Chapter Seven - I See You

The magical entity that was Lord Voldemort exulted. The magic, his plans, and fate itself had not felt so aligned in years. The isolation of the tower at Ravenscar was proving to be a brilliant decision. Without the lesser wizards pulling at his magic, at his very being, he was at his most powerful. Wizards were the apex of humankind, and at the apex there was room for only one. There simply was no difficulty here: the more wizards there were, the less magic there was for Lord Voldemort. Only the most useful, most loyal among them would be granted a portion of his essence. I am the Omega, thought Lord Voldemort, the last wizard the world needs.

The body used by Lord Voldemort panted. It lay on the bare floor of the hardened chalk tower, a victim of lack of sleep and intermittent eating habits. The feeble protestations of the physical form were easily quieted by various potions, though, so the current exhaustion did not unduly concern the Dark Lord. The dim spark that was the true owner was concerned, but then remembered he had been trying to lose a little weight anyway. The sensations of the immense magic made up for it, and he had learned so much.

The product of this most recent exhaustion stood on the table, gently swaying. Its form would be considered unexpected. It was, in fact, a two-foot bronze statue of a circus clown, which was now able to stand free of its base, blinking and staring vacantly. Not unlike, noted Lord Voldemort, many of the wizards he dealt with. The pins for juggling were still in the diminutive jester's hands, because they and the hands were all of a piece.

The prone Dark Lord raised the head he currently used, and considered the final step. Research into the manufacture of golems had been nearly fruitless. Most descriptions recorded in the various grimoires were translations of translations of much older scrolls, and recounted the escapades of the tragically curious, possibly as a cautionary tale. Or as an amusing anecdote. Those involved were not, however, the manufacturers, and so their actions were mostly instructive in how to make a golem stop being one. The problem was that golems were often associated with religious traditions, of the sort that were apt to persecute wizards and witches as heretics. Nearly fruitless, though, was just a British phrase for success. Lord Voldemort had come across the concept of the munuscrux in his furtive searches. It was an intriguing concept: a vessel, a resting place for a wandering soul. But munuscrux were put to trivial uses - adding 'personality' to clocks, mirrors - even candlesticks. What was the point in that? He could see the similarity to the horcrux, and to the concept of the golem, though without the servitude aspect. It was likely he was the only wizard capable of such insight.

The singular stumbling block had been the requirement of craftsmanship. Manual craftsmanship, not the fine transfiguration and conjuration a wizard was capable of, nor the mere product of muggle factories. The quest for such had been, in and of itself, a difficult task. Modern art seemed to eschew any of the required effort entirely; the sculpted pieces being nearly formless or poorly welded assemblies of scrap. Reviewing recent winners of the Turner prize certainly lowered Lord Voldemort's estimation of human worth.

He had found what he sought, unexpectedly, on the ruined high street of Ravenscar itself. The nearly constant noise muggles were able to make, particularly when using their machines for, in this case, reconstruction, had really begun to grate. Lord Voldemort had ventured into the wretched village, sure in the anonymity of the latest body, to see exactly which machine was making the loud staccato sound in order to destroy it utterly. The mission was forgotten when he had stopped at the quite deserted artist's shop, where a matronly muggle made quite detailed, realistic, and overpriced sculptures in unpopular genres. She reminded the Dark Lord quite a lot of Hepzibah Smith, and Lord Voldemort could still charm. The artist, lapping up the praise and adulation, was happy to sell him the piece and was -certainly- open to commissions. Lord Voldemort was satisfied to have a test piece at last, and cared not a whit about the four hundred pounds it cost, because they were not his pounds.

The cast statue was hollow, and it was internally that the magical craftsmanship was applied. The joints were made to move and flex, the eyes and mouth made ready. Strands of magical energy, like physical sinew, ran to a central nexus in the chest. It had been difficult, exceedingly difficult, and, thought Lord Voldemort, not another wizard alive was capable of it. All that remained was the spell to actually open the offering to the world of the dead, to invite a willing soul in. That would not be the incantation he would use on the larger piece he planned though. These efforts were simply to assure the figure could be animated correctly.

