Chapter Seventeen - A Week of Ginny

"This is nice, posh even," complimented the red-headed visitor. She sat on a small sofa, lightly built, covered by a light floral pattern. "I should dig a hole in the ground as well."

Across from her sat, on a matching chair, the host who had bushy brown hair. "A lot of it came from Ron," said Hermione, her normally unruly locks tamed by a band. She added, because of the face Ginny made, "All right, I did pick most of it, but he insists on buying things. And if he is going to spend, then it should be for a good value."

"That explains the crocodile, does it?" Ginny pointed at the suspended specimen hung from the ceiling with her spoon.

"It -is- a period piece, and very traditional wizarding decor," described Hermione. "A bit of whimsy."

"Ri-i-ight. You don't always get your way."

"No. He said he's always wanted one since the trip to Egypt."

"Huh. Still, wouldn't have thought a trainee would have two galleons to rub together."

The two witches were enjoying a tea, set on an elegant wicker cart, within the much grander, if a library was one's idea of grand, interior of a rather small tent in the middle of a field. The tent was most noticed by the wandering sheep. They could not blunder into the deep hole in the ground nearby, but were allowed to approach the unassuming tent because it can get bloody lonely out in the middle of nowhere.

"He gets an active deployment adjustment, and then somehow convinced the Ministry that since he was a secret double agent, he should get secret double pay," explained Hermione. "I suspect Harry had a hand in that since I can't see the way Ron puts it as working."

"It does seem, er, difficult to be secret when you go about telling people," commented Ginny. She fidgeted in her seat, reaching behind her back to adjust something. "So, how is the 'dig' then?"

"I rather think I've been wasting my time," sighed Hermione.

"You haven't found anything?! There's a gaping huge hole just outside!"

"I've found loads - there's been a cottage or house on this very same spot for a thousand years. And, a layer of ash every so often as well. That's pretty exciting."

"Is it?"

"It is, or was, traditional to burn a witch's home if she died in it. The layers could mean that one witch or another has lived here for near a millennium."

"Ooh," breathed Ginny politely. "What about a specific witch?"

"Rowena Ravenclaw? The only evidence there is circumstantial, I'm afraid," admitted Hermione. "The location matches the lore, and a witch or a magical family did live here, but I really can't say for certain it was her or her kin. I haven't found anything as obvious as something with her crest or name. Or even just initials."

"Heard anything from our girl? The Mistress of Mirk?"

"No. I mean, yes, I did hear back, but she did not have any visions," replied Hermione. "McGonagall said that the kettle was from the right era."

"McGonagall? That lousy little snitch!"

"It's fine, really. Better some result instead of none, and Gabrielle doesn't know what we're looking for anyway. She wrote that she might have exhausted her, er, mystic energies that night and would try again."

"Likely perving on George with a crystal ball. You're not worried?"

"About her peeping and her exhausting her mystic energies? Not particularly. I can't bring myself to count on something so woolly, something -"

"Something you can't do yourself, you mean," interrupted Ginny, her smug grin answering Hermione's glare. "I meant about McGonagall."

"I am absolutely not worried about the Headmistress. She'd give her wand arm before she'd go against Harry. Though, even if Beebee doesn't know what we're after, I'm reasonably certain that McGonagall will work it out. What, however, is not the same as why."

"She goes by Gigi these days," noted Ginny. "Should we 'lean' on her a bit? Remind her of who put together her special circumstances?"

"Er, you know she isn't to know of those - it's part of the arrangement. But I was thinking of asking her to try a seance," said Hermione. "Biscuit?"

"A seance? You think she's capable of that? I mean, the way she described them, it was that Albanian crone that was leading them, right?" doubted Ginny.

"Well, I've been doing a bit of reading, at least as much as I can stomach, about divination. Bee- er, Gigi's prophecies always seemed a little strange."

"I thought that was a given for those things."

"Er, I suppose it is, isn't it? But, Gigi said that she 'made the voices'. I think she was channeling a spirit, which makes her a medium."

"You know, you're making it hard to have a serious conversation when you keep giving setup lines like that. 'A little strange' - why yes, she is. 'Makes her a medium' - no, she's definitely an extra small."

"My suspicion is that she was, in fact, channeling Dumbledore, or, rather, he was using her to give a warning." Hermione ignored the commentary.

"That's a bit of a leap…"

"She might be able to contact Ravenclaw herself."

"And how would that help? Don't you think if Ravenclaw knew where the diadem was, she would have gotten it back?"

