Chapter Nine - A Metric Ton
In the aftermath of the mishap, the word Gabrielle preferred as calling it a catastrophe was plainly exaggeration, she found herself being overlooked, which was a far better word than shunned. As if any of it had been her fault! Soleil had wrecked the camp before she had arrived, she was not the one who had even brought him, and Professor Festeller ending up squashed was just his bad luck. The pile of hinge pins was suspicious, but everyone was supposed to be trying to help with the rear wall. They, decided Gabrielle, should be thanking her, considering the number of injuries caused by the muggle chaining-saw.
Soleil was currently quiet in the dreaded stall. Gabrielle had draped the magical netting across the opened end mostly to remind him to stay put. Which the colt seemed willing to do since there was a lot to entertain him, between the camp being rebuilt and the rescue of the professor. Especially the rescue of Professor Festeller, since no magic could be used on the wall itself, and the various attempts ended with the wooden slab dropping back onto the trapped wizard. Which was not funny at all, at least when it was happening. Eventually a wizard named Stanislaw, who was one of the three wearing hip-waders, came up with the idea of vanishing the dirt under Professor Festeller so that he went down instead of the wall needing to go up. The sight of his reddened face slowly sinking -was- a little funny.
Gabrielle dragged a bale of hay, soaked in whiskey, over for Soleil. Dragged, because she was not sure what exactly was happening, so she was reluctant to use the little wand, in case this counted as part of the next school term. Since it was getting late, she determined that it was time to find Professor Elevagre, and to make sure he understood that she was going back. And, of course, that he had to take her back.
She found, or rather heard, Professor Elevagre in what was probably Professor Festeller's tent, where the injured wizard had been levitated to by the frazzled healer. Gabrielle had wanted the medi-witch to examine where she had been kicked, but the healer had been closing up a really nasty gash on a wizard's leg at the time, and her expression suggested the cure might be worse. There was some loud discussion going on inside the tent, sometimes in German. Gabrielle did not think interrupting would be a good idea, so she sat down at the open tent flap to listen. That is, corrected a second thought, to wait.
"We can salvage the Thurlow lenses, at least three of them, but the Gleasson Aparati are beyond even magic," reported a sour voice.
"That's three hundred galleons right there," said a different, worried voice. Gabrielle thought perhaps it was that Stanislaw.
"It is no problem," gasped out Professor Festeller. "We will do it the, yes, old way."
"That may be possible, but it will take time. The equipment must be paid back."
"The quarantine stall too. The desposit, replacement, and penalties," added Professor Elevagre. He did not sound like that was the worst news.
"I think, yes, that can be accommodated," said Professor Festeller, ending his reassurance in a coughing fit.
"It's another two hundred galleons!" exploded Elevagre. "How do you have the budget?"
"Remember our agreement," reminded Stanislaw. "These do not come out of -" Festeller interrupted him in German, and a heated exchange followed which meant nothing to Gabrielle. She did note that the professor would run out of air before running out of sentence.
"Why did you have the bring the hell-born beast already?" complained an unknown voice.
"Ministry regulations. You have to do the quarantine, not the school," replied Elevagre. "The girl is here now, it... should be... all right." Gabrielle did not like the sound of that at all. It made it seem like the girl not being here was not even a possibility.
"A student. Five hundred galleons. This is madness," said an angered Stanislaw.
"The Goblet is not a trivial matter," groaned the history professor. "The girl, yes, will be useful." More German followed. Gabrielle decided to stay out of Stanislaw's way; he did not sound like the friendly type. Festeller's words made her wonder. While she was glad that he recognized her burgeoning talents - the cream always rises to the top - Gabrielle did not like the way he had said useful. She could imagine it: the opening to the dirty, dark beyond is too small. What should we do? Who can we get?
The arrival of the healer, who looked hot, tired, and had missed some of the blood on her robes, ended the meeting. Or at least changed the topic to how much work there was, how many supplies were already used up, and how this was not the way she wanted to spend her summer. Gabrielle agreed with the last sentiment, and when her Natural Arts professor retreated from the tent Gabrielle was quickly on him.
"Eh, professor? I am ready to go." Gabrielle decided to start with a polite suggestion, and a smile that hopefully projected satisfaction with a job well-done. Done, being the key.
