Chapter Twelve - Now I See, Now I Don't
"Smash the magical hierarchy oppressing the natsiyak!"
"Oh, it's you, Unk."
"Smash the magical hierarchy oppressing the natsiyak!"
"Unk," sighed the goblin standing at the workbench, "I'm really busy."
"You're supposed to answer 'One purse, one natsiyak, one leader'," complained Unk.
"He did. Now stop shouting at the secret entrance to the secret hideout and close the proklet secret door." This came from the smaller goblin in the room, who was seated at a small table heaped with galleons. She was sorting these into small cloth bags. The secret headquarters of the Re-Clenched Fist was an unused office space above one of Unk's father's warehouses. That it was -above- felt wrong for the rebellion, but it had been pointed out that that made it more hidden.
"He did not." Unk glanced at the pile of coins briefly, hoping that his suspicions did not show on his face.
"We both did, right Blago?" she asked of the muttering goblin. Blago was bent over a silvery mass on the workbench.
"Yeah,that's right, Tieka," he said absently.
"You should listen more carefully, Unk. Now, what does the Half-Breed want?" asked Tieka.
"The -Halfing- has -delivered- orders from the Destroyer," said Unk sharply. He added quietly, with another quick glance at the gold, "I pay attention to everything."
"Good, good," said Tieka. "And what are those orders?"
"Unishtozhitelk wants a report on the results of the raid."
This made Tieka look up from the coins. "Oh ho? What happened to that idiot Dog's Tit? That was his task."
"The wizard was… dismissed," replied Unk uneasily. Dismembered was a possibility, or disemboweled. The wash of blood outside the man's home had been quite large, but not conclusive, not for a wizard. The presence of muggle authorities prevented further investigation, and there were no orders from the Destroyer regarding the stooge.
"Disappointing. That is what the results were," sighed Blago.
"Oh."
"The 'target' was destroyed, and there were no other wizard witnesses," clarified Tieka. She began redistributing the small number of coins from one small pouch to the others.
"But I do not believe that was the column to be totaled," said Blago. "The automatik nearly failed. Look, see this gouge? Another in the same spot would have holed the refractory layer. And it wasn't even an auror."
"Then, then the raid was still a success," tried Unk. "Another blow in the fight to overthrow the corrupt magiarchy."
"It was a test and it failed," declared Blago. "Oreikhalk is needed."
Unk did not have a reply for that. It was like announcing that sole ownership of Gringotts was needed. The automatik had to weigh as much as four fully grown goblins, and now is was to be made of oreikhalk? "Im - impossible!"
"Not all of it, you knut. A plated layer is all that is needed."
That was a surprise. Unk was not an expert, but this was basic knowledge. "That will ruin the tempering! The temperature needed - "
"I'm not thinking of the traditional techniques, no. I've read the muggles use a method they call 'electriplation'," interrupted Blago. "I would like to experiment with that. Also, the ejection pipe needs an alloy that can handle higher temperatures - it's warped."
Unk left the meeting wondering about these fingers of the Re-Clenched Fist. Blago and Tieka did not seem particularly rebellious, and never wanted to talk, over a pint or two, of the political aspects of what the Re-Clenched Fist was trying to accomplish. Blago treated his involvement as an opportunity to advance his research, and Tieka was more employee than rebel. Certainly she made certain the galleons moved.
Still, the ReCleFi was the tip of the spear, or at least sharpening that tip. And, Oggie and Max were always willing to drink - discuss the coming golden age of goblin rule. And once the golden age did come, well, there would be a time to settle accounts.
v - v - v - v - v
"Auror trainee Weasley! To the fore!"
Harry Potter and the Weasley in question looked at each other, then Ron said, "I'm right next to you, Pasty."
"Ah, right. Sorry about that; old habits and all," said Auror 'Pasty' Pasternock. "Well, have a look here. These are the footprints of our assailant as he came out of the wood. He makes straight for the cottage, seemingly alone."
"Yeah."
"Why? If this was his plan, what was he taking into account? Wizards and witches living out in the middle of nowhere don't do it because they're frightened little rabbits - there's some right nasty nutters out here."
Harry looked at the footprints while Ron stared ahead blankly. What he noticed of the imprints was that they were rather small, and deeper than his own. That made him think back to the fight in Albania, where Voldemort had possessed a student. Could that be the case again? A student-sized witch or wizard, at least in shoe size, who was also heavy. Or, carrying something heavy. How much had Hermione said the machine gun weighed?
