Chapter Twenty-eight - Meanwhile, Elsewhere, and Then
The sofa creaked slightly as the headmistress of Beauxbatons settled into it. The pedigreed piece - it once sat in the Palace of Versailles as a comfortable spot to wait for an audience with the Royal Wizards - would have liked to creak much more loudly under the load, but a wand had persuaded it otherwise. The sofa was pulled up before a wide table set with a light lunch for six, or for her and the dapper and far more slight wizard across the filled table.
"I do apologize, my dear madame. I am absolutely famished." Madame Maxime smiled politely at the architect. The assertion was, she supposed, meant to cover any embarrassment she might feel at the quantities, but it also very clearly noted those quantities and drew attention to the attempt to draw away the attention. He never failed to say it either, whether there was someone else to hear or not. An attention to detail required of his trade. She hoped.
Said architect, Francois DeLoy Droit, set to filling his plate, so Madame Maxime demurely placed two of the whole roasted chickens on her own plate. She also took several of the intriguing layered, sliced potato and foie gras creations, a tall stack stabbed through with a spear of rosemary. The presentation was undoubtedly inspired by the current muggle culinary fad for food that stuck up from the plate. The headmistress wondered if that would be worth speaking to the house-elves about, for next term. The polite clatter of utensils, and occasional wand wave, worked to clear the table.
"The marble is perfect. You have made an excellent choice, Headmistress," said Francois. His plate, for all the activity, was still quite full, but he floated the latest scale model over to the table.
"Please, call me Olympe," she reminded. Again. It was a polite detail once more, or Francois was a slave to habit. The latest model, including the final choice of stone, was quite extraordinary. Except...
Madame Maxime's doubts about the architect had vanished long ago, as had her rather pedestrian vision of a near twin for the Ivory tower. Francois's vision was a glorious integration of the Ivory -and- Glass towers, with the alternating striations of shaded glass and pale marble spiraling up the edifice. Just inside the inner walls, five pairs of counter-rotating staircases wrapped around the classrooms inside. The slowly spinning staircases were done in the Beauxbatons colors, and crossed each other and the graduated glass to put on a magnificent, changing show. The tower was... alive. It did not so much as fill the gap between the Palace's current showpieces as take its place as their Mugwump. There was, she had to admit, a bit less classroom than one would expect; quite a bit less than one would expect considering the cost. The budget had vanished long ago as well. But...
Every tower, to an old-fashioned sort of mind, has a certain degree of the phallus to it. Madame Maxime had, by choice and practice, a thoroughly modern mind, not prone to see corruption in every curve. But the outline of the tower, however superlative, presented no alternative. The problem were the suggestive, round buttresses at the base. There were three - nothing amiss there unless one was studying particularly unusual anteaters in the tropics. The trouble, it was difficult to ignore, came from the fact that only two were visible from any angle on the ground. To make matters worse, the tip, sorry, top of the tower sported a domed observation level, with a decidedly organic shape to the roof. Madame Maxime knew she could learn to not see the resemblance, but the students... She had already come up with a dozen possible rude names for the new building herself. There was no way students giggling over 'Tringle Tower' or 'Trique Tower' would be allowed to tarnish Beauxbatons image. "Francois..."
v - v - v - v - v
Darkness comes in many forms. There is the darkness of the shadows where ill deeds are done. There is the darkness that falls across the hearts of men, from where those deeds spring. There is also the darkness that swallows the whole of a man's life, put there by others or by fate.
A tumbling clatter of something inadvertently kicked broke through the whispered quiet of the night. That was a very literal kind of darkness, one that Remus Lupin chose of late to move in. He found that people were more tolerant of werewolves if they were not actually present. "Damn," cursed a voice.