It was, perhaps, a little too much for a facial expression to convey, because the professor looked at her blankly and asked, "Go? What do you mean?"
"Soleil is in his stall, and the stall is, eh," started Gabrielle. Fixed was probably not the word she was looking for. "The stall is, eh, more to his liking. The problem is solved, yes?"
"Oh. Yes, that is true, but you will have to take care of him. I thought that was clear when your trunk was packed."
No, thought Gabrielle, it was not clear, just implied, which was not the same at all. Denial, labeled a mean thought. "Why can you not look after him?" asked Gabrielle. She hoped that sounded reasonable, and not desperate.
"The main herd is my reward," said Elevagre. That, recognized Gabrielle, was his more usual tone.
"Eh, why is Soleil here, Professor? The, eh, others don't seem to want him." Gabrielle did not want him to think she had been eavesdropping. Which she had not been doing. Not intentionally. Five hundred galleons, though - and that was just today. How much would it be in a week? "You should just take Soleil back to Beauxbatons."
"Soleil is here for you, since you can not fly a broom. I will -"
"What? I can -so- fly a broom," blurted Gabrielle. She liked to fly. For as long as it lasted, came a traitorous thought.
"Not well enough to keep up."
"It is the school's brooms! If I had a new -"
"Mademoiselle Delacour, the best you ever did was three-quarters of a course, using either of my own custom quidditch brooms from my school days," explained Gabrielle's Outstanding. "I will fit the saddle to you. I'm sure Soleil will do what you want."
Gabrielle stood open-mouthed. Those were custom brooms? They looked so... used. Thank Merlin she had not put them into her handbag! And so what if she could not keep up? She did not want to be there at all. As for Soleil, she doubted that the Abraxan would do anything that he did not want to do, whether she wanted it or not. Although, Gabrielle had to admit to herself, riding the colt would be very cool too. She was not finished arguing, though. "If, eh, it was a -new- custom broom, then it would work, eh, better, yes?"
"It's not how it looks, it's what's under the bristles that counts," said Elevagre defensively. "Professor Festeller's apparently near-bottomless budget is already down five hundred galleons because of Soleil," noted the professor, a mite jealously. "I very much doubt he would spend that again on a broom for you."
"Harry Potter has a Firebolt," said Gabrielle half to herself.
"It's good to dream. I'll show which tent is yours."
v - v - v - v - v
"All I'm saying is that there were nicer cars at the last place. Why can't we get one of them instead of this rusty old -" asked Ron Weasley before a voice that came from under the car's steering column interrupted.
"Because, dear brother, muggles quite like to find their cars just where they left them. Newer cars have wires you can hardly even see. And alarms." It was George, who was pulling wires apart like spaghetti. Harry knew it was George because Fred and Verity were having their pictures taken while sitting on the stone wall near the old barn, which was 'French and picturesque'. "Ah, here we go." The car's horn blew briefly, but loudly. "Sorry! It's this one." The engine sputtered to life, with a bluish tinge to the car's exhaust.
"Why are we doing this again? We could just fly," suggested Harry. Again.
"It's risky during the day, should the disillusionment charms fail. We'll make better time this way," replied George, looking at the vehicle proudly. Must be in the Weasley genes, thought Harry.
"With all of us in it? I don't think this piece of junk's up to it," doubted Ron. "What's the stick in the middle then?"
"That's for the gearbox. Bit hard to explain, but you know when you've got it wrong," said George. "Er, we should probably be going."
"Stealing a car isn't risky?" asked Harry. He liked his plan. It needed the Firebolt and Ginny holding on tight.
"'S not stealing. Not exactly stealing. We'll give it back - swear on my wand. Practically scrap anyway."
"That's what I was saying," added Ron. "Not much room either."
"We don't have to go too far, just an hour or two to meet up with our man Toulier," explained George, his eyes looking past the photogenic barn. "We really should be going. Er, now. Oy Fred! Bludger on your eight."
The other Weasley twin slipped off the wall and took aim at the pigs dozing in the sun. Nothing happened the first time, but with a second wave a pair of pigs were up, over the fence, and running hard.
"Another reason to go for a right classic - it barely stuttered there," said George, as if proud of the run-down vehicle, a very old Citroën 2CV. "Use the wrong spell and some new cars need a repair garage before they'll run again."
"Just how often do you do this?" wondered Ginny.
"Go on, get in," ignored George. The engine coughed and hesitated as he tapped the car with his wand, twice. The first spell was obvious - the car was no longer a pale, faded blue with patches of rust, but a rather hard to look at bright yellow. The second spell lacked the dramatic effect of the first.
"You didn't hurt those pigs, did you? What did you do?" demanded Hermione. She had been the photographer, and now gave Verity back her camera.
"Hurt a pig? The very font of bacon?" replied Fred. "Just a Follow-Me charm and a... pinch of motivation." He looked at the car unhappily.
"What?" asked George.
"No racing stripes? You know I like racing stripes."
"They don't really make a car go faster. And you know I can never quite get them straight," admitted George.
"Nothing will make this car go faster, but it'll look like it has it's hand in," said Fred. "I'll drive."
"Oy, the steering wheel's on the wrong side!" called Ron from inside the car.
"No, Ron, it isn't," said Hermione, leaning in through the window.
"Are you daft? It is."
"Erm, it's a bit noticeable already, isn't it?" suggested Harry, considering the stripe question dubiously.
"Not to muggles, what with the Look-Away charm," explained George.
"One drives on the right in France," informed Hermione. "Surely you knew?"
"Are they going to start up again?" asked Fred.
"Why don't we all get in?" hinted George. "We can lay odds as we drive away from this nearly-a-crime scene."
"Er, um, yeah. I knew that. 'Course. What's that to do with the steering wheel being on my side, though?" asked Ron again.
"If you drive on the other side of the road, then the driver has to drive on the other side of the car," said Hermione. "It's like a mirror, you see?"
"A mirror? Then why are the pedals the right way round?"
"Just get in, will you?" insisted Ginny, using Hermione's legs to push the older girl further in through the window.
"Stop it, Ginny!" protested Hermione. "Stop -that,- Ron."
"I'm just trying to help you!"
"I can -feel- what you're trying to do. Stop shoving, you cow! It isn't funny!" exclaimed Hermione. She was attempting to push herself back out of the window while a laughing Ginny was trying to do the opposite.
"How did we even get this far?" asked Harry.
v - v - v - v - v
Harry sat in the back of the car, with Ginny comfortably snuggled on his lap. He was a little scrunched up, but was quite proud of himself. He had avoided the front passenger position, and thus the watchful eyes of the older Weasley brothers, by pointing out that it was likely he would be recognized because of newspaper photos from the Tri-Wizard tournament. Constant vigilance dictated that he sit in the less exposed back. Ron and Hermione sat in the back also, because Ron kept trying to help with the gearbox. It could have been, thought Harry, a clever plan on his best mate's part also, but one could never tell. Verity did not mind moving to the front. She could see better, and the front seats were declared better for Fred's back. Verity also had the map, a thing that Fred and George did not feel the need to consult. That may have been because it only showed the location of townhalls and churches, which needed to be photographed.
Another reason for eschewing the map, realized Harry, was that George had a very open definition of road. The over-taxed motor of the old Citroën proved incapable of the rapid speed changes of magically enhanced vehicles like the Knight Bus, and even strained to keep up with the other cars on the motorway. George compensated for this by cutting across fields, if he liked the look of the road on the other side of them, and by using alleys or walkways. This was usually accompanied by the gearbox letting George know that he had not got it right, and, when it came to alleys, the scrape of metal on brickwork.
It was at yet another photo stop that Harry's patience began to wear thin. He left it to Ginny and Hermione to dissuade Ron from foraging in the local bread-shop, and addressed George, who was watching Fred annoy Verity. She was attempting to photograph Fred in front of a war memorial statue of a soldier and a dog. With impeccable timing, the Weasley twin would transform his face just as the shutter opened. "George, what are we doing here? I think we've been going in circles! I thought we were going to meet this, er, Toulier fellow?"
"Yes. Sad spectacle, the whole dim, doting husband thing, isn't it?"
"Erm, yeah. What?" Harry shook his head. It was easy to go off lines with the twins. "When are we going to meet him?"
"Hard to guess that now. Depends, I suppose, on how much film she brought," sighed George. "Fred's doing his best to use it up."
"Couldn't this Toulier have met us at the tunnel, in, um, Coquelles?"
