quantity of contraband tolerated provides a diversion, and gives this institution a more liberal reputation."

"Provides a diversion? They blew up the Stone tower!" reminded Professor Elevagre.

"A flawed design, as it turns out, to be replaced by something more modern and aesthetic." Madame Maxime lined up the stone blocks. "If we could just decide?"

"Mmm, which is the least expensive? The potion stocks are, in a very, mmm, modern way, liberally depleted." That earned the healer a peeved look.

"Yes, used by the victims of the circumstances arranged by the Delacour girl," accused Mlle. Duedancorp.

"Merciful Morgana, woman! The two clods brought the tower down on themselves just for a bit of whiskey, and Granencole earned his fate on his own. That wound on Impudanae has only just healed, and poor Natuche barely remembers her own family, let alone the dastardly assault," exclaimed Professor Elevagre. Madame Maxime jotted down a note to check on the next delivery of the liquor. Her babies had had to make due with poor rations for too long.

"Impudanae?"

"That is... the name Gabrielle gave the unicorn."

"You give her a great deal of extra credit, and I believe she spends quite a bit of time at the stables... alone with you."

The Natural Arts professor glared at the pair of identical witches, and the accusation flitted uncomfortably around the room. "She takes the Abraxans out to exercise for me," Elevagre explained with barely concealed anger.

"I ask how," said the Martial Arts professor abruptly. "She has some interest for hexes, but to control an Abraxan..."

"The girl just uses the leads. Even for that devil Montaigne! Headmistress?"

"The arrangement is quite proper. I have seen it myself. Your concern, Mesdemoiselles, is appreciated, but perhaps should have been expressed in a private consultation?"

"I should like to add, before hysterical accusations are implied, that Madame Delacour's daughter possesses a talent for the Divining Arts and works diligently in class. According to my so-called eccentric policies, that earns her the Outstanding," declared Madame Sombrevoire. "By the way, avoid chicken until after the new moon."

"Be that as it may," said Mlle. Duedancorp defensively, "there are irregularities."

"Does that include eggs?"

"The Goblet, yes, it is the one that chose her. That is how the extra credit was awarded. Her written work is good, yes," added Professor Festeller.

"You are planning still to take her on your expedition?" asked Korbel.

"All of the students chosen, yes," said Festeller quickly. "Of course, some are not capable to travel. The plan must complete, yes, for the Goblet's sake."

"There is only Delacour. Kerman, mmm, fell, I suppose, from the Aeneus tower the other morning," informed Healer Maltranchier. "It will be months before he regains his former height."

"This folly must end. The talk of a Jinx, it is not so far-fetched," declared Korbel.

"Nein. The Goblet is a valuable magical object, yes, rich in history. It must be re - rehabilitated," insisted the History of Magic professor.

"I quite agree," put in Madame Maxime. "It is an honor for Beauxbatons to be entrusted with the relic, and a demonstration of our superior skill if it can be set right."

"How were you planning to travel?" asked Professor Elevagre suddenly. The question interrupted the scattered whispering and turned all eyes to Festeller.

"I have arranged port-keys, yes, up to the Albanian border. There are a number of possible sites to begin, yes, so we must fly from there."

"On brooms?"

"Er, of course, yes. There are the heavy Dreadnoughts for cargo."

"Gabrielle, that is, Mademoiselle Delacour, can not fly more than ninety seconds on a broom. The brooms refuse to work any longer than that," explained Elevagre.

"Magical devices are a problem. I have noticed this. Even her wand does as it wants," added Korbel. "It is Unglück."

"Perhaps that does not matter? If she leaves with the expedition on the port-keys, then one could quite rightly say that she was on the expedition. Would that not be sufficient?" asked Madame Maxime.

"I... do not know. You think it is Unglück, yes?" said Professor Festeller. He sounded strangely hopeful.

"Let her use Soleil, Headmistress," suggested Elevagre.

"The Abraxan colt? Yes, er, the girl seems to have a way with them, of sorts, but..." hesitated Madame Maxime. They were her babies, after all.

"What is Unglook, please?" asked the Mlle. Duedancorp who was not absently adjusting the other's sleeve.

"Wizards are said to suffer from Unglück when the magic goes wrong," explained Professor Korbel.