"He thinks he's invulnerable," said Ron, now heading for the cottage. "There - I think that's a ward stone."
"What, behind the rabbit?"
"It is the rabbit, you silly sod," replied Ron. "It's been kicked aside. Walked right through the jinxes too. This way's safe."
"You know this how?"
"The ward was set pretty far from the house. No point to that unless you've something to back it up," explained Ron. "Classic defense-in-depth set up. See? The tracks just go right through. Not even changing stride, the smug bastard."
"Right. Weasley and I will go this way. Nanda, you take Potter and go 'round back," ordered Pasty.
Nanda, a tall, wiry wizard of Indian descent, looked up sharply. He had been carefully transfiguring the soil containing a footprint to stone. His wand was interesting as it was decorated with an intricate, colorful pattern. "This way is safe implies that another way is not."
"Go on, you'll have Potter with you. Have him go first," advised Pasty.
"What?!"
"There's a reason prophecies are hidden away. Besides, er, being wrong or useless half of the time," added Pasty, more than a little cryptically.
"You're insane,' diagnosed Harry.
"I'm an auror, and I use every advantage, and unless He-Who-shall-Not-Be-Named is hiding in the pantry, you'll be fine."
Fine, thought Harry when he and Nanda finally made it through the back door, did not apparently include the idea of unharmed. He was going to have a lump on his head from the deadfall that Nanda had only partially blocked while he fought off an animated garden trellis. There was supposed to be a bit of goodwill from the department, right?
Inside the otherwise plain cottage, the decor came as a surprise. Given the gauntlet he had faced on the approach, Harry had expected more of a sinister bunker with foe-glasses and medieval torture implements based on gardening tools hanging from each wall. Instead, the whole of the place was decorated in a nautical theme. The floor, the walls, and even the ceiling were planked with varnished wood. Shelves with tiny brass railings, as if the cottage was apt to be caught in rough seas, held a dozen or so glass bottles with tiny ships inside. Their even tinier crews harried about, raising and lowering sails. The centerpiece was a huge, old-fashioned wooden ship's wheel. That was set before the fireplace, facing the painting of gently swelling seas hung over the hearth. Very unexpected, thought Harry, in the middle of a wood near Coventry. As was the trail of blood leading to the vast stain on the carpet patterned with spouting whales.
The auror Pasty and Ron were digging at the wood of the wall with a poker from the hearth. "Oh great Merlin what are you doing?" asked Nanda in horror. He hurried forward with his wand out.
"We've been trying to get the, er, the…"
"Bullets?"
"Yeah, tha's right, bullets. We've been trying to get them out of the wall, but we can't find anything in these holes," explained Ron.
"Maybe they went all the way through?" suggested Harry.
"No, don't think so. There's a load of rust at the bottom of each one so far. The holes don't go through."
"Rust?" wondered Harry. That was not expected, though wizards being killed with a muggle weapon was not expected either.
Nanda had taken over the investigation of the holes. His technique was a different - he used his wand to draw a circle around the damage in the wall, then extracted the circled part like coring an apple. This was then split lengthwise very neatly with a slashing motion of his wand. It revealed, well, not much more than the cruder method had. The wall had been pierced through to the outside masonry by a misshapen chunk of rust. Rust that crumbled at the touch of the poker. Magic had to be involved, thought Harry, because it made no sense otherwise. That, thankfully, left the muggles in the clear. But why rust?
"Not what you were thinking, Potter?" asked Pasty.
"No, sir. There was supposed to be lead or stone," said Harry. "Erm, is there any connection at all to the earlier attacks?"
"Besides the same modus operandi and isolated location? No," replied Pasty. He did not look happy. "What to tell the public is the problem. Is it You-Know-Who back for another go already or not?"