"Well, yes. But you know, Harry, our young apprentice, a lot of magic is simply knowing what the other wizard doesn't. Your best spell is the one your opponent doesn't know you can use. I'd rather have the old duffer think I can appear at any time, any place," explained George.
"Can't we do anything to speed this up?" asked Harry.
"Could be, could be. Got some place to be, have you? Someone to meet, mayhaps?" smirked George, an eyebrow raised inquisitively.
Harry tried to keep his face neutral. He now realized that more thought should have been put into the story to cover the purpose of the trip. A research expedition to Paris, to search a wizarding bookseller's rare collection, had expanded to include a stop at Delacour Manor. At the time it sounded like a good idea, remembered Harry. George had explained that it would make the currency exchange easier. His simple offer to help with transport led to Ginny's demand to go, which meant Fred and George insisted, and ended with Verity's inclusion. Harry had to wonder if claiming that the bookseller was in Albania in the first place would have damped down the enthusiasm. "Erm, no. Your Mum would be happier if we kept the whole thing short."
"I'm still in awe of the way you handled Mum when it came time to leave," said George. "You could work in Romania with Charlie. Fred and I would mostly try to outrun her."
"Look, we're all -"
"'Course we never kept a little ring-box in our pockets, all ready to tumble out on cue, either. Not usually," continued George, looking back toward Fred. His brother was dodging Verity and her swinging camera. "Is there even anything in it?"
Harry looked at this shoes. "Not, not yet." His answer, Harry realized in horror, implied that he was sort of lying to Ginny and her Mum. "The, erm, intent is in it, though."
"Good wheeze there," nodded George, a bit of an edge to his voice. After an uneasy moment, he added, "You should probably be wondering what it'll take to keep that tidbit from Ginny."
"It's, it's not like that. I... I just, erm - Oh!"
"Well that's sorted, at least," brightened George. Fred had managed to disable the camera by the simple expedient of placing his head in such a way that it intersected the arc of Verity's annoyance. The device lay in pieces on the ground. Fred also lay on the ground, whole but stunned, with Verity kneeling next to him. She was torn between tending the bleeding cut on his head where the camera had hit, and throttling him for not ducking more. Harry could tell that by the way she alternated between the two actions. "Should be able to make better time now," noted George.
v - v - v - v - v
The tent assigned to Gabrielle was bigger inside than it appeared outside. Much, much bigger, since it was originally intended to house seven students. So much bigger that Gabrielle felt too small in it. Each student would have a suite, with a bedroom, sitting area, and, Gabrielle was glad to see, their own lavatory. There was a large common room as well, decorated, Gabrielle supposed, with hunting trophies on the dark paneling. Some growled as she passed, or stared as if wishing for revenge. It was a room to pass through. There was no kitchen, but there was an eating area. That made twenty empty rooms looming outside her door. Gabrielle addressed the problem by taking the extra, unused mattresses from the other rooms and propping them around and over her bed. It was a room inside a room, and it helped a lot.
Night had fallen. The rest of the day had passed quickly as Gabrielle worked with Professor Elevagre. He taught her a basic vanishing spell - something which was unexpected. The new magic would be used when she mucked out Soleil's stall - something which was unanticipated. The professor had tried to re-size the huge saddle for Gabrielle, but the Abraxan's back was too broad and Gabrielle's legs could not reach the stirrups properly. It was also not something to try while in a skirt. In any case, Soleil did not seem to notice when Gabrielle pulled and tugged at the reins. She found it easier to inch her way along and up his neck to point, which alarmed her professor. Gabrielle, though, did not see the reason for the concern. She reasoned that Soleil was much larger than a broom, with much more to hold onto, and so was safer. She did not like to admit it, but the colt's flight was steadier than any of her flights on a school broom. Even with the powerful wings beating. Elevagre insisted that she be attached to Soleil somehow, and so said he would return in a few days with a harness.
Which meant that he apparated away, and Gabrielle was left behind, alone and forgotten. Not completely alone, of course, because there were perhaps a dozen wizards and at least a few witches in the camp. But she did not know them and they did not appear to be interested in her. Gabrielle supposed that the repairs to their belongings took their full attention, which might have been why no one called her for dinner. A second thought suspected that it was intended as a punishment, unjustly applied. A third thought was somewhat relieved, as the main course was some sort of horrible stew, all gluey and congealed. Gabrielle just had some of the leftover bread and cheese, and took the rest of which back to her room, in case they forgot her for breakfast.
Gabrielle, once safely secreted within the padded walls of Fort Delacour, glumly considered the dreary, tiring weeks ahead. The maintenance of Soleil was daunting. Assuming, calculated Gabrielle, that he did not gain much weight each day, then what she dragged to the front of Soleil for him to eat would be what she would have to rake out from the other end. She could then vanish the... it, given enough time, but the, eh, it would still have to be moved from the stall first, lest something go wrong with the spell. The daily effort was not offset by the hour of exercise, of flying, Soleil was allowed by the quarantine rules.
"There is also the bedding," said Gabrielle, half to herself. If she had it right, then she would be moving a metric ton a week, between things going into and things coming out of the Abraxan. The other half of what Gabrielle said was for Poisseux, because there was no one else to talk to. The spellotape toad hopped fitfully about the bed. He did not appear to be paying close attention to what Gabrielle was saying, but since he could not answer her anyway it did not disrupt the conversation. Gabrielle decided that she would show him the vanishing spell later. That would make him happy. Right now, though, Poisseux was looking for something. It was easy to guess the object of his search. He had no possessions and did not need food or water. Gabrielle knew he was looking for Pepi-Z. She pulled over the tan blouse she had worn earlier, having changed into George's old quidditch jersey for sleeping. She had put Pepi-Z into the breast pocket - perhaps the other pocket - one of the pockets... The zombie puffskein was not there, but Gabrielle clearly recalled putting him in before she left home with Professor Elevagre. Though it would be difficult for him, Pepi-Z must have managed to roll himself out, so she searched the bed and bedding. And under the bed, and between the fortress walls, which accidentally caused a portion of her enclosed refuge to collapse. The walls and ceiling were mattresses, thankfully, so it had not hurt and Poisseux was fine.
But the woolly red bobble was not anywhere to be found. It was possible little Pepi-Z had been blown out of her pocket when she was riding Soleil. That might, thought Gabrielle, mean that he was actually okay, since he was pretty soft and, frankly, already dead. A fall to the ground would not hurt her puffball of a pet. She could look for him tomorrow. Gabrielle was confident that, while Pepi-Z might be lost in the forest, he would not roll further from camp. He was really at his best rolling downhill on a smooth surface; a line of pebbles could stop him. Of course, if there were squirrels in the forest...
That was an awful thought, and Gabrielle pushed it away, which left a spot for an even worse one that a panicked second thought shoved to the fore. What if Pepi-Z had fallen out while she had been cleaning Soleil's stall? What if she had vanished him? He might be gone forever! Had she killed her first pet, George's first gift? Of course, rationalized Gabrielle, killed was a difficult concept with a zombie. Anyway, Pepi-Z was red and what she had been cleaning up was nearly every color but red. Or blue. It was a thought that made her shudder - a metric ton! Surely she would have noticed Pepi-Z? Unfortunately, the worried thought knew the answer to that. She had not wanted to see it, smell it, and especially not move it around with a rake. It would have been easy for the former puffskein to fall, be buried, and then be vanished with a flourish of the favorite blond wand.
If anything could have made the summer worse, thought Gabrielle mournfully, this was it. This was the second poor creature, Gabrielle guiltily realized, that she had killed this week. Although, of course, both circumstances had been completely accidental. Nearly three creatures, really, if one counted Professor Festeller. Gabrielle thought about that, and decided that he did not, in fact, count. This was all his fault, he and that stupid Goblet. It was also her mother's fault for buying the weird muggle blouses in the first place.
The sight of Poisseux still slowly hopping around the bed turned the growing anger into crushing despair. It was the saddest thing she had ever seen. Would the faux toad ever understand that his fellow zombie was gone? Or would he continue his search for an eternity? Tears were in her eyes when she gathered him up. "Oh Poisseux, I'm so sorry," wept Gabrielle. She bowed her head to his to commiserate, and ignored the terrible thought that the scene would be far more touching if he was warm and fuzzy and not struggling. Gabrielle raised her head to break the bad news to him, and spotted her handbag.