"It is a, mmm, debatable syndrome that roughly translates to 'disrupt'. The typical cases are wizards who can not brew potions reliably, or cause magical implements to fail. There was an alleged case described where the wizard in question was barred from using the Floo network. Mostly it is a, mmm, polite synonym for incompetence," opined Maltranchier.

"Ah, potions. That puts us back on topic," said Mlle. Duedancorp. "Mademoiselle Delacour carried an Outstanding in Alchemical Arts into the last exam, did she not?"

Madame Maxime nudged Professor Pleinbouillois as gently as possible. She had inadvertently sent the dozing, aging wizard to the floor before. "What? Did she? I'd have to look at the records," fumbled the old wizard blurrily.

"And yet her efforts on the exam were barely acceptable! How does one explain that?"

"Sorry, is that unusual? Students falling apart on exams? It can be a very anxious time," replied the Alchemical Arts professor.

"I believe there's another explanation! I believe this is a -clear- example -"

"I had, of course, foreseen this," interrupted Madame Sombrevoir loudly. "The girl had managed only an Acceptable in Wand Arts going into the last exam, did she not? And yet this -" Here the veiled witch unrolled a long scroll covered in cramped lines. "- covers year six's subjects comprehensively, as well as concepts only introduced in the fifth and fourth years. How does one explain that?"

Oh, the drama, sighed Madame Maxime during the awkward silence that again followed. She supposed the greater enrollment and, especially, the higher percentage of less disciplined male students had been a large strain, along with the tumult caused by the Stone tower's fall. Their habit of moving the library's furniture about was a constant source of angst for, at least, the Palace's house-elves. But now the term was over, and, though obviously the girl's academic efforts were important, there were other, greater demands for attention. Such as the architect, whom Madame Maxime was not quite sure about. He was a retiring, small man. The headmistress had always imagined a larger, more flamboyant personality for that sort of position. In any case, the sisters Duedancorp looked like they had found their voice. It was best to finish here and get the staff on to the holidays. It was time for management.

"Compared to Fleur, the girl is barely competent! I've made allowances all year for her," complained the accused Mlles. Duedancorp. It was easy to tell they were upset, since every other word came from a different throat.

"Ah! So she is judged to a different standard than the other students? Finally, the evidence you've been seeking."

"It is obvious what has happened, my dears," boomed Madame Maxime. It was not a voice that recognized interruptions. "Mademoiselle Delacour simply made a choice to shift her energies away from the Alchemical Arts to the Wand Arts. Perhaps an Exceeds Expectations in both, to account for the extra effort in one, and the lack of effort in the other? It seems simple, and we really should press on."

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle stomped along the hall to her bedroom in Delacour Manor. Each hand held a wand aimed at the floor, and she called out Finite Incantatem with each step. Each silent step, though she wore the metal over-shoes for maximum impact. Her incantations had no apparent effect on the spells protecting the floor. Maman, griped a thoroughly annoyed Gabrielle to herself, has too much time on her hands. Gabrielle reached the door to her room, having failed to make an emphatic racket or to have even slightly scuffed the hallway. She stepped into her room and slammed the door shut. The door, for its part, closed gently. Gabrielle wrenched it back open, and shouted, "Slam!"

It came out not as the wrathful thundering she had wanted, but more of a childish screech. Gabrielle immediately regretted the outburst - it was embarrassing. She closed the door again, and flopped onto her bed. Things were not going well. The strategy she had decided upon should have worked, but Maman was not acting correctly. Gabrielle had feigned excitement for the stupid expedition for the first week, gushing about, yes, Professor, yes, Festeller, yes, and the Goblet of Fire, and speculating endlessly about the exciting adventures that awaited her. The goal was to convince Maman that the expedition was something that she actually wanted, something that could be taken away in Phase Two.

Except, thought Gabrielle morosely, Maman seemed to have even more enthusiasm for the ridiculous outing than she herself had been able to pretend to have. That enthusiasm, and the letter from Festeller explaining the need to pass as a muggle, required shopping, and the purchase of many sets of bland, tan outfits covered in pockets. Gabrielle had no idea where Maman had ever seen muggles wear such things. Modeling the worst of the outfits, Gabrielle thought she looked like a small, upright cabinet. Maman even found and bought a helmet from a muggle antique shop. It fitted Gabrielle like a #2 cauldron. The outfits all had skirts too, which, to Gabrielle, did not seem practical for crawling around rough tunnels and over rubble. Her Maman dismissed those scenarios.

