Chapter Thirteen - Caught Again
Gabrielle sat on the little cot in the camp's infirmary, and tried to become invisible again. It had been a while since she had felt the need to make the futile attempt, at least this often. The last time had been at Beauxbatons, shortly after the extremely accidental and extremely minor forest fire, which had been an accident.
The infirmary was just a large room in the healer's tent with a dozen small cots, and one set of privacy screens, which Gabrielle wanted back. Part of the reason for her desire was the very flimsy, very short robe she was given to wear. The healer, who insisted on the formal Healer Fixelos, had taken one sniff of Gabrielle's clothes and insisted on their removal. That was understandable, since Gabrielle had fallen in Soleil's stall. The harried witch then vanished the clothing. That was understandable too, since they were burned up anyway, but Gabrielle had only barely been able to retrieve Poisseux and Pepi-Z from their pockets. They all endured a thorough Scourgify session. Healer Fixelos, in Gabrielle's opinion, had the worst bedside manner.
The larger part of the reason Gabrielle wanted the screens back lay on the cot to the left, and, frankly, on more than half of the cots in the room. Stanislaw, still with the orange burn paste on him, was on the neighboring cot! He had heaved himself onto his side with endless groans after cryptically asking Gabrielle whether she had burned down the camp yet, or finally managed to kill someone. Gabrielle had spent enough time in hospital wards with delirious patients; she ignored him by trying to become invisible. She tried very hard to do so, since the other patients were giving her odd looks too. They were being treated for burns as well, which might have explained why Healer Fixelos was annoyed by Gabrielle's injuries. Fortunately, Gabrielle's burns were minor enough to be treated by a general skin-soothing unction, as the supply of the usual burn paste was currently exhausted. The bandages were removed, and her head deemed adequately healed - despite a snide comment from Stanislaw. Gabrielle discovered that someone had found it necessary to lop off half of her hair on one side. She hoped Stanislaw's injuries were as painful as his complaints made them seem.
Invisibility had not been attained, since Abby had no problem finding her way to Gabrielle. Abby had accompanied Gabrielle to the infirmary tent, after Gabrielle had spent herself in Soleil's stall. She wondered if the dark-haired witch had been assigned to be another minder by Festeller. Or, suggested a second thought, Abby just needed an excuse to be here so she could talk to the wizard in the corner cot. Or not talk to him; the couple were acting very sheepishly about the whole visit, as if they were not ready for others to think of them as a couple. Gabrielle knew she would not be that way with George. Why would she? He was the one for her. If you found the one, thought Gabrielle, why pretend otherwise?
"Hello Gab- I mean, Gigi," greeted Abby. "Are you feeling better?"
"Is that your boyfriend?" asked Gabrielle, just because it was on the tip of her tongue. Her Maman's lessons did not always take.
Abby blushed and failed to hide a smile. "Um... Well... It's kind of, uh... Is that a toad?"
Gabrielle followed Abby's finger. Poisseux was plodding his way across her pillow, with the same air of relentlessness that he always had. She plucked him up and set him on her lap. "Oui, this is Poisseux. He is a toad - a zombie toad, but very, eh -" Gabrielle looked for the right word. Fierce? Determined? Monomaniacal? "- dependable." Poisseux angled upward slightly in greeting. Not his usual angle, though. She must have interrupted an important mission.
"Not a real zombie, right? That looks like spellotape?"
"It is, eh, from the house-elves," shrugged Gabrielle. The expression on Abby's face suggested that that was not sufficient, but the rest was too complicated. "I have a pygmy puffskein who is also a zombie." She felt around for the red bobble.
"Are all your pets zombies?"
Gabrielle was about to answer yes, and that there was nothing wrong with that and it had not been her fault anyway, when Stanislaw muttered, "Surprised anything can survive near her."
"Ignore him," said Gabrielle with the same tone but very quietly, just in case. "He is delirious, and has lost his senses."
Abby did not ignore him, but stared at the older, convalescing wizard. Then she turned back to Gabrielle and asked, "Why did you try to burn everyone?"
"Eh, what?"
"Try?" grunted Stanislaw.
"Shut up. That is very rude," said Gabrielle. Maman always said so, at least when it was Gabrielle who did it.
"At first I thought the glyphs that anchored the ward had exploded when Pietre's mannequin went in, but Pietre said that you started speaking some weird language and then began shooting fire from your wand," said Abby. "You burned off his cute little..." She stopped herself.
Gabrielle was about to deny any such thing, and had, in fact, opened her mouth to do so, when she reconsidered. What Abby described sounded like her vision, where she ruthlessly incinerated the invaders. Which, realized Gabrielle, made it not her fault at all. It was the sensory humours. She closed her mouth and smiled.
"You did do it?" accused Abby, misinterpreting Gabrielle's expression.
"Eh, what? Non! That is, yes, but it was not, eh, my fault."
"Who has lost their senses? Eine ständige Gefahr. [1]" Stanislaw was facing the wrong way for a glare to work. Not that Gabrielle's had the impact of her sister's.
"What do you mean? You were holding the wand!"
"I am grounded in the sensory humours," explained Gabrielle. She tried to make it sound like a good thing, as opposed to something that a healer should look into. "I can -See- the past." She always paused after announcing that, for the effect.
"I just read about it in books. Why would you try to kill everyone?" demanded Abby.
"They were invading my tower," replied Gabrielle. She explained about the Seer's trance, what she had Seen, and about the vampire. Stanislaw had rolled back over halfway through, sans groaning, and listened intently. Gabrielle did not care if he was impressed or not, as long as he stayed silent. Although, she did prefer him facing the other way.
Abby, on the other hand, was supposed to be impressed. Or at least intrigued. Instead, she was worried. "So, that can happen at any time? Maybe someone should hold your wand."
"Eh, mostly it happens when I am eating or drinking," reassured Gabrielle half-heartedly. She hardly tried to hide her disappointment. "It was the smell, from the hole in the floor."
"Oh," said Abby. "But still -"
"How did my head get hurt?" asked Gabrielle abruptly. No one else had bandages. Perhaps she was not the only one who should lose their wand.
"I did not exactly see. I thought there was an explosion, and - "
"The magic, the warding, stood for centuries. With you there, when the mannequin went in, the slicing barrier cut it and half a meter of the edge opposite. The barrier destroyed itself," inserted Stanislaw.
"That was not my fault," said Gabrielle hotly.
"You should be nicer to him," advised Abby. "He shielded you from most of the falling stones, even though you had just set him on fire."
"She will have a chance soon, I think," declared Stanislaw, with an uncharacteristic smile. Gabrielle disregarded him. She was not worried. Soleil's stall was smelly, but a sanctuary. And Nona had her ladle.
v - v - v - v - v
Lord Voldemort examined the smooth, young hands before him, and luxuriated in total control. This body had the vigor of youth, excellent magical capacity, and not a trace of an opposing will. He knew it was there, somewhere, in the dark young mind; he would need to be wary. But his own will did not wear this body like a set of ill-fitted robes; he was the body, and the body was him. The improved circumstances brought new possibilities, as the burden of finding and grooming potential hosts, and suffering their limitations, was now eased. He no longer needed to account for Snape and the muggle widow's tedious progress in the development of the chimera techniques. There was no urgent need for a fully magical body - dealing with the goblins could wait for a more opportune moment. Little now stood between Lord Voldemort and all the world's magic. Just Potter, and the proper wand.
The youth's wand was quite strong, and, the Dark Lord smiled, capable of the darkest of curses. It was willing, but Lord Voldemort could feel its confusion. The father's wand was an embarrassment, snapped without a second thought. The French wizard would have made a worthless minion; testing a wand's limits was all he had been good for.
The boy's wand would indeed do for now, and would make the quest for the wand, the Wand, easier. The new body - no, his new body would make travel easier as well. Who would suspect a child? Besides Dumbledore, that is, and he was dead. Severus himself forgot this morning and, smirked the Dark Lord, tried to take house-points. The personae of the Chairman was but an age potion and glamour away, and less for most, since this boy had shared a talent for Legilimency. Lord Voldemort now saw that his plan to exterminate the parasites could move more quickly. He would reach Gregorovitch by this evening, and he would wrench the final chapter of the Wand of Destiny from the wandmaker by whatever means were necessary. Then, the book that held that chapter would be erased.
v - v - v - v - v
"Don't tell me - there's no bacon again," sighed Ron Weasley, having pawed through the wrappings already.
"Can't be helped. Breakfast in these parts is a bit of bun and coffee thick enough to stand a spoon in," explained George. "There's more cold meat in slime, though."
"Urgh."
"It's a terrine, actually," corrected Hermione. "They're lovely for picnics."
"Reminds me of a stew gone cold and rubbery."
"Suit yourself then. Don't have any."
"I never said I wasn't going to have any! I'll just heat it up with my wand."
"Letter get sent off all right?" asked Ginny innocently.
"Letters, since you ask. Mum's in a state over the trip, so I let her know everything's fine," replied George.
"What? You told her what we're doing?" exclaimed Harry, spraying crumbs from his bun.
"Don't be thick. So far we've spent days looking for Paris because there's too many muggles to do a Point-Me, and now we're only up to 'G' in the search for the book. It's an epic tale with many hardships and setbacks, where the only shining light of hope takes the form of a slightly dry ham sandwich, lovingly wrapped, at the end of the day."
"Come again?"
"'G', huh? Isn't 'G' for - " began Ginny.
"The Order got a similar report, except in that one we were back-tracking and feinting to cover our trail, and we were examining every book in the shop so it would not be obvious which one was of interest. Constant vigilance," continued George, "is our watchword."
"And the last letter?" hinted Ginny.
George smiled. "The -last- letter went to Porgie, letting him know that, as a valued - well, as an employee of the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes empire - sorry, our humble joke shop, we can help him with this:" An addition of the Prophet appeared in his hands. The headline read 'Sanctuary! Ministry matches muggle moves.' Below the words was a picture of an ancient wizard enthusiastically jabbing his wand at a chalkboard, on which seemed to be drawings of large green bubbles. Crude stick figures drawn in red chalk threw what seemed to be balls toward the bubbles. The balls rebounded off the green bubbles, to the satisfaction of the pictured wizard. "Also, that Philippe already knows about the sickles in his pockets."
"What the hell is that supposed to be?"
"Ron! Please, we're eating here," scolded Hermione.
"Oh, sorry. Wait - what?"
"Give it here," said Ginny to George, reaching for the newspaper. "What -is- that supposed to be?"
"Oy, Harry. Reign her in a bit," complained George.
"Er, Ginny?" started Harry.
"Yes Harry? What is it that you wanted?" replied Ginny, in a tone inherited from her mother.
"Erm, any more buns?"
"Well that's that, then," said George with a theatrical head shake.
"That wizard, that's Algernon Croaker, isn't it?" asked Hermione.
"Croaker? Where have I heard that name before?" wondered Harry.
"This tureen's not half bad warmed up."
"It's a - was a terrine, Ron. Tureen is for soup," corrected Hermione. "Croaker is an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries."
"It is kind of soupy now."
"I dunno - the caption says he's A. C. Smith, and expert in Waverly fields," read Ginny.
"It's him," said George sourly. "Do not run him a tab."
"The red stick figures are supposed to be muggle soldiers," continued Ginny.
"Throwing quaffles?" asked Ron.
"Don't be stupid. Those are meant to be bombs."
"May I have the paper now Ginny?" requested Hermione.
"Ha! They should consult Fred - reasonable hourly rates - if they think muggles just throw bombs," said George. "They have air-o-planes that fly ten times faster than you'd ever get those Firebolts to go, then they shoot rockets from them. Kept Fred up at nights."
"Why, 'cause he thought the muggles would attack?"
"No, he was trying to work out how he could get a hold of one."
"What's a Waverly field?" asked Harry carefully, risking more drills from Hermione.
"That's the green bubbles," said Hermione. "The Ministry is setting up these so-called sanctuaries with this Waverly field protecting them. They are inviting wizarding families to take refuge in them until new wards are in place for areas the muggle government discovered. It's a completely daft response to the situation."
"He is a Thick... nesse."
"It makes no sense! The Ministry does not know how the muggles found the magicked places, so how can they be sure the muggles won't find these sanctuaries? If they have no idea what the muggle government is capable of, then how can they be certain this Waverly field can offer protection?" demanded Hermione.
"Got to be seen to be doing something," recited Harry, remembering.
"Yes, right, fine. But this is like playing hide-and-seek with all of Hogwarts and everyone choosing to hide in the same spot, hoping no one notices the large green bush that suddenly appeared."
"Should we even ask what she is on about?" whispered Ginny.
"It won't work anyway," said George. "Too many wizards too close together - they'll be at each other's throats in three days."
"Didn't the Ministry suspect a traitor before?" asked Harry.
"Yeah, well, the thing about the Prophet is that it's full of words, and they like those words to be different each day," shrugged George. "Mum and Dad have the Fidelius, and the shop has a room, or two, under the floorboards, the kind you can find only if you know they are there, if it comes to anything."
"Ron, didn't you leave a bun for me?" complained Ginny.
"Croissant."
"'Course. Harry ate yours."
"What? You had at least three!"
"Er, hold this, George, while I sort out the children?" asked Hermione. She held out a cup made from paper, which was full of water.
"It's not like using the Floo," muttered George, reaching for the cup. He took it from the girl, and disappeared.
"Come on!" shouted Hermione over the exclamations of surprise and shock. She sprinted ahead for the far side of the warehouse.
v - v - v - v - v
Nona had come with clothes for Gabrielle. In time, Gabrielle noticed, to help with the mid-day meal. The removal of the bandages also removed any protection from the ladle. It seemed that the improved standing that accorded her the breakfast was already gone.
Mostly gone. Things were a little different. First, not that it affected Gabrielle, Anthony had apparently showed up with a load of garlic, which hung in braids from every wall. Then, while it was clear there would be no end to the peeling and chopping, Nona took up a knife as well. A token effort, in Gabrielle's judgement, used as an excuse to teach her the chant that had been used at the crystal ball. Or, at least, Nona taught her how to say the chant, as its meaning remained a mystery. Gabrielle was a little concerned about that at first, but then realized that most incantations were just strange words one memorized. Anyway, there was the stupid ladle to consider if she didn't do it properly.