That, mulled Harry, was the real question. He was here mostly as some sort of unofficial, and probably ineffective, Voldemort detector. But, he had felt nothing out of the ordinary and Ginny had not mentioned anything either. Not every act of magical violence had to be some plot by Riddle or his Death Eaters, but…
But, thought Harry, it was the bizarre method used in the attacks, the savagery, and the seemingly random targets that led to the suspicions. Wizards were not known for using weapons, or at least no other weapon than the wand. The idea of lugging a heavy muggle weapon about would not even occur to a normal wizard, and Riddle was anything but normal. If it was the Dark Turd again, then there had to be some sort of connection somehow between the victims, other than they lived where no one would see…
Trials, realized Harry. These were trials. Trials to measure and improve this weapon before making hundreds of copies like the muggles do, and then attacking the Ministry. No, thought Harry in alarm, the stadiums! It seemed like half of magical Britain turned out these days, and if -
"Gah!" shouted Ron. "Ow ow ow, bloody sodding hell." He sat down suddenly, and pulled at a shard of metal he had stepped on. "Argh! It went straight through my bloody trainers."
The sliver was shiny, at least once Ron's blood had been wiped off, and about half as long as Harry's finger. The gray metal did not match any of the brass in the room. It was also not rusty, which may or may not have meant anything. Nanda wrapped it carefully in a cloth and tucked it into a robe pocket.
"Proper set of boots and you wouldn't have even felt it," advised Pasty.
"Yeah, yeah," grumbled Ron, distracted as he poked his wand at his holed shoe.
Harry felt that that was somewhat missing the point.
v - v - v - v - v
It was supper in the Great Hall, the end of the week, and Gabrielle was, for once, sitting with her dorm mates. Normally she would be doing chores for Professor Trelawney into the evening, but after the, eh, mishap earlier in the week the seer had just said that she, Gabrielle, could use the room in any way she wanted, as long as she did not use her wand. Or light candles. Or cause anything to heat beyond body temperature. Normal body temperature. Gabrielle was quite aware of what the professor was hinting at, because the Headmistress had been abundantly specific. Just not, if Gabrielle thought about the lecture very carefully, completely exhaustive.
The Divination classroom in the tower was completely useless for Gabrielle's needs though. She had tried Seeing there before, just as an experiment and not to see if George was really not preparing for the Halloween Ball, and so Gabrielle could describe many of the plants and extracts used in the incense favored by Trelawney. Lavender, chamomile, and valerian were the strongest notes, with flobberworm mucus undertones. That was an odd combination for a classroom. Opening the recalcitrant windows needed a better spell or an Abraxon, and she had… had neither. It was a careless thought that brought to mind the memory of the lifeless prince in the wheat, probably wheat, and the horrible Granecole standing on poor Soleil.
The loss of appetite was not so bad once the food appeared on the tables with a sparkle of light. Gabrielle looked at the main dish dubiously, and it looked back at her. "Eh…"
"Don't worry, missus, I'm sure I'm delicious!"
A talking fish head, one of six, sticking up out of a pastry crust. Was this, wondered Gabrielle, a prank? Looking down the table, she could see the same was served.
"Ooh, stargazy pie!" enthused Saruchi. She reaches for a knife.
"Oh, stargazy pie, stargazy pie, a dish that looks you in the eye!" sang the fish head choir. "Fin repast, bit o' sup. Have no qualms, eat us up!"
Sukiya, who had recently gone back to favoring her chopsticks, plucked up one of the heads and put it atop her special bowl of rice. "Fish-san, what is inside?" she asked of it.
That, thought Gabrielle, probably broke the charm, which was unfortunate since she would have liked to know also. There were a number of 'traditional' recipes that used otherwise discarded ingredients. A pastry crust filled with the leftover heads of fishes might be one of them, and a bit too traditional for her tastes. Gabrielle served herself vegetables. Glazed carrots were usually safe and rarely spoke, and there was always a potato dish.
Stargazy pie was mostly fish, it appeared. Gabrielle knew this because Saruchi served a slice of it to her. That was something that was becoming a common occurrence, and not just from her fellow league members. Each of Gabrielle's dorm mates had added to her plate over the past weeks, usually with some explanation that would have been insulting if they were not, eh, Hufflepuffs. For instance, 'it'll help you grow' or 'it's good for magic' or 'that will fill out your figure.'
"Fish is brain food," advised Saruchi. Ah, thought Gabrielle, there it is. The unintentional, probably unintentional, slight did not bother Gabrielle much, but with the same spell it did bother more than a little. It was that her classmates were treating her as if she were just a little girl instead of a talented witch that had faced terrible dangers near Harry Potter, and so a nightmare or two should be excused as quite expected.
Actually, a second thought considered, perhaps it would have helped to have described more elaborately the talent - talents - that had caused her to be involved in the first place. Doing so might have needed a recounting of the events around Fleur's wedding, though, and that was still a secret. At least, she thought it was still supposed to be a secret.
"It's really good. Try some," urged Cath.
"Eh, what?"
"You're just picking at your food. You'll never grow up if you don't eat properly."
Gabrielle -had- been picking at her food, mostly to check if there were any surprise fish heads involved. But, she had also eaten some of the pie as well. Did she need to announce each bite?
That would be ridiculous, came a second thought, but this was an opportunity to bring attention to her talents. "I -am- eating. I was, eh, zinking of where to do ze… Seeing." The brief pause was important for emphasis.
"Seeing? You could use the Chamber of Darkness!"
Gabrielle turned to see Portia behind her. "Oh, eh, I need, eh, some place wizzout ze candles."
"Ah, right. I heard about the fire." Gabrielle frowned; she had not meant that.
"Chamber of Darkness?" giggled Kath. "Would ye be holding your… Cloak of Darkness?"
"We should have club room," said Suki-chan.
"It's hers, and I'm sure it's none of your business," said Portia crossly.
"Eh, what?"
"We're a league, not a club," whispered Saruchi.
"Well, you missed the last Convocation and all," explained Portia. "Thought I'd bring it 'round."
"We should have league room."
The hooded, light wool cloak pushed into Gabrielle's arms was black, but not -the- black of everything else. Yet - the truly black speckles were beginning to spread. Gabrielle sighed. Wool, noted a second thought, could be just the thing to take the chill off the mornings. And nights. Afternoons, too.
"Cool," approved Portia. "Oh, we can help with the Joining of Hands for the circle of Mystic, uh -"
"Och, let me guess. Darkness?"
"Shut up."
"Eh, no, zat will not be necessary. Holding hands is only needed for ze seances, you see."
"Seances?! You do seances? That will be so much fun!"
Gabrielle looked at Portia, trying for at least a Look of disdain. "No, zey are not. And I was only ze… I only helped," said Gabrielle. Perhaps it would be better to get back to whether the mashed potatoes would give her hair more body than to explain special rocks.
"You could use the library," suggested Saruchi. "I've heard that the potions research section is pretty quiet."
Gabrielle failed to keep the surprise off her face. Why would Saruchi have said that?
"Just order your minions to keep other students away," nodded Portia.
"Zey are not my minions."
v - v - v - v - v
The Chamber of Darkness, just an unused classroom in the dungeons, was quickly aired out with a swish of a wand by one of the taller Shadows. Which, of course, did not necessarily make them older. The room was further prepared for the Seeing by Chalking the Circle of Luminous Occularity on the Floor. Gabrielle wondered if her speech patterns would be permanently affected by her time in Hufflepuff. She had agreed to the Extraordinary Convocation in the Chamber - Oh - Mon - Dieu! This had to stop.
Gabrielle had agreed to use the room, and to be the evening's entertainment, because the suggestion to use the library had been a good one, and she wanted to save that for Hermione's task. Gabrielle was certain that whatever the cup and kettle were related to probably had to do with Harry Potter, and was therefore supposed to be secret. Also, Hermione had included books to be returned, although that was probably not an important secret. She could take care of everything in the quiet after, eh, curfew.
Stanislaw's package was probably a secret for him, but was only galleons to Gabrielle. The Assembled Watchers of the Darkest - the cloaked, fellow students did not need to know any of that. Gabrielle placed the long package in the middle of the… quite ordinary, chalked magic circle, and tugged at the straps. And pulled. And strained. "Eh…"
"I think it requires a Word of Command," said one of the hooded.
"No, it's a Blood Seal!" Declared another.
"Portia, give her your blade."
"Are you mad? You know what Happened in Potions."
That, thought Gabrielle, sounded a lot like Michael. He did not seem a Darkest Shadow, nor, frankly, a Sharpest Quill. Anyway, Kath, the other Kath, had, if not forgiven her, at least moved on. Suki-chan did all the slicing, chopping, and mincing now with her small ceremonial sword.
Thinking of potions practicals distracted Gabrielle, and made her frown. Right now all she was allowed to do was to recite the instructions and stir the cauldron if it was not a critical step. It was a ridiculous over-reaction, but Gabrielle had not argued because Kath, well… But now that her dorm mate no longer flinched when Gabrielle cut her meat, maybe it was time to broach loosening the restrictions. Gabrielle was certain she could measure out the components quite safely, and even add them to the cauldron. If it was not too hot. She could feel Pepsi-Z moving under the hood...
Gabrielle was distracted from the distraction by Portia's knife. The blade was the wavy stiletto that she had drawn in the library. Not currently dripping, but had that been imagination, or… or a memory? At least the Potions incident had been an accident!
"I, um, keep it really sharp," said Portia. Behind her the rest of the coven shuffled backwards. "Be careful."
"Eh, zank you, but I have my own," said Gabrielle. Which was half correct because she had forgotten that is was only half a blade now. The knife from Gaston had other blades, but the one she had melted, accidentally, would probably suffice. And, in regards to potential accidents, it no longer had a point. The stiletto even worried Gabrielle.
The strapping on the long package was, was stupid. And it did not like being cut. That was obvious from the harsh hissing sound the straps made when sliced, and by the way the severed ends whipped back and forth trying to wrap themselves around anything they could reach. One of the things the flailing straps found was Gabrielle's knife, which was yanked from her grasp and used to slash wildly at the air. It peeved Gabrielle that the hooded observers visibly relaxed at that.
Another of the straps wrapped itself tightly around one of Portia's wrists. That put an end to the struggle, because the stiletto -was- sharp and Portia was frighteningly quick with it. Actually, reconsidered Gabrielle, Portia was more frightening -and- quick. It was the way she laughed with obvious glee as she hacked the package's wrappings that gave Gabrielle a glimpse of the "darkness of the soul" needed for a Darkest Shadow.
The contents of the shredded box were, eh, slightly shredded as well. Frightening and quick, but not frightening, quick, and careful. Gabrielle did not bother with the two halves of the included scroll because she did not want to embarrass Portia. Or annoy her. Also, she did not want to be made to read it out loud in case Stanislaw was rude again - any 'ruins'. Gabrielle was disappointed that there did not appear to be any galleons included; rather annoyed actually, if he expected her to send the thing back. Especially since the delivery had taken -two- owls to reach her.
The object itself, once extracted from the tattered canvas that had wrapped the now-scarred wooden box, was… well, that was the point of Seeing, yes? The thing looked like a burned up old stick. Not so much a stick, of course, since it was smoothly tapered where it was not nearly burned through. Another staff, thought Gabrielle. Or possibly the remains of a broomstick. She wondered how many hundreds of galleons Stanislaw would be able to get out of some old wizard, and how many of those might be hers.
Gabrielle also wondered where the staff had been found. Or, eh, the broomstick, That mattered, of course, because she was still grounded by sensory humours. If she was forced to resort to the extreme measure of a lick, well, it would be nice to know that the ruined stick had been well-protected from bugs or worms or cludgies. She took a cautious sniff; the hood of the cloak was very useful in hiding what might appear to be weird behavior.
The smell of incense, used to conjure the proper atmosphere for the pious, lingered, but did not quite mask the acrid smell of smoke. Whether the burning was from the heaths of the city pushing back the last gasp of winter or was the city itself alight, Gabrielle did not know. She jabbed the blade into the soil, though that was hardly necessary. It could do its task on its own if she so willed it.
The incense had been wasted, as the allegedly pious had scurried like rats once the large bundle had been set on the low table before the altar. The service expected at this late hour was obvious: a sacred and, most importantly, clandestine burial. That meant whoever was wrapped in the old blankets was important enough that the departing pilgrims felt that maybe, just maybe, they should not have done it. A single of the pilgrimage remained, though, which should have been to her advantage. The man was tall, with the upright posture and bearing of the military or nobility. His dress gave nothing away.
"One of your kind, Iliodor," was what the man had said, indicating the bundle, once the others were gone. That caught her off guard, and left her uneasy. No one should have known that name, and no one who did should be so confidently insouciant in their manner.
The body was a mess, but she would recognize those terrible eyes anywhere. It was indeed one of her 'kind'; her one-time apprentice, Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin. Thoroughly dead, if she was any judge. Grievous wounds, the bloat of the drowned, burns, and even dirt in the wounds as if -
"The poor soul was already buried, my son. Why disturb his rest?"
The stranger - it was best to learn little about those requesting secret burials - replied, "The new rulers of the city were not convinced he was dead. Or dead enough. They had his grave dug up to burn the body. They were surprised when Grigori sat up and feared his spells."
