Chapter Thirty - Nearly As Bad As Possible

Behind an upturned table that was probably as useless as a defense as the one that had been shredded earlier sat a young witch with frazzled, bushy hair. Effort was beginning to show itself as a sheen of perspiration on a brow already creased with worry. The Sgiath Bubble spell would hold a little while longer; would she herself be able to without some help? What -did- they teach at Beauxbatons? The only wizard of any real use was that curse-breaker, and he had been wounded when an unlucky cutting curse slipped through.

The witch, Hermione Granger, spotted the ruddy cheeks of the professor peeking out from behind another table, and tried again. "Herr Professor - "

"You are doing, yes, an excellent job," encouraged Festeller, his face redder than usual.

"Yes, very good, thank you. I need a little help," said Hermione. Again.

"I am certain, yes, Herr Sammlermacher will return, yes, shortly. You are doing well."

"Perhaps the other two?" The curse-breaker's cohorts watched from two chairs, the only furnishing not redeployed as fortifications, occasionally sharing a laugh.

"Nein. Security duties, yes, are not in their contract," insisted Festeller. He shrugged his shoulders. Business was business.

"What? There are wizards trying to kill us!" argued Hermione.

"I am certain, yes, it is just local, yes, thieves." The professor ducked his head as the magical shield flashed a sickly yellow.

Local thieves with a bit of talent - the Sgiath was beginning to waver already. Hermione felt safe in assuming that You-Know-Who was behind the attack. There was just no proof at the moment. The goal seemed to be to keep the company bottled up. Surely, she thought, Professor Festeller could see that as well? Even if they were -only- thieves, did he have a plan to stop them? It was an obvious question, so she asked it.

"The chest, yes, that holds the artifacts is, yes, difficult," replied Festeller. "It will not open easily."

Hermione repeated his answer to herself, trying to find some sense in it. What about the other magical equipment? The lenses? And while the chest might be difficult to open, would it be as difficult to simply take? These were more obvious questions, but the Bubble spell had failed. Anyway, there was a more important question: where was Ron?

v - v - v - v - v

The last wizard the world needed found himself, unexpectedly, back at the edge of the darkened woods, looking across the fields of grain to the cluster of tents. He had apparated to this spot, the spontaneous sort of apparition that one might see done by a wizard child. Lord Voldemort thought hard. A jolt of panic had coursed through him at the sight of the girl. That made no sense - she was only a child, and one covered in toads at that. That was quite likely to be merely a coincidence; perhaps a powerful unsettling charm from an undetected opponent had struck him just then.

Yet the Dark Lord knew that that was not the case. Lord Voldemort knows. The remembered sight of the slight girl, the sound of the beast, was enough to bring forth a wave of anxiety. It had to come from the residual essence of his current vessel. The internal manifestation had caught him off-guard, and had happened at the most inconvenient moment. He would be forced to spare some effort to watch for and suppress this other. Resolved, Lord Voldemort determined his destination, and turned, with deliberation.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle found herself, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, slipping down the sloping top of a tent. She grabbed for the central post that some manner of flag flew from, which prevented her from dropping off the edge. Tibault was gone, but so were George and Soleil. Soleil was not gone per se, she could easily hear him. She would be very angry with the colt if he hurt George.

Gabrielle knew, from going Side-Along with Papa, that she had managed to apparate herself. That was a small bit of good news to consider later, since seeing Aunt Laurel's face would be of little consolation if Granencole found her and killed her. Or did worse - poor Natuche! Dread chilled Gabrielle bowels, so she pulled herself up closer to pole to see where she was - the metric ton! The pennant flying from the pole wrapped itself around her face with a change in the breeze. She pulled -

Gabrielle pulled back the rent robes. The angry, mottled skin and the distorted shape of the leg confirmed that it had been Grindelwald, or one of his close allies, wielding the wand. Still, the witch was luckier than the poor bastard breathing his last the next cot over. The leg looked lost, and likely the lower arm too. If the decidedly fetching witch had taken the curse to her shapely chest like her compatriot, well, there was no way to unscramble a heart or a pair of lungs. Gabrielle exposed more of her patient's leg. She needed to see how far up the curse had reached. Beads of sweat broke out on her brow as frilled edges appeared against silky skin. A complete examination was allowed - needed! - under these circumstances. She reached for the elasticized band, and tried to ignore the polite pop behind her. "Pardon Blackig..."

"Pardon Blackig, mademoiselle, but Blackig is thinking you are going to fall."

With the Past, which she could See, and the present blurring, Gabrielle stared dumbly at the wizened house-elf, until the pressure on her wrist cleared the fog. The house-elf gripped the main post with one hand and Gabrielle's wrist in the other. Her legs dangled off the edge. "The flag is made of underwear?"

"Healer Leistenverletzunger's excellent work saved a young witch's limbs. The witch was very grateful, as many as three times in one day. Healer Leistenverletzunger said it was a banner day, so Blackig made one."

"Eh, what? What does that mean?" asked Gabrielle. "And you can let go now."

"Pardon Blackig, but Blackig is still thinking you are going to fall." The house-elf did not loosen his grip on her wrist.

Gabrielle tried to shake her arm free. A wizard tent was bigger on the inside, not the outside. She had fallen much farther from Fleur's broom and was sure she would have been fine, mostly fine, probably fine if she had not landed on the iron fence with its stupid spiky parts. Anyway, George needed her. And Soleil. Mostly Soleil, if she had the time to be precise about it. "Let go of me!"

"Pardon Blackig, but - "

"No! Do you plan to stay like that forever? Herr Sammlermacher is hurt, Soleil is loose, and my, eh, boyfriend needs me!" argued Gabrielle. While the last was apparent to everyone, saying it so loudly caused a ridiculous blush to color her cheeks. When had Fleur ever blushed?