When Phase Two began, Gabrielle had guessed that, at most, two or three days of poor behavior was all it would take before Maman would threaten to forbid the awful trip. Then a Weasley Wildfire down the toaster would be the coup de grace. Instead, every rudeness was met with a sad, pained smile and the explanation that she was 'hormonal' or 'going through a phase.' It was a little humiliating to be pointlessly mean about something, then have one's mother completely dismiss the behavior by saying, "It's just puberty, I'm afraid." Instead of being treated unfairly as a child, Gabrielle found herself being ignored as a young adult. Ha - she was really acting like an old child, thought Gabrielle sardonically.

The boorish behavior was hard to keep up, also, because Gabrielle realized as soon as she had unpacked at Delacour Manor that she had missed everything. Even Madame Chouisse's cat, which had yet to acquire an actual name, and even the nasty little toaster that she had planned to blow up. Shopping around beautiful Paris with Maman, if one overlooked the actual purchases themselves, was the best. Maman was intrigued by her ability to sense the Hidden Realm, and together they took lunch at fabulous restaurants, whose chefs went all out for Maman, who hoped for visions. A success made Gabrielle swear off foie gras. Gabrielle had even convinced her mother to visit Gaston's coffeehouse. Briefly, because Maman did not like the shabby look of it, or the strong smell of it, which Gabrielle found sublime. Maman was also not comfortable with the idea of a roomful of old men who somehow knew her daughter. Gabrielle did receive another kilo of coffee from Gaston, who would not take her francs, and a medal taken off a German soldier from Francois. She had seen him there on her only other visit, but the old man had said nothing then. Gabrielle had no idea what it was supposed to mean, but thanked him anyway with a smile, because that was what Maman had taught her.

Unfortunately, Gabrielle knew she was running out of time. The expedition was set to leave at the start of August, because many muggles vacationed then and any local villagers would expect to see odd strangers. That only left a couple of weeks to try her back-up plan, which was to get Papa to ban her participation. It would be difficult, knew Gabrielle, since Maman was in favor of the trip and had even bragged about it to Aunt Laurel.

It was times like these that Gabrielle felt she should be able to take comfort in George's letters. Except those were even more incorrect. The letters were friendly, frequently funny, especially when George wrote about things she could not tell Fred, but not... deep. Still, thought Gabrielle, he does write. And regularly, the letters arriving shortly after the full moon - Allie was right about that. George's letters were not monotonous, as if he was politely waiting for her to get tired of corresponding, but they were also not becoming more intimate. And Gabrielle was too afraid to ask him about his feelings toward her directly, as he might give the wrong answer. She wished...

She wished for a lot of things, and one of those was not to have wasted her apparently sole successful scrying attempt on that disgusting Wormface creature. The subsequent efforts to scry George, just a little, were complete failures, without so much as a flicker or ripple in the puddle of black ink. Neither wand seemed to help, nor did trying to use both at the same time. Madame Sombrevoir had not been any help either, citing school policy. Maman was beginning to notice the ink consumption. Fortunately, there was no such thing as a locked door or cabinet to Gabrielle, at least at Delacour Manor. Not that Maman had not been trying. Gabrielle just found it extremely vexing that what had seemed to come naturally as a talent now completely eluded her. She would have blamed Fred, just because, but from what George wrote Fred had enough troubles.

There was a knock at the bedroom's door. Gabrielle tried to decide if she should still be rebellious, or just petulant, or give up on Phase Two altogether. Maman might take her shopping again, and there was Papa to work on. She would have to unbury one of her old, despised dresses for him. It would be best to catch him after a second glass of wine, also. Another knock. "Gabrielle?"

The voice was not Gabrielle's mother, which made things easier. Gabrielle rolled off the bed and quickly opened the door. "Monique! What are you doing here? Come in!" Gabrielle noticed that her best friend wore a bow in her hair, mostly covering the shock of white. The addition certainly did not make it less noticeable.

"My mother doesn't want to leave me on my own," explained Monique, rolling her eyes in disgust. She pulled the bow from her hair and let it drop. "Let's go outside."

It was Gabrielle's turn to roll her eyes. She knew why Monique's mother did not want to leave Monique alone. It was because Monique would take her clothes off and head outdoors if she could. "You have to stay dressed. You know this," warned Gabrielle.