"It's all right, Tonks. Light your wand - no one will bother us." This was certain. All manner of witch, wizard, and magical being made the same basic circuit of Godric's Hollow. There would be no peace at all if the alarm was raised for every furtive figure that visited and was, perhaps, uncomfortable with the muggle portion of the village. Lupin waited in front of the gravestone as a very dim light bobbed its way closer. The grave of his dearest friend was always his first stop. The light dropped suddenly to the ground before rising up again after, Lupin guessed, a brief moment of shin rubbing. The once open sections of the cemetery were filling with fresh memorials.
"He does look a lot like his Dad," said Tonks. Her arm found its way around Lupin's waist.
"Yes, he does," agreed Lupin. The he in question was his godson, Harry Potter. "I would say now though that he's a bit more like his Mum." Lily Potter had always held her work and secrets closer than James had, and now Harry was doing the same. Unknown to Harry was Fred Weasley's involvement, and Verity's too, although a memory charm had made her involvement brief. The hurried charm was not so precise, and that meant Fred was not going to be a problem either for a while. He was finding it difficult to explain to Verity why the witch's things were at a new flat, and why his things were there as well. A sudden trip to France was in the offing for Fred.
"Just feeling nostalgic tonight, Remus?" asked Tonks, her breath tickling his ear.
"No, not really," replied Lupin truthfully. He had never spent much time in Godric's Hollow. "I've something to do for Harry - not for the Order." That was an attempt to forestall the question that came anyway.
"What is Harry wanting?"
"Oh, I just need to check for something at the Potter's place," answered Lupin.
The arm around his waist retracted. "You just wanted me here to get through the ward," accused Tonks. Playfully?
"Well, ah, there are some very nice restaurants -"
"Midnight's done and gone, lover," reminded Tonks. "But when you've finished with what you need to do, I know a couple of pubs that'll be open. Muggle too, so there won't be a problem with, with..."
Remus could, even in the dim light of the stars and the odd street lamp, see her shrink. It was a common reaction familiar to him and other werewolves; only the auror's special abilities as a metamorphmagus made it physically manifest. "With an old lecher like me carrying on with a pretty young thing like you?" He pulled the quieted Tonks to his side and started along the well-worn path toward Harry's birthplace.
"Wish that's what I'd been thinking."
"That must mean that I'm not trying hard enough," teased Lupin.
"Hah - hard enough. More like not often enough," replied Tonks in her more usual tone. "Oh Merlin, I mean - I didn't mean - Cor, I must sound a right stupid bint."
"No, don't be like that. You're a wonderful witch, much more than I deserve, I'm certain."
"And don't you be like that!"
The house was as it had been in the aftermath of that fateful day, the upper floor torn asunder and charred. A less cheery memorial than the magical statues. Lupin could easily smell the scents of the masses of flowers in the garden. Those made an unintentional memorial, seeding themselves from the potted plants left by pilgrims over the years. He dimly recalled a ban on tentacular roses, something obviously ignored as he slashed with his wand at a reaching, thorny vine. Tonks took the lead when they approached the front door.
"What, in, you know, general terms, are you going to do?" she asked. Tonks tapped her wand three times on the door's peephole. The cover over the glass opened and distinctly scrutinized the couple. "Nymphadora Tonks, auror," she announced.
"I just need to look around a bit," replied Lupin honestly.
"This place has already been gone over with an enchanted fine-toothed comb," noted Tonks, pulling open the door.
Lupin stepped through. He wondered if that was true. He remembered the chaos following the attack, and the jubilation as the news of the extraordinary event spread. He also recalled the haste with which the Ministry made to return to normal, wrapping up loose ends like Padfoot and smoothing over the culpability of families like the Malfoys. It was certainly likely that little more than casting the wards had been done to the wreckage. "We'll see."
