Chapter Seventeen - Uncorked

The flight was much shorter than the first, only a few hours in duration. Gabrielle sprawled prone on Soleil's back the whole way, in a very unladylike fashion, because of the healer's very unladylike 'treatment'. What, worried Gabrielle, was supposed to happen with that? It was probably too much to hope it just dissolved, or disappeared on its own. What if the shrinking spell, if there really had been one, wore off? She would explode!

The expedition flew north and west, heading back toward the sea. Gabrielle had instructed the Abraxan as to her condition, a condition made worse when Stanislaw had handed her not only the pendant and her wand, but a small brown bottle containing a dose of Skele-Gro. Soleil followed the expedition dutifully. Gabrielle was quite proud of him, and had decided to treat him to half a bottle of the single-malt liquor without adding oats, the way the adult Abraxans consumed the whiskey.

Gabrielle, who had ridden with her head on her arms clinging to the girth, had her first look at the new location once Soleil lowered her to the ground. It looked like a farm field. Gabrielle was standing more than knee-deep in - well, she was no expert, but it was probably a normal grain of some sort. The stems, at least, did not seem inclined to tangle her ankles. That excluded at least the more dangerous varieties of wheat. If it was wheat - she was no expert. Gabrielle wondered if Soleil was; he set to snacking immediately. Would the colt, wondered Gabrielle, know what he should not eat? Of course not, answered a second thought. He tried to eat the privacy screen before.

The site certainly did not look obviously magical, and it was certainly not hidden in any way either. How, worried Gabrielle, would she exercise Soleil unseen? A soft glow suddenly flooded the sky, hours before dawn. Gabrielle looked up at the light bobbing high above the new camp. She immediately thought about trying to get one of her swirling flame balls to do that. Over a lake or pond, another thought quickly added, and definitely not over any kind of grass. Or grain. The new light revealed a surprise, which was only a surprise until one thought about it: Nona's cottage. At least, it looked like Nona's dour little house. Gabrielle felt pretty certain that it was, unless there was some sort of standard-issue home for Albanian witches. Part of Gabrielle was happy to see the crone's return; Nona had protected her from the vampire and had a crystal ball. A different part of her was disappointed; chores would take away from the dual careers of Seeing and curse-breaking.

The last time the expedition moved, confining Soleil had been the top priority. This time, possibly because the colt had found something to eat besides boxes and fragile instruments, much effort was being put into rocks. Stanislaw and his compatriots, all wearing the same sort of hip-waders, tended to large rocks, which lurched across the field with every flick of their wands. The rocks were quite large; Gabrielle could not see where they had found them. She also could not see why they were bothering with moving them when they could be setting up Soleil's stall and her tent. Gabrielle was very tired, sore, and achy in certain parts in an uncomfortably quivering sort of way.

The answer to her first question came when several rocks emerged from the ground nearby with a rumbling sucking sound, pushing aside the farmer's crop. A witch, dressed as a Catholic nun but wearing a bishop's hat, hurried over to examine them, then turned and hurried away even faster. That was due to Soleil also moving in to investigate the newly erupted shapes. Gabrielle waddled after Soleil to keep him from causing trouble, and because she was still tied to the colt by the tether.

The rocks were, it seemed, just rocks. Obvious to Gabrielle, but then she did suppose that boulders did not normally wrest themselves from the ground. Soleil lost interest after a brief snuffling. Two more rocks were being herded by her fellow curse-breakers - oh mon Dieu, thought Gabrielle, that was -so- cool to say! The two were passing closer this time. Gabrielle knew one was named Sebastion. They could, she speculated, be brothers. They had the same blond hair, at least. Gabrielle wondered if she should mention that Monsieur Toulier only used his hip-waders when he did his fishing.

"Schauen Sie, es ist ein Geist. [1]" One of the pair had paused, and pointed. Gabrielle turned to look behind her. Had he said ghost? There were several ghosts at Beauxbatons. There was one in the Bone tower that everyone called the Veil, because she liked to stand in doorways, forcing students to walk through her outstretched cloak. She would laugh at the chills she caused, gleefully warning them of their mortality. Gabrielle could see nothing though.