"We could go over by the trees - "

"No."

"I wish you could have brought Impudanae home," said Monique wistfully. Gabrielle noticed that Monique no longer just used 'Impy.' Another wish she had was to know what had happened to her friend in the forest. Other than becoming one with it. "Come on, let's get some sun. You're still so pale."

"Not every part of you needs sun," chided Gabrielle. But she led the way outside, after determining how to avoid her own mother.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle lay near the apple tree, on a blanket, clad only in her underwear. That was all right, because of the wards for muggles and the relative isolation of the manor. Monique lay directly on the grass by the old tree, clad only in a bra. A real bra, not the token garment Gabrielle wore. Gabrielle had been stunned to see that her friend had worn nothing beneath her slacks. That seemed... unhygienic. Monique did not share the blanket; she had not even cleared the ground of early apple fall. The way she sprawled on the ground made Gabrielle believe Monique was trying to become one with the grasses.

"What are you going to do in the winter?" blurted Gabrielle. While she herself was, and would probably always be, pale, Monique had now reached her peak form. Everywhere.

"I'll wear my boots, and a hat," replied Monique. "You missed the Rising Dance?"

Gabrielle had skipped the last dance after exams. "It was nothing. I was, eh, worried about you," answered Gabrielle. That was certainly true, but it was also true that there were rumors that she had made Impy attack Monique. Those were ridiculous, but Gabrielle did not want to deal with the stares and whispers.

"Is it true about you and Silvain? You never said!"

"What? Monique, please."

"They said he broke up with you, and that's why you did not go to the dance."

"Have you lost your senses?" asked Gabrielle. Which was, Gabrielle realized sheepishly, a little rude because her friend had in fact lost her senses. She was, after all, not on the comfortable blanket but was laying half-naked on top of hard, little, sun-dried apples without complaint. "We did not, eh, breakup. We were never together!" It was that stupid Roni. She would get him to try Fred's next big idea when the term started in the fall.

"I think he has a crush on you," said Monique. "Spend less time in the library next year. Have you seen Philippe at all?"

"Yes," sighed Gabrielle. That had been weird. Philippe, her childhood friend who was a squib, in case she was one too, had always been loud and brash. At least, he was when he was not sneaking around and showing Gabrielle how to open locks with the little bent wires. Philippe was always trying to show that he was as good as any wizard. Now he was loud and arrogant, acting like he was better. Gabrielle did not follow it exactly, but his swagger had a lot to do with galleons and spread out sheets on his computer. Part of what made his explanation confusing was that she could see that everything was right there, all together. The change had to be due to the Weasley twins, suspected Gabrielle. Even Monsieur Toulier, Philippe's guardian, was learning to drive a lorry at his ward's urging.

"They all just want to show off," assured Monique after Gabrielle described the visit. "Maybe Philippe has a crush on you too."

"Eh, maybe," said Gabrielle. She had never even thought about that. "Have you heard from, eh, Tristen?" A rustling made her turn her head. A squirrel was staring at her from only a half meter away.

"Um, yeah," replied Monique. The lack of enthusiasm in her voice told Gabrielle that Tristen was on his way out. Again. She turned back to Monique when she heard the snap. The last of the brunette's clothing was coming off.

"Monique," complained Gabrielle. "You can't go around naked all the time. People saw you, boys saw you, at school."

"Clothes are artificial. I need to feel the natural world," explained Monique diffidently, sounding like it was a well-used argument, that needed to be made often.

"Could you not stuff grass into your underwear?" asked Gabrielle. She supposed she would become used to being near someone who was constantly naked, but for now it made her a little uncomfortable. She looked back to the squirrel - no, squirrels. There were two now. Did they bite? One of the pair dropped a moldy looking acorn and nosed it toward her. "Eh, thank you?" said Gabrielle gently, though she did not mean it.

That had been the wrong thing to say. Gabrielle was laying propped up on her elbows, and the two animals dove into the space under her chin before she could move. They twisted around each other in excitement. Fleas, thought Gabrielle in horror. Just as suddenly the creatures scrambled away, going half way up the apple tree in a moment. It was as an effective alarm as Pepi-Z, who was jumping on his tether in her hair.