The study of the Dark Arts is, to a great degree, the study of secrets, and the keys to the study of secrets is knowing that there is one and knowing how to find it. The first of the keys had been in Harry's message; the second was simple to work out as well. Dumbledore was renown as a scholar, a researcher, and a keeper of secrets. The deceased headmaster's private collection of doubly Restricted works was an obvious place to start. The main obstacle had been the current head of the school. Minerva McGonagall had taken a very dim view not so much of the request but of the continued need for secrecy. Lupin had managed to find what he was looking for surprisingly quickly, and once he had undone the curse protecting the tome he knew what to do. It had taken far more time, including recovering from several nasty jinxes, to open and page through the rest of the scores of books and scrolls, in order to throw the headmistress off the scent. Fortunately, as a werewolf, he was naturally resistant and hard to kill.
Lupin slipped into the ruined nursery and pulled a small dented tin from his pocket. This was another of the second keys: the contents were the finely powdered ear hair of a particular hybrid species of yeti. Scattered, the dust would tend to settle on even the faintest traces of magic, the strongest attracting the most. It was ludicrously expensive; the hybrids were sterile, and only differed from other yetis by the color their spleens turned when cooked. Finding the rare had all but wiped out the common. A Thurlow lens was less sensitive, and less portable, but far more affordable. Conveniently, the tin had been left out on the desk in Dumbledore's private library, and the portraits had been deserted. Lupin rather hoped that Minerva would not notice it missing before at least the tin, if not the contents, could be returned.
The white dust inside was pitched into the air, and scattered more widely with swirling magical gusts. Lupin quickly stepped back to the hall to avoid being covered himself. It took but a few minutes to settle before he looked in.
The two narrow, heavily dusted thin wedges on the floor represented, Lupin knew, the killing curses. He had expected them, of course, but the feeling of only numbness surprised him. Lupin knelt and examined the shorter one, the one presumably aimed at Harry, more closely. That trace had a fainter central spine, which began abruptly at the edge of a floorboard. This, Lupin guessed, was the unexpected backlash of the rebounding curse, and pointed in the direction for his search. He made to stand, but an unexpected glinting caught his eye. Beneath and behind the forlorn, broken crib was a shattered mirror. This was odd enough for Lupin to take another, closer look.
What he found, delineated in feathery lines of exotic ground hair, was half a pentagram. The markings were too indistinct to make out the runes. Half a pentagram, and a mirror. Was that even possible? Obviously, Lupin reminded himself. Lily Potter's sacrifice was less a last moment act of desperation than a carefully planned final defence. Secretly planned, as well, thought Lupin, or only Harry and his father would have been here. The former Dark Arts professor did not know much of mirror magic, other than it was extremely dangerous. Everyone, for instance, grew up knowing not to get caught between two mirrors.
Lupin pulled himself away from the shards. To understand how it had been done might take years of study, possibly a decade. That was surely more time than Tonks would indulge. He crossed the room in the direction indicated by the thin line of the backlash, and began sifting through the debris. Harry felt sure that there would be something to find, but he had not known, or had not divulged, what it might be. Lupin prayed that there was nothing.
The search was not difficult; the powdered yeti dust had done its work. The thick layer of white clearly indicated something lay in the tortured remains of what might have once been a family heirloom. In fact, the trail Lupin followed led through the wreckage of the wardrobe and into the plaster wall where, ignoring the splintered lath lacerating his hands, he pulled out a small gold object.
It was a snitch, or it had been one before the magical forces had blasted it. The wings hung limply; one was askew. Not an unlikely find in the home of someone as quidditch-mad as James Potter. Not even unlikely to be found in the nursery - start them young was the advice. Lupin told himself these things even as his instincts could see otherwise, and if it were otherwise then there was the terrible possibility that Harry was right. Lupin felt like someone had conjured a cold stone inside his stomach.
It was the shape that weakened his knees and sagged him to the floor. Not that it was clearly squashed, but that it had not been round in the first place. The quidditch snitch had originally been the snidget, a bird renowned for its elusiveness. This snitch was not a simple winged sphere with stylized feathers engraved on it. This snitch had definitely been bird-shaped. Stouter and stubbier than its avian progenitor, to be sure, but not the plain sphere of a modern snitch. This was one of the original magicked snitches by the legendary Bowman Wright, extremely rare and next to priceless. There was still the possibility that this just a treasured heirloom - the Potters were, after all, a very old wizarding family. But it was also exactly the sort of item Harry had expected.
v - v - v - v - v
"Ho! Weasel!"
Charlie Weasley turned reflexively toward the sound of the hated nickname. He'd have a go at any man using it, even Linus, the huge Finn who was all right most times save when he'd been drinking.
This time the man to confront was old, lame, and had a face that looked, and had, melted into a blob on the end of his nose. He was having trouble scaling the stockade fence. "Snouty, you old cinder! Are you trying to get yourself killed? Did the horntails get loose again?" An uneven set of stairs grew from the thick tree trunks making up the fence - transfiguration had not been Charlie's top subject.
"Think I'd come hollerin' fer you fer something small like that? I was there, lad, back in '43 when the whole bloody pen of adults, not a handful of fledglings, did a runner. I brought in -"
"- half yourself and at half my age, yeah. What do you want, Snouty? You know I don't like that name," warned Charlie. He turned back to the Welsh greens he had been watching.
"Thinkin' about ridin' 'em again, ain't ya? Completely daft," said Snouty. "'Special now when you've got others - other things to think of."
"The fumes from the dung pits getting to you? What are you on about now?" asked Charlie. "And it's not daft. It's just not been done lately."
"I want to talk to you about yer bird."
"She's not my bird, Snouty."
"You keep tellin' yerself that, lad," chuckled Snouty with a nod. "Thought an old seeker like yerself could see better."
"Bugger off, you old git."
"It's a small camp, lad, an' it's not hard to take notice of who sneaks off with who," explained the older dragon-keeper. "'Special if it were with what you might call increasin' reg-you-larity."
"And here I thought you were called Snouty for the size of your beak, not for how you stick it into others' business," huffed Charlie. "I'm not the only one."
"This isn't the place fer her, lad."
"She came here on her own!"
"Yeah. That she did."
"She pulls her weight in camp."
"An' thank Merlin she's but a little bit of a thing," said Snouty. Seeing the young man's face darken, he quickly added, "She's a game one, lad, no doubt. Very good, I'd say, with hatchin' and hatchlin's. But soon as they're on solids they use her as a chew toy."
"You don't want her here. Fine - have Crumbling tell her, if you're not man enough."
"That's not it at all, you bloody great idiot. The eggs, the hatchin', the carin' fer the little blighters so well they follows her around - the way she looks at you - don't that say anything to you?" hinted Snouty.
"Should it?"
Snouty spit and swore. "Merlin's mighty todger, ya can't be that thick! Of course it should say something!"
Charlie looked at his hands, then the dragons dozing in the midday sun. When Yvette had turned up out of the blue, he had had an inkling of what her motive might be. But she had thrown herself into the work and done whatever was asked of her. Often badly, often very badly, and with daily trips to the infirmary, but that was the way it was with greenwands. The language barrier did not help, and what smattering of French those in camp knew was more suited for negotiating affection at a brothel. Yvette never complained though, even after spending a week working the dung pit. When the blond was not messing up, or being patched up, she would always come and watch him. Things sort of... carried on from there. "But she loves dragons," said Charlie absently.
Snouty snorted, which was quite a thing to hear. "Think you mean a dragon-keeper there, lad. In my experience, she's wanting a hatchlin' or two of her own. They'll need a name, and she'll need a ring."
"What?! Are you - Who's being a bloody idiot now?" sputtered Charlie. "I'm not leaving Romania. Not for some cramped walk-up in Paris. Or London."
"Never said you had to go that far, lad. Set her up in a cottage, nearby so she can keep her wand in, a few amenables, that sort of thing," explained Snouty. "Done it a few times myself."
"You? A few times? Go on and pull the other one - its got bells on."
"You lads seem to forget I haven't always been this old."
"Or ugly?"
Snouty snorted again. "I put my share of birds up, it's true," he added proudly. "Done right by 'em."
"Then they woke up to the full horror of what they had done?"
"Ha, no. It's just, well, as the years pass they gets settled, and then the camp moves, and, well, they don't," observed the senior dragon-keeper with just a hint of melancholy. Then he brightened. "Still, better grub while it lasts. Warmer bed too."
v - v - v - v - v
Arthur Weasley, covered in splattered eggs, rotting tomato, stinksap, and what would likely be thought of as excrement, arrived home, and pulled the door closed behind him. It had, all in all, been a rather better day; quite good in fact.
"Is that you Arthur?"
"Yes, dear. I was able to get away much earlier today."
"Has there been any word from the children, or George? I do think we should have - Good gracious, Arthur! Are you hurt?" asked a shocked Molly Weasley. Briefly shocked, then quite angry. "These protesters are getting completely out of hand! I understand their grief, of course, and some parts of the Ministry clearly need new leadership, but this - this is hooliganism!"
"Sorry? Oh! This? Fred did this," explained Arthur, indicating the disgusting state of his robes.
"Fred?" asked his wife, confused. "Our Fred?"
"When did George stop being a child? It'll mean a rise for him at the shop," noted Fred, coming into the entry hall from the sitting room. "Hullo, Dad. How'd it go?"
"Fred Weasley, you complete ingrate! How can you have done this to your father, after we took you back in? You're completely welcome, of course, but is this anyway to show your appreciation? Not that we aren't happy to help. I can see now why that Verity threw you out! Who can blame her, even if I never really liked her in the first place!" ranted his mother.
"It's all right, dear," soothed Arthur.
"It's not all right!"
"It's pissy-kology, is what it is," stated Fred.
"I won't have that sort of language used in my house!"
"Molly, please. It isn't what you think. See?" Arthur slipped out of what could then be seen to be a very nearly transparent hooded cloak covered in filth. A touch of the senior Weasley's wand made the gruesome coating fade into a decidedly ugly print pattern on the item.
"Who's going to bother Dad when he already looks like that? Your mates wouldn't be able to see what you threw, so what's the good in throwing anything? Pissy-kology!" explained Fred. "Sheds minor curses, jinxes, and rain too. All for a very reasonable price."
"Reasonable? I should think not," muttered Arthur.
"Reasonable to me then," winked Fred with a grin.
"Speaking of ungrateful children, has there been an owl, or anything?" asked Molly.
"I'm counted among the children, and George isn't?" asked Fred affronted. "Do you even know how he acts in the pubs?"
"I'm very sorry, Molly. There's still no word," said Arthur, shaking his head. "No direct word, anyway. I ran into Tonks early -"
"Or she ran into you," interjected Fred.
"Yes, thank you. Remus had word from Harry. Wouldn't say much about it, but they're all fine apparently," finished Arthur.
"Hmmph. Is it really so much to expect even a single owl? I'm quite sure they were brought up better than that."
"I blame outside influences," declared Fred. "That Potter character always seemed a bit dodgy to me."
"On the topic of dodginess, Fred, I came across something unusual in your file. An update to a certain status," hinted Arthur.
"Did I mention the free trial offer - this week only - for guinea - er, early adopters?" asked Fred. "Might have slipped my mind."
"Seems to have, and I think I'll take you up on that."
"What is this?" asked the matron of the house suspiciously.
"Just that one of the many investigations -"
"Many, unwarranted investigations indicative of prosecutorial malice," clarified Fred.
"So you say, or perhaps your solicitor does. As I was about to say, one of the investigations has been vanished."
"Thank Merlin for that," said Molly. "We don't need a repeat of that love potion fiasco. Now, I think we all could do with a spot of tea before dinner. Geff, dear?"
There was a quiet pop as the old house-elf, who had once served at Hogwarts before ending up attached to the Weasley household, appeared. He wore a pair of trousers shrunk down to fit his bandy legs, and a similarly shrunk jumper with a 'G' knitted into it. These could have been cleaner, but as house-elf clothing went they were quite ordinary. What was not ordinary was the large mass of red yarn arranged on his head.