"Oh. Er -"

"You need to talk to someone besides the sheep."

"Ginny -"

"Or Ron. He comes round often, I'm guessing?"

"When he can. What makes you say that? I always restock the pantry afterward."

Ginny did not say anything, but held up a set of manacles with a polished silver chain and pink fuzzy cuffs she had found behind her. Hermione quickly turned pink.

"That's, er, that's -" stumbled the older witch.

"If you say they belong to the sheep I'll - Oh, Merlin, the sheep! You, you aren't..?" worried a smirking Ginny.

"Oh, do shut up."

v - v - v - v - v

Ginny Weasley sat at a chronically wobbly dining table and stared down her opponent. Her hair was tied back in a single ponytail by a green and gold ribbon, those being the colors of the Holyhead Harpies. The nemesis she faced had no eyes, unless one counted the 'i' and its capital - it was an extraordinarily mechanical type of writer that Luna Lovegood insisted upon. The contraptions were immune from the influences of the Ministry's brain-jellifying emanations, it was said. At least, by Luna. Ginny was not so sure. She felt certain she had hit the lever marked with a 'g', though on the paper trapped by all manner of contrivances there was now an 'f'. Who would worry over a foblin? The current tension was the result of Ginny trying to recall, or to force by sheer will, the tangles of rods, levers, and buttons to make obvious which of said buttons to press to make the bloody thing reverse direction and erase its error. Maddening.

Her colleague, Luna, approached from from the stairs to the cellar. Colleague, instead of friend, because they worked together at the Quibbler, the proprietorship of which seemed to have fallen to Luna. That made her the boss, and the friendship had… strained. Luna wore a sky-blue apron with small pink animal shapes sewn on. Those were, Ginny had learned, hairless nifflers; rare and endangered, apparently. Luna's blond hair was covered by a kerchief, which was dotted with dried apricots. Those were not rare or endangered. The fruit, the kerchief, the apron, and Luna herself were spattered with ink. The cause was undoubtedly due to the emanation-resistant mechanical monstrosity that was the printing engine. The house fairly shook to its rhythm, when it was working. Which it was not, though Ginny believed it was supposed to be.

"Ginny. We should talk about the goblin story," began Luna.

"It's a good headline, isn't it? It came to me like I used a wand to summon it," said Ginny proudly. "Goblin Gathering Gathers Goblin Gawkers."

"It is quite alliterative," agreed Luna. "You have a gift for something that seems important to you. I am not quite certain, though, whether it captures the essence of the existential threat to all of wizardkind that the 'gatherings' mean."

"That -would- be hard to capture. Or to say that it even exists in the first place," argued Ginny. "The goblin-spotters treat the whole thing as a lark, an excuse for a night at the pub."

"My sources tell me otherwise."

"Then I should be talking to -those- sources, don't you think? Assuming they have a corporeal form."

"As I have told you, Ginny, I can not reveal this source."

"Source? As in only one?" snapped Ginny. "I've sat through the endless ramblings of a pub full of goblin-conspiracy… enthusiasts... and heard nothing of the sort."

"The Destroyer exists -"

"Not on their league tables, he doesn't. The goblin-potted track a dozen 'leaders' of the annual rebellion. There's galleons in the cauldron for picking the winner, so they're a bit obsessive."

"This source is placed rather deeply and I will -" started Luna.

"It's your father, isn't it? You don't need to tell me if you don't want to, but I've already guessed."

"Simply astonishing, Ginny. You make an assumption and the declare it to be correct, needing neither evidence nor investigation. Why, it saves ever so much time, leaving more for... quidditch," said Luna archly.

"There's a lot less evidence than you -imagine-. You're just tetchy because I'm right."

"Well, I'm afraid I just can not bump the yeti crisis off the front page for your goblin story as it is. You need to find details about the Destroyer first."

"Then how about a lead or description for this bloody goblin that has your Dad, er, 'source' all hexed?"

"They say no one has ever seen him."

"Because he's invisible, or because he's imaginary?"

v - v - v - v - v

Unk the One-Eyed crouched behind a tree. It was not long after sunset, a deep twilight. He, as the Chosen One of the Completely Clenched Fist of Might, was the Forward Observer. That was a muggle phrase, forward observer, and it meant someone who watches from upfront. In this instance, he would be watching the automatik in action, close to the business end of the tip of the spear. The target tonight was the most dangerous yet, and the wizards were even said to be Death Eaters. This was an important role.