Once the meal preparations were completed, there was Soleil to tend to. Crossing over to his shelter was dangerous. Gabrielle remembered Stanislaw's ominous words, and planned to give him as little opportunity as possible to exact his revenge. Fortunately, Gabrielle had allies. Pepi-Z, placed carefully on the top of her tent by Poisseux, could warn her if it were not safe to move to her tent. Poisseux, the far more mobile zombie, covered the passage from the tent to Nona's dark little cottage or to Soleil's stall. She just needed to wait long enough for him to plod between the two destinations. Gabrielle found herself apologizing to the Abaraxan colt, who was now acting skittish whenever she made a sudden movement. That would not be very helpful when she had to ride him again. At the same time, though, she was not going to give him extra feed, in case that encouraged this ridiculous behavior. Soleil, for his part, either accepted her apology or gave one of his own in the form of a slobbering lap of his tongue.
Once Soleil's stall was cleaned, with the rake this time, and his bowels reloaded with rations, Gabrielle knew she had to go back to Nona's for more chores. It was hard for her to imagine a more tedious schedule, and it had not even been a week yet. If this was a story, thought Gabrielle, then she would be the secret princess waiting for release. Her prince would come and find her, if it was a story, instead of her waiting for Papa's reply and the hoped-for galleons, so that she could write to her prince and try to convince him to be her prince again. Life, decided Gabrielle, was not quite going the way she had hoped.
After cleaning as much lingering Abraxan off herself as she could, Gabrielle entered the old witch's domicile has quietly as possible. She was good at that, and one time Nona had been napping. Gabrielle found that she could be very patient while waiting for her minder to wake. Today, though, Nona had yet another woman visiting her. That was good for Gabrielle too. It would probably mean a single whack of the ladle and something that roughly translated to 'Go away,' except with less politeness. Gabrielle had only seen women visiting Nona so far. She was curious about that, but there was no point in trying to ask.
Nona, however, had apparently decided to add these sessions to Gabrielle's growing list of chores. She was not dismissed. Instead, a barrel, which, noted Gabrielle, definitely needed a cushion, was rolled into place at the sturdy, old table for her to use. The guest, or, more likely, customer, looked even older than Nona, with thin, yellow-white hair and so many wrinkles on her face that her eyes and mouth were hard to discern. Her grip was still strong, though, and she had no qualms about Gabrielle being there. That tacit acceptance made things better, but chanting along with Nona was still a little embarrassing. This time Nona simply tugged Gabrielle's hand when she wanted her attention. Gabrielle wondered if she had missed the signal last time.
Nona's black eyes filled with a vision of the crystal ball, which then filled with a confusion of images. There was quite a lot of smoke, or maybe fog, and sudden flashes brighter than the morning light. There were trees, and a stone wall. Gabrielle did not see the man until he moved. He was quickly joined by a second. They were muggles; Gabrielle could tell because they carried soldier rifles. The two men looked to be farmers by the way they were dressed, though, and they crept along the ground just by the stone wall. Gabrielle could not tell if this were the past or present. Trees, stone walls, and farmers always looked the same.
The men moved along the wall slowly, obviously hiding from something or someone. It was not a very interesting vision, really. Hers were much more intense; probably due to the sensory humours. Eventually the men found a spot they liked, since they stopped and sat with their backs to the wall. It was not a picnic - they had brought no food. No, the two men were hunting, decided Gabrielle. And, they had spotted their prey, since they sprang up and started shooting the rifles. There were flashes from the end of the rifles over and over. Whatever they were hunting, Gabrielle could tell it moved in herds.
One of the men squatted back down to do something with his rifle. He seemed a little younger than the other man, but both had not shaved for a while. The other man suddenly fell back, stumbled really, then fell more to the ground. Some of his head was missing, like that poor witch who had been in the same ward as Gabrielle when she was having her leg healed, after the crup. The witch had claimed it had been a cauldron accident, but it had looked like a giant bite to Gabrielle. There was a lot of blood now, but Gabrielle was used to that. Professor Elevagre often bled freely; Gabrielle thought his morning drink was a blood-replenishment potion. It did not look like muggles had as much blood as wizards did, though. The man who was unhurt put down his rifle and pulled his companion closer. Something landed on the ground just beyond the two men, something gray with a dark handle. The younger man threw himself sideways. The object disappeared with a flash of fire and smoke. When the haze cleared, the man who had been uninjured was now covered in wounds, slumped against the wall, and was hugging his arms to his chest. This, realized Gabrielle, was a muggle war. She had seen a horrible film about it once, while staying with Philippe at the Touliers.