Lord Voldemort forced the legs he used to stand. The goblins, he knew, could toughen metal to an extreme. That was a skill he would have to prise from them. Did those creatures draw on his magic as well? The Dark Lord suffered a potion to calm the tremors in the arms, then, Foris Templum Incunabli! A cone of bright light shone from the tip of the clown's pointed hat, there to funnel the gauzy haze above the statue into the sculpture's interior. There was some movement in the wispy fog, more a determined wafting, really, and in a moment the cone narrowed to a beam of light and disappeared. The metal clown collapsed, then twitched and jerked in great spasms before finally becoming inert. The Dark Lord raised the wand he held warily, but the bronze figure slowly gathered itself up and stood. A hissing whistle escaped the sculpted lips, then more guttural sounds. The animated statue went quiet, then turned to face its uncertain creator. "Hello Tom."

v - v - v - v - v

Severus Snape sat concealed by a Disillusionment charm and the supposition that no one would look for him in a tree. He had an excellent view of the nearby car park, which really held no interest for him. Although, he did occasionally wonder where a muggle had to go that made moving nearly a ton of noisy, mechanized metal worth the effort.

Two pops echoed from the direction opposite the massed vehicles, sounds that Snape had been expecting. He did not reveal himself just yet, but would wait until whoever approached entered the warded area below him. Which the new arrivals did directly, overly confident, in the spy's opinion, that the close proximity to the muggles would prevent a Ministry action. While a massed response was unlikely, an ambush required only a competent few. The former professor dropped his concealment and swooped to the ground behind the pair using the flight spell. Snape had set himself the task of improving his landing skills, which really should not be left to the end, and was now quite accomplished. The two turned in surprise, too late to survive, if that had been Snape's intent. One was Antonin Dolohov; the other was Thorfin Rowle. Dolohov, who had not yet lost all traces of the gauntness that an extended stay in Azkaban left on a man, had his wand up. Rowle, the more robust of the two, did not.

"Ho, Snape, you bloody well gave me a start!" guffawed Rowle.

"You are careless," admonished Snape. "Both of you. This could have been a trap."

"Go on. We knew it was you what set it up. Anyway, how can you be sure it's us, eh? Careless yourself, right?"

"The ward keeps out those who do not bear the Dark Mark. That is why I am sure."

"Yeah? Well it's two again' one, and that's why I'm sure," blustered Rowle.

"You know where our lord is?" asked Dolohov abruptly.

Severus regarded the man for a moment. Some left Azkaban as barely animate shells, cowed into submissiveness. Most left the prison with less sanity than they entered with. The rest just hardened, in outlook, emotions, and actions. "I know where I was instructed to meet him, yes." That was not enough from the look in Antonin's eyes. "That was on the coast of the North Sea."

"What's going on Snape? Why are we wasting time?" asked Dolohov sharply.

"Yeh Snape. You fancy yourself his right-hand wizard these days. What is the plan?" added Thorfin.

"The Dark Lord has called for my service often as of late, but I would not presume that I was more than a finger on that right hand," said Snape. This was not modesty. There had been a Durmstrang contingent, for example, that he now heard nothing about. "The plan is the Dark Lord's - are you questioning him?"

"No! 'Course not. But it's bloody boring going after a few muggles at a time. Where's the fun in that? Doing the football stadium, now, that was something," said Rowle with relish.

"Why has he not summoned us, Severus? The talk is of the election, of this WASI party - it has the support of the old families and the blood traitors alike. This Scrofulus-scarred upstart Chairman, who dares challenge our lord, needs to be shown the true power of Lord Voldemort!" said Dolohov vehemently.

"Enough," said Snape. What, he wondered, was the real concern here? Was it the lack of slaughter, the concern that the Dark Lord would be over-shadowed by another, or that they themselves were no longer useful to the Dark Lord? Snape knew that he had value, both for the potions that allowed the Dark Lord to use his host's body as a candle burning at both ends, and for the tenuous connection to Potter. The Death Eaters, though... Snape could see how they were too small a force and, at once, too blunt an instrument to accomplish much. "Do not concern yourselves with the Chairman and his party; Lord Voldemort is aware of his every move." Obviously, thought Snape, as he is one and the same... man. It was a closely held secret, though, and revealing secrets could be fatal. That is, eventually fatal. "Large-scale attacks bring a large number of Ministry aurors. Muggles die, but we lose members. The small attacks, scattered as they are, can not be stopped and pose little risk. Scrimgeour and his aurors can do little except clean up the wreckage, and the muggle Ministry puts more pressure on him as a result. Bowing to the demands of the muggles weakens Scrimgeour's Ministry."

"We-ell, that's all right, I suppose," agreed Rowle. Snape suspected the Death Eater did not truly grasp the subtle political balances. "So long as there's a plan."

"There are plans within plans, I can assure you. That is not a cause for concern," said Snape, thinking of the coming snipe hunt for the wand.

"What is cause for concern? What about Potter?" asked Dolohov.

"The Dark Lord will be the one to kill the boy, when the time comes. That is his order."