"Dumbkopf. Kannst du nicht sehen? Es ist Fraulein Delacour, Sammlermacher's maskottchen, [2]" laughed the second of the two. He waved, and said louder, "Guten morgen, Fraulein Delacour."

"Eh, Guten morgen," repeated Gabrielle politely. The two aimed their wands at her, which surprised her, since she thought that had meant 'good morning'. The reason for the reaction became clear a moment later, when Soleil began nibbling at her hair. She batted at the Abraxan's looming head absently. "What are you, eh, doing? With the rocks?"

"Schau dir das an," blurted the first speaker. "Es ist nicht natürlich. [3]"

"Pardon. Wir sprechen nicht Französisch, [4]" replied the second with a shrug of his shoulders.

"[Do you speak English?]" asked Gabrielle.

"[Yes. Of course. We do speak some,]" answered the second.

"[Eh, you are Sebastion?]" asked Gabrielle. He had recognized her, so he must have been the one to have witnessed her kick. And reported it to Stanislaw. She would have to watch out for him.

"[Yes,]" said the second wizard, sounding surprised. "[You know Adalhard also?]" He indicated the other wizard.

"[Eh, no. I am pleased to meet you,]" replied Gabrielle. It was something one had to say. "[What are you doing wizz ze rocks?]"

"[We make der Umfang... mmm... circle. For ze ward. You understand?]" explained Sebastion.

"[Yes,]" said Gabrielle. She knew, at least, about warding posts, if not how to make them. "[Ze, eh, Weasley home has ze -]"

"Was ist los?" barked Stanislaw. He approached making a wide arc around Soleil. "Holen Sie sich die Felsen gelegt. [5]" He turned to Gabrielle and ordered, "The stall is ready. Lead the devil to it."

"Soleil is not a devil," defended Gabrielle loyally. "He is just young." She took hold of the halter to lead Soleil in the direction Stanislaw's outstretched arm, and began to waddle away.

"Visit the healer, liebchen. You were not bit," called out Stanislaw.

Gabrielle doubted the healer would be much help, since the witch believed otherwise. Was that, pondered Gabrielle, an order? Did she have to follow it? She did sort of work for Stanislaw, in a way. And she had sworn on her wand, although that was a pledge to help him, not the reverse.

The problem with leading Soleil was that Gabrielle could not do it if her feet did not touch the ground. If something piqued the colt's interest, he simply raised his head. Since Gabrielle was holding the halter, this also lifted her, and left her dangling until the Abraxan decided to be led again. Thank Merlin for the metric ton. Progress was slow, and Gabrielle did not like the way wands were raised at her, but she and her mount reached the stall with a minimum of commotion, and only two kicks. One had been aimed at a tent into which several of the other wizards and witches had fled. The other was directed at a box; it had made distressingly tinkly noises when the crate finally stopped tumbling. Gabrielle reconsidered her idea of rewarding the colt as he high-stepped away from the scene of the crime, he whinnying like he was laughing and her swinging wildly.

The stall was at the edge of the perimeter marked by the lumpy boulders, and not far from Nona's cottage. Soleil did not mind entering his shelter, having once more reinforced his dominance over the camp by defeating some inanimate objects. A job well done, thought Gabrielle, in his own mind, no doubt. She gave him the whiskey straight up. It was almost funny the way he sniffed at it, like he did not know what to do, and it -was- funny when his first drink jolted him into the air.

Nona's cottage, windows yet unlit, was there, and Soleil's stall was there, thought Gabrielle, so her tent should be... Well, assumed Gabrielle, it should be there, hopefully soon. She wanted to get some sleep, if that would be possible with the leaden weight in her gut. Stanislaw had told her to see the medi-witch, but in her experience healers did not undo treatments. They usually added another, which, given where the first one was, was not something to risk lightly.