"Gabrielle? Did you not hear me call?" complained Madame Delacour. "I need -"

"Yes, what is it?" asked Gabrielle. The tone of the question did not come across sounding annoyed, or impatient, since she had not had time to get into character. If that should still be the plan, thought Gabrielle. Anyway, Maman was staring at Monique in surprise and would not have noticed.

Madame Delacour shook her head slightly, making her hair shimmer and dance in the afternoon sun, something Gabrielle's hair could never do. "There is a goblin from Gringotts here - from Britain - to see you."

"A goblin from Gringotts? Why would a goblin from Gringotts - from Britain, from London?!" One advantage to being pale is that others do not immediately notice if all the blood drains from one's face. This happened to Gabrielle now. There was only one reason a goblin would come from Britain for her. The goblin had come for the silver Gringotts inkpot that Fred had given - had forced on her! Would she be carried off like in the old stories, just for that? No, the goblin had come because George and Fred had been forced - tortured - into telling where they had learned the hinge trick. And, with panic building, Gabrielle realized that she had left her wand in her room! How could she escape without it? Not that being able to conjure a flame or transfigure thin materials into common household objects, more or less, offered much protection. "Tell them I am not here! Make them go, Maman," begged Gabrielle as she desperately wriggled into her denims. Maybe, noted a wandering thought, I did grow.

"Don't be such a sil -" started Madame Delacour before catching herself. She too was tiring of the battles. "The goblin has come from London; I'm sure it is important. It has to do with the Winterhall estate?"

Gabrielle stopped dressing and mentally rehearsing her heroic, lightning raid to retrieve her wand and handbag before fleeing to, to... "Eh, what? What does that mean?" asked Gabrielle. Monique was reluctantly dressing as well. She stopped, considered the grasses growing tall around the roots of the tree, then tucked a handful into her slacks.

"We will find out when he tells us," shrugged Gabrielle's mother. "You were expecting something else." It was not a question, but nearly an accusation.

"Eh, no," replied Gabrielle quickly. Her face heated up as her mother stared. Merde, thought Gabrielle.

Fortunately, Monique's actions provided a distraction. Madame Delacour expressed the very certain opinion that Madame Etoilebois would definitely not approve of Monique keeping landscaping down her clothes. Gabrielle suspected that, at the moment, for a start, anything that kept Monique's clothes on would be fine.

v - v - v - v - v

The goblins, for there were two of them, stood in the parlor. They were dressed formally, and similarly, in old-fashioned black vests and suits, and held black leather satchels. It was, however, easy to tell them apart. One was older, the sparse hair on his head graying, and everything from the drape of his clothes to the luster on the leather of the satchel gave the impression of wealth and authority. The younger of the pair was just a pale imitation, and was in danger of fading into the background. Like I do, thought Gabrielle, when I am next to Fleur.

"I do beg your pardon gentlem-mmm," said Madame Delacour. "I did not realize my daughter was outside. This is Gabrielle."

"[She apologizes for the delay; the girl was outside,]" translated the younger goblin.

"[Yes, well,]" muttered the older goblin. He held up a photograph in front of his face, and looked between it and Gabrielle. "[There is a resemblance, yes. Couldn't have just used paints, could he? Wizards. Ask her.]"

"[Pardon, sir, but ask her what?]" hesitated the younger goblin.

"[I, eh, speak English,]" said Gabrielle.

"[Do you now? Fine. A good choice for business. I am Korak, Master Counter of Gringotts,]" said the older goblin, not changing his serious expression at all. Korak was his business name; he was born Melew Pissar, a name which would not have taken him far. Also, technically, he was -a- Master Counter, one of several. But what did wizards need to know? The younger goblin's expression almost remained the same, but a look of irritation passed through it as his sole function just became redundant.

"[Eh, I am Gabrielle Delacour. I am -]"

"[How did you come to know Granary Winterhall?]" interrupted Korak. Wizards and witches could prattle on, and he had taken on this simple errand just to shop underground Paris and visit the old, goblin catacombs beneath Notre Dame. More time for this, less for the other.

"[I, eh, met Monsieur Winterhall at ze, eh, my sister's wedding,]" explained Gabrielle.

"[Yes,]" said the goblin, more to forestall the likely tedious description of the event to come than in knowledgeable agreement. "[How long did you know him?]"

"[Not even as long as one dance! He, eh, is insane,]" blurted Gabrielle, then realized what she had said. Maman's lip thinned at the rudeness. There would be words later.

The Master Counter nodded his head. There was Veela blood in the family - one only need look at the mother to see that. While a bit tall for his tastes, Korak could feel some part of his mind suggesting that the elegant Madame Delacour might be interested in the ancient tunnels as well. The daughter, on the other hand, did not have the same presence. Certainly not enough of one to drive a sane wizard to create a portrait of her on his kitchen table. "[Was insane, possibly. Quite probably. Is this you?]"

Gabrielle looked at the offered photograph. It was her face, done in seeds and bits of things, as George had described. Underneath, more seeds, and possibly acorns, picked out the words 'To her I leave all.' A small bird landed on the table in the photo, and pecked at the seeds outlining the ear of her portrait. Gabrielle gave the picture a shake to shoo the bird away. "[I, eh, zink so.]" Just to make it clear, she added, "[Zat color does not match my hair, zhough.]"

"[It appears to be a recognizable, if unorthodox, legal bequeath,]" determined Korak.

"[Eh, what?]"

"Monsieur Winterhall has died. That appears to be his last will, found and preserved before it was consumed by vermin. The Winterhall estate is yours." The younger goblin jumped in with a translation, to the annoyance of the very superior he was hoping to impress.

"I have never heard of such a thing," said Madame Delacour suspiciously. "It was only a dance."

"[I do not want it,]" said Gabrielle quickly. It was just too creepy.

"[The Winterhall estate is not as grand as it sounds. It consists, in fact, mostly of the small farming cottage just outside of Chulmleigh, and the remaining land it sits on. Also, forty galleons, twelve sickles, and three knuts. The estate will be held in trust until you are of-age, maintenance costs drawn from it as necessary, of course.]" Korak opened his satchel and withdrew a large scroll. He ignored Gabrielle's hand and passed it to her mother. "[This is the standard trust agreement.]" Uncharacteristically, he gave her a quick smile. This, unbeknown to him, showed a lot more pointy teeth than humans were generally comfortable with. The younger goblin added a translation.

v - v - v - v - v

It was, thought Gabrielle, a long document. Long enough for two Floo calls to Papa, who was uncomfortable with the whole thing, and long enough for Gabrielle to be sent to the kitchen to prepare a tea, since Korak was from England. A bored Monique, who was still dressed, helped. Dirt occasionally tumbled from the legs of her slacks. Gabrielle did not say anything about that, and quietly swept it up while Monique dealt with the recalcitrant kettle.

The summation of the document, to Gabrielle's ears, was that in several years she would be the owner of a sad, old cottage hundreds of kilometers away, with no money to pay for upkeep. She also could not refuse it. Everyone assured her that she could, if that was what she really wanted, but everyone also had a story to tell about the awful things that happened to those who went against the wishes of the dead. There was meter of parchment repeating the restrictions on selling the property too, going on about residual magic, latent magic, and whatever magic. All it meant to Gabrielle was that she should be more wary of crazy old men, because she was going to be stuck with the house. There did not seem to be any other way, though, so Gabrielle picked up her quill to finally sign the dull thing.

"[Stop,]" barked Korak. "[You can not use that.]"

"[Why, eh, not?]" asked Gabrielle. She looked at the nib. It was a new quill, one Maman had bought while shopping for tan clothes with pockets, before Phase Two.

"[That ink does not even meet muggle standards. It is mere sludge compared to proper Gringotts ink.]" The younger goblin pushed a silver inkpot toward her. Gabrielle stared at it. The florid letter on the side of the vessel was familiar, and a memory flashed in her mind like a lightning bolt. Magical ink, thought Gabrielle. I am such an idiot.

Gabrielle quickly, and, to her mother's grimace, a bit messily, cleaned the quill's nib. She dipped it into the proffered inkpot, considered the black drop's potential, and very nearly signed her name Gabrielle Jeanne Weasley. She had already started the very cool 'W' she had perfected before she caught herself, and so it turned into an unusual script 'D.' Unusual and distinctive, decided Gabrielle. She would have to practice that too.

v - v - v - v - v

It was night before Gabrielle had assembled everything that she needed - had the time to assemble everything. Monique needed more sun, and was more interested in the late Monsieur Winterhall than Gabrielle had ever been. Gabrielle, for her part, tried to get Monique to be more discerning about what 'nature' she put in her underwear. Flowers, in Gabrielle's view, were good. Leaves were fine, also, and the grass stems, if there was nothing else. Roots with clumps of dirt and twigs, though, did not seem like a good idea. Especially if one left a trail of debris on Maman's floors. Monique argued that all of the natural world's aspects were one. That meant nothing to Gabrielle. She got Monique to at least agree that, while they were all one, certain ones needed better containment.