Not much happened for a long while, which made the vision more awful since the wounds looked really bad and there were not going to be any healers for the poor muggles. When some other people did arrive, all the she could see were their boots and gray trousers, and the ends of more rifles. The injured man looked up shakily, said something soundlessly, and one of the rifles spit flame. The vision cut off abruptly.
Returning to the present, Gabrielle found Nona prying at the fingers of her hand that still gripped the old woman's, the fingers of which had gone blue. Gabrielle released the wrinkled digits instantly. "I am sorry!" Gabrielle blurted. She had not noticed at all how tightly she had been holding the old woman's hand - it was an effect of the metric ton. The poor woman looked very shaky, like she might faint. Gabrielle wondered if there was any chance she spoke French. Then she could know that it was not Gabrielle's idea to be there.
Thwock! Okay, thought Gabrielle, rubbing her head, Nona was definitely a witch. Or very, very fast, since there was no other way for her to comfort her guest and whack Gabrielle with the ladle. As if, frowned Gabrielle, it had been her fault at all. A second thought pointed out that Nona would of course blame Gabrielle for any problem when she had a customer. Which was only fair if Gabrielle got something in return, something besides more chores.
Which was not going to happen at the moment. Nona's hissed, "Vendos kazan çaj,fëmijë. [2]" Which meant, probably, that tea was to be made. Gabrielle had learned that because the ladle would stop when she began to do that. It was an unpleasantly annoying, but effective, teaching aid. Gabrielle swung the kettle over the fire. If anyone had asked her, she would have said there had been no fire there a moment before.
Gabrielle stood by the kettle, ready to pour it into the teapot as soon as it was ready. At least, that was what she hoped it looked like. She was listening to the two old women conversing. The word 'fëmijë' was coming up a lot. Gabrielle could hardly follow was being said, but she did recognize some words. There was 'fuqishëm', for example, which meant strong, or hot, or, possibly, awful. Nona usually used it when drinking tea Gabrielle had made. Gabrielle also knew that 'punë' meant chores, or work. She did not like the possible implication, which was that she was being offered up for more manual labor. There were limits, and she was a witch. So was Nona, of course, probably, but Gabrielle had a wand. She had two wands, in fact. If it came to it, well, she would... go to Professor Festeller with a complaint.
v - v - v - v - v
Tea was served with weird little balls of dough Nona made. The old woman who was Nona's visitor regained some of her color, though Gabrielle thought she used too much sugar. Then it was time for Nona to escort her customer out, which meant that Gabrielle had to exit the cottage as well. She checked for Pepi-Z, who she could plainly see perched on the ridge of the tent, and stepped into the path of Stanislaw.
It took a moment for Gabrielle to realize what had happened, and who held her arm. She looked to the top of her tent - Pepi-Z was still there. Why had he not seen this rude oaf? "You are more clever than you look," said Stanislaw calmly. "It took a while to find them." He held up a wire cage with his other hand, a cage that held Poisseux and - Pepi-Z! Poisseux gnawed at the silver wire of the cage with more determination than actual possibility; he was only Spellotape. Pepi-Z rubbed against a bar also. That was just delusional. "I need your help," added her nemesis quickly when she opened her mouth to first protest his comments about how she looked, then his kidnapping her pets.
"Let them go!" demanded Gabrielle. "And, eh, me aussi." Nona was gone; the others in camp were at the stupid hole in the ground.
"Yes, but first you will agree to help?"
"Non. Give me my pets and go away," insisted Gabrielle. "I will, eh, call for Soleil."
"I expected that. He is a glutton, isn't he?" smiled Stanislaw in what Gabrielle decided was an evil way.
"He is not. He is still, eh, growing," argued Gabrielle. She did not like her captor's grin. "What did you do to him?"
"A little sleeping draught - "
"What do you want?" This, decided Gabrielle, is why, wand or not, she would always carry the knife from Gaston. Its strange and sudden appearance, and the close quarters, made it much scarier than the muggle contraption actually was.
"I want you to tell that story you told the girl earlier to a man I am meeting," said Stanislaw. "And tell no one else."
"Eh, what?"
"The expeditions, these are expensive. The equipment, supplies, and authorizations - it is too much for a school. I... help fund... Herr professor's little hobby. In exchange, I provide some of the minor artifacts to buyers," explained Stanislaw in barely more than a whisper. "The story behind such increases its value."
"You heard it already. You can tell him," argued Gabrielle.
"Presentation matters in these transactions. You have clothes that are more... mysterious? Mystic? Ätherisch? [3]"
"Eh, what?" Gabrielle found the tan, muggle blouse covered in pockets very mysterious.
"Perhaps it is these who are the clever ones," said Stanislaw. He held up the cage again. Only Poisseux remained inside; Pepi-Z had apparently squeezed through the bars. They are clever, thought Gabrielle proudly. Eh, wait - "I will find something that will work. Tomorrow, at three o'clock?"