"Yes, Miss-us Wheez-lee?" prompted the old elf.
"Be a dear, Geff, and set the tea please."
"Yes... Mum!" squealed Geff giddily before disappearing.
"You know, that is just creepy," said Fred. "And he's not fooling anyone - there isn't a freckle on him."
"Hush now, or you'll give him ideas. The poor thing hasn't been right since Christmas."
v - v - v - v - v
Toads are, as a general rule, solitary creatures, plodding through the world with only little regard for their fellow. So the collection of toads at the edge of the field of tall grain was unusual. But not as unusual as the toad that was slightly apart from his kin. His skin was smooth, hard, and translucent, because his skin and body were crafted from spellotape. He, Poisseux, as a toad, did not know that, nor why his form had changed. What he had come to know was that he was as near to invulnerable as a toad could get, and that he had been chosen for greater things. He had been shown the power, and he wanted it back. Poisseux set his body to a very persuasive angle, and turned to the gathered amphibians.
v - v - v - v - v
The blood slowly traced the lines and runes scribed into the stone, slowing as it thickened. Narcissa Malfoy watched the flow with some concern. If it overflowed the carpeting would just be ruined. A smaller animal, a kid or a lamb perhaps, would have been a less messy choice. But the ram had obviously been the muggle's prize animal, one that was worthy of the Malfoy name.
At least the now-dead animal had not cost anything but the price of a sleeping draught for the herder. The same could not be said of that humiliating "family" clock Madame Malfoy had had made. There was a hundred galleons that she would not see again. A hundred galleons, and all she had to show for it was a garish polished wood clock festooned with cherubs, and three hands, one of which did not move much and the other which did not move at all.
The device had seemed a clever idea at first. Narcissa had a lock of hair from Lucius, and one of her own, of course. The clever bit was the lock of hair from precious Draco, sent by that mudblood-loving Potter. The clock would surely reveal her son's location, since the lock had been taken -after- Draco was imprisoned. Narcissa had not, though, anticipated the embarrassment, the humiliation, of activating the clock in the less than empty shop. The hand of the clock marked for her husband had swung around until the face arranged itself, stopping finally, in public, on "In Azkaban, and bang to rights too." That was very close to another choice: "Grovelling." In more normal times, Narcissa would have had the smirking craftsman hexed to within an inch of his life - and gotten the galleons back too, since the cloyingly decorated device had not worked. Instead, she had had to hurry from the shop with the wretched thing hidden under her cloak.
Now there was doubt. Not about the location of Lucius, though the name on his clock hand occasionally, and inexplicably, changed to Princess Leia. Usually late at night. There was certainly no mention of such a name in the records of peerage.
Madame Malfoy checked her notes on the sheet of parchment. Everything seemed to gone as it should. Excepting the volume of blood - and unfortunately that was nearly impossible to clean up when ritually spilled. She stared at the twisted length of goat gut. It had been a muggle's animal, so this was just too unlikely a coincidence. The intestines spelled out what the odious clock still insisted: Draco was at Hogwarts. "Safe at Hogwarts," claimed the clock; the cast innards had nothing to say in that regard. The animal had been large, but not gigantic.
v - v - v - v - v
Gabrielle stared down at the hole, still edged with the last flickering sizzle of magic, and a dozen thoughts tried to be first in her head.
Chief among them was the realization that this was the first time she had ever been glad that the growth spurt, or two, that she had always hoped for had not come. Gabrielle had been forced to move from standing on the seat of the chair to standing precariously on its arms in order to gain the desired altitude. Her foot had been where the hole, which had gone straight through the ruined furniture in an instant, now was.
The chair, which was probably no longer a chair, not with a hole like that in it, was in Soleil's stall. More importantly, the chair had come from Gabrielle's tent, which made it a Beauxbatons chair. The thought came to Gabrielle that it, and the bedroom the unicorn had wrecked, were probably expected to be returned in their original condition. Someone was going to pay for this, with galleons or detentions or with a Howler from Maman.