Once Monique's mother had returned to collect her daughter, Gabrielle's own mother decided that it was time to discuss Monsieur Winterhall and what men like him were looking for. Thanks to the little book Gabrielle's grandmother had accidentally given her, Gabrielle knew, on a graphic, theoretical basis, what Maman was thinking of. Arguing that these old wizards were simply insane did not help, and explaining that they often claimed that she reminded them of their wives or daughters only increased Maman's concern.

Then, sighed Gabrielle recalling, her father had arrived home from the Ministry. If Maman was concerned, then Papa was obsessed. He vowed to launch investigations into the background of every male listed on the wedding guest list, and to acquire an emergency port-key for Gabrielle to use if she were trapped by these wily predators. Though Papa had obviously lost his senses, Gabrielle stopped arguing. This would clearly work in her favor. There were, after all, bound to be old men in the hinterlands of Albania. Strange old men. Strange, foreign, old men. Surely Papa, thought Gabrielle, would save her from Festeller's expedition. That topic would need to be approached carefully, though, since Gabrielle's goal was to return to Britain, which was also full of strange, foreign, old men.

Gabrielle dropped in two drops of the goblin ink from the inkpot Fred had stolen and given to her. Gabrielle sat on the floor; Poisseux watched with interest. The first time she had attempted scrying, with success, she had used a small puddle of the ink. This time, Gabrielle was approaching it as an alchemical problem, diluting it with water to find the least amount of ink necessary. She just could not imagine a circumstance where she would be able to get more of the precious black solution, and so needed to carefully conserve the resource. She wished she had a smaller pan, but all the small pans Maman had were decorated with little engraved faces, which would alert the cook to the pan's temperature and suggest seasonings. Or, when Gabrielle handled them, cry out and complain bitterly that they would surely be dented. Instead, Gabrielle settled on a long, narrow pan, made from copper, that Maman used for cooking fish. A pan, while using more water, and therefore more ink, was required because the sides would prevent Gabrielle from accidentally putting her face into the ink again. The Gringotts ink was very difficult to clean off skin, and Gabrielle instinctively knew that it would be better if Papa did not find out she was trying to scry George. Papa might just explode.

Because, thought Gabrielle with a bit of a giggle, there was no way of telling where she might scry her... Well, he does write, she reminded herself. She might See him working at his shop, sleeping at his and Fred's flat, or eating at the Burrow. Or, came a more excited thought, taking a bath or getting dressed. Gabrielle had tried to bury that thought, but those were possibilities. Thankfully, thought Gabrielle as she took a steadying breath, I am mature.

Two drops of ink were not enough, neither were four, six, or even ten drops. The water was black, yes, but Gabrielle could not make anything out. She tried a little more ink, sniffed the smelly old shirt that had just better be one of George's, and waved her wand pointlessly. Poisseux was settling into a disappointed angle. What time was it, anyway? Gabrielle was sure she had heard her parents head up to their bedroom, but that had been at least four drops ago. It was clear she would have to find a smaller pan; even drop by drop the ink would not last. Not that it would matter if it did not actually work. Another two drops, and another whiff of the shirt, her guidepost to the Hidden Realm. Merlin, what had he been doing in it? Would all his laundry smell like this? Gabrielle didn't think that was likely. She could remember the scent of him quite vividly. She was, as Madame Sombrevoir had said, very grounded in the sensory humours. Gabrielle was confident of an Outstanding in Divining Arts, but could she do the same next year if she could not un-ground herself?

More ink, decided Gabrielle, and perhaps a little more focus. She tried to remember all she had done the last time, laying in Ginny's bedroom with that grotesque pillow from Ron. Nothing obvious came from the memory. So in went another measure of ink. I should have used a tea cup, realized Gabrielle crossly, or one of the ceramic ramekins. Those would have multiplied the effect of each ink drop. This pan was too large. It was, of course, just as Gabrielle was about to give up that the blackened water she had stared at for hours flickered. And flickered again. Gabrielle was hopeful, but knew it could also just be the candle guttering as it burned down. Except that the flashes were rapid and very regular, which was very unlike a candle. Gabrielle sniffed the shirt again, and put her face to the pan.