The old house-elf, his wrinkled arms pulled taut between the pole and Gabrielle, wrinkled his brow as he pondered the idea for a moment before pulling Gabrielle further from the edge.

"No! Down! I want to go down!" insisted Gabrielle.

Gabrielle got her wish a second later, when the house-elf gave her a very firm push and disappeared. She slid helplessly down the sloped fabric, the tauter edge catching at the last moment to pitch her into the air. Gabrielle remained confident that the fall would not kill her, but, as her trajectory turned to a downward path, she was not as confident that it would not hurt. How to land needing the least healing was the question, and so far landing on her nose seemed to be the best answer. Perhaps, a hurried second thought urged, Skele-Gro is not -that- bad?

In the end, Gabrielle's indecisive landing posture did not matter. Blackig reappeared, this time hanging from the edge of the tent and snatching at her leg. Creaking joints and tendons were drawn tight, and Gabrielle's downward momentum became the arc of a pendulum until the straining house-elf let go again. Gabrielle was thrown through the tent flap, and at considerable speed. She tumbled across the floor feeling like she was in a game of Petangue, only in reverse, where she was the cochonnet heading for the heavy boules that were the stacks of clutter.

Or, as it was in this case, the legs of the two elderly wizards arguing with each other in German. These were Healer Listen-For-It-Hunger and Herr Von Sneaky-lips, and they turned out to be very heavy.

v - v - v - v - v

Severus Snape, a man, a wizard, who had longed for years to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, was, to a great extent, bored. His assignment was to provide protection for the gibbering idiots flinging barely half-formed curses in the general direction of the tents. It had become a trivial task, since there had not been so much as an Expelliarmus from the opposing wands for some time. There was so little to do that Snape had allowed himself the small pleasure of testing the rather arcane shield spell presented. A middling effort, by his judgement. Sufficient for the rabble he accompanied, but merely a delaying tactic for those trained by the Dark Lord.

Snape could easily guess that the shield had been cast by one Hermione Granger. The spell was archaic, intricate, and disused; the sort of spell one would only read about in dusty tomes. A bookworm would most likely come across it, and it would also take more than a modicum of prowess to even cast. So, the Granger girl was performing the same role as himself for those in the tent. But the spells returned from the besieged were more exotic than powerful, which left off the dolts Potter and Weasley from the list of wand wielders. The danger there lay in Potter's cloak. And, unfortunately, that the dunce might run into the Dark Lord. His luck would have to run out one day.

A startled cry caught the former professor off-guard, and he turned toward the tumult, fully expecting to be flanked by the now-exposed Potter. The useless mob raised by the Dark Lord was scurrying for the cover of the distant woods. In the lead, and outpacing his fellow cowards, was the black-bearded Russian. The shouts of "Një këndoj! Një këndoj! [1]" were not illuminating. Had there even been an exchange of spells? Snape stepped forward warily and, mindful of his opponent's cloak, listened for any extra rustling of the field's grain while thoroughly scrutinizing the empty air.

Which was why he did not immediately notice the runty troll crouching among the crop. A runty troll with reddish hair, freckles, and a wand. "Bleagh! Yargle! Percussum!"

The blow, even partially blocked by an instinctive shield, was substantial. Snape was knocked to his hands and knees. Only briefly, but long enough for a successful disarming spell. He gathered himself up with a practiced dignity that came from never admitting error in front of a class, and stood. "[Well done, Weasley. It would seem that your true nature has come forth at last,]" said Snape drily. He bent, with studied nonchalance, to pick up his lost wand. The stick jumped and tumbled just beyond his grasp.

"[Ah, rum go, there, Snivellus. You almost had it,]" snorted Ron. Another flick of his wand tossed the other a step or two further away.

Snape could feel the rage build inside himself at the old taunt. More for what it implied was known than for the delivery itself. There was no opportunity to vent the anger, at least not yet, so he shut it away. "[This explains your marks at the very least. Molly was obviously very adventurous in her youth. Unless, of course, you are the adopted bastard of Arthur's exotic predilections?]"

"[Blimey, it's just like I'm in ruddy double potions again! You keep talking and I have no clue what you're on about,]" complained the fake troll.

Infuriating yet subtle slurs, delivered with just the right amount of snark, might not have the desired effect on one who could say that out loud. It might not be possible, thought the former professor, to goad an opponent into making a dumb mistake when said opponent defined the term. A sentiment undermined, unfortunately, by the wand on the ground, just out of easy reach. "[What is it that you want, Weasley?]"

"[A bacon sarnie and Hermione, if you're askin',]" replied Ron carelessly with an insouciant shrug of his shoulders and nary a twitch of the wand's point away from Snape's chest. "[Don't have to be in that order. What do you want?]"

There was a question that Snape had long ago given up, since what he truly wanted was lost. "[Within the realm of the possible, the sandwich, I suppose. Or three fingers of O'Bierne's firewhiskey,]" he replied. With a sudden epiphany, Snape realized now why wizards used to live alone in remote towers. "[I meant and, not or.]"

A decidedly awkward silence ensued. Not that Snape minded, inasmuch as he had not yet recovered his wand. A competent opponent would have incapacitated him by now, or used the advantage to withdraw. The idea came to the Death Eater that perhaps Weasley had not expected to succeed, so therefore had not planned his next move. This interlude could take some time; Polyjuice brewed faster than thoughts came to Weasley. Perhaps a hint? "[Miss Granger is very likely in that tent.]"

"[The one your mates were tossing curses at, yeah, I know,]" said Ron sharply. "[What does the Dark Turd look like now?]"

Snape huffed at the pejorative, but mostly to cover the surprise at the cogent question. And, in fact, when it was asked. It was, to Snape, the sort of question that was put to an enemy once he regained consciousness. And just before the unfortunate soul was killed, if it was the Dark Lord doing the asking. Snape turned to look back at the woods, then addresses his former student, an action which also put himself a full half step closer to his wand. "[His form, unless he wills it otherwise, is that of a child, a student - perhaps a third year. Less thin than weedy now; light hair, dark eyes,]" described the potion master. "[Now if you don't mind...]"

"[Oh, right, off you go then,]" grunted Ron as he swung his wand like a scythe, an action which sent the potion master's fallen wand spinning away into the dark field. "[You can thank Harry later.]"

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle left the tent with Von Schnittwinkel in the lead and Healer Leistenverletzunger following close behind. Or was that in pursuit? The old lecher was grumbling to himself, probably about the refused examination. She would have been happier with both wizards in front of her, or, in case Tibault was the kind to sneak up from behind, Von Schnittwinkel in the rear. Gabrielle could see, however, that he was way too determined to protect her to actually think.

That, a happier thought noted, even as they headed back into danger, was clearly the result of her burgeoning Veela allure. Once Gabrielle and the two wizards had untangled after her sudden, violent arrival, Herr Von Schnittwinkel had pointed out his recovery. Very sweetly, in a grandpere sort of way, which was also the way Gabrielle bestowed her promised kiss - a quick peck on his cheek with an equally brief embrace. The act left him beaming, and more than ready to help when she explained her peril.

Healer Leistenverletzunger, on the other end of the wand, was not interested in helping her. At least his stupid house-elf claimed so. Gabrielle was very surprised that the healer, or his house-elf, was not more concerned about Stanislaw's injuries, though she was not at all surprised over his concern as to whether or not she had bruised her bottom. Not every incident requires the patient to undress!

In the end, Gabrielle's best smile and her Veela heritage had carried the day. With, perhaps, a little help from the way Herr Von Schnittwinkel had held his wand and blustered. Gabrielle remembered her vision from when she had held that black wand. Granencole would not be a problem anymore! She did have to promise a kiss for each wizard though; two for Leistenverletzunger if Stanislaw did not die. Gabrielle tried not to think that Maman or Fleur would have gotten what they had wanted for just a hint of a future smile. This was somewhat of an emergency.

v - v - v - v - v

When one considers a toad, the characterization of predator does not come easily to mind. Yet that is what a toad is - a carnivore. Or, rather, an insectivore. Its predatory skills rely more on happenstance than pursuit, stealth, or, frankly, intelligence. Toads swallow their prey whole, but they do have teeth. So the spectacle of a rat beset with toads, clinging to tail, legs, and ears, was certainly unlikely but not implausible.

A rat, of course, will eat just about anything. The rodents have sharp claws as well. In this instance, these claws were busy trying to dislodge a very odd toad from the handle of a very important item. Since the rat, with its silver paw, was also very odd, it all made quite a sight.

The rat, however, had one more advantage, and it decided to use that advantage because, well, toads do have teeth. The rodent stood up on it hinds legs, then stood up more and more as it transformed back into the wizard it had always been. The toads did not keep pace, being ordinary toads, so their teeth, not particularly numerous or vicious anyway, effectively shrank while what they were sunk into either disappeared or expanded beyond their meager jaw capacity.

Free of the irritating amphibians, the wizard simply grabbed the tenacious, translucent toad in his silver hand and crushed the pest into a sticky ball. The cup was his, and with it he would regain the Dark Lord's favor. Even as he savored the thought, though, the engraved, golden goblet flew from his grasp, torn from him magically.

"[I knew it was you, you thin miserable streak of shite,]" growled a tall redhead. "[Those bloody Wildfires aren't worth a sickle, let alone a galleon.]"

v - v - v - v - v

Herr Sammlermacher was not dead, yet. Gabrielle was certain; it was the way he moaned. George was not dead either, at least his trampled body was not immediately visible, and neither was Soleil. The colt appeared to be wedged by stone pillars sprouting from the cultivated field between his hind legs with a Y-shaped one that branched to each side of his front flanks. Gabrielle could see that the Abraxan could not kick the conjured stone behind him, and could not move forward without catching his wings. It had to be horrible for him, so it was extremely suspicious that the colt just sort of drooped quietly. What had been done to him?

Tibault was not in sight, so Gabrielle hurried ahead of her aging personal guard. Which was when she discovered an equally droopy George, sagging against the far side of the stone impediment. Both Soleil and George raised their heads to greet her; Gabrielle lowered hers to stare at the empty bottles at their hooves. Feet. Feet and hooves.

"[Cheers, luv! Oy, Sunshine! Look who'sh 'ere!] shouted George. He pulled Gabrielle into a clumsy embrace that was more headlock than hug. "[Hullo!]" He dragged her around to face Soleil; the bottles skittered away as she stumbled through them.

"[George, oh mon Dieu, what have you done?]" demanded Gabrielle, her voice muffled by his side. She struggled against his arm.

"[Jes', jes', uh, it's that muggle thing - sticking? gluing? Yeah, gluing with me new mate,]" explained George. "['Ere, watch this.]" He pulled the cork from a new bottle, drank several swallows, and then put the bottle up toward Soleil's muzzle. The colt's thick lips held the neck of the bottle, then he raised his head, quickly draining the contents. George grinned proudly at the trick.

Gabrielle, now freed, was appalled. Drinking directly from a bottle was very rude - Maman was very definite about that. Even Papa was scolded if he forgot. Also, how many bottles had George given Soleil? The last thing she needed was for the colt to be ill! And how had George found the hidden supplies?

Obviously, a triumphant thought deduced with a version of logic peculiar to magic folk, George had been secretly watching her on her endless chores because he was hopelessly in love with her. Apparently not so hopelessly that he would -do- the chores for her, noted a thought that was more like Fleur. Gabrielle decided to ask him directly, because he would be caught off-guard and would have to admit his feelings.