Or so Unk wished to believe. The dead Dog's Tit had performed this task prior to his gutting. Fate had chosen Unk as his replacement by means of the short straw. That was less acclaim than luck; it was also the kind of luck that left the other Fingers of the Completely Clenched Fist of Might looking relieved instead of envious.

This was important though. What spells were used against the automatik and what effect they had on it were crucial to evaluating the latest, and extravagant, improvements. That was not exactly a knut of a problem. Unlike the wizard who had studied and used the wand spells that had been aimed at the oncoming automatik, Unk had no real knowledge of wizard magic. So he had acquired, much to Tieka's annoyance, an Omniscope. The expensive, magically-enhanced binoculars would record everything for later, and might be able to annotate some itself.

Unk trained the Omniscope on the worn, two-story house. There was light from a room upstairs, as well as some escaping the drawn curtains on the ground floor. The clearing around the dwelling was much larger too. Unk had anticipated this, though, and had spent more galleons, Tieka be damned, in the so-called black market.

'Forward observer' was a muggle phrase; so was 'ghillie suit'. Unk wore one now and theoretically looked like a bush planted behind a tree, though he had to wonder if he did not look more like some sort of tropical green yeti taking a moment to move its bowels. Once the trial began, and he had to move forward to observe, there would hopefully be enough distraction that no one would notice the goblin behind the birdbath.

A brief flash of red lantern light indicated that the automatik was activated. Unk found it difficult to watch the house as the device sort of worried him. Why did it even have a face? Duty called, however. When it came to smashing the established magicarchy, well, that was something that the world's most expensive hammer was supposed to do quite well.

v - v - v - v - v

"Alto!" came a hoarse shout from above. "Are you making that racket?"

"No, Mother," returned Alecto Carrow. "You useless old hag." That was said in a much quieter voice. Why did Mother insist on using a toddler's mispronunciation?

The thought was automatic, and not really important, because there was an unholy racket. Something was hitting the house. A lot of somethings were hitting the house. Alecto heard windows shatter. What in Hecate's name was this?

"Cousin? Are these your 'friends'?"

"Don't be stupid, Moonbeam," snapped Alecto. There were two branches to the Carrow family, one 'Toujours Pur', as the saying went, and the other, less so. Her cousin Selene, who was as pale as the domain of the goddess she was named for, had muggle blood on her father's side. She and her son had moved in after Amycus…

"Is it the Ministry?"

"I don't know. Why don't you go and have a look?" said Alecto. If this was an attack, who could it be? The aurors usually waited until after they had identified themselves. A rival? Who would dare?

"It's a shiny man," announced Selene. She was peeking out from the side of the window. "Your knight in shining armor has come at last, I suppose."

The window glass shattered and the wood frame exploded into splinters, all accompanied by loud staccato bangs. Alecto decided to take action; she was not going to spend her evening undoing this vandalism. She apparated.

Or rather, she tried to apparate. That Alecto could not moved this affront from annoying to serious. She aimed her wand at the window, and finished destroying the glass and curtains in order to better see her foe or foes. It -was- a shiny man, holding something in his right arm that was more like a staff than a wand. The apparent weapon was the source of the loud reports, as evidenced by their arrival after each flash of fire. Well, armor would do him no good. Brief flashes reflected on the ground showed that her mother was making an attempt, at least until there came a howl from above that quickly died away. Selene made for the stairs.

Four spells later, Alecto was truly beginning to worry. She was cut by bits of her family's home as it was shredded, and incensed that her magic was completely ignored by the armored interloper, as were any and all of the difficult wards and jinxes she had carefully prepared as a defense. Alecto had the thought, briefly, that this was the Dark Lord himself. She doubted that he would take the form of a weedy student though. Whoever it was was so close now. The old cast-iron wood stove offered some protection from the thing's incessant attack, but it was turning the rest of her family's home to a shamble. The portrait of her dear brother had been destroyed. That made Alecto livid, more than the apparent loss of her mother, which Selene had shouted about.

Not quite incessant. There was a pattern to the over-confident fool's attack. There was a pause after every fifth flash of flame and thunderous boom. Three, four, five counted Alecto. She jumped up and shrieked, "Avada Kedavra!" One, two three - the jet of green destruction had not killed her enemy. The metal of the armor simple glowed a sickly yellow where the magic hit. The figure's return did not miss, and was not deflected at all by the powerful, reliable shield that she and her brother had long practiced. Terrible wounds opened on her shoulder and side. Alecto stood only because of the stove; her jumper started to singe. She stood long enