Chapter Eight - Rayon de Soleil
The last week in July.
"Good morning, Arthur."
"Morning, Trobes? It's gone past noon now," replied Arthur Weasley. In fact, he had been about to make his way down to the tea room for a bite and a cuppa. "I say to you, good afternoon."
"Yeah, all right, fair enough. You, er, know about the contraptions on the outsides of muggle banks, right?" asked Trobes Stoutly. He worked in Magical Law Enforcement, liaising with his counterparts among the muggles. "I know it's not your portfolio anymore, but since you've gone the Muggle Artifacts department's ruddy useless."
"Ah, the, erm, auto-telly-makers? Not had the chance to use one, of course."
"How do they work?"
"Well, I really couldn't say. My guess is that it involves eckeltricity," answered Arthur.
"I meant how do muggles use them?"
"Oh, it looks easy enough. They go up, punch in the desired amount of wonga, and the, erm, bills slide out a slot."
"So anyone can take the money? That seems a bit daft, even for muggles. How do the banks stay open?" asked Trobes, frowning.
"I think there's a key, of some sort, involved," suggested Arthur.
"Oh, a key. I see now. The little, framed glass bit is a window, and one of the tellers inside goes to the vault to fetch the money. Presumably this teller should be able to recognize his customers, and whose fault is it if he doesn't, eh?"
"Actually, I'm given to understand that the customers themselves access their vaults," explained Arthur. "There's no teller. It's all done with mechanisms."
"What, the keys all open the same door, but it's a different vault each time?"
"Remarkable, isn't it?"
"It's, er, it's... Still, no teller means anyone with a key can, er, use it," said Trobes. He pulled a large photograph from his sleeve and scrutinized it. "Can hardly be a crime if that's their idea of security. Practically a hole in the wall of the bank, really."
"What have you got there, Trobes?"
"It's a photo, came in this morning from the Yard Not-Really-in-Scotland. They say it shows one of ours robbing one of these telly-makers. Here, what do you make of it?"
Arthur Weasley took the photo and watched it. A young wizard, if that is what he was, about his son Bill's age, held a wand. Or a plain old stick, if it was a muggle. Arthur gave the image a poke with his wand after a few seconds.
"Ah, sorry," apologized Trobes. "It's a muggle photo. I've got a few more here." He produced a stack of photos from his other sleeve, and tapped them with his wand. The individual photographs began shuffling themselves from the top to the bottom, one at a time, so the whole series was shown in a loop. In it, the young wizard was shown approaching, drawing what was surely a wand, and then securing the muggle bills on his person. The actual casting of a spell was lost to the usual glitch.
"I'd say there's a case here. Didn't even have a go with a key. Good luck for us the muggles had a camera pointed right there," noted Arthur. "Any idea who it is?"
"Might be a fellow named Meekum," answered Trobes, frowning again as he took the stack of photos back. They struggled in his grip to continue their dance.
"Might be? He can't be that long out of Hogwarts. I've got yearbooks," offered Arthur.
"Here's an odd thing. Show folks who know him a muggle photo, and they're dead certain it's him. Show them the lot, moving in a way, and suddenly they can't be sure," explained Trobes. "This is up near North Yorkshire and the moors, not his usual ground. Might be a glamour."
"More of a case then, as well," nodded Arthur. Trobes Stoutly nodded in return. He tucked the photographs back into a sleeve, and hesitated. "Something else, then, Trobes?"
"What do you make of the vote, electing Pius Thicknesse?" asked Stoutly in a rush.
"Well, it was a quite... well-choreographed maneuver by the WASI supporters and their Chairman, I can say that," replied the senior Weasley carefully.
"It's all right for you, you've kept your posting. Scrimgeour was one of us, from the Enforcement Department, for all that driving down the attacks did for him," complained Trobes. "But Thicknesse is conjured from the same wand. What's the gain, and who will replace him as department head now?"
"Fair or not, a solid majority of the Wizengamot see the WASI party as the real reasons attacks, on wizards at least, have fallen. Many, I gather, thought Scrimgeour could have done more if he had not been so beholden to the muggle Ministry, or even afraid of it."
"Bollocks, the whole lot of it."
"That's politics," shrugged Arthur. Then he turned more serious. "Let's just hope that Thicknesse does not forget that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is not defeated yet. Quiet does not mean gone."
v - v - v - v - v
"Where the bloody hell are we?" came the voice of Ron Weasley from an indistinct blur. The blur was off to the left of Harry Potter, who was, like Ron, flying under a Disillusionment charm, on a broom, along the wide service tunnel. Both boys rode with passengers. At Ron's question, Harry's passenger, Ginny, tightened her grip. Harry rather liked that, but knew in reality that she was imagining she had her hands around her brother's neck. Ron rode with Hermione. Weirdly, she found flying in an enclosed space quite tolerable. Harry, personally, found it nerve-wracking.
"I nearly got to a hundred since the last time you asked." That was either Fred or George. They were a bit further behind. Fred shared his broom with Verity; George flew solo. "Do us a favor and try to hit a ventilation tube again."
The twins, Harry knew, had come along because Ginny had come. Ginny had come because, well, she had insisted on it in a very Weasley display of stubbornness and temper. Also, she had pointed out that she had a knack for ending up with any Horcrux. Harry felt that that was, overall, a negative, and would have argued more, but when Ginny got close he found it hard to deny her anything. Besides, Harry reasoned, if Ron and Hermione were going to carry on like they did, then why not he and Ginny? Though, of course, that was why Fred and George were along. Why Verity was included was a bit of a mystery. It had, if Harry had heard George correctly, to do with muesli and Paris. And Fred, who would not have either if Verity was not along. This was going to be difficult when it came time to reveal the actual destination.
"Based on the last access tunnel markings, I would say that we are nearly half the way through," answered Hermione pleasantly. "Or, only a half kilometer further since the last time you asked," she added more tersely.
"All right, all right. But this is bloody boring - ow!" exclaimed Ron.
"There's no reason for such language all the time," reminded Hermione.
"Try distracting yourself by actually having a thought," suggested one of the twins.
"What about?"
"It's no use. The only thing he thinks of is food, and if he does that he'll be whinging about being hungry again," complained Ginny.
"Ron, do you know you have a hole in your pocket? I can get my whole hand through," said Hermione.
"What? Oh! Ulp..."
"I think I need the good half of a Puking Pastille," groaned a brother.
"I wonder if you've got a hole as well," whispered Ginny. The probing fingers were definitely a distraction, which is why the power cable came as such a, well, shock.
v - v - v - v - v
"Merci, Monsieur Toulier, for the ride," waved Monique. "Au revoir Philippe! It was nice meeting you."
"Uh, oui. It, uh, it was nice. Uh, to meet you," struggled Philippe. Gabrielle watched as her childhood friend reddened. She was fairly certain that if Philippe had a crush then it was not on her.
Gabrielle thanked Monsieur Toulier as well, who, as was his habit, kissed her on the forehead. That, supposed Gabrielle, did not necessarily make him insane. She said goodbye to Philippe, but all that she got in return from him was a blank nod. She, Philippe, and Monique had gone to a muggle cinema. Gabrielle had been to the cinema before with Philippe, but it had been Monique's first time. The experience had made more of an impression on Monique than the story. Her questions about the flickering images had been difficult to keep quiet during the film. Monique, in turn, had made quite an impression on Philippe. He rudely ogled her nearly the entire time, though he probably thought he was being surreptitious. Gabrielle had noticed at least. She suspected that that was due to Monique's choice of dress. While Gabrielle had worn the stretchy green top and slacks, Monique arrived in a short dress with a scooped neckline, done in what Monique had called organic, undyed cotton, but what Gabrielle thought of as dingy white. Philippe contrived to sit between the girls, and that was fine by Gabrielle. Monique, sensed Gabrielle, had some nature stuffed down the dress, and the scent of it made Gabrielle drift off, in her mind's eye, to a lush forest clearing where flowers she did not recognize grew.
"That was really interesting. Do you always use that special door?" asked Monique as they walked up to the entrance of Delacour Manor.
"Eh, no, not always," replied Gabrielle. Philippe had decided that they should sneak in through an exit, something she thought his father had put a stop to. They had nearly been discovered as he explained the way the thin piece of metal worked to open the door. "I, eh, don't know why he did that." That was not exactly true. Gabrielle assumed he was trying to show off for Monique.