"[Eh, George - ]" started Gabrielle as her beloved twisted the cork from another bottle of amber liquid. "['Ow many 'ave you given him? Stop zis! He will be sick!]"

George looked at her and grinned. "[Five for me and one for him! No - one for him and five for me. It makesh'is coat gloshy.]"

"[I, eh, do not zink zat is true. Brushing makes his coat glossy,]" informed Gabrielle. She should know, and there was a lot of coat to brush on an Abraxan. "[He can have only one in a day.]"

"[You can see that'ish not the case,]" said George, pointing unsteadily at the scattered bottles. "[I'll prolly die soon. I've pecklid - pickled myself.]" He took his swallows before passing the bottle up to Soleil.

"[Eh, what? Also, how did you find zee whiskey?]"

"[Ha! It was, uh - tha' girl with the eyebrows, you know, worksh onna Gleashon appor - appat - apparate - thing...]"

"[Abby? You mean Abby?]" asked Gabrielle.

"[Could be. Somethin' like that. She showed it to me. Showed me a few other things, heh. A real goer, if you know what I mean.]"

Gabrielle did not, but did not like the sound of that either. How did Abby know - Gabrielle's thought stopped as realization dawned. Was Abby the one who had been sneaking Soleil's supplies all along? Was that why Abby had wanted to be friends with her? And now she was showing George, eh, other things as well? Gabrielle was becoming annoyed with this whole situation. And now a new concern worried her. "[George, what is my name?]"

George looked at her with eyes that did not quite focus. "[Ish Gabbyerelle,]" he slurred. "[You're a strange bird, what with forgettin' your own name.]"

"[Eh, what? No, I did not forget. I was only, eh, only, eh -]" Testing. Checking. Pathetically insecure. Gabrielle decided not to finish. "[Eh, I am also a, eh, goer?]"

"[Give ush a kish and we'll see]" said George with a lopsided grin. He belched, then patted his cheek.

Gabrielle was startled by his bold request, more than a bit put off by his lack of manners, and finally disappointed. On the cheek? What was so special about that? She stepped close to him, though, with the hope that he would turn his head at the last moment to steal a real kiss. It was what she would do.

It was not what George did. He did the unexpected, which was to scoop her up after the chaste peck and lift her suddenly up to Soleil. The colt's lethal breath and sticky tongue forced the thought of just where George's hands were from her mind. Soleil got in two face-washing swipes before her hands found his halter for control.

"[Release her at once, scarlet fiend!]" demanded Von Schnittwinkel.

"[No harm done, no harm done,]" assured George. "[No reashon to point tha' wand at me Y-front.]"

Gabrielle was not so certain about no harm being done. She was indelicately spitting, trying to remove Abraxan from her lips. It was probably not really poisonous. Anyway, she did not want to end up in Healer Lecherous's clutches.

"[My dear Melusina, is this the one? For you, I shall utterly destroy him.]"

"[Oy! There'sh no need for that! 'Ere, have a sip of - Huh, ish empty.]"

"[Eh, what? Aah!]" Gabrielle jumped forward, then spun furiously to see exactly who had been pinching her bottom. There was no one but Soleil there, and while he might have wanted to nip her he was still restrained by the conjured rock. It had felt like the Compunctio spell she knew. Harry Potter had an invisibility cloak, but he was Ginny's boyfriend. Logically, Gabrielle quickly concluded, Fred had to be back.

"[What? What is it, my queen?]" asked Von Schnittwinkel anxiously. Gabrielle squeaked and flinched twice more.

"[What indeed,]" added George. If he thought, Gabrielle fumed after another rude pinch, that he was hiding his glee then he was more, eh, pickled than he knew. It was not Fred; George had placed a Goose-Flesh prank on her. Gabrielle reached for her handbag, which held the counter. And everything else.

"[Oof - don' look that way,]" warned George. "[Ish horrible!]" He covered his eyes with his hands.

Of course Gabrielle, who was once more ruefully regretting the unorganised mess that was the inside of handbag, looked up. Then away, very, very quickly. Healer Leistenverletzunger had closed up Stanislaw's wounds, wrapping him tightly with strips sliced from the curse-breaker's hip-waders, and was leading the wounded man toward them. Stanislaw did not wear anything under his hip-waders, something that was horribly, wobbly obvious now that their remains were around his ankles.

Oh mon Dieu, thought Gabrielle suddenly as the lunatics closed in. The answer to the ages-long question about the low fertility rate for wizards was now clearly obvious. [2] Who would want to marry a wizard and risk producing more wizards? It was time to free Soleil. Right after she found the sprayer of Goose-Gone to end George's prank. George was supposed to be, an abashed thought reminded, with some work, eh, quite a lot of work, her husband. Gabrielle set her handbag on the ground closer to the trapped Abraxan and stepped off the run-up she would need. She bounded forward, stuck out her wand dramatically, and said, "Accio -"

"[ -What- are you lookin' for,]" interrupted a smirking George. The accompanying pinch ruined the spell and made Gabrielle hop forward like a startled hare. Like a very annoyed, startled hare. She managed to not make a ridiculous squeal this time, but a new tactic was needed. She turned to level a Look at George, just in case that worked, but found the odious house-elf in front of her.

"Pardon Blackig, mademoiselle. Healer Leistenverletzunger has saved Herr Sammlermacher's life and wants... his reward. He will put Herr Sammlermacher's other kidney back in later," explained the house-elf. His eyes shifted left then right, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Blackig is thinking mademoiselle should give her reward here, and not in Healer Leistenverletzunger's tent. Blackig is thinking mademoiselle should not be making these sorts of promises at her age."

"Eh, what?" said Gabrielle, forgetting for a moment, because the creature had poked himself in the eye, before remembering. No pinch this time - French was safe! "It is not like that - " There was new shouting.