"Right, right. But shouldn't we, sort of, try and capture him?" asked the younger Rowle.

"I can not send any Death Eaters to do so," explained Snape. Which was, he thought, not the same as forbidding them from trying. He would have to somehow get word to Potter. "But be warned: the Dark Lord is searching for a powerful wand. He will not help if the Ministry captures you." Nor will he mourn, thought Snape, if Potter's luck holds.

v - v - v - v - v

Today, thought Gabrielle, was going to be a good day. It would be nicely warm outside, but not oppressive. It was the kind of day that was perfect for working outdoors; one did not have to be a naturist like Monique to see that. It was also the day that Maman would meet Aunt Laurel for lunch in Chamoix. That was occasioned by last night's owl that delivered Gabrielle's sixth year results. Results that affirmed Gabrielle's opinion that she was a proper, talented witch who was more than up to the day's task. And results that, while not as good as Fleur's had been, exceeded her parent's lower expectations. That, Gabrielle had to admit, did not feel quite right, but Papa had gushed and promised her a gift of her choosing, while Maman made plans to show the marks off to anyone who had doubted a Delacour daughter. Gabrielle wondered if she would start with a mirror, but did not say so. Instead, she asked Papa for a crystal ball. A small one, she clarified after Papa immediately looked to his wife. The goblin ink did work, of course, but it was now obvious to Gabrielle that George needed to be near a watery liquid for her to succeed in scrying. That was not, she thought unable to stifle a yawn, uncommon late at night at some pub, but her little window did tend to get swallowed. Also, George looked to be getting suspicious, or at least he was becoming annoyingly observant. Gabrielle decided that a crystal ball, a real one, would be more convenient and versatile. And, whispered a second thought, it might let her look down while he was washing up.

Gabrielle had initially anticipated being invited to Chamoix, the only wizarding village remaining in France, but Maman decided to go alone. Aunt Laurel was not, Maman gloated, the most gracious when she had been bested, and Maman planned on being very clear that her sister had been. Gabrielle had hoped for a chance to steer her mother to Madame Tousconnus's shop, and its crystal section, while Maman was still proud of her and less likely to remember the wand shop incident. It was where Madame Sombrevoir shopped; there was a discount if one had an Outstanding in her class.

Not accompanying her mother usually meant that Monsieur Toulier and his car would be summoned, and that Gabrielle would spend the day with Philippe. On this day, however, her Maman finally, finally realized that Gabrielle was mature enough to remain at the manor alone. Yes, there was a long list of things that Gabrielle was restricted from doing, from touching, and, yes, Maman had checked and rechecked the Floo powder pots, even suspending a pouch of it over a low fire in the hearth in case it was all Gabrielle could do to reach the hearth, but it was long overdue recognition that her daughter was no longer a little girl.

The time alone was certainly needed. There were several things that Gabrielle did not like about the goblin ink. One, besides the limited view and even more limited quantity, was that the black ink could only be used once. Which was ridiculous, thought Gabrielle. The water, after all, was not any less black after watching George relax at a pub. The other main objection, which she had discovered after carefully pouring out the useless, inky water following a failed attempt at reuse, was that it really corroded copper - Maman's pan was a complete mess. All week long Gabrielle had fretted that her mother would suddenly desire to cook a fish. Since the ruined pan was safely in her handbag, Gabrielle knew Maman would not find it, but she also knew Maman would realize who was responsible for the disappearance. The worry and late nights were making Gabrielle exhausted. That was tolerated, though, as another so-called 'phase' she was going through. Especially since Gabrielle had abandoned Phase Two for the new plan, which Gabrielle judged to have a good chance of working.

But for now, Gabrielle sought out the shade of the old apple tree again. She arranged the blanket, sat down, and opened "Tachetes Compendium of Household Potions." There was bound to be something in it about cleaning tarnish. Gabrielle did not need the pan any longer, having scrounged a muggle container that had blown in from the edge of the property. It was made from their plastic stuff, needed a good scrubbing, and worked as well as the pan had, though it smelled funny. Importantly, it was smaller and used less ink. Which would not be important at all if she could wheedle a crystal ball from Papa.

The book was very odd, and was written back when blood seemed to be a real problem. If Gabrielle had to guess, she would say that a good half of the pages were dedicated to potions used for cleaning up the blood from a wide range of species. And the bile. Both were definitely quite prone to spill onto wood, cloth, and leather - at least when Tachetes compiled the tome. Blood was magical, that was true, but bile was just disgusting. Gabrielle had often used bile in Alchemical Arts. It came in a big, brown glass jar. Not originally, of course, but Gabrielle could not see how one could consider extracting the liquid from its animal source a household event. That was just gross.

Gabrielle found what she sought in a small section discussing the effects of dragon-lizard saliva. It made her wonder how successful the book had ever been, because that also did not sound like a common household problem. At least, it would not be a problem in her household. Which was a pleasant daydream as she imagined a cross between the Burrow and Delacour manor, until a stray thought threw up a vision of the decrepit Winterhall hovel. In her mind's eye, Gabrielle saw it covered in bile and dripping with acidic saliva. No more dancing with insane old men, vowed Gabrielle, no matter how impolite it was to turn them down.

Gabrielle held the book open to 'Solution that Effects the Removal of Damaged Metal and Basilisk Flesh' with a rock, and reached into her handbag for her alchemy kit. It was the standard sixth year box of supplies, greatly supplemented by Professor Pleinbouillois. It was, in his mind, Cendrillon's kit he was adding to. Pleinbouillois was old and insane, to be sure, but Gabrielle decided that that should not count against him. The potion began with the heating of water, which was easy enough. She had a flagon of water in the handbag, and conjuring flame was something she was good at. Among the many things, amended Gabrielle, that she was good at. She raised the little, light-colored wand that was her real one, and -

Stopped. Was starting a fire near grass really something she should repeat? There was no forest near, but the manor house was close. So much for preparation, sighed Gabrielle. She would have to work inside, and pray that Maman would somehow not detect the odor. Using her wand was on the restricted list; brewing potions was on twice. Gabrielle felt there was some wriggle room on the wand, because her mother probably meant the wand with Grandmere's hair at the core. The edict on potions was pretty definite, though.

Gabrielle was just about to put the cauldron back into her handbag when she had an inspiration. She could build a fire -in- the cauldron, and then use the pan itself as a long, thin cauldron. The damaged pan was copper, and the potion would go into it anyway. This was a brilliant idea, thought Gabrielle, and someone ought to know she came up with it.

That someone was Poisseux, the zombie toad recreated from spellotape. Gabrielle kept him in her handbag in a small box, in case he could be crushed by the other things the magic liner from George held. A lot of things ended up in the handbag's liner, and while she had never found anything damaged, it was better to keep Poisseux safe. Gabrielle also unclipped her zombie puffskein, Pepi-Z, from her hair and freed him from his tether. Her Maman would be out for hours, so Gabrielle felt reasonably safe going without Pepi-Z's vigilant, eh, somethings watching out. The little woolly bobble that made up the puffskein rolled around the faux toad in excitement.

"I need to make a fire to heat the water," announced Gabrielle once the two had settled down. There was not a big difference between settled and rambunctious for Poisseux, since he was a toad, but Gabrielle could tell. There was definitely less plod to his hop. "But look, oh dear, the grass will burn. What shall I do?"

Gabrielle's mouth hung open in surprise when Poisseux immediately hopped over to the cauldron and made as if to climb it. She recovered quickly. "That's right, I will use the cauldron. Very, eh, good." He must have heard me, eh, think it, thought Gabrielle peevishly. It had been a very good, very clear thought and Poisseux might have picked up on it. From inside his box inside the handbag. The idea did make some sense to Gabrielle. Did he not always know what she said to him, even though he had no ears?

There was not much wood available under the tree, but there were plenty of dead-looking branches up in the canopy. That was proved true when one gave way as Gabrielle pulled herself up, leading to the opposite result, which was down. The fall hurt nothing more than her dignity, really. And, at least a little, her back, because of the small, shriveled, rock-hard fallen apples that she had landed on. Mostly, it made Gabrielle exasperated. This was not going the way she had hoped, had expected. Gabrielle looked at the leafless, lifeless branch above her, and took out her wand. If Ron Weasley can do it, thought Gabrielle, then I can as well. She aimed her little wand, which really seemed to like her idea, upward. "Reducto. Reducto! Oh, come on! Reducto!" shouted Gabrielle as she lay on the ground. The first two attempts merely buffeted the target tree limb, flaking away loose bark that a desperate second thought tried futilely to point out was landing near her head. The last incantation rent the target. Splinters and shards of bark rained down. The branch above her sagged, then snapped free. "La vache!" Gabrielle flung herself to side as the spear-like wood dropped, burying itself several centimeters into the soil before twisting slowly to the ground. That, thought Gabrielle, would have hurt. Whether it would have hurt more than when her head smashed into the cauldron as she dodged the falling timber was an open question. The empty cauldron bounced away with a ringing clang which matched the one in her head.