"Eh... yes?" Gabrielle decided to agree, for the moment, since she could plan her escape by then.
"Swear to it with your wand."
"Eh, I will, eh, have to get my wand," lied Gabrielle. Nearly lied. While she had a wand on the ribbon around her neck, there was also the wand with her Grandmere's hair. If she could get to the tent, she could get to her handbag. Then, with Pepi-Z, they could rescue Poisseux, who, while very clever, had obviously overestimated the space between the cage's wires. He was stuck.
"There is the treacherous little one around your neck," reminded the wizard, who had not loosened his grip. Gabrielle frowned. Everyone knew that if one swore on one's wand, then the promise had to be kept, or else. The latter was never very specific, but it had to be bad or why would the oath work? Everyone knew that. If she swore to this now, she would be trapped into aiding Stanislaw's nefarious plot!
What, asked a reasonable second thought, nefarious plot? For all his noxious presence, all the German wizard wanted to do was to help Professor Festeller. Gabrielle did not care about that - in fact, sabotaging the meeting might help end the expedition. Or, force the camp back to the awful stews and her back to a diet of bread and cheese. No, agreeing was, perhaps, considered Gabrielle, the easiest way to get Poisseux back. What Stanislaw asked for was really nothing, and she could have Soleil kick him later. A less reasonable thought recommended that that should be done no matter what - the colt was hers to protect.
"Eh, yes. I.. eh..." Gabrielle decided to not bother lying. Instead she extracted the wand from her blouse with a minimum of digging. Stanislaw drew his wand, an ugly black baton that was too long and too thin, at least in Gabrielle's opinion. He held it out and looked pointedly at Gabrielle. She crossed her wand with his - his had to be at least three times as long. That, judged Gabrielle, was unnatural, and had to mean something.
Stanislaw pulled his wand back, and handed a surprised Gabrielle the caged, wedged toad. "Tomorrow, then." He turned to go.
"That is all?" blurted Gabrielle. She could not but wonder if they had skipped the actual oath part.
"Yes. You know what will happen if you do not do as you agreed."
Gabrielle watched her nemesis walk away. No, she preferred to think of it as slink away. She did not, in fact, know what would happen, and she tried to recall what the agreement was. Retelling the story was part of it. That was very clear, and very specific. The problem, a second thought warned, was the very unclear and very non-specific pledge to help. Almost anything he could think of could be called helping! Well, he -is- evil, added the second thought. Which means, thought Gabrielle forlornly, that I am to be his servant. She wondered if he had a ladle.
v - v - v - v - v
"George," said Hermione pleadingly. "I already said I was sorry." Her quavering voice came from behind a large, rusted skip that sat next to the unfinished building. The deserted construction site was where they had stopped for lunch. "When will this end?"
"We-ell, that's the danger of untried magic, see? Can never be sure of the consequences," said George in a tone that indicated he was still aggrieved.
"It wasn't completely untested!" insisted Hermione. That was followed by short, rising moans.
"Harry, say something to him," called out Ginny. "This is so gross. These shoes are going to be ruined."
"Thank you very much, Ginny. That is so helpful," gasped Hermione.
Harry Potter scrubbed his brow with the heel of his hand. His scar had been acting up all day, and now this. It was not even clear what this was, except that it was a Wheeze that only Ginny was allowed to help with. Harry could not blame George though, as Hermione slipping him her first successful portkey was a rude surprise. She had apologized immediately, of course, but put her foot into it again when she explained why he was the only logical test subject. It had not helped for her to note that she had only nearly gotten it right before with the garden gnomes. "Come on, George. I'm sure Hermione would never -"
"Here's a quick lesson for you Harry," interrupted George. He rocked the twisted metal that gripped Ron with his foot. "Last time Fred and I went up against ickle Ronnikins, all of the hexes and jinxes seemed to slide right off him. Thus the brilliant, if I do say so myself, use of transfiguration in a duel. If you can't be sure you'll hit your opponent with a spell, aim for what's around him." Ron had gone ballistic when whatever it was happened to Hermione. He had paid no attention to the old metal folding chairs among the refuse.
"Yeah, that's a good trick," agreed Harry. It was one to remember. "But we really ought to get moving, and -"
"Have the Mugwump of Magical Transport there do you up one of her specials, then."
"All right, it wasn't the best idea, I think we all agree on that now," tried Harry. Anger was beginning to flare, and his scar was sharply twinging.
"There's a bloody understatement."
"But this isn't really helping." The scar ached, forcing a squint.
"I feel better."
"Mm-I kack imm ivo!" said Ron, as clearly as was possible with the arms of the chair holding his jaws and filling his mouth. It was, thought Harry, a really rather amazing bit of transfiguration. There might be something to that Tower of the Mind thing. He wished he had that bastard Snape's book with him. The Tower might help with his damned scar, which burned painfully and sent bright flashes across his vision...