This was a ray of hope. She -might- have put Pepi-Z in there to keep him safe from Soleil. Even if she did not recall doing so, and even if she almost never did so. It was a possibility, thought Gabrielle, and -not- just denial.
When she opened the handbag, though, Gabrielle remembered why it was she did not put Pepi-Z in it. Not usually put him in it - there could be - were - exceptions. None that, admittedly, came to mind at the moment. The magic liner was full of stuff. Not full as in having reached capacity, that did not seem to be a problem, but full as in having a large number objects something small could get lost between. Even the zombie puffskein's bright color would not be much help, due to the leftover sample Wheezes and the crumpled packaging the orders had come in. Gabrielle had been too afraid to dispose of the wrappings at Beauxbatons, for fear of being discovered. Interestingly, the stashed items did not shift around, least that she could tell. Poisseux was always put in a particular spot, to make him easy to find. The liner, guessed Gabrielle, was somehow keeping things from moving. It was something she wanted to learn more about from George. There were other things she wanted to learn from George too, but now was not the time for daydreams. Especially if she had to pick out Pepi-Z amongst all the accumulated clutter. Things looked very far away in the liner, but she knew from experience that they were within reach. It would take a while to -
A wand, smiled Gabrielle, helps one get what one wants. She wanted Pepi-Z, she had a wand, and she had a spell to get what she wanted. All Gabrielle needed now was space. She propped the handbag on its side, on the wooden chair of the sitting area, and backed up through the door of the lavatory. Gabrielle chose to use the 'Special Parry-Thrust' technique, with its overhead sweep of the wand during the jump, followed by the fully extended arm-thrust. It hardly ever failed, particularly if she knew about where the desired object was. And it was close.
"Accio Pepi-Z!" shouted Gabrielle. It was, in her judgment, a very good parry, very dramatic, with the final thrust leaving the wand's point just at the handbag's opening. It was perfect execution, aside from the fact that her beloved red bobble did not appear. Which made sense, noted a second thought, because he is never put in there.
Instead of sending her back to the dungeon of despair, though, the unsuccessful attempt made Gabrielle realize that she could rescue her pet right now, if he was lost in the woods Soleil had flown over. She just needed to use the technique that Philippe had dubbed the 'France 2 Transmitter'. The move was a leap, landing on one knee, then jumping up with the wand extended upwards in both hands. The Transmitter was good for when she was not certain where the target was, except that it was really close. Or it was really light, which was why Gabrielle thought it would work to save Pepi-Z. Even though Gabrielle was reluctant to admit it, the wand with her Grandmere's hair was a better choice for the attempt than her petite blond wand. It was especially true in situations like this, where a little more strength was needed. Gabrielle wondered if the rustic wand somehow knew it had a chance to show up its rival.
The common room, with its creepy decor, was dark. Gabrielle left it that way as she made her way through the seating, since the flickering candle light would only make things worse. There was no growling now, only soft grunts. Gabrielle opened the tent flap, backed up a few paces, and executed the maneuver. "Accio Pepi-Z!" she cried out again as the dark, twisted wand went skyward in her clasped hands. She concentrated on Pepi-Z, which was very hard to do as the camp site was not completely deserted, she was wearing only the quidditch jersey, and, with her arms raised up like they were, she was certain that the jersey was not completely covering her underwear. She was definitely attracting curious looks from the loitering wizards. Gabrielle wondered if she should just skip breakfast no matter what. But this was for Pepi-Z and the distraught Poisseux, though, so she remained in the stance.
Gabrielle lost the spell when something hit her in the back of the head. Surprisingly, it was Pepi-Z. He had not, realized Gabrielle, been lost in the forest or been vanished. The reconstructed puffskein must have fallen from her pocket when she was moving the mattresses. Relief that she had not killed him, and no small pride in her spellwork, left Gabrielle giddy. She rushed back to Poisseux to reunite her pets, crashing to the ground a moment later. A Lumos spell would have been handy, came the second thought.
v - v - v - v - v
Narcissa Malfoy, dressed, as was her wont these wretched days, in the severest of black, stared at the envelope sitting in the hearth. The height of cheek, an insolent Postal owl had dropped it down the flue. Another indication of how far proper society had decayed: owls disobeying explicit instructions. Lucius would have had words with the owner, when all was right with the world. But he and Draco were both taken from her now, and the Malfoy name meant nothing, even to birds.
Madame Malfoy raised her wand to incinerate the impudent correspondence. A large portion of the avian frustration was engendered by her habit of refusing almost all post. The comings and goings of wizarding society felt so meaningless now, and she had no energy to keep up with it in any case. The handwriting caught her eye before she set it alight. The missive was addressed, rather rudely, to Narcissa Malfoy, but the hand that wrote it was... Draco's? A check for curses revealed none, so Narcissa picked up the envelope and cautiously opened it.
It was a trick. The writing inside was untidy and uncouth, lacking Draco's practiced grace. And not even a proper salutation, a sure sign of low-breeding. Madame Malfoy unfolded the rest of the parchment to determine to whom she would direct her ire. A lock of white-blond hair, held together sloppily with spellotape, fell from the note to the floor. Narcissa followed it, going weak at the knees. It was Draco's; a mother would recognize her own son's. She picked up the lock of hair with a trembling hand. What had they done to him?
A surge of anger and outrage bolstered Narcissa. What had they done to him? And what was this? An indecent ransom demand? She smoothed the creases and held it at a more comfortable distance for reading. This was a mistake on the part of those who held Draco. She would see to it that Snape saw to them.
It was not a ransom note, or a blackmail attempt, or even a cruel taunt. The message, from the Potter boy - she had been right about the low breeding, only said that her son was safe. It went on to assure her that Draco was also safe from the Dark Lord, and would remain hidden until the Dark Lord was 'bloody well defeated for good'. Narcissa stared at the parchment, wondering what it was supposed to mean. Was she supposed to interpret this as a favor to be repaid later? Had Severus expected this? One thing that Narcissa was, was not one to trust an altruistic act.
v - v - v - v - v
On a warm summer evening, the fire was not really needed. It crackled quietly now that Fred had quit throwing the novelty candles into it. The wax creations were a new product for the fall. When lit, the candle's flame would intermittently erupt with a fireball in the shape of fantastic, twisting animals. Throwing the whole candle into the fire released a truly immense fireball with a whole zoo of animals writhing in it. Harry reclined against a magically cushioned rock, not a bad effort, with a resting Ginny's head in his lap. He wondered if the bed curtains at Hogwarts were flame-proof; that would be something to see.
Harry knew it was Fred because of the proximity of Verity. She was mostly over the loss of her camera, which took a while since George managed to use some variation of the word picture or picturesque in just about every other sentence. At least riding in the back of Monsieur Toulier's lorry put an end to Fred's extolling the remarkable architecture of the passing buildings and the beauty of the landscape. The cargo area was large enough to hold the car, so it was levitated into the back and taken also. It was hard to see why, though.
The elder Toulier was dropped off at his home, where Harry met a git named Philippe who stared at Ginny way too much. Philippe gave Fred and George a thick sheaf of muggle paper with circles made from colored wedges on them; Fred looked at it like Neville Longbottom watching bloody Snape approaching over a potion. The whole of it ended up in Hermione's possession, which was not much of a surprise.
As far as Harry understood, the Touliers lived in a village not more than a half an hour's drive, at a muggle speed, from Delacour Manor. Delacour Manor itself was very near Paris. So it was a little puzzling as to why they were neither at Delacour Manor, nor in Paris. Instead, the seven travelers had set up a tent along the side of the road, just on the far side of an old stone bridge. The drivers of the few normal vehicles passing by did not notice the encampment. Neither did they notice the lorry balancing itself on the wheels of only one side. Fred, not to be outdone by his brother's liberal use of the landscape, had managed to hit the bridge, blowing out one of the tyres in the front. Hermione and Ron were trying to fix it, arguing about how round round should be, and were quite probably about to sneak off somewhere for a snog.
The map Verity had seemed to have gone missing, or at least she no longer felt the need to consult it. The young woman was using her wand to chop up a huge mound of vegetables for the evening meal. There did not appear to be any meat in the offing. It was, suspected Harry, her revenge for the needling she had endured before. Was it possible to get a proper English fry-up in France? Probably not without francs. Thankfully, Mrs. Weasley's reticence did not prevent her from providing a mountain of wrapped sandwiches for rations.
Harry was about to inquire after the map, and to suggest that a more direct approach to directions might, just possibly, reduce the travel time when Ginny shifted. "Why do you do that, George?" she asked.
"Do what?" grinned her brother, his hand casually sliding back out of his shirt front.
"Not that. You've been looking in all the mugs," said Ginny. Harry put down his half-emptied tea. Camping with the twins would be a challenge. "And why do you have a bowl of water next to you?"
"The finger bowl? Got to keep up practice. We get about in rather high society these -"
"He's being watched, by wizard or wizards unknown, as they say," interrupted Fred. "Might be one of Moldy Old Voldy's crowd."
"Being watched?" asked Harry. Why was that not mentioned before? He looked along the now empty road, and at the nearby woods.
"Could be the Ministry, or a ministry, or even industrial espionage. I thought you were putting an end to it?" asked Fred.
"Ah. Well. It's not - " started George. There was sudden groan of metal crumpling.
"Honestly Ron! Watch what you're doing," came Hermione's complaint.
"I am! What's this ruddy bit stickin' out for anyway?" demanded Ron peevishly.
"It's a fender."
"Yeah? More like a bender now. What's the bloody thing for?"
"Ron! It, it, er, fends. It keeps things from hitting the wheel," explained Hermione.
"Oh Merlin, please don't let him try and fix it," said Fred fervently.
"That's daft! The whole side of the wheel is wide open," argued Ron. There was a long creak, and a sound like a steel drum being hit.
"Where's that tally from Philippe?" sighed George.
"One is normally moving forward when driving," replied Hermione over more noise. "It only has to cover the front."
"Not much help for Fred then," noted Ron as the noise died away.
"It was the bloody bridge," announced Fred. "Too narrow for modern vehicles. An unsafe condition that should be redressed by the appropriate agencies."
"You do read the letters from the solicitors!" laughed George.
"That's... not bad, Ron. It's quite good, actually."
"You like?" said Ron in a deeper, huskier voice. Too loud, thought Harry. Thankfully whatever Hermione said, or did, wast not audible.
Fred and George both pantomimed vomiting in unison. When the long demonstration finished, George reached into his shirt and pulled out a dung bomb, which he tossed to Fred.
"Erm, just to be clear, we - you are being watched?" asked Harry. "Right now? How did they follow us?"
"Follow us? You must be joking. That's besmirching the Weasley name! Me and George know know more ways in-an-out than a two-sickle - er, thing that goes in and out a lot." George rolled his eyes at Fred's hurried glance at Verity. "No, someone's been scrying him." Ginny lifted her head, interested.
"Might be scrying - I believe those were my exact words," clarified George.
"Scrying? Like what Fleur's little sister did?" It was Ron, leading the way and holding Hermione's hand. Harry tried to remember if the scrying was supposed to be a secret or not. "We can ask her."
"The little perv!" giggled Ginny.
"I knew it! I knew as soon as Harry started talking about the Delacours," crowed Fred.
"Given how little you do know, I imagine it was memorable," shot back George.
"The succubus sings her siren song and you follow," said Fred dramatically. "He does write, you know. Nothing escapes me," he added for the others.
"Your sanity seems to have done. Anyways, that's a harpy. You were always pants at 'Beasts," said George.
"What are you two on about?" asked Ron. He indicated Verity's efforts. "Have we got a rabbit now?"
"It's for soup à la Bretonne. Vegetables have anti-accidents," explained Verity.
"I think you mean anti-oxidants?" offered Hermione.
"Oh. Not nearly as useful then. You know, fiber is very healthy."
"So, who is spying on us?" asked Harry. Even though Gabrielle had found Wormtail for them, it had never occurred to him that the reverse could happen.
"Not spying, scrying. And not us, just my dear brother," corrected Fred.
"If you dump that load on the ground, maybe we could trap a few rabbits and eat them," suggested Ron helpfully.
"I -suspected- scrying, and who it might be remains unknown," asserted George.
"Yet before you claimed it wasn't the Ministry or You-Know-Who," accused Fred. "And you're carrying a letter in your pocket that you haven't posted."
"While you're carrying a ring in your pocket that you haven't given."
Seeing Fred and George at odds was unusual and uncomfortable. It was a very awkward scene, thought Harry. Verity looked like she might explode from joy, Fred looked like he might explode from anger, and George from irritation. The frozen moment ended as one might expect from the twins. The dung bomb exploded.