At first there was nothing beyond the rhythmic bursts of light, but as they became brighter Gabrielle was able to discern more of the scene. She could pick out faces, only during the flashes at the start, then even with the low ambient light. Success! She did have talent. Gabrielle could see George quite clearly, and a young woman who looked like she was nibbling his ear. The point of view was from just in front of the pair, lower down. They might have been in some sort of muggle club - Fleur had described such a place she had once gone to with Bill. That was not important. What was important was that George, her... well, was there with this woman. Gabrielle's eyes were immediately drawn to the aspects the woman had that she did not. One was cleavage, or at least the ridiculous amount the woman was displaying. Another was the beaded hoop pierced through an eyebrow. This was bad. This was wrong. This was -

Expected, suggested the traitorous thought, or at least it should have been. It was, perhaps, time to be realistic. Gabrielle glumly watched as she took stock of herself. She did not live in Britain, she could not go to such a club for years, and she might never overflow an outfit like that. At least, not without Mrs. Udderly's pink helpers. The woman shifted - oh mon Dieu - she had a navel piercing as well.

While Gabrielle focused on the usurper, a second thought had not. Now that thought urged her to note that George did not appear to be particularly interested in the one tonguing his ear. He was far more interested in something just beyond where Gabrielle watched from, or beyond where Gabrielle seemed to be watching from, since she was obviously still at home. Was it possible, wondered Gabrielle, for her to turn around and look? Should she turn the pan, or move around to the other side? The woman noticed George's distraction, looked put out, and brought his face around to her lips. He pulled backed, pushed some muggle money into her hands, and sent her off. Gabrielle wished that she could hear what he had said, since the woman looked rather angry about it. Perhaps he had informed her that his heart was already taken. Maybe sound would come with practice. George reached over and pulled Gabrielle closer. The images shifted crazily, but it made her heart leap. George had chosen her over that over-done tart.

Wait, thought Gabrielle in confusion, how can he do that? I am not there. She pulled her face back from the pan a little, which allowed her to see the edges of the vision, a sharp, circular boundary. The view of George and the lights swirled and rocked. It was, thought Gabrielle, a lot like looking into a glass, only from the other side. It was exactly like that, a thought that alarmed Gabrielle as a squinting George was obviously intending to look into that glass. Philippe had told her that being invisible meant that an object did not block or reflect light. Gabrielle slapped out the flame on the candle, hissing as the hot wax burned her fingers. She could still see George's face and the pulsing lights, but with the candle no longer silhouetting her, could he see her?

Perhaps he could not, though not for a lack of trying. It had to be a muggle club, since he did not reach for his wand. George swirled the glass, and Gabrielle's portal, for a moment or two before setting it down. Did he, wondered Gabrielle, look disappointed? She leaned closer again to see more, and saw her rival return with a drink for George, tall and amber, in one hand and a new man, tall and skinny, in the other. The new date looked a little concerned by George's presence, but George raised his fresh drink as if to toast them and gave the woman a wave. It was not a wave he got in return.

It was all very puzzling to Gabrielle, who could not see why George would go to a club with someone he could so easily dismiss. Did he just become bored with her? Things were clearer when Fred arrived with Verity. Verity, Gabrielle noticed, was wearing clothing to make Fred, eh, see her. They did not really suit her. It was, it had been, a double-date. Fred looked exasperated, so Gabrielle concluded that he had tried his hand at match-making. A decidedly pathetic attempt, in her opinion. Which was good, of course. Fred might have meant well, considered Gabrielle. Except, Fred was... Fred. It may be, thought Gabrielle, that George was lonely and depressed without her after all. One would think that would come through in the letters, but, she supposed, George was burying his aching heart so she did not feel bad about having to leave him. Very sweet, but unnecessary. Gabrielle resolved to redouble her efforts to get out of the expedition, and to get back to the Burrow, lest George's depression lead him to do something rash. Like accept Fred's help.

The image sloshed again, and Gabrielle shifted back from the inky water. How did one end the scrying? She could see the scene shifting; someone had picked up the glass. Even through the ripples Gabrielle could see it had been Verity, and her face grew larger and larger in the pan until she opened her mouth and everything went black.