On the other hand, healers were also usually very practical. They stuck to things that worked, like, unfortunately, Skele-Gro. So, reasoned Gabrielle, if it came to a choice between believing that the vampire had not bitten her or Soleil running wild because the preventative, eh, prevented her from keeping control of him... Well, dangling from the halter had helped her case there. A second kicked tent would have been a help too. Soleil, sighed Gabrielle, would decide now to be mostly well behaved.

The healer's tent was not hard to find. It sported a new, but rather dirty and slightly tattered, banner of snakes turning around a wand, which flew from the center pole. Gabrielle thought its condition out of character for Healer Fixelos, but then she decided that the flag had probably come with the tent. It had just not been put up before, having been overlooked because of Soleil's wanderings. Gabrielle slipped into the tent quietly, in case Healer Fixelos looked as if she was busy, or annoyed, or stressed. Or anything else that would put her in the mood to poke at Gabrielle's bottom without removing the ridiculous intrusion. What had Stanislaw said? Best not to stir the hag up. Which was, a second thought reminded sheepishly, really not a nice thing to say.

Gabrielle did not get further than the tent flap. The inside of the tent was, of course, larger than the outside dimensions. The tidy rows of cots which had previously taken most of the room were gone. Or, perhaps, they were hidden behind the mounds of clutter that had appeared. There were ominous wooden frames, made so by the dark leather straps they featured, and up-ended tables that did not seem to have obvious restraints. There was an actual heap of glassware; the tottering pile seemed a very poor way to store it. Large bell jars held animals of all sorts, dead and floating in colored fluids. These were stacked in lopsided pyramids next to cabinets that appeared made for them. It looked more like the potions lab in school than an infirmary. Everything was dusty! The mess made Gabrielle concerned about her own things, which had been packed up within her tent too. She did not have nearly as many things as Healer Fixelos had, but there was a certain wax replica under her bed over which she would just die if anyone happened to see.

The sound of breaking glass attracted Gabrielle's attention. A short wizard with a halo of wispy white hair and a stubbly white beard stood in the doorway to the personal quarters, a shattered vial at his feet. Short, judged Gabrielle, was not quite the right word. Shrunken seemed more correct, shrunken with age. The surprise on his face tightened to irritation. An equally old-looking house-elf appeared at the wizard's feet, arms and hands full with mop, bucket, broom, and dust pan. It reminded Gabrielle of Geff, who lived at the Burrow now.

"Bitte Blakig, Sie sind unverletzt? [6]" asked the elf, gathering the glass.

"Ja, ja du alter Frau. Das Geist erschreckt mich, [7]" muttered the old wizard.

"Ja Meister. Was Geist? [8]"

"Das Geist der Haustür! Sie sind die Augen, als wie ich getrübt? [9]" snapped the ancient wizard as he pointed to Gabrielle.

She sighed. It was that strange dress, she knew it now. The gray fabric of the shift was constantly moving and fluttering of its own accord, which lent an air of etherealness, of insubstantiality, that Gabrielle could not imagine ever wanting. "Eh, excuse me, please. Is Healer Fixelos in?"

The house-elf paused in his mopping to exchange German with the wizard. Then the elf addressed Gabrielle. "Pardon Blakig, mistress. Healer Leistenverletzunger knows not this Fixelos, and, with respect, asks that you haunt quietly."

"Eh, what?" What did he mean that he had not heard of Fixelos? There was a new healer? Gabrielle was sure the medi-witch had left with the expedition. Had she quit during the flight? Gabrielle was also sure she would not want to haunt this tent, if she was a ghost, since there was barely room to walk. Of course, added a less useful thought, that would not present much trouble for an actual spirit. "Also, I am, eh, not a ghost." Though the reflection that she could see in the glass of the cabinet made her less confident. It had to be because of the poor lighting, hoped Gabrielle, that her face was so gray. She would change as soon as possible. And burn the shift.

The assertion was relayed to the decrepit healer by the fussing house-elf. Healer Leistenverletzunger, noticed Gabrielle, wore proper wizarding robes, a drab green set that was a little frayed at the sleeves and a bit behind the style. He even wore a traditional, pointed wizarding hat, something one rarely saw outside of formal occasions. And Gabrielle could also not help noticing that he was, well, a he, which meant dealing with her problem would likely be very embarrassing. The old wizard shuffled over to her, as she tried to imagine him in muggle clothing, and prodded her shoulder speculatively with a thick middle finger.