Another thought Gabrielle had was what she ought to be doing about Fred. Clearly, it had to be Fred who was responsible for including the W-holes. Was he trying to kill her? Gabrielle could not believe the brothers had tried to sell these potentially lethal things. She could not imagine any of the heavy Poot Powder buyers handling such an item safely, considering what they had managed with the Door-Knocker.
The thought trying to parcel out some of the blame to Soleil was ignored. Although, Gabrielle did think that the end of the world would have been a bit more than dry oats and hay. By now she barely noticed the colt's tantrums. There was no point to his noisy protestations and noisier stomping. Gabrielle knew it all meant nothing, and she was in a snit herself. He would be far more upset if she had been frightened off, and anyway Gabrielle knew that the colt could see she carried a bottle.
The dessicated breakfast was Harry's fault, of course, but not really since Gabrielle doubted that he even knew of the whiskey. The condition of the stall, though, was another matter. She could see that only the front bit by the door had been cleaned at all, which was what a wand would reach if one remained outside the stall. That was a little disappointing, thought Gabrielle, from Harry Potter. That was also the reason there was a hole in the chair. The stall was like her favorite spot for a study carol in the library at Beauxbatons - a secluded place to wallow in a foul mood. Except the stall needed a thorough vanishing and airing. The first was easy now for Gabrielle. The second spell she was hopeless at, mostly because she was trying to guess an incantation. She then had the idea that the problem with the stall was simply a lack of ventilation, which could corrected by making a hole in the wall. Gabrielle had, however, simply not realized the resistance of the barren wood to the Wheeze. The prank, if one could call it that, had not stuck to the wall.
On the topic of blame, another thought argued that Ginny was at the root of the series of events that led Gabrielle to her nearly losing her foot. Ginny had returned with a change of clothes and an attitude. The redhead somehow blamed Gabrielle for the injuries Harry had sustained. George had beaten a hasty retreat to, Gabrielle suspected, somewhere which was not a jewelry shop. He was not there to explain the lack of 'knickers' to his sister. Ginny's not so subtle jibes at French culture and tutting really grated on Gabrielle's nerves. Gabrielle could have described George's involvement in the lack of proper underwear, but there was no reason to poke that nest of doxies. Then, just when Gabrielle was about to give up on counting to keep calm and instead try to set Ginny on fire, the older girl taught Gabrielle a laundry spell. For 'hygiene', saying the word as if Gabrielle clearly had no knowledge of the word and was filthy.
That was all very annoying, especially since lately she often just happened - not through her own doing! - to be filthy. More annoying was that Ginny and the others, although they were not actually present, expected her to get the cup out of Stanislaw's chest. Emphatically expected, which was ridiculous on two points. First, Gabrielle could not see why she was involved at all. It had been the rat's to start with, and then Poisseux had taken it. Ginny was the one who took it from the handbag, and then Hermione had given it to Professor Festeller. It was Harry who wanted now. At no point had Gabrielle expressed an interest in or a desire for the object, except in the sense that it had, after all, been in her handbag and therefore Ginny should not have been getting into it. This meant that she could see no justification for being responsible for its recovery. Second, since when was she supposed to be the expert in breaking into locked places? That, thought Gabrielle, was not a good reputation to have. It was not as if she ran around at home - okay, a sheepish thought interrupted, that was a poor example. And possibly going on about curse-breaking had probably not helped either. But Gabrielle had seen the chest several times, and the hinges were completely hidden. Not that she had been checking! That was her one trick, and she doubted that the heavy lock would be the same as the locks on the doors of Delacour Manor, or that the one spell she knew would work. Did Ginny really believe, like Festeller, that all Gabrielle needed to do was to stand next to something? Ridiculous! There was simply no way for her to get into -
Gabrielle looked at the hole in the chair. Merde - maybe it was possible.