Gabrielle rubbed her head with her fingers, checking for a lump, and retrieved her was plenty of wood to put into it now. The folding knife from Gaston helped in breaking off pieces. While it could have gone a little more smoothly, Gabrielle preferred to note her very capable use of magic to get the wood. "Now that we, eh, have wood, I will make the fire," she narrated for her pets. This -was- something she was good at. Gabrielle conjured a mass of flame, not the gentle bluebell flame any sixth year could manage, but the yellow-orange kind that she felt always looked angry. She swirled and looped her wand, keeping the flames turning on themselves in a ball. This was cool, and Gabrielle knew it. She also knew what would happen if she dropped the twisting flames. Fortunately, she had a place to practice the maneuver at Beauxbatons; grass could not burn twice.

Gabrielle lowered the flames into the cauldron, where it hungrily flowed over the wood. The crackling and popping of a good, hot fire began almost immediately. Gabrielle glanced over to make sure her audience was suitably attentive, and saw that one of the squirrels, or at least a squirrel, was back. "Now I will begin to brew the potion," explained Gabrielle as if lecturing a class. She placed the copper cookware on top of the cauldron, and added the water. Poisseux was almost giddy with anticipation; he had never seen her brew before. Gabrielle could tell because the toad's behind was almost off the ground, and his forelegs could hardly raise him any higher.

Gabrielle was in the middle of grinding the glands from giant ants when there was a scuffle from her observers. She turned her head in time to see the squirrel drop Pepi-Z from his paws because Poisseux was lunging. A glare of irritation from her settled them, though the squirrel subsequently retreated to an overhead branch. Gabrielle was pretty sure that Pepi-Z would not be able to climb, but if that squirrel thought it was safe from the toad then it was in for a surprise. She hoped she would not have to intervene, as the potion was proving tricky. Though that would, suggested a second thought, give her a convenient excuse. The liquid boiling in the pan was green. It had turned green shortly after the first of the chopped roots went in, and became greener with each addition. Even the drops of black-rat bile - a few drops from the small, brown glass vial that Pleinbouillois had dazedly given - which could stain anything yellow, only made the green darker. The expected color of the potion was not specified, but Gabrielle would have guessed from the ingredients that the result would be brownish with gray lumps. Actually, frowned Gabrielle, most of her potions were brown with gray lumps, whether they were supposed to be or not. At least on the first try. The one bubbling over the fire was green with black lumps. It might be all right, but Gabrielle found it oddly worrying.

It was possible, thought Gabrielle, that Madame or Monsieur Tachetes was a complete fraud. She could see how it might work. There only needed to be a few real potions in the book. The rest, because they covered what Gabrielle considered to be outlandish domestic situations, could just be made up lists of substances. That would explain why the ingredients were not as clear as those listed in class. The potion called for bile, but it had not specified from what animal. And what, puzzled Gabrielle, was 'seed of fagin queerus?' She had never heard of such a plant, and now she needed four of its seeds. Even the ant glands could be a problem. All ants were not the same, were they?

Gabrielle decided to break the news to Poisseux. "I am, eh, not certain I can finish the potion. I do not, eh, have four 'fagin queerus' seeds." The toad slumped, and Pepi-Z rolled over to console him. The squirrels scampered away. Gabrielle found that a little rude; it was not if the cleaning of the pan would have been that exciting in the first place. She dumped in the ground ant bits, and gave the green concoction a stir. She was stirring more often than she should, because it was not boiling properly as the fish pan was longer than the cauldron was wide. The next to be added was pulverized 'Lucifer beetles.' Gabrielle's kit, augmented though it was, had only dung beetle, chinese scarab beetle, and stinkbug. It probably did not matter, decided Gabrielle, so she chose the stinkbug. They were at least easy to replace.

While Gabrielle was trying to remember the difference between ground and pulverized, she thought she heard a splash. A second such sound made her look over in time to see the third source of the noise fall into the bubbling liquid. She looked up into the tree, spotting the two squirrels as one dropped an acorn. This one hit the edge of the copper pan, bouncing away. "Hey! Non! What are -" The two animals had another acorn hidden in their cheeks, and that one did not miss. "Stop that!" ordered Gabrielle. The pair crouched on their branch, contriving to look abashed.

Insane old wizards, sighed Gabrielle, and small animals. Both were off the list. Not that it mattered, she supposed. The potion would probably fail. Oh, Merlin. Could squirrels cry? This was just ridiculous, thought Gabrielle, though she guessed they were only trying to help, in their own way. Acorns were seeds, anyway, and possibly the only ones a squirrel might know of. There was no Natural Arts classes for them! "Eh, it is all right. Thank you," said Gabrielle, giving the squirrels a small and somewhat insincere smile. "But, eh, only I should put things in, yes?" Was tail flicking agreement? Do not talk to them, Gabrielle reminded herself.

The bits of stinkbug tumbled into the pan, and the potion frothed greenly. This was always an anxious moment for Gabrielle. Some efforts in Alchemical Arts had been practically volcanic! She stirred the brew, noting the roughness on the bottom. The fire, Gabrielle noted proudly, was too hot, her flames too strong. It was going to be unpleasant to clean though, so Gabrielle scraped at the crusty bottom and wondered how she would put the fire out. She knew that she really should learn some water conjuring spells as well as the flame ones - perhaps from George. She had just had not gotten to that yet. Anyway, water was a lot harder than fire.

The fire went out by itself in a billowing pillar of steam. The stirring rod Gabrielle used cart-wheeled upward back toward her, striking her between the eyes. She collapsed backwards in time to avoid the corrosive, scalding cloud that exploded out of the cauldron. The blast sent Maman's pan spinning into the tree limb above it. It rained green potion, flakes of rotted metal, and squirrels.

v - v - v - v - v

"Hello Tom," repeated the bronze clown figurine. The Dark Lord's eyes widened, and he made to strike out with his wand. "Ah," continued the animated statue, "I see I have caught you unawares. I do apologize, but one must occasionally - what was it? oh, yes - seize the moment."

"Who... are you?" asked Lord Voldemort.

"I must say this is an excellent bit of magic, Tom, as befits a former Hogwarts Head Boy. Very intricate. Except, alas, you have overlooked a crucial detail. A pattern, I think, with your plans. This will not be much of a conversation, I fear, as this head lacks ear-holes. Of course, it is an easy thing to miss if one is normally given to ignoring the advice of others."

The Dark Lord's face tightened at the criticism. The spell to ensconce a soul was obviously successful, and the magicked sculpture moved easily, examining its immobile hands. The voice was small and tinny, but the manner was familiar. "Dumbledore."

"It is unfortunate these pins are not freed of the hands. I find juggling a very useful skill to possess. As is lip-reading, though I had not expected to employ either ever again. You have surmised correctly, Tom."

"Why are you here?" asked Lord Voldemort. He tried to decide if this development would be useful or not. Here was Dumbledore, on one end of the wand, all but imprisoned. But on the other end, the old wizard was already dead. What more could be done to him? The Dark Lord would have liked to learn if the use of an unmodified wand was still possible or not. Handing an old foe a weapon was not going to happen, though, if there was no leverage. "What do you want?"

"Why and what are the same in this case, and have not changed at all. I wish only to save you from yourself. Do not be so dismissive! One soul can see another, no matter what the guise, and yours is in appalling shape."

"You claim to see me, but I, Lord Voldemort, see you for the fraud you are! You claimed that death was just the next big adventure, but here you have jumped at the first chance to rejoin the world of the living. Who has the clearer sight? I have all but conquered death while you still run from it. Lord Voldemort -is- the magic," ranted the Dark Lord.

"I said I had some skill for lip-reading; I am not - was not a prodigy. I will, however, hazard that any advice I give will fall on ears as deaf as these ones," said the metal circus clown, tapping the sides of his head. The noise was like a bell. "I know what you are looking for. You will never possess it."

"What I am looking for is a large hammer," retorted the Dark Lord. Or, as he stared at the hardened chalk walls beyond the figurine, a good bit of stone. He raised his wand.

"Harry knows your secrets, Tom. All of your secrets, and you know none of his. You can not win, in the end. You can only hope to rebuild your shattered -"

"Accio wall!' snapped Lord Voldemort. He normally would not have bothered with a verbal incantation, but it helped vent the irritation. The experiment was over. Half a ton of white tower wall cut off the ridiculous clown. Both, sneered the Dark Lord, the one of bronze and the talkative one. The jagged hole allowed in the sea air, and Lord Voldemort stepped to the ruined wall to breath it in. There was much to think about. How much of the deceased headmaster's blather, for instance, was bluff? How much really mattered if it were not? Confirming that Potter knows of the existence of the Horcrux did not much change the circumstances. The boy would still have to find, acquire, and destroy the relics. That, thought the Dark Lord, could be made exceedingly difficult. But not, he was forced to admit, impossible, which made finding the legendary Death Stick all the more crucial. A stronger wand than the current meager one would enable the creation of additional Horcrux; the Death Stick would protect them for an eternity.