"Pardon Blakig, mistress. Healer Leistenverletzunger agrees that you are not a ghost," announced the house-elf finally.

"Eh, that is good to know. Thank you," said Gabrielle, a defensive smile on her face so the man would not attack. She backed up to the tent flap slowly while the translations were made. She had decided to ask Nona about her problem, even if that help would probably involve spit.

"Pardon Blakig, mistress. What are you called? The master thinks you are familiar."

Was I not, thought Gabrielle, just a ghost before? He must be insane. "I am Gabrielle Delacour. It is, eh, nice to have met you, eh, of course, but I should go. Now," replied Gabrielle. She could not find the opening to the tent flap behind her, even though she had just walked through it.

While the wizened wizard repeated her name several times to himself, Gabrielle discarded subtlety and turned to search for the exit, feeling with her hands. What, she wondered when she still could not find it, was the meaning of this? She pulled out the little wand from the ribbon around her neck, and tried to decide what to do. A tent was like a box; she could transfigure it into a giant teapot. That did not sound very useful, but a giant teapot would have a giant spout to escape through. Fire would certainly have an effect, especially with so much clutter, but whether that would ever be the right idea was hard to know. Ah, remembered Gabrielle, of course - the spell she had used before, that gave her the magical specially bent wire. She would feel for the sealed exit, then pull it open! Eh, how did it go? Gabrielle tried to remember the incantation. She had not had much practice at it, and being attacked by a vampire would make anyone forget the fine details.

Success was achieved on nearly the first try, if one ignored the third attempt which, of all things, conjured an eel. The poor thing writhed on the floor, but without an escape route the only thing Gabrielle could do for it was to vanish it. Considering what she normally spent her time vanishing, she felt that that might be a fate worse than death. The magic finally caught on the hidden flap. There was no time to lose: the lunatic healer was approaching with what looked like a giant's rusty corkscrew, and Gabrielle could easily see what was intended. That was -not- going to happen! She hauled back on her wand, the tent's opening once more revealed, then froze at the sound of fingers snapping.

It was the treacherous house-elf. "Pardon Blakig, mistress. You are Mademoiselle Delacour, and Herr Sammlermacher wishes the master to remove the vampire treatment."

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle lay sandwiched between two mattresses, wishing there was a third on top, a reassuring bulk to insulate her from the horrors of good intentions. She was aching, horrified that she even had a lower half to her body, and desperate for a really hot shower, if she could only face the world. Nothing had prepared her for the extraction; what could possibly preface the most horrible, mortifying procedure ever? It was not the considerable pain so much as the indignity. Healer Listen-for-it was dangerously insane. The ordeal was made so much worse as the house-elf dutifully translated every one of the ancient wizard's muttered comments about, observations of, and compliments to her nether regions. Trapped as she had been, Gabrielle had been close to panic, and tensed at the old lecher's every touch. Which, unfortunately, did not make the intended procedure any easier.

Stanislaw had found her staggering around by Soleil's stall, searching for her tent. Gabrielle was not sure what to make of the wizard anymore. He had had her tent placed next to his, nearer the main part of the encampment. A rise in status, acknowledged Gabrielle to herself - thirty galleons - but further from the protection that Soleil, and Nona, provided. What if Stanislaw was enthralled? The German wizard had also proudly told her that he had dismissed Healer Fixelos, saying that the young witch, in 'typical fashion', was only interested in healing the unusual afflictions she had read about in books, while cuts and broken bones were far more common in camp. He had added burns to that list with a look, but Gabrielle ignored that. It had been Stanislaw who had invited the creepy old healer, who was apparently more of potions master than an actual healer, having picked up the basics of the art in the field during Grindelwald's war. Gabrielle could say nothing because she was absolutely appalled that this so-called healer had been rooting around inside of her, while at the same time she was baffled that Stanislaw thought she would be relieved at hearing this. At least when all the night's happenings were reported to Papa, relished Gabrielle, this will all be over.