That, Gabrielle thought, sounded plausible. Not the casting of spells, of course. If her old apprentice could, then he would not have allowed himself to be buried at all. The latest grave for Grigori was finished. Extra deep this time, not to reassure the defilers but because it would hold two. Her safety required anonymity. She was finished messing in Mundane politics, this was true, but Russian memories were long. She stepped back from the open grave, then whipped the bronze, incense-filled thurible on its chain while in the same movement swinging her implement in a hopefully deadly arc. Flesh was softer than the nearly frozen soil.
Gabrielle was not quite quick enough, and fell, Petrified. The counter-attack was weak though. In a moment she would be free - a fateful moment that depended on how stunned by the thurible her opponent had been. Already she could move her hands, and a bit more she would -
A spray of cold water drenched Gabrielle's face, breaking her concentration. She had been about to draw her wand, she seemed to recall. Now turning her head to breathe was more important.
"All right, all right. Baal, that's enough," called Portia. Were people clapping?
"Are you sure? She looked like she was going to murder you!" Baal sounded a lot like Michael to Gabrielle.
"It's fine. I, um, used a Petrificus."
Gabrielle sat up, because Fleur's spells had been much stronger so Gabrielle had a lot of practice escaping. She did put down the staff, which was not a staff but merely the handle of a charmed shovel. That was probably not worth much to Stanislaw.
"She spoke in Tongues!"
"No, it was Gobbledegook."
"l think it was Russian? I have a great-uncle that speaks it."
"You're lucky. My uncles are more jarvy than wizard."
"No, when I said great-uncle, I didn't mean -"
"Reveal to the Gathered, Oh Mistress of the Mirk, that which you have Seen." Gabrielle recognized the voice, a bit nasally and purposefully deeper, as coming from The Baleful. Now that she had a robe, wondered Gabrielle, would she also get a members list? Or perhaps a field guide to identifying others? The Coven of Darkest Shadows was already… eccentric, that was a good word, but it seemed doubly so if one had no idea who else was behind the hoods.
v - v - v - v - v
Slipping away to the library after the Extraordinary Convocation - no, the, eh, impromptu but otherwise regular club meeting was simple enough. All Gabrielle needed to do was to wait for her dorm room to be empty, put on the charmed apron, and leave. There was no risk to enter the library before curfew, after all. Then she merely had to wait. Gabrielle idled in the potions stacks because she had brought Sauveuret with her. Her plan was to teach him to follow a small bobbing flame in order to fetch a particular book on the unnecessarily tall shelves. Except that was stupid since she was not allowed to conjure fire inside the castle, and would of course not do so in the library anyway.
Gabrielle did manage to create a beam of light using an old History of Magic essay wrapped around her wand and the boring Lumos spell, and the squirrel was able to understand to follow the spot of light. Sauveuret was very smart. Sometimes. The problem was that most books weighed as much or more than Sauveuret, who was admittedly mostly tail. He could not even pull the smaller ones out when they were packed tightly on a crowded shelf. Gabrielle gave up when the squirrel became frustrated, since he would then start gnawing on the unyielding books.
The other reason to be among the musty shelves of ignored potions research was the book Gabrielle had banished to them. It was still there where she had left it, and now she had a use for it. The book belonged in the Restricted section. Her plan, once the library closed and Madame Pince departed, was to give it to the gargoyle-like creatures who lurked nearby. Pince's minions disturbed her, eh, in general but her sensory humours specifically. The weird grinding noise they made was annoying as well.
To pass the time, now that training had been abandoned, Gabrielle read some of the volume. She had not done so before, mostly because she had been mad at it for attacking her. The contents seemed a little like a diary, which made her wonder if she should be worried about it. She let it fall open as it saw fit:
Twenty-third October, 1918 - Weather dreary. Rain and colder. Mud. Two eggs, ruined, and foul bread at breakfast. No tea to be had. I shan't forgive Barrett for this privation. With the Americans as of last night, near Vervins. Part of the Expendable Force. The Yanks, I vouchsafe, are short on temper and shorter on manners, likely the result of the long ocean-crossing. I confess to resorting to the wand for the saur-gent, literally 'sour man'.