"[Do you know, that shounds like Potter,]" said George.

v - v - v - v - v

"[R-R-Ron!]" blurted Wormtail. "[Ah! I - I was just leaving, but, you see, I forgot a few of my - my things, so -]"

"[Shut it, will you? I know what - Oy!]"

"This artifact is, yes, the property of the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic," declared Professor Festeller, to no one's edification. He was already retreating back behind the wooden stall when an angry red bolt of magical energy nearly struck him. The attack was barely turned aside at the last moment, the resulting explosion tossing the professor into the air. The cup flew from his grasp.

"[Bloody hell!]" gasped Ron. He turned toward the source of the spell, already casting a shield spell. The impact of the curse aimed at him forced to stumble back. The caster of the spell was a youth, who was now summoning the golden prize to himself. "[You tetchy little midget!]"

The prized cup was nearly in the youth's hand when a thick, swirling stream of parchment intercepted and engulfed it. The flurry of official documents fluttered bureaucratically back toward Professor Festeller's outstretched hand before suddenly erupting into a brief but fierce ball of flame.

"[My lord! I will get it,]" insisted Wormtail. He hurried forward.

"[Impedimenta!]" snapped Ron. The spell sent the would-be rat end over end. "[You can go an' - Wait, lord...?]" The color drained from his face.

"[Lord Voldemort to my followers, and to those who will fall before me,]" said the Dark Lord menacingly but in a pitch that did not match. It would be another year or two before the voice used would lower.

"Monsieur Granencole, you will stop, yes, this nonsense," inserted Professor Festeller, though he was clearly more interested in scanning the ground.

"[You're Tom Riddle, to those who know better. Expelliarmus!]"

v - v - v - v - v

The Dark Lord turned and blocked the spell easily, but did not return a spell. The number of enemies was unknown, and there felt as if there was an Anti-Disapparition jinx in place to prevent escape. This was a trap; if he tangled up with Potter now he would be vulnerable, though this time the brother wands were not an issue. The Dark Lord raised the weaker wand he wielded. When he gained his true wand, the Elder Wand, and did not have to suppress the other, then his hand would not be stayed. "[That name has no power.]" Potter, noticed the Dark Lord, watched him warily, closely. Too closely. The Dark Lord shifted his wand slightly, and thought, "Legilimens."

The Dark Lord rocked back a step. The images were unexpected, the mind both unknown and yet strangely familiar. He had seen a young Potter, grimy, covered in blood, and standing exhausted over a ruined diary. The diary the Dark Lord recognized as the one he himself had kept as a student, and that the idiot Malfoy had failed to protect. The feelings of utter terror that accompanied the scene were the goal, but there was also a searing flame of emotion too strong to stand.

There was another way, however. The Dark Lord reached out for the Dark Mark that Pettigrew carried.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter kicked himself mentally. The spell should have come first and it should have been non-verbal. It had been stupid to think saying Voldemort's real name would rattle Riddle. Worse, he had no snappy comeback to Voldemort's words. He felt like a complete prat. Ginny would have given him an elbow in the side, or even a bat-bogey hex, for that, which, Harry knew, was not the kind of thoughts to be having in the middle of a duel. Mad-Eye had been very shouty about that. The peculiar memory from the Chamber of Secrets had distracted him. The scene had not been the way he normally recalled it; more like a memory in a pensieve.

On the other hand, this was not much of a duel. For which, Harry admitted, he should be thankful. Trying to curse a third-year just did not seem right, even if the third year was actually Voldemort. The professor seemed to know him - one of his students? Perhaps that was why Festeller seemed completely oblivious of the situation, or was that somehow the Cup's doing? Where had that gotten to anyway?

Focus, Harry reminded himself. It was not as if he could look around. The boy, that is, Voldemort, had flinched back, like something had surprised him. Not that he nor Ron had done a bloody thing. What could it have been? Voldemort, Harry thought, did not like surprises. He recalled the look on the snake-face when their wands had connected. If, Harry reasoned, he could do something really surprising, then Voldemort might pull back. Even five minutes would be enough with Hermione's portkeys. He wracked his brain for a spell, spurred by the realization the the youth in front of him was just barely moving his lips.

The strain was useless though. Harry knew fewer spells than Hermione, possibly even fewer than Ron, who had at least finished Hogwarts. There was nothing -

Wait, thought Harry suddenly. It was George's words that came to mind. He may not know many spells, but if Voldemort did, then so, perversely, did he. Harry recalled the fight in the atrium of the Ministry, tried to imagine the feel of it, and thought to himself, "Expelliarmus."

v - v - v - v - v

Hermione crouched slightly under the invisibility cloak. Her knuckles were in her mouth to prevent any inadvertent sounds, such as the unneeded warning she had wanted to give Ron, and the slight, very slight, correction on his shield spell that he required. Hufflepuff's Cup sat next to her, as far from her as it was possible to be and still be under the cloak, with a good Its-Not-Here charm on it. She dearly wished that Professor Festeller would quit looking for it, and either leave or pay closer attention to the stand-off happening right in front of him. Perhaps the professor was dismissing it all as some sort of inter-school squabble, but surely he did not mistake Wormtail for a student? Had he really not noticed the curse she had blocked?

His actions, thought Hermione, were somewhat understandable if Festeller really did not understand the danger. An item belonging to one of the founders of Hogwarts was incredibly important historically, and probably priceless. Except, Merlin knew the signs of danger were so clear. Four wizards facing off with wands drawn, and three of them had already cast spells. The rank of Beauxbatons as a school of magic dropped further in Hermione's estimation. Durmstrang was perhaps too austere, but Beauxbatons was -

That, thought Hermione, her previous thought derailed, could not possibly be Slytherin's Shield, could it? When had Harry ever learned a spell like that? It was mentioned in - Oh! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did not like that! Hermione chewed her knuckles and waited for the worst.

The Dark Lord's youthful face flushed red. "[You dare!? In front of the last scion of Salazar Slytherin, you dare to use that spell?]"

"[Yeah, I do,]" said Harry Potter, with a small grin. He had a talent for winding up bullies, but Hermione wondered if this was wise. "[I've probably got more of Salazar's blood in me than you do as -both- of my parents were wizards.]"

"[And they died by my hand, on their knees begging.]"

"We both know that is not true," hissed Harry in Parsletongue. Hermione could not even begin to fathom what Harry had said, but it was more than enough. She renewed the Anti-Disapparition jinx.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry saw the enraged Voldemort launch the spell, the initial movement like the twitch of a snitch. He met the spell with a lightning Levicorpus spell of his own, which did, as George had suggested, block the attack. The two wands did not connect, of course. While the results were good, Harry guessed that an important point of the technique had been left unmentioned. The more powerful curse from Voldemort's wand had gotten a lot closer to him than his spell had gotten to Voldemort. The tall, kite-shaped shield on his arm came in handy for the resulting eruption. A second spell from Harry's wand was easily turned aside by Riddle, who had not been distracted at all by the flash of magical energy.

Ron, unfortunately, had been. Wormtail now had the redhead by the neck, his wand's tip poked under his captive's chin.

"[Weasley,]" complained Harry.

"['S not my fault,]" wheezed Ron through the chokehold. "[Thought he'd have run off.]"

"[Now then, Potter. We both have something -]"

"That is enough, Monsieur Granencole, yes!" declared Professor Festeller, who had wandered up unnoticed from behind the youth, slapping the wand from the third year's hand and pocketing it himself. "You will return the artifact, yes, immediately. I remind you, yes, that you are on probation."

There should have been more of a reaction than jaws slacking, Hermione would think later. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the blurry Dark Lord, had just been disarmed by a buffoon of a puffy, middle-aged wizard with eternally red cheeks. Harry should have incapacitated Voldemort; Wormtail should have cut the professor down. Ron should have elbowed himself free. Instead, everyone just stood still, as if what had just happened could not be real.

v - v - v - v - v

Every creature allowed on equal terms with wizards has conscious thought. This is often accompanied by subconscious thought, which provides for a certain amount of flexibility, such as the ability to change one's mind. Usually these thoughts stay, as their name suggests, below the conscious one. This would be where focus and certainty are born. For some, these competing voices are closer to the surface. That could mean the indecisiveness and inattention of the dullard, or the sparks of inspiration and insight of the genius. It all comes down to how useful these alternate thoughts were.

For Gabrielle, who contended with as many as three of these muses in her head at times, well, judgement is reserved. In the current crisis, for example, the foremost thought was that neither George nor Soleil should ever, ever have that much firewhiskey again. A very reasonable thought, normally, but less so if one is dangling from the muzzle of an over-excited Abraxan mid-rampage. This was Montaigne's fault - he had set a bad example, noted an even less useful thought, and there should be words when she got back, except that it was Montaigne. Gabrielle swung wildly as Soleil galloped away. George's 'new mate' had jumped forward as soon as the blocking pillar holding him in place was dispelled, planting a rear hoof into her almost fiancé. Gabrielle was reasonably certain that George was still alive, though, because there were many colorful English idioms drifting up from the large hole. The colt had then snatched up Gabrielle by her collar, and bolted.

Soleil was, at least, headed in the right direction. Gabrielle had intended to take him back to the stall because, well, he could not just be on the loose, and because the stall was solidly built. It would also then be full of Abraxan. There was no way Granencole would be able to get her there. The only troublesome part was that her personal protector was once again left far behind. Gabrielle had to wonder if Herr Von Schnittwinkel should be trying to run anyway. He was only mostly over the chest wound from the unicorn.

Actually, noted a second thought sadly, there was another problem. Muggle clothing bought on the cheap, even in Paris, was more stylish than sturdy. Stylish in Gabrielle's opinion that is; disaster to Maman. The blouse was tearing. Gabrielle still had her rustic wand in her hand, and wondered if she could manage a hasty, in-situ bit of repair.

That turned out to be a very bad decision, and was not a very good beginning in the dullard versus genius debate. Raising her arm over her head to try and reinforce the collar halved the number of appendages holding Gabrielle in the blouse in the first place. One arm was not enough, and on a particularly wild gyration, as Soleil veered suddenly, Gabrielle slipped from the garment and tumbled through the air. Her wand was wrenched from her hand as the sleeve was pulled free. Which was how Gabrielle ended up on the ground, before her probable mortal enemy, with nothing covering her meager charms but the sheer black bodysuit, her lost wand at his feet.

This did not, at first, move the stalled conflict at all. A wild-eyed Abraxan thundering past does much to divert attention, far more than a partially undressed, petite blond sprawled in the dirt does to garner it.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Delacour, yes. You are all right?" asked Professor Festeller.

Gabrielle looked up, but not at the professor. It was Tibault Granencole that she was worried about. He was looking straight at her, but just a little lower than her face. Gabrielle quickly crossed her arms over her chest. "Pig!" A better, but sadly secondary, thought urged her to grab the wand.

v - v - v - v - v

Lord Voldemort struggled for control; control of his rage, control of this debacle, and for control of the other. Yes, the Dark Lord thought, especially the other. The strategy of moving from host to host was proving problematic. Even the nearly ideal situation now might be his undoing. The unbounded fear of the rushing beast, the complete animosity toward the girl - these were proving impossible to subdue. They might, however, be possible to guide. He could use these emotions to unleash the magical potential in the same way that the return of the child-witch had unleashed a flood of upsetting humours. The Dark Lord snatched up the wand at his feet. Any wand would do at this moment, but he was surprised to feel the warmth and potential from it. Well, well - the wand chooses the wizard. The Dark Lord quickly stepped around to the side of the fool of a wizard who had disarmed him, putting the buffoon between himself and Potter. "Percutio," said Lord Voldemort casually. The strange wand responded strongly, and a hole larger than a snitch opened up through Festeller's chest, and his heart. The professor gasped and slumped to the ground, looking rather confused. The Dark Lord turned to the girl, who was scuttling away backwards along the ground, one arm across her chest. The air crackled around him.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle slid along the ground backwards. It was not a very effective escape, but Gabrielle did not think it mattered because she was dead. Tibault had her wand - her wand! - and he had already hurt the professor with it. What would she say to Grandmere? She would say nothing, put in a second thought, as she would soon be dead. Why, demanded a third thought, was she not apparating now? It would be, all thoughts agreed, a very good time to apparate, even if it was back to Healer Listen-For-It-Hunger's lair. Gabrielle tried chanting her desire under her breath. Tibault turned to face her, then erupted in flaring green flames, which swirled around him likes snakes on a medusa's head. The conflagration grew and grew until Granencole was completely engulfed. Gabrielle looked away, thinking it was awful, but mostly she was thinking, "Apparate! Apparate! Apparate!"

Her efforts were, unsurprisingly, fruitless, and Gabrielle's current method of escape was no longer tenable. She could not back away any further; she had reached the edge of the wide hole in the middle of the camp. Gabrielle remembered that George was down there, and thought that he might catch her if she went over the edge. If, that is, he was not so pickled that he did not notice her. She turned her head to peer down into the pit, and concluded that the pickling was indeed complete. George had managed to animate one of the work tables, and was trying to ride it up the dig site's vertical walls. He did this by backing the poorly coordinated table up to the stairs carved into the far side, then having it charge forward, leap, and scramble up the sheer wall opposite that convenient exit. Gabrielle decided that, if she escaped Granencole, she would practice Maman's disapproving Look in a mirror to use on him. She had seen it often enough.

"[No! Don't move, Harry, and no one gets hurt.]"

Gabrielle gave up waving at George, who was now busily repairing a broken table leg. Harry had, for some reason, managed to turn his wand into an elaborate, jeweled sword. Ron was still held by that Ratworm wizard. Boys were useless. Except, unfortunately, for Tibault, who had not even been singed. He was exchanging spells with Herr Von Schnittwinkel. Gabrielle, having missed out on a proper break from schooling, felt that that was really very forward of a student, even rude, since Von Schnittwinkel reminded her of a professor himself. A certain, slightly insane potions professor. However, since everyone was busy with something, Gabrielle decided that she should be doing something as well. Which was leaving. She got up and sprinted for the safety of the stall.

Sprint was the intention - Gabrielle still wore the iron overshoes, which made her wonder where Soleil had gotten to. He was not in the stall, although Ginny was. Her sometimes coven sister looked feverish and pale. Gabrielle wondered if Ginny would be more comfortable without her shirt. Certainly Gabrielle was sure that she would be more comfortable with Ginny's shirt. Then again, the redhead was laying on the floor of the stall, and probably in - Anyway, there was not anyone to see right now. That was likely Soleil's doing.

Gabrielle should have been wondering why she did not hear the Abraxan destroying the camp, or knocking over the poor farmer's other barn. If she had, she might have wondered why that was not the case, and so she would not have been so shocked to find the creature standing stock still, rigid, on the far side of the stall. His head was held low, and turned to the wooden structure he would normally kick. Gabrielle hurried to the colt, and spotted the problem immediately. Two small twig dolls were propped up in front of the massive equine.

"This again?" blurted Gabrielle. She grabbed the frightened colt's ear and pulled. "You hope to take Montaigne's place and act like this? What do you do with small annoying things? You bite them!"

A large red eye turned its focus to Gabrielle, so she quickly clarified her advice. "Unless, eh, they give you food. Also, I am not, eh, annoying."

Soleil stamped a front hoof dangerously, so Gabrielle let go of his ear. Instead, she took hold of the leather lead and prepared for the unlikely task of dragging the colt away from Nona's handiwork. The old witch had not really left after all; perhaps there would be a breakfast in the morning. Gabrielle decided that she would say something to Nona about Soleil. Try to say something - it was never clear if Nona ever understood her. And only after the meal, since while the old crone may not understand, it was certain she would not be pleased. But how could Gabrielle not say something, the way the Abraxan was jerking and twitching? He was reduced to a hapless, cowering shamble by the Albanian witch, and that -

That was not correct. The huge beast had instead been working up some much-needed nerve. Soleil lunged forward, the suddenness catching Gabrielle unaware and sending her stumbling. When Soleil pulled back, she could see half of one of the tied bundle of twigs sticking out his mouth, and a mad gleam in his eye. A second thought wondered if her suggestion had not been a serious tactical error; the potentially more useful thought noting the lead tangled with her legs got less attention.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived - not the Boy-Who-Could-Defeat-Voldemort-In-A-Duel. That, Harry thought, was the problem. The shield had been a good idea; it had blocked Riddle from his run at the hoops, at least for a little while. The Sword of Gryffindor look for his wand, though, just made him look like a total berk. First, Riddle had not even noticed, and second, it was not as if he would actually risk whacking someone with the disguised wand. Was it even sharp?

The whole situation would have been more manageable if Fleur's little sister had not lost her wand. Or, Harry fumed, if Weasley had kept a better eye on Wormtail. If that old bloke had not shown up, well, things would have been far worse. Even now, though, Harry could see that the white-haired wizard was beginning to lose. The contest may have turned out differently if he had been a half century younger, or did not already have a chest wound.

Harry looked around. There had to be something he could do to distract Pettigrew. If the field was full of those vines Longbottom was always talking about, then maybe, Harry reasoned, he could provoke a patch just behind the pair. Everything just looked like, well, wheat, possibly. But if it could be transfigured, though, that might be enough of a chance.

Although, Harry had to admit, the loud, piercing shriek worked as well.

v - v - v - v - v

Soleil swept in low over the wizards' heads. They noticed him immediately; this was not a sight easily ignored. That was without the additional knowledge that the beast had just bested a long-time nemesis and was looking for a new challenger, and that the Abraxan's judgement was just a bit clouded by ten times the amount of firewhiskey he would have normally been allowed.

Even if the intimidating pass and rush of air could be overlooked, the arrival of Gabrielle could not. Particularly by the Dark Lord. Gabrielle dangled upside-down below the colt, caught by the leather lead and twisting in the airstream. Soleil swooped low; Gabrielle, of course, lower. Low enough for her head to smash into the upturned face of one Tibault Granencole. The impact was great enough to slacken the lead, and Gabrielle, untangled, continued past, cartwheeling across the ground.

She sat up, woozy, her hands clasping the back of her head where Gabrielle was sure there was a huge dent. She was seeing stars through a graying tunnel, and was a little dazed. The only thing that was clear was the bloody visage of the awful Granencole. Was that his blood, though, or her's? The defiler of Natuche raised the stolen wand and shrieked, "Avada Kedavra!"

There was a flash of green light and Gabrielle heard a strange sound like something rushing toward her. She could not see what was happening directly, because mostly what she could see was the golden coat of Soleil as he dropped out of the sky in front of her.

Gabrielle shook her head to clear the fog, which hurt to do and did not help much. Something was wrong with Soleil. The Abraxan had not so much landed as collapsed. He should not have been flying at all, not after a meal like that. Gabrielle made to stand, because Soleil was her responsibility, which was when she noticed two things. The first was that she had tumbled to a stop on top of Herr Von Schnittwinkel. The second was that Herr Von Schnittwinkel's hands were where they should definitely not be. It could be that he was just covering what the sheer bodysuit was revealing to protect her modesty, but Gabrielle very much doubted that. Herr Von Slime was obviously not in as bad shape as he looked.

"[Ron! Your wand!]"

The shout had been Hermione's. Gabrielle had not noticed her arriving before, and was more preoccupied by the angry Tibault standing on top of Soleil. And the hands. The temerity of Granencole was more than she could stand. "Get off him! Get off of him right now! Eh, there is another unicorn."

The youth responded with a snarl, and a spell that left an ugly purple trail in the air. Gabrielle gasped as it struck her chest. It had not hurt; there was no effect at all except for causing Von Slimy's cupped, slightly cupped, hands to fall away and his body to jerk. Gabrielle slid off of her perverted protector.

"[Weasley,]" complained Harry again. "[What the bloody hell was that? What are those things coming off your shoulders for?]"

"[Blimey, it wasn't like it was thrown to me,]" replied Ron. "[I mean, honestly, she throws like a girl.]"

"[I -am- a girl, Ron,]" pouted Hermione. "[You could have tried a little.]"

Gabrielle moved away from Herr Von Schnittwinkel. He, eh, did not look... Alive, supplied a panicking thought. And neither did Soleil. But, thought Gabrielle hopefully, Abraxans were resistant to magic.

"[S-stay where you are! The same trick won't work twice,]" warned Wormtail. He held Ron's wand above his head, his own was still jabbed into the soft flesh under his captive's chin.

"[Could you stop poncing around with that damned sword and do somethin'?]" suggested Ron.

Gabrielle started toward the motionless Soleil. She was more in a fog than ever, and failed to notice the effect her approach had on Granencole. He was agitated to the point of spasms, as two wills battled for control.

"[This is the favor that my lord has shown,]" announced Wormtail. Proudly? Ruefully? Gabrielle knelt at Soleil's head. She tried patting the colt's nose, ignoring the obvious futility, because if it was true, then, then -

The Dark Lord turned suddenly. "[Pettigrew, no!]" shouted the throat of Tibault, still standing on the unmoving chest of the Abraxan. He jabbed the slightly twisted wand, with a hair from Gabrielle's grandmother at its core, at the wizard holding Ron. The rat-wizard was blasted backwards, but not before there was a flash like lightning from his silver arm.

Gabrielle stood up and screamed her fury, "I was never sorry about it! Never!" Other screams joined hers.

"[She's lost it, Harry. Do something.]"

"[Bloody hell, he's going all runny!]"

"[Don't touch him, Ron.]"

"[Why d'you think I'd want to touch him?]"

Gabrielle bent down and picked up a rock. Not much of a rock, actually, more of a stone, in fact, but she threw it at Granencole anyway. Why did he not get off of Soleil?

It was not easy to run with a large shield unless one has practiced. It was not acceptable for Lord Voldemort, who was the magic, to be hit by a stone thrown by a child. It was confirmation of what the other had suspected all along - the girl had tried to kill him. The glint from her jewelry dazzled in the waning light, a mocking reminder of the flash of the unicorn's horn.

"[Accio, erm, Gabrielle! Accio!]" Harry struck a pose with the sword. Gabrielle, unaffected, found another stone. This one had a sharp, broken edge. Conflicting wills in the youth's mind found a common goal. Tibault Granencole raised the found wand and called forth the killing curse.

1 A troll! A troll!

2 Wizards are obviously superior, so it stands to reason that there should be more of them. Natural order of things. So why are there not more wizards? Of course, magic itself can be too alluring, and some never seem to find a witch with the right disposition. And again, having a large family risked producing a squib, which would tarnish the good name. Finally, of course, resorting to muggles is just not done. It was a true wizard's quandary.

No witch thinks like that.