All the night's happenings, however, took time. So much so that it was not actually night anymore, but morning. Barely. Which meant that a pair of worn, sensible, yet severe shoes were in front of her and Nona was pulling off the mattress. Gabrielle wondered if she had even fifteen minutes of sleep. "Të vijë, fëmijë. Nuk është puna. [10]"

v - v - v - v - v

"Can't you just take your knickers off? It's not like Ron hasn't seen your fanny before, right?" asked Ginny. She was peering into the shadows behind a skip redolent with the aroma of the sea - it stank of fish. Wizarding, mused Harry, was not a particularly glamorous way of life. He cast a Bubble-Head charm.

"Do you know what's going on?" asked Harry, addressing George. It was a rhetorical question, really, as Fred must have managed a little retribution. Ron and Hermione had landed behind the skip directly, and stayed there.

"I don't think that was just water that Fred doused her with," said George with a grin. He was enjoying his sister's exasperation.

"You're not - Merlin, Hermione! I think I preferred the prim 'n' proper swot. This is too much Lavender and not enough Head Girl."

"Can you undo it?" asked Harry. Ginny neatly dodged a hex that sent up a cloud of brick dust when it hit the wall on the other side of the wall. Well done, he thought.

"Wouldn't dream of it," replied George. "I've two galleons that she goes for the Bat-Bogey."

"Go on. That's odds on!"

"I wondered why you two were wearing robes! Try a severing curse," suggested Ginny.

"Not on my Firebolt!" thundered Ron.

"What, then, would you suggest, Ron?" demanded Hermione.

"Let's fly back, find Fred, and twist his bloody head off."

"Sounds smashing, but I was hoping for a more, er, immediate solution. I don't fancy walking around with this stick between my legs all day."

"You don't have to walk, you can fly."

"Shut up, Ron."

"I'll bet if it was a certain someone's 'stick' you wouldn't mind." teased Ginny.

"Shut up, Ginny."

"Oy, what 'bout that spell? The one, you know, when I use that muggle glue on my wand?" suggested Ron.

"Yes, well, it's a little hard to aim, you see," admitted Hermione.

"I know the spell. I'll do it," said Ginny brightly. "Ron, steady the bristles."

"Here it comes, Harry," nudged George.

"What? What's coming?" asked Harry, the words barely out of his mouth before there was an odd ripping sound and a shriek from Hermione that left his ears ringing.

"That's done it, I think," crowed Ginny. "And look, Ron. Your Firebolt has a full beard!"

"Bloody hell, Ginny!" shouted Ron.

"Get ready now," advised George. "I think the cauldron's a bit too hot."

"Right," said Harry, although what he should be readying to do was not obvious. Beyond, of course, having his wand in his hand.

It definitely was getting a little hot behind the skip. Ginny blocked something purple and nasty-looking using, Harry noted enviously, a non-verbal shield. At least, it looked like the redhead had blocked it, except that she disappeared in a swirl of orange sparks. Harry did not think it was another portkey. He started forward as Hermione emerged from her hiding spot using a wide-legged gait. She stooped to pick up a red and black newt by the unexpected tuft of red fur it sported, at least until it was sliced off with a stroke of Hermione's wand.

"A good strong block will do right by you if you're playing for time, or want to talk," critiqued George. "But, you need to know what you're blocking. Ginny was tricked by the feint. Better to apparate as your first move. Strong spells can counter others too, if you can keep up with your opponent. Blocking is mostly an auror thing."

"Erm, right. Yeah," said Harry automatically. The newt shuddered for a moment, and suddenly became a very livid Ginny whose hair was very, and unevenly, cropped.

"You, you bloody cow!" exploded the youngest Weasley. She began flinging spells into the sheltered space. The target of her outrage appeared with a bang behind Harry. Ron tumbled forward onto the ground, covered in pustules, small bats emerging painfully from his nostrils, and with his limbs quivering jelly-like with spasms.

"Hermione's got it," praised George. "Shame about Ron. Not." Ginny spun on her heel to launch a new wave of hexes, but stopped as George added in a hush, "We're being watched."

v - v - v - v - v

To the north of Vierville-sur-Mer is the Boulevard de Cauvigny, which runs along the top of the high bluff overlooking the beach. It is not unusual for people, particularly of an older generation, to pause along the road and stare out over the sands. They are, perhaps, contemplating another time, a time when they, or their loved ones, struggled ashore in an invasion. They are, almost assuredly, not contemplating, or even noticing, the much, much smaller invasion that was underway below. They would not be marvelling at the little fishing boat run so far aground that one would have to doubt that the propeller was the only motivating force. The solemn observers would not be noticing the garb of the two men who had exited the craft, the most notable aspect of which were the hugely over-sized trousers held up with a double set of suspenders. The watchers above, lost in the thoughts of another era, would not be becoming concerned at the obvious distress of one of the men. No one on the bluff, looking out to the Channel's gray waters, would notice these things. Unless they happened to be a witch or wizard also.

No one on the beach paid any attention to these odd things either, including the two men mentioned before. As wizards, as followers of the Dark Lord, they had scant knowledge of, and little interest in, the limits of a steel propeller. The twisted blades somehow made the boat move through the water; therefore, the two concluded, it should work on sand, sand being like water as it could be poured. Neither man found their dress odd; both believed that a tight fit about one's privates had to be avoided lest a constriction of the body's vital humours result. Finally, neither of the wizards were concerned about the distress. That was because the one in distress was too busy retching onto the sand to bother, while the other was too pleased that dissolving the wrong end of a Puking Pastille into the sea-sickness potion had worked so well. Their conversation was... intermittent.

"Can you even fly a broom with a weak stomach like that?" asked Rowle.

"I've no problem flying. It's the damned boat," complained Dolohov. There was a colorful pause. "Muggle contraption. Should've magicked the bloody thing so it didn't go up and - ulp."

"No, no, couldn't do that. If you don't go up with the wave, then you're sinking. If you don't go down with the water, well, that's called flying. Neither is something you want a proper boat to be doing," chided Rowle.

"All I want is for it to burn."

"Pull yourself together, man. We're on land now anyway."

"What did I ever eat that was that color?" muttered Dolohov, still hunched over.

Thorfin Rowle laughed. This was the most fun he had had in ages, since watching the muggles run from the collapsing stadium. Dolohov was too bloody single-minded to be much of a travelling companion. Still, it was best to put things right before the ruse was discovered, because of what Dolohov would whisper of in his sleep. "Here, give the right half of a Puking Pastille a try. Had one meself before we left."

"Muggle-lovers and blood-traitors, they are." It would have been far more sinister if it at not been bracketed by gurgling heaves.

"I'd swear you're getting worse! We'll be damn easy to track what with you leaving great puddles of sick like that."

"Your doing we're here," complained Dolohov, reluctantly taking the half candy.

"You wanted to find Potter, right? Well, he's most likely with the Weasleys, and now no one knows where they are. Got to be a Fidelius, am I right?" prompted Thorfin.

"Could have grabbed the father," insisted Dolohov. He braced for another round of vomiting, and was surprised to find his stomach willing to stay at the bottom of his throat.

"Nick a department head? And get away? That would take too much time to put together. This way's more cunning, if I do say so myself. That Fidelius had to go up after the wedding, and there's always at least one guest you can't get rid of," explained Rowle.

"Wouldn't know, never been to a wedding," said Dolohov, cautiously straightening up.

"What? Not even been invited?"

"Azkaban's not known for its prompt owl post."

Rowle broke the silence that followed with a cough and said, "Lucky for us that one was foreign, and portkeys are issued by the Ministry."

"They are the worst - consorting with mudbloods, hiding Potter, and now marrying a foreign half-breed!"

There were many ways to describe the Delacour girl, but Rowle, who had saved the Prophet's pictures from the Tri-Wizard Tournament, would not have ever thought of that one. Everyone knew Azkaban took a lot from a man, but that much? "Let's just get off this beach and find this Yvette witch."

v - v - v - v - v

"What? Where are they?" asked an alarmed Harry Potter. He turned to face the street which the alley opened onto.

"Up on the roof," nodded George with a bare movement. All eyes turned skyward, except Ron's. His eyes crossed. "But please don't worry about making it obvious we've spotted them."

"I don't see anyone," said Ginny.

"You wouldn't if you're looking for a human," said George. "You wouldn't have that cloak of yours handy, would you Harry?"

"What, the pigeons?"

"One of them, at least, yes," replied the older Weasley. He reached into his shirt and fumbled for something.

"You've gone all Mad-Eye on us," accused Ginny.

"Which one?" wondered Harry. There were birds perched up there. Behind him, Hermione was using her wand. If he remembered the movements right, it was an anti-apparition ward.

"The one looking at us funny - well, funny for a bird," supplied George. "I've got a smoke-bomb; get the cloak on when we're covered."

"Right! What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to set off the smoke-bomb. I did say," deadpanned George.

"I meant -after- that."

"Probably be choking and rubbing my eyes - this is one of Fred's."

"George - "

"Petrificus Totalus! The bloody lot of you!" This was from Ron, who was still on the ground on his back, and so had the best angle on the avian threat. George set off the smoke-bomb.

It was a very good smoke-bomb, filling the gap between the buildings with a thick grayness that pushed out most of the breathable air. The plume curled above the sky of Salerno, and that made a hasty retreat to the building's flat roof necessary. Once, of course, everyone had been found in the blinding smoke and been paired up on brooms. One awkward situation found Ginny and Hermione sharing a broom. The other found Harry sharing Ron's broom, with his hand finding, and him figuring out, just what was stuck to the Firebolt. Fortunately, the paralyzed birds provided something to look at, so no one had to meet another's eyes.

After, however, suitable shelter had been hurriedly arranged. The large cloud of very thick smoke brought a large crowd of very concerned muggles to the scene. The wail of sirens could be heard getting nearer. While the smoke could have been dispersed with the wave of a wand, the mysterious appearance of the cloud would only be more suspicious if it were coupled with an equally mysterious disappearance. Fortunately, a wizarding tent is extremely easy to pitch. Along with the normal anti-muggle and Notice-Me-Not charms, the tent was disillusioned. That made getting into it more difficult, but that only had to happen once.

The fowl were mostly paralyzed - one bird was definitely rocking itself. Ron put an end to that with a stunner. Up close, Harry could see that there was something different about the bird. It was the eyes, which faced more forward than on the other birds. How, he wondered, had George spotted that from three-stories below? And, how had whoever, or whatever, this pigeon was found them?

"So... it's an animagus?" guessed Ginny.

"No, I don't think so," said Hermione, holding her wand over the stunned bird. "He or she did not seem too aware of what was happening. An animagus would have been more conscious of our actions, less dull."

"What, with that incredible subtlety you all showed?" asked George sarcastically.

"Also, it's not really a pigeon, is it? The eyes are set more like an owls, and the head is a little too large. It's most likely someone who has been transfigured."

"You would know about -that- wouldn't you?" sniped Ginny. She ran her fingers through the remains of her hair.

"Who sent it? That's the question," said Harry quickly. "How did they manage to find us?"

"There's lots of possibilities, actually," noted Hermione. "There's You-Know-Who, obviously. The French and Italian ministries, too. There's even international entities!"

"Nah," said George. "The question is do we wake our feathered friend there, undo the spell, find out who it is, and risk having whoever's friends show up, or do we tie it to a post and scarper?"

1 Look, it's a ghost.

2 Idiot. Can not you see? It's Fraulein Delacour, Sammlermacher's mascot.

3 Look at it. It is not natural.

4 We do not speak French.

5 Get the rocks laid.

6 Pardon Blakig, you are uninjured?

7 Yes, yes, you old woman. The ghost startled me.

8 Yes Master. What ghost?

9 The ghost at the entrance! You have eyes, are you blind?

10 Come, little one. There is work.