Twenty-fourth October, 1918 - Gray and overcast. Quite like home actually. Appalling rations, but came across a blighter from East Sussex willing to share a proper cuppa. Barrett is 'a-flipping his robes' - a new 'mashine' gun from one Mr. Browning is to be tested. Had a look at it after 'convincing' the sour man that there were orders. Very big on orders, that man. Looks all the same to me, very much like the others Barrett studied. Very mechanical. Am told it shoots 'bullets' that are twice the size of ones before. Like using a sickle to buy a knut - can't see how the fellows on the other side will be any deader.
The entries did not make a lot sense, but, to Gabrielle's dismay, there was another mention of Browning in the book. Perhaps the book, thought Gabrielle sheepishly, had not struck her because she had offended with a brisk, near run, but had just been too enthusiastic for a reader. She did not see any reason for it to be in the Restricted section though. Unless it was cursed, suggested a second thought. That was the sort of thought to have -before- opening such a book.
The drawing the pages fell open to, and the passages she read, were near the end of the kind of journal. The new mechanical 'mashine' from the mysterious Mr. Browning had come as a surprise. Therefore, Gabrielle logically concluded, whatever required the book to be shelved in the Restricted section was in the earlier, unread portion. She was certain that reading a bit more was safe. Reasonably safe, she just would not read to the very end, in case there was a surprise twist. And, eh, jinx. Gabrielle did skip ahead a couple of pages:
Second November, 1918 - Skies clear. I shall forever rue the day I met Barrett. We have made our way east to the 'front'. More the arse end of civilization, if you were to ask me and Barrett did not. There was a bombardment in the late afternoon instead of tea. The noise of the great guns off is astonishing. Am told these were British 60-pounders. The thing is the size of two horses and made of iron. I wager that it weighs quite a bit more than sixty pounds.
Third November, 1918 - Skies clear, colder. Barrett has expressed his determination to investigate the German mechanical guns. He believes he has spotted a new specimen through his telescope. The local sour man is generally supportive of this idea and I find that worrying.
Fourth November, 1918 - Disaster. Barrett is dead. I shan't blame the Hun what did it because Barrett was a bloody great idiot to the end. Dropped the fine disillusion charm I did for him right in front of the German soldiers and their damned 'mashine-and-go-where'. Merlin will only know why he hailed them in English, holding his arms like he held a rifle. Done in by pantomime, as so many are. He might have made his escape were it not for the second 'nest'. I do not regret my decision to lie flat in a crater left by the bombardment instead joining in the greeting of our potential new hosts.
Fifth November, 1918 - Snow. On the one day I hoped to leave no trace. Recovered Barrett's wand and effects, at great personal risk, by the cunning use of Stupefy in the dozens. I am certain the Ministry will have something to say, but they can jolly well bugger off unless they are coming to get me. Will take three or four days, perhaps a week, to escape this madness.
Gabrielle closed the book. While the author was not very good, the implications of what he described were also not very good. This Barrett had been killed by the German gun, which was like the English gun, which the 'diabolical' Mr. Browning had made a new version of. The M2 was not a motorway. That is, it was a motorway but it was also the name of a 'mashine' gun.
Gabrielle suddenly felt a chill. In the span of an hour she had come across two instances of muggles killing wizards. She had never considered muggles a threat before; they were more like part of the background in Paris. Or like other wizards who minded their own business. Why was Ginny asking about these guns? Why did she think George would know of them?
It was not difficult to imagine an answer for these questions. It had to be Harry Potter at the root of them. And also for the items that Hermione had sent, of which the sudden darkness as all the magical lanterns extinguished at once reminded her. The library was closed now, but Madame Pince would probably prowl the dark aisles for a while more, like last time. Gabrielle thought that the librarian was just enjoying the complete silence, and that no student was touching any of the books. Gabrielle was certain that Madame Pince had departed when she could start to smell sulphur. The strange gargoyle-like creatures had found her.
Gabrielle, politely, or as politely as was possible, holding her nose, that is, protecting her sensory humours, was ready for Pince's minions. She did not want waste any of the mystic energies on them and their complaints. When the two gray humanoids knelt on a knee before her, Gabrielle pushed the books, from Hermione and the journal, toward them with her foot. The ones sent by post were far too large for one hand and her other hand was on her nose. "Shelb dese," ordered Gabrielle, with an imperial wave of the wrong hand. She held her wand for light; would the wave work? They were not even wizards, let alone redheads.