"I really didn't get that whole thing about the bolts and, uh, pawls? It sounded very mechanical. [1]"
Gabrielle shrugged. The trick was harder than it looked, but easier than Philippe's explanation. Getting caught, though, would have been a complete disaster. The added worry that they would be pulled from their seats and escorted out ruined the diversion Gabrielle had hoped for. There were more than enough worries already. The apple tree lost more leaves each day and would soon expose her folly, the stupid cat clawed at her door, the equally stupid squirrel kept dislodging his splint trying to climb the bed, and Maman watched over Papa like a dog guarding sheep. He had not yet done anything about the impending trip! And, George had caught her. Probably caught her. Gabrielle was not so sure anymore that he had. His next post would be telling. But what, Gabrielle had worried for nights now, if he was so angry at the intrusion, the innocent intrusion, that he never wrote again? She knew she should apologize and beg for forgiveness, but what if George had not really seen her? She would then be confessing to an embarrassing crime prematurely, and George, having learned of it that way, might become angry anyway. Gabrielle wished she could be certain, and she was tempted to check on George's mood even though she had sworn to end the scrying. He might, having been betrayed by true love, be terribly depressed. That happened a lot in the wireless programs. Gabrielle would hate to see George like that. A stray thought wondered if not seeing him despondent would be worse. Gabrielle decided to wait to see if the slip-up was mentioned in his letter. If, that is, he does write. If there was not another letter, what was she to do then?
Monique nudged Gabrielle in the ribs. "Hey, what was that - oh." Pepi-Z, Gabrielle realized, was bouncing in his tether. She had not noticed.
"Gabrielle, you are home, finally. You have a visitor." Madame Delacour indicated that Gabrielle's current distracted stroll was insufficient for the situation with an emphatic gesture.
"Eh, it is not a goblin, is it?" asked Gabrielle. Insane old wizards were... old, and therefore more likely to pass on. She really did not want their things.
"Non. Do not be silly. Professor Elevagre is here, he has -"
Gabrielle stopped short. "Professor Elevagre? Here? I, eh, did not mean for him to come," said Gabrielle in surprise. She had written asking for advice in treating the injured squirrel, but that had only been just the other day. He would come personally for such a trivial thing? Perhaps she had had an effect on him. A Veela effect - though he did not appear to be very old. With great powers, reminded a second thought, came great problems. Or something.
"Yes - what? Now is not the time for games. Monique, dear, I am afraid you will have to Floo directly. Do give your mother my regards."
"Sure, Madame Delacour," replied Monique politely, while quite obviously trying to see around her and into the parlor.
"Go and change, Gabrielle, into the travelling outfit I left out. I've packed up the rest for you," ordered Madame Delacour.
"Eh, what? Why?" asked Gabrielle. Packed? Did Professor Elevagre expect her to accompany the squirrel back to Beauxbatons? There is no way, judged Gabrielle, that her question could be so misconstrued. It is a pathetic attempt, it was obvious now. The professor had lost his senses and had fallen completely in love with her. He was using this pretense to spirit her away, to confess his devotion, in a romantic and yet totally creepy manner. She certainly would -not- be going with him, and would have to tell him that her heart was held by another. Professor Elevagre would be crushed of course. Hopefully he would still give her the extra credit.This, warned a second thought, may not be about the squirrel.
"There is a problem. They need you with Professor Festeller's party right now. Hurry, Professor Elevagre has been bleed- waiting," explained Gabrielle's mother, and she gave her daughter a helpful push in the right direction.
"What, eh, what do you mean? Maman!?" The push did not move Gabrielle far. She was having difficulty grasping the situation and stood confused. This was not about the sickened animal under her bed?
The lovely Delacour matron struggled with patience and sighed heavily. "Professor Festeller has sent for you early, child. That is all. There is a problem of some sort, one requiring... the unique Delacour abilities." She appeared to savor the last phrase. Gabrielle did not. "Go and change."
This, thought Gabrielle, made no sense. Unless they needed help starting a fire, or wanted to know where a fragrant cheese came from, Gabrielle knew she had no special abilities. That is, ones that would be useful in a crisis. Sent for her early? Was that allowed? It was not right! There was still a week before the official start of the trip - a week for Papa to fix things! She could not go now. She would not go now! "I, eh, I don't want to go!"
"Come on, Gigi. It's so exciting!" encouraged Monique.
"No, Mo-nude, it is not. It is unfair - I have a week! I am, eh, not going," declared Gabrielle with a stamp of her foot. She regretted that - too child-like.
"Stop playing the silly little girl again; the professor is waiting," reminded Madame Delacour sharply.
"What did you call me?" asked Monique.
"I, eh, have to wait for Papa! To, eh, say goodbye," suggested Gabrielle pleadingly. Once he was here, her father would help.