The Dark Lord climbed onto the lip of the hole. The view was expansive, but the tower, judged the Dark Lord, should be higher. If Potter had a secret, it was not one he had found alone. That meant, thought Lord Voldemort, that he himself could discover it as well, in time. That is, if the whole of it was not a bluff to make him hesitate. With his wand in his outstretched hand, the Dark Lord leapt from the hole, and flew.

v - v - v - v - v

"Papa! You are home," chirped Gabrielle with the wide smile that Fleur said made her looked crazed. She wore a ridiculously childish velvet dress with lace. Her father loved it; she loathed it. Gabrielle also loathed the fact that it still fitted her well enough to be able to wear. She was already a year into Beauxbatons, and she should have outgrown the things of her childhood.

"Mon petite ange," greeted her father. "You look happy." He sent his satchel and pointed hat to the closet with his wand.

Good, thought Gabrielle, because she certainly was not truly happy. It had not been a good day. She had had a lump between her eyes that Maman had been very displeased about before healing, her clothes from before were stained with green splotches, and half of the old apple tree was turning brown. When it lost its leaves Maman would see the remains of her pan embedded in the high branch. No amount of dramatic poses helped in summoning it from where it was lodged. The worst, the absolute worst, of course, was that she had had to bury one of the squirrels. The other, also stained green, was under her bed, either sleeping or in a coma. At least she had been able to bandage its broken little body. Gabrielle knew she would need to write Professor Elevagre for help. "I am," she pretended. "The expedition is so close! I can't wait to see Klaus again." Gabrielle hugged her father's arm as they walked.

"Klaus? Who is this?" asked Monsieur Delacour, failing to completely hide the suspiciousness of his tone.

"I meant Professor Festeller. He's so hot, eh, that is, amazing," giggled Gabrielle. It was a little heavy-handed, but Gabrielle sensed that this was the winning strategy. She would make it seem like the real reason she wanted to go was not the adventure she had previously touted in Phase One, but the professor. And not just the professor, but the man who -was- the professor. Papa could overrule Maman if he wished to, if he thought that that was the case. Gabrielle was sure of it.

"You address this... professor in such a manner?"

"Oh Papa! You are very silly," said Gabrielle lightly, not actually answering the question. That was the seed planted, and it would have to do for now because she could see Madame Chouisse's cat padding toward the hall to her room. Had she closed the door? There was no sense in risking a flea infestation just to make the cat's dinner. She should have left Poisseux on guard.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle felt like dancing, though she did not because she was carrying a glass of wine. The planted seed had taken root and sprouted. Gabrielle had carried on for quite a while about Festeller, occasionally Klaus, during dinner. That was not the normal routine for dinner, which was usually a quiet, formal affair. More unusual was the inadvertent help that Gabrielle's mother had given as she defended the professor against her father's imprecatory complaints. The two of them together had finally made Papa complain of indigestion. But not, he had quickly insisted, a case bad enough that Maman needed to brew her sure-fire cure.

Gabrielle decided, now that Papa felt like he was facing doom, that it was time to subtly suggest an alternative. The extra glass of wine would make it much easier to be subtle. Gabrielle planned to hint at two possibilities. The first was a family obligation; specifically helping Fleur in Britain. The second was to get a Ministry edict or declaration, though Gabrielle now thought it doubtful that the Ministry, even with Papa pushing, could act quickly enough. Did not Papa always say that?

Gabrielle paused to listen at the door of her father's study. She did not think that Maman was inside, but it was better to be careful. Maman's support had come because she thought Festeller was well-respected and that the expedition was a prestigious opportunity. Those opinions would not be helpful now. Also, she did not like it when Papa was asked for favors in that certain way.

There was no sound coming from the other side of the door other than some music from the wireless, so Gabrielle slipped inside. Her father was seated at his desk, paging through several large books scattered on the wood expanse in front of him. Gabrielle suspected, knowing her Papa, that they were genealogies of notorious German criminals, and their twisted crimes. "Papa? I, eh, have brought you some, eh, wine." She smiled again the too-wide smile that he liked.

"My kitten, you treat your father so well," said Papa, brightening.

Gabrielle climbed onto the arm of the chair and snuggled into her father's shoulder. His lap was too small for her now, but whether she had outgrown it or his stomach had was arguable. She cooed into his ear, "I am a young woman, Papa. You must see this."

"Non, you are still my precious little girl," disagreed the Delacour patriarch. His arm came up automatically to steady Gabrielle. "Which is why... I, at least, do not think it appropriate for you to go on this folly." The last part was said more quietly, since his wife held the opposing view. "I have been reading about this Festeller. There are certain allegations on the handling of magical artifacts; not all of which, I think, can be ascribed to professional jealousy."

"Papa. The Goblet chose me, not Kl- the professor," noted Gabrielle, more to stoke her father's indignation than anything else. Technically, she still thought that the Goblet had cheated her. She fiddled with the buttons on his robes, and looked steadily into his eyes.

"Of course it would," said Papa quickly, to please his daughter.

"It chose Fleur as well."

"Do I need to remind you as to what a disaster that turned into? I do not like this entire situation, this German bringing that acursed Goblet to the school. At least Dumbledore had the sense to use an age-line. The students' families should have been consulted."

"Family emergencies are taken into account," hinted Gabrielle. She stroked her father's cheek, like Fleur would do. "If one had to help take care of a family member, for instance..."

"Ah! But no, your mother and I are quite healthy," noted Papa, hopes raised then dashed.

Gabrielle rolled her eyes. "Yes, but Fleur -"

"Fleur? What has happened? Did she Floo? Why was I not told? It's that Weasley fellow she -"

"Papa," said Gabrielle a little sharply. She turned his face back to hers. "Fleur is fine, but she, eh, will need more rest. And, eh, help, because of the baby." Perhaps, thought Gabrielle, this is too subtle.

"Yes, your mother will go when the baby is closer."

This is not working, thought Gabrielle. It used to work - the dress was one of his favorites and she thought her smile was right. It may be, considered Gabrielle, that Papa is not relaxed enough. He had only taken a single sip of the wine. "You should have some more of the wine," suggested Gabrielle. She failed to notice where her father's gaze was focused as she sprawled across him to reach the glass. A hand clamped onto her collar.

"What do you think you are doing?" asked Maman coolly.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle stirred and lifted her head, blinking away the sleep. She had not intended to fall asleep, but the single candle kept the room purposefully dim so as not to attract more of Maman's ire, and as a result it was too dark to read. It was not as if Papa had promised her anything, or even caught on to her hints. Gabrielle wished she had had more of Monsieur O'Beirne's firewhiskey. That would have worked faster than the wine.

Moving to the window, Gabrielle estimated that is was just past midnight, based on how the bright moon had risen. George was bound to be at a pub, a thought that made her frown. When they were married, that would have to stop. For now though, it meant that there would be liquid near him. She prepared her ink, stared into it while sniffing the old shirt, her guidepost to the Hidden Realm, and waited.

The waiting was something that Gabrielle found strange. There were times when the ink showed something within minutes, and there were times when she would have to gaze into the blackness for what seemed like an hour. There was no obvious pattern to the delay, and it varied no matter how carefully Gabrielle repeated her steps. She needed some reference materials on scrying, and she needed to get them without a figure of authority looking on with disapproval.

The ink rippled and flickered, and resolved not to the dim light of a pub or the pulsating light of a club, but to an ordinary, well-lit room. The view this time was more expansive too, which was odd. It meant, at least, that she was not looking up from the bottom of someone's drink. The other oddity this time was that there were two images of George. One was in front of her point of view, the other was above her. Both Georges were writing while leaning back on a bed. Gabrielle realized that this had to be George's own room. Setting aside the mystery of the image floating above her, Gabrielle tilted her head around to examine as much of the room as she could. There was not much furniture that she could see, and what she could see was all very cluttered. The room did not look filthy, like Gabrielle remembered Ron's room being, or even messy, per se. It was more as if the room was too full. Some things did stand out. The toilet seats and lids were an unexpected addition, one with an 'H' and the other with a 'G'. A Gringotts 'G'. Souvenirs, of a sort, thought Gabrielle with a wrinkled nose.

George, noticed Gabrielle as she went back to watching him, was just wearing a shirt and underwear. Boxers, and a tartan pattern. Papa would explode, if he only knew. Was George turning in for the night? What had he done during the day to make him stay in for a night? Hopefully nothing that involved 'Mortal Peril'.

A thought occurred to Gabrielle. The moon was waxing, and was close to full. Was that her letter he was writing? Was this, she imagined, his special night dedicated just to her? He is, thought Gabrielle, so sweet. It really hurt that she might not be able to escape her current fate. "George," she whispered wistfully.

The George on the bed lifted his head, cocked an ear, and then looked toward where Gabrielle peered into his room. The image of George above her did the same, except that that George looked down directly into where Gabrielle watched. Mirror, thought Gabrielle. He can see you, screamed an alarmed second thought. Gabrielle lurched back from her plastic container with the ink, and dropped the shirt over it. She grimaced as she remembered George's grinning face just before she covered the view. "Merde, merde, merde!" Once for getting caught, once for not working out the mirror trick in time, and once for the blackness seeping through the fabric.