The creatures picked up the books, then stood there making their weird grinding noise. Gabrielle had to wonder if they never, ever realized that they were not speaking the same language as Madame Pince. Perhaps she would have addressed their issue if she had been able to understand them. Gabrielle had assumed, though, that the minions would somehow understand her. That was in question now, since the two had not left. She switched which hand was trying to preserve her humours and tried the wave again.
The correct reaction to the gesture, thought Gabrielle, would be to do as she had asked and leave for the Restricted section. An acceptable alternative would be to wander away perplexed by the weighty tomes in their grasp, like they had done with the pasties. The utterly wrong, utterly inappropriate reaction would be for the creatures to bend over and tear a claw off their own paw. Eh, foot. That, however, is what Pince's minions did, presenting the severed bits to Gabrielle on outstretched palms.
The correct reaction to the unexpected self-mutilation and spreading flow of thick black blood was to flee. Quickly excusing one's self and retreating posthaste was a largely acceptable alternative. The inappropriate reaction was to attempt to reason with the insane creatures. These were the third, second, and, sadly, first thoughts Gabrielle had.
"Eh, doe. Dey are lib-ary books, yes? Dere is doe reason to, eh, pay," tried Gabrielle. She could not take the sickle-shaped claws in any case, as both hands were needed for her nose. That was not working - she could almost taste the sulphur taint, and the surrounding shelves of forgotten potions theses now had a reddish cast as if lit by a setting sun. Gabrielle desperately tried to ignore that the peculiar grinding the winged gargoyles normally made now sounded a lot closer to actual speech. She had no enemies in need of rending. Not after the disaster in Albania, anyway.
Something had to give, and this time it was Gabrielle's sanity. The minions were both in front of her, which meant that there was nothing behind her; there was nothing and no one blocking her retreat. Except now she was not sure she could trust her eyes in the strange light, since her eyes saw a dust storm blowing through the fully packed wall of books. So, she took out one half of the scroll Portia had slashed and wrapped the offered claws in it. "Eh, zank you for all your hard work," mumbled Gabrielle as she tried to use as little breath as possible. "Go. I will wait here."
That was a lie, a very small one, and Gabrielle could always claim that she had changed her mind and decided to find a less, eh, aromatic spot to do her Seeing. A spot, perhaps, that was as far from the Restricted section as she could manage. Which, with a second thought, Gabrielle realized was a little stupid. The one thing that everyone knew was that Pince's minions could not leave the library. She could, though, and since it was surely past curfew she could use nearly any room in the castle she wished. This was a very logical thing to do, and Gabrielle knew it was the right choice when she saw the reflected orange glow over the shelves of the Restricted section. Whatever was happening there was not her fault, and she was not going to be blamed for it.
Gabrielle ended up returning to the deserted Chamber of Darkness, because it was in the dungeons and, therefore, close to the Hufflepuff dorms. That particular classroom had also been chosen before, which made it easier to choose again when one was tired and faced with a castle full of options. All for naught, regrettably. Neither the mangled kettle nor the cup elicited a vision of any sort. Even with licking. The stupid, smelly gargoyloids -had- used up her mystic energies. Gabrielle sighed; she should have tried Hermione's items first. They were probably important. More so, at least, than the ruined handle of a shovel.
In the hallway outside the Chamber of - outside of the club room was Mrs. Norris, whom Gabrielle paused to pet. She wished that she had set aside some of the stargazy pie for the scrawny cat. She doubted that Mrs. Norris was really a kneazle-cross. There was no hint of mane once the neck fur was smoothed. Perhaps she would start to carry some kibble with her. Pepi-Z tugged; Mrs. Norris had a friend, a tabby that came up from behind Gabrielle and settled next to it's less well-groomed kin. Gabrielle reached out to the tabby and scratched between its ears. She was surprised when the cat curled its claws into her sleeve, and surprised further still when the cat rose up and then kept rising. Gabrielle tried to pull away, but it was too late. The Headmistress held her arm tightly, her other hand holding wand glowing brightly.
"Miss Delacour. Dressed, I see, as some sort of domestic avatar of death," said McGonagall, peering at Gabrielle through her spectacles.
"Eh, what?"
"It is after curfew, you are dressed in an odd manner, and you were barely detectable while sneaking about. I know we have something to talk about. In my office. Now."