"This is a very proud, prestigious achievement for the Delacour name. You will not ruin it. Now go and get ready or I will use my wand," warned her Maman.
v - v - v - v - v
It took some time to get ready. Gabrielle spent much of the time ranting to the unhearing walls about the great injustices in her life, such as her uncaring mother and the cheating Goblet. Some time was spent crying in despair. The rest was used to put her real clothes into the magical handbag liner, in a manner meant to convey rage. Everything was ruined. Gabrielle knew she had wasted too much time on Phase One and Phase Two. She should have gone to Papa right off, before Maman had seen her marks and raised her expectations. And, thought Gabrielle suspiciously, what was this so-called problem the professors could not deal with themselves? It was a ridiculous excuse, but to what end? Was it, suggested another thought, Impy? The black blister had come back! Her metal overshoes were still in the handbag.
Gabrielle stomped down the stairs and along the hall. She was dressed in tan and pockets. Gabrielle was not sure if she should be angry or worried, but she was definitely going to be irritating. The squirrel had been found under the wardrobe again, trying to gnaw an opening. The little animal might have been looking for a safer location, what with Madame Chouisse's cat usually just outside the bedroom door. She carried the creature down, in the over-sized helmet that Maman had found, to the parlor. The creature would be Maman's problem soon, she thought. Anyway, the squirrel was getting around a lot better, though it was still very wheezy.
Professor Elevagre sat in the parlor, carefully perched on the edge of his seat. His shoulder had been bleeding, the blood had soaked through his robes, and now a lump of bandages made him look lopsided. Gabrielle always thought that he just needed to be more patient with the beasts he handled. She wondered if something had bitten him, or if a particularly cranky owl had done that with its talons. Hopefully it was the owl; a bite would mean something very large, or something that attacked from above.
"Is that a rat?" asked Madame Delacour. The tone of her voice indicated that the stomping had worked.
"Eh, no. It is a squirrel," replied Gabrielle. She helpfully tipped the helmet toward Maman.
"Where did it come from, and -why- is it -inside- the manor?"
"It was hurt! I, eh, found it, eh, outside." No need to explain much else; it would not get her out of this, just into trouble.
"Ah yes, you sent an owl about it," remembered Professor Elevagre. "Poisoned, right?"
"Eh, perhaps," said Gabrielle vaguely. "I, eh, think he breathed in something." There were muggle farms near, and their sprays, if she needed a scapegoat. She handed the helmet to Elevagre, who reached in to scoop up the cowering creature. He sighed tiredly when it bit him. "Non!" blurted Gabrielle, giving the squirrel a tap on its nose. "You must not do that."
"Very odd coloration," noted the professor. Which was true. The green-stained fur was starting to - well, Gabrielle preferred to think of it as fade, but fall out was more correct. The new coat coming in was much, much lighter. White, in fact, which Gabrielle hoped was temporary along with the wheezing. "Could be due to a muggle peter-chemical poison. Or fumes from a potion," he added.
"You can, eh, heal it?" asked Gabrielle. Professor Elevagre handed the squirrel back to Gabrielle, and it ran up her arm to her shoulder using the many pockets on her blouse as a ladder. Gabrielle immediately pulled her zombie puffskein look-out from her hair, and put him into a breast-pocket. Pepi-Z apparently looked like a fuzzy red walnut.
"It is just a squirrel," started Elevagre, shrugging his shoulders and wincing as a result. Gabrielle had been afraid of that; he had not wanted to help the leeches either. "But I can suggest an elixir for a therapeutic steam. Now, we really should be leaving."
Madame Delacour fetched down Gabrielle's trunk, accepted, dubiously, the instructions from the professor, and received the squirrel from Gabrielle. The last was not well-received. Gabrielle quickly described the care the animal needed, while her Maman, after lightly stunning the forest creature, transfigured the firewood next to the hearth into a cage. Gabrielle thought about mentioning the fact that the squirrel would quickly gnaw its way out of such confinement, but did not.
Professor Elevagre extracted a carved wooden disk from a robe pocket. It was a Ministry portkey, which surprised Gabrielle. She had assumed they would Floo to Beauxbatons. "Eh, Professor? What exactly is the problem?"
"It is one of the animals," replied Elevagre. "Grab hold now."
That, thought Gabrielle, was no surprise. It was Professor Elevagre who had come, and he was bleeding. It probably was the unicorn, after all. The Festeller expedition was just an excuse, because then Maman would not let her refuse. Gabrielle reached for the disk, and decided that that was very presumptuous. Also, unfair. And rude. Gabrielle steamed, but who could she be angry at? The professor was her Outstanding. While she would of course help with Impudanae, she would also make it very clear that she would be returning home afterwards.
v - v - v - v - v
The last wizard the world would need, Lord Voldemort, stood next to the newly repaired wall, his irritation flaring. The section of wall he had brought down on his test piece had been concave, naturally enough considering the shape of the tower. A minor detail he had overlooked in the heat of the moment. That soured his mood further when he realized it echoed the words of his former teacher. The massive curve of stone had failed to do its job. There was no trace of the statue, save for some bronze-colored scrapings on the stone floor that had been abraded off of it.
The wayward clown would not get far without a wand, but it had to be found. While Dumbledore may have revealed secrets to Potter, though Lord Voldemort doubted that even Dumbledore truly knew all his secrets, those had been only the ones known before the old wizard's much-deserved death. Now it seemed as if the meddling fool had continued his spying even as he rotted in the ground. The Chairman could not be exposed yet, and the mythic wand needed to be found. Dumbledore would have to be destroyed again.
A thought came to the Dark Lord. The wandering souls of the dead, drifting about for all eternity, or, perhaps, until the Rapture, obviously had nothing better to do than to watch the living. They were, it seemed, perfect spies. If there was a way to select the particular soul to ensconce in a munuscrux, reasoned Lord Voldemort, then he would have a way to communicate with his departed yet loyal servants. One more reliable than a pathetic seance attempt carried out by some old baggage. Divination again, sneered the Dark Lord to himself. As a student at Hogwarts, he had thought the trick to divination was being able to read people instead of leaves, cards, or ball, a skill he already had in abundance, and so he had excelled. Now he would have to study the theory of seances seriously, and hope it was magic more than talent that made it even slightly possible.
But first, a two-foot bronze circus clown that would have trouble using even a door handle needed to be found. It was as ridiculous as the hand tremors that had already begun. This body, this vessel, was already starting to fail. A buried, dim spark wondered, what? Clearly, thought the Dark Lord, youth and health, besides utter subservience, were not sufficient criteria. That fool Quirrell had lasted more than a year, though. It was obvious to Lord Voldemort that the stronger he became, the shorter the subsumed body lasted. He needed not only youth, strength, and a weak will, but a potent innate magical ability as well. An unlikely combination, as it was the will as much as the wand that made magic possible. The Elder wand was needed, or at least a wand strong enough for a horcrux. And he would have to stomach the presence of the muggle sculptress again, to provide her with photographs frozen to resemble muggle photos. The future relic would not only free him from the burden of flesh, but would give him a face that did not make him cringe when he looked in a mirror, as this weak-chinned one did. What?
v - v - v - v - v
Gabrielle had used a portkey before. She preferred the carved wooden disks that the French Ministry used to the ones by the British Ministry, which were usually disguised as muggle trash. She had not had that much experience with them, however, so landings were usually unsteady. Unsteady in the sense that the whirling, spinning did not stop when she landed, only after staggering and stumbling for a few seconds. Which was why a proper portkey's destination would be an appropriately clear and open area. Which was not the case with this portkey. She and Professor Elevagre landed among a crowd of other wizards and witches, who complained at length even though they had landed on her rather than the reverse. Gabrielle doubted that any of them really needed the healer.
The healer, a witch with a thick braid of brown hair reaching below her waist, was already busy in any case. She was tending several writhing wizards just short of a kind of barricade made from tree trunks. A section near where the witch was conjuring splints shuddered violently with a tremendous crash, causing the healer to jump back. What in Merlin's name, wondered Gabrielle, was going on?
A loud, angry neighing gave Gabrielle a clue. That was definitely not Impudanae. It sounded like one of the Abraxans throwing a tantrum. "Eh, Professor? What is happening?"
"It is Soleil. He is... upset," replied Elevagre evasively. Gabrielle could believe that. Soleil was barely three years old, and was big for his age. Very big. Already some of the lower-ranked adult Abraxans would give way to him. Gabrielle knew that Montaigne had sired him, and that he was the only one of the herd that made any attempt to dominate Soleil. It was probably only delaying the inevitable; Soleil was used to getting his way. "It is the quarantine stall."
"Quarantine?" asked Gabrielle. Was Soleil ill? Probably due, suspected Gabrielle, to stealing the other Abraxans' feed. She wondered again why she had to be involved.
"Yes. If you could just... lead him in?"