A man hung in the air, limbs stretched widely. The man was old, with long white hair hanging limply with sweat and a bushy beard to match. He was also in obvious pain. "The Wand," said a soft, high voice that was at the same time very cold. "The Wand of Destiny. Give it to me, Gregorovitch." The dangling man's arms and legs stretched further, pulling away from his torso. He groaned, then screamed as an overstretched joint gave a sickening pop.
"I don't have it! It was stolen from me!" hissed the wandmaker through his pain.
"Who?" came the cold voice. The sound of the voice and the malice it was able to project were jarring. The limbs, momentarily slack, jerked out again.
"I don't know! I never knew!" protested the old man until the stretching left him unable to do more than cry out.
"Lord Voldemort will know." There was another wrenching crack from the tortured limbs, but the old man was beyond screaming, staring out wide-eyed. The eyes seemed to grow larger and larger, until the dark pupils were all there was to see. Then there was another man to see, young and lithe, with long blond hair. He sat perched on a windowsill, waving a wand tauntingly before disappearing backwards just before a curse smashed the window's frame.
Suddenly the old man, sagging even as his arms and legs were taut, was back. "Never knew, Gregorovitch? You can not lie. Lord Voldemort knows. He always knows," said the Dark Lord with an odd note of childish glee. The trapped limbs splayed out further, and there was a moment of unnatural tension before things went, literally, to pieces.
"Come again?" asked George.
"What?"
"You said 'Give it to me, Gregorovitch,'"
"It's Voldemort! He's killed - I think he killed the wandmaker Gregorovitch. Voldemort is after something called the Wand of Destiny," described Harry in a rush, before he could forget any details.
"The Wand of Destiny?" asked George dubiously.
"Yeah, he's going to -"
"Not going to, he's gone - gone round the bend," said George derisively. "The Wand of Destiny is from a storybook for children, not something real."
"Mit nea-ee mmm-in moo met," complained Ron.
"Oh, all right. The next bit should be good for a laugh, anyway," said George. A tap of his wand removed the metal from Ron's mouth. The trapped sibling worked his mouth for a moment, spat, then opened his mouth again. George was ready, and tipped a small packet of white powder into the gaping orifice, then used his wand to close Ron's mouth. "Swallow it down, brother, yes, who's a good Ronikins, is he?" cooed George. "That's the counter; all you have to do is..." Here George leaned in and whispered something. Ron's ears and neck turned red. The restraining metal bent away. "Off you go, Romeo."
Ron got to his feet and gave his brother a wink, "Think you're always so smart?" He headed toward the protective skip. George's grin faded.
"What do you mean the Wand of Destiny isn't real?" asked Harry.
George shook himself. "I meant just that. The legendary Wand of Destiny, the mythical Death Stick, the Elder Wand of the story that can defeat Death himself - legend, myth, story. Ergo , not real. If the Dark Duffer is after that then he's had too many billywig stingers."
"Ron, she doesn't need you - What are you doing? Oh, for Merlin's sake, put that away! Her - Hermione!" shouted Ginny. She came from the far side of the skip, shielding her eyes. "I'm scarred for life now. Is it possible to Scourgify your eyes?"
There was a yodelling howl from the other side of the rusting metal shielding the couple, followed by a spluttering cough. "Point it away, Ron!"
"Still a few surprises left," said George, though he looked like someone trying to work out how the sums had gone wrong. "Fred says the Eromaxxx pranks wear off by themselves. This part is just for the fireworks."
"Ero-what?"
"If you thought you could embarrass those two, then you're an even worse chaperon than I thought," said Ginny.
"I - wait, what do you mean by that?" asked George.
"Nothing," said Ginny, flashing a grin herself.
v - v - v - v - v
The day for Gabrielle had improved when the owl had arrived. Not that the owl itself, a huge, brutish specimen, had anything to do with that. Gabrielle had never met such an impatient bird before. Never mind waiting for a reply, it barely let her undo the twine from its leg before flapping off. As if nipping at her fingers would make the task easier! Gabrielle was left with a carefully wrapped package, addressed in her mother's handwriting. It clinked enticingly; Papa was very generous. Not generous enough to fill a whole box that size with galleons, though. Gabrielle could not suppress the dream that a package from George was included. He does write, hoped Gabrielle, even after her faux pas.
No matter how tantalizing the potential contents were, however, they had to wait until the dinner preparations were complete. Wandering speculation, and therefore attention, left Gabrielle's hands covered in the gross white poultices and her head lumpy from the ladle. She did not bother to try and explain why she was so distracted to Nona, of course. Even if Gabrielle could have, she would not have, as the old crone actually snickered at her difficulties.
Soleil turned out to be fine, if somewhat unsteady on his feet. The metal footwear had definitely been needed. Gabrielle lambasted the colt for his stupid greediness. She expected to have to repeat herself in the morning, since Soleil's only response was to try and eat her skirt. Gabrielle had won the tug-of-war with the Abraxan, but there was a tear across nearly the whole of the front, and it sagged, showing things that shouldn't be showing. She would have to ask Abby for help in fixing the garment. If the damage had been small, Gabrielle would try to mend it on her own, even resorting to the muggle methods she had used before.
The final chore, after changing into the last of Maman's skirts and before retreating to the privacy of her bed, was to endure another tour of the fallen tower. The wreckage of the hole had been transfigured into a convenient staircase, which led down to the chamber Professor Festeller had been so excited by. Nothing stood out from the previous rubble to Gabrielle's eyes, except for the large stone box on the wall. Which, of course, used to be a floor. The stone of the box was crudely formed, without decoration. The fact that it was halfway up the wall meant it was fused with or made from the former floor. Three corroded copper bands stretched across the top of the box. The size, large enough to be a bed, was not notable to Gabrielle until the Professor asserted that it might be the crypt of the first Master of Time. He pointed out the symbols on the bands, which were representations of hour-glasses. Gabrielle nodded politely, but it was hard to see much in the crusted corrosion. The marks could have just as easily been butterflies. Festeller announced that they would open the crypt tomorrow. Gabrielle decided that tomorrow Soleil would need careful monitoring, in his stall, after Stanislaw's treachery.
It was in the bed, later, with its extra privacy afforded by the borrowed, buttressing mattresses, that Gabrielle confronted the cruel realities of the world. Papa, thought Gabrielle, had been more suspicious of her request than generous in responding to it. Had she been so obvious? There was only a handful of sickles more than the cost of a single International Post Owl. Most of the coins were the weird round ones used by muggles, denominated in 'leks'. What was she to do with those? Shop for souvenirs? The unpleasant owl that had brought the package had not waited, which meant that her meager supply of funds would be spent asking for more.
Worse, the larger part of the package was something from Monique. Which was not bad by itself, of course, just that it was not something from George, or even Fred. She was not forgiven. Monique's unexpected package was wrapped in oak leaves that had been stitched together with the thin stems of some plant. The leaves hid a box, which was made from bark and twigs. Monique, worried Gabrielle, seemed to have a lot of time on her hands. That probably meant her friend had not fully recovered yet, and was being kept close. Inside the box was a simple dress made from broad leaves stitched together and decorated with a few dried flowers. According to the letter also inside the box, the leaves were a type of borage, the stitching vine tendrils. Monique recommended wearing it constantly so that the moisture from one's body would keep it fresh, though she admitted that the charm her mother had taught her helped a lot. It was clear to Gabrielle that Monique would have a tough sixth year ahead. Especially if the clothes she wore were prone to spontaneous disassembly. Gabrielle could imagine the boys watching carefully for signs of an approaching autumn. Monique also wrote that she hoped that Gabrielle would teach her her way with animals. Gabrielle was not sure what that meant - would Monique even wear metal shoes? She decided that what her best friend really wanted was more time with the unicorn. Impy would probably eat Monique's dresses though, and she would probably let him!
There was a postcard from Silvain. Another unexpected correspondence. It showed Icelandic elves playing by a geyser. They looked a lot like garden gnomes to Gabrielle, just better dressed in colorful tunics. Silvain wrote that he hoped she was having a good summer. That was stupid. Did he not know that she was on this ridiculous expedition? That he wrote at all was a little puzzling too; she had put him into a toilet. Of course, the real issue was that she had built up her hopes that it would be George writing her.
Which, Gabrielle had to admit, was her own fault. She had wronged him, not the reverse. She would have to apologize. Gabrielle had known that, of course. She had tried to send such earlier. Now she would write a proper apology, instead of writing 'I am sorry' multiple times with a plea for him to respond. That first effort had been rushed and childish. Desperate, criticized a nasty thought. What was needed was a more mature, sophisticated approach. But not subtle, decided Gabrielle, remembering the weather report from Britain. George and Fred were not subtle, or rather, not interested in subtlety. Metaphor and allusion would likely be lost here.
Lost was an idea that Gabrielle did not want to even think about. If George could forget the name of a girl he had been dating, he might forget the incident that caused this rift. The question was whether he would forget what had happened before he forgot her as well. Gabrielle realized that she was staring at a piece of parchment that would soon have the most important thing she had ever written on it. The love of her life and her future happiness depended entirely on how well she conveyed her thoughts, her heart, onto this blank sheet. It had to be perfect. Gabrielle carefully cleaned the nib of her quill, checked the ink for lumps,and took a deep breath. She wrote, 'Dear George.'
That was still all Gabrielle had managed, unless one counted the letter 'I' crossed out three times, when Nona arrived some time later.
1 A constant danger.
2 Make the tea, little one.
3 Ethereal?