"Eh, of course, yes. But, Professor, why is he - hey!" exclaimed Gabrielle as Professor Elevagre's wand levitated her. First, it was extremely rude to just cast spells on a person, though it happened to her a lot. Second, did he really not notice that she was wearing a skirt? It was hardly reasonable to lift her high into the air.
Even less reasonable was dropping her over the other side of the makeshift barrier, dropping being a literal term here. Gabrielle got back to her feet and stared at the wreckage of the camp. Tents of all sorts were collapsed and askew, and bits of strange implements that had once been delicately assembled were decidedly no longer so. This was not Beauxbatons. Soleil was here, kicking at the side of what Gabrielle supposed was the quarantine stall, which was obviously made of stronger stuff than the rest of the camp. Gabrielle frowned - the young Abraxan dragged around a crackling net of spidery, silvery lines draped over his back and wings. As much as Professor Elevagre said that the restraints did not hurt the creatures, it was plain that the magical netting bothered them. An emphatic kick from the Abraxan's massive hooves rocked the stall until it nearly tipped over. That, decided Gabrielle, was not necessary. "Soleil! Stop that!"
The colt pricked his ears, and jauntily high-stepped his way through the camp's debris, delivering quick kicks to the already damaged equipment. A lot of curly brass tubing lay mangled. Gabrielle had two thoughts. The first was to wonder whether she could find and put on her protective footwear before the dangerous hooves reached her. It was Professor Elevagre's fault that she did not have time to put them on before, though it would still be her drinking the Skele-Gro. The second was to note that Soleil's prancing was his usual manner after he had bested a rival and would collect his prize.
Gabrielle wondered if she was considered the prize. Soleil needed Montaigne's nips, in her opinion. Madame Maxime spoiled the whole herd, and Soleil was her favorite - after Montaigne, of course. Was Gabrielle there to placate Soleil? Why was Soleil here at all?
The anger and irritation from before returned and energized the peeved notion that she was thought of as the human equivalent of an extra pail of whiskey-soaked oats. The colliding moods culminated in a furious moment, wherein the dipping muzzle of Soleil met with the hard, painful slap from Gabrielle. Painful for Gabrielle, at least. More of a complete shock for the huge colt. Abraxans will not move backwards; a ten to fifteen meter wingspan makes them cautious of tangling. They do jump though, which would have provided Soleil an escape if the netting had not prevented him from spreading his wings. Instead he landed heavily just beside where he began his launch.
"Did you think I would be happy to see you? When you act like this?" demanded Gabrielle heatedly. "I had a week! Do you hear?" The Abraxan, eyes wide, twisted away.
While lacking at the top-end, a furious bipedal witch has a wide range of gaits and speeds to run at immediately available. A quadrupedal horse, faster under way, is slower off the mark, particularly if the horse has wings it has forgotten it can not use. Gabrielle harried and berated Soleil halfway across the campsite, blaming the animal even for the squirrel who she was now sure would die without her care. "Go to your stall, now!" ordered Gabrielle, waving her still-stinging hand. Soleil may not have understood his culpability in regards to a minuscule nut-gatherer, but the last was, at least, a clear direction. It put four legs into organized motion, and got him away from the witch with a mane like dried feverfew, who was so much different here than the way she was at his home stable.
The quarantine stall, of course, was the problem, and Soleil stopped short of the ramp. Abraxans are very intelligent for a species of horse, and can appear quite clever in circumstances. Where they come apart is in resolving conflicting instincts, especially when flight, or kicking and biting, are not available options. That these last generally are gives the breed their reputation for irascibility. Soleil could not take-off, and had kicked the stall before. Going into it was terrifying, but the angry little witch was closing quickly. This was not a good day. He clamped his teeth onto the frame of the doorway experimentally. Biting had worked earlier.
Gabrielle reached Soleil just as he had decided that the stall did not mind being bitten, and did not taste good. So close to the goal, Gabrielle recklessly pressed her onslaught, and slapped the Abraxan as high on his rear quarter as she could reach. The hoof barely grazed her torso as the startled Soleil jumped forward into the stall.
The triumph was fleeting. Gabrielle could now see why the animal was so resistant. The stall was too small for Soleil by half. He would not be able to turn around, and so could not see a way out. Already the big colt was whinnying plaintively in distress, and kicking the frame.
This was the professor's fault also, decided Gabrielle. Did he not see, not know, that the stall was undersized? If he had just looked first, then she would still be home and might not have had to come at all. Gabrielle turned back to the barricades to find him, and found a dozen wizards and witches watching her warily. Several had their wands out; all looked at her like she had completely lost her senses. Gabrielle turned back to the near frantic Soleil, a blush rushing up her neck. Keeping her back to these observers, she extracted the metal overshoes.
"Soleil! Eh, calm down. Please? I am, eh, coming in," tried Gabrielle. If she was going to talk to the beast, then she would prefer to talk to its head. Soleil quieted some, but still shuffled nervously. It was an easy thing to say, thought Gabrielle, but the stall really was too small and the Abraxan nearly filled it. She sighed, called his name again, and ducked her head to go between the colt's legs and their floor-shaking hooves.
v - v - v - v - v
"Mademoiselle Delacour? Are you hurt?" called Professor Elevagre. Gabrielle could not see him; Soleil filled the space. She had pulled the netting from the colt's wings. That seemed to help some, even though it did not change his predicament at all. The song she sang to him also helped. It was really about unicorns, but Gabrielle just changed that to Abraxan. It did not quite rhyme properly, but Soleil did not notice.
"I am fine," replied Gabrielle. That was mostly true. Where the hoof had grazed her hurt, especially when she reached up. There was more room near Soleil's head, but there was not really enough air in the stall - at least not fresh air. The Abraxan breathed a lot, and his breath stank.
"Oh, good. I thought I heard moaning."
"Non, I - eh, what?" The professor said the oddest things at times. Gabrielle then remembered that this was his fault. Probably his fault. "Professor, the stall is too small for Soleil. He can not turn around! How can he get out?" She left off the part demanding to know why he, her Outstanding, had failed to notice this.
"Unfortunately, this is the largest size available. Transporting a magical beast any larger requires I.C.W. permits," explained Elevagre. "And more budget."
"Eh, can you not make it bigger?" asked Gabrielle. The wizarding tents were bigger inside than outside, after all.
"The Ministry could hardly charge more for a larger size if I could, so, no," replied the professor patiently. Gabrielle had not thought of that, but it had been a very trying day. The gamekeeper continued as if testing an idea, "An ice-floor jinx, I think. The netting will -"
"The netting?" blurted Gabrielle. "I took it off him."
"Or, failing that, we can make another door," suggested Elevagre after a loud sigh. "So much for the deposit."
"Eh, what?"
"The stall is made from barren wood, though, and nullified iron. We will have to get a, a, uh... it's a metal blade but with teeth, kind of like a very large, heavy bread knife. Can't think of the name for it - muggles use them."
"Barren wood? What is that?" asked Gabrielle.
"You know how bowtruckles live in trees that are good for wands? Of course you do. The school used to have quite a large grove," reminded Professor Elevagre. That had been an accident, fumed Gabrielle to herself. Why bring it up again? "Such wood has an affinity for magic, and is described as fertile. Barren wood is the opposite, and is nearly impervious to magic. It's used for cages, for man or beast, for that reason."
"And, eh -"
"Nullified iron is the same, but only the goblins know its secrets," anticipated the professor. "The door may take some time - no magic, you see. I hope there is a muggle-born in camp, or at least someone who knows what to do with the blade-with-teeth."
"The saw," corrected Gabrielle. There was one on the knife from Gaston, except she doubted it would do her much good since the walls were probably thicker than the toothed edge was long.
v - v - v - v - v
"- and that, Monsieur Soleil, brings us back to Monsieur Poisseux's point, which is that this expedition is a complete raté." The Abraxan nickered and bobbed his head on cue. "Oh yes, I agree completely! The Goblet certainly did cheat, and I don't think you can trust Professor Festeller either," confided Gabrielle again. A long hour, maybe even longer, had passed without any visible or audible progress. There had been a heavy thud once, but that was followed by a snap-ching sound and then silence. Gabrielle suspected that she had been completely forgotten. If it were not for Soleil's continued and palpable nervousness, she would squeeze her way out and... well, probably not burn down the camp. A small signal fire, though, did not seem inappropriate.
To help pass the time, Gabrielle had pulled out some parchment to make a list of things her handbag should always have. Actually, she made her list on the second piece of parchment, since Soleil ate the first. Food and water were the first of the items, because she would then not be hungry or thirsty. Food was a category that needed another list. Dried fruits and dried meats were obvious, as were crackers. Gabrielle thought bread and cheese would go bad too quickly unless she learned to charm them. Muggles, she knew, put food in metal containers. The knife from Gaston had a sharp, key-like thingy that could open those. In a theoretical sense, at least, since Gabrielle had looked at the metal containers in the Toulier's pantry, and how the two things were meant to be used together was a mystery. That was something she could ask Philippe about.
"You know what, Monsieur Soleil? Monsieur Toulier would know how to use a saw." Philippe would probably know too, thought Gabrielle. She added "big muggle saw" to her list. Thinking of her squib friend, Gabrielle also decided that her specially bent wires in their little bundle should move to the handbag also. And, perhaps, one of the thin metal bars Philippe always seemed to have on him.
Gabrielle suddenly realized that she was acting like the wizards in Philippe's favorite stories - take away the magic and they were helpless. Philippe would not be helpless. Actually, came a second thought, Philippe would just not sit patiently. That was not the same as being able to get out. Still, it would be less boring.
A closer examination of the rear wall, which was the only one Gabrielle could get to easily with Soleil in the way, left her confident and confused. Confident because the stall had what looked like hinges, and confused because the hinges were on every side of the wall, even the top and bottom. She would, of course, have spotted them before, but the stall was very dim, the lower hinges very dirty, and the upper hinges were up near Soleil's ears, so they were not obvious at all. Gabrielle had never seen a door like this before. She suspected that all the hinges made it possible to open the door, from the other side, in any direction. Except this was not a door; otherwise, why would they need a saw? Gabrielle supposed it did not matter. There were hinges here, and pulling out the metal rod that held the hinge together was a reliable trick. She pawed through the handbag for the dragon-hide gloves, and her knife. The hinges along the floor were dirty and corroded by what would normally be found on the floor of a stall, so Gabrielle decided that those could stay. The lowest hinges on the sides were less dirty, and also in reach, so she started there.
While Gabrielle worked, she was gratified to hear that she was not forgotten, although it did not sound like things were going well on the other side of the wall. Or door. Someone had started a muggle petrol engine, Gabrielle could smell the exhaust, but its angry buzzing had stopped abruptly after a thump against the stall which was followed by shrieks of agony.
The hinge pins were difficult to remove. In fact, Gabrielle could not budge them at all. Nullified iron, she noticed, rusted. Soleil, however, could remove them, once Gabrielle had wrapped the heavy leather cord from her metal overshoes around the pins. A quick shake of the Abraxan's head was enough to yank them loose. The problem was that after taking apart the hinges on the left side, the door would still not open. Which, pointed out a second thought, was because it was a wall. This was, decided Gabrielle, very mechanical. The problem might be that there was no handle on the side inside the stall. Removing the pins from the right side of the door, eh, wall did not change matters either, and she wished Philippe could help. The bottom hinges were gross, which left only the top hinges. Those were the most difficult to extract, because Gabrielle had to essentially sit on the colt's head to reach the hinges and pry them out far enough to wrap the leather around them. Then she had to be lowered to the ground, and Soleil had to reach up, find, and grasp the leather in his teeth without help.
The last pin at the top was the most difficult. It was jammed, and Soleil's first try did not shift it. A second effort also failed. Soleil, used, as he was, to having his will, glared at the recalcitrant joint. Gabrielle shrank back against the side wall - his eyes were furious.
With his third attempt, the colt reared up as much as he could, planted his front legs on the wall for leverage, and tore the pin free. The wall, attached only at the floor, tilted away, outward. It was a door now. The unexpected movement startled Soleil, and he kicked out with his front legs to push himself away. Between the weight of the thick wooden wall and the might of the Abraxan, the bottom hinges, which Gabrielle could see were folding the wrong way, started to pull away from the floor. At least from part of the floor - a large, jagged section was still attached to the hinges. The rear wall, or, possibly, door leaned way out, snapped free with a sound like a Weasley Wildfire going off in a cauldron, and crashed to the ground.
Sunlight replaced the dim shadows. Gabrielle sneezed, Soleil whinnied, and three wizards dressed in rugby shirts and hip-waders stared first at her, then Soleil, then the fallen wall, which was now very obviously never meant to be a door. Soleil started forward, intending a triumphal parade. Gabrielle could see that the wrecked wall was not laying flat, that it was not safe for the Abraxan. She sprang through the opening. "Non, Soleil. Stop!" The wall rocked beneath her; it had landed on something. A groan came from under it when Gabrielle and her iron boots crashed down.
"Uhn... unglück..."
"Eh - Oh no! Professor Festeller!"
1 A common wizarding world dismissal of things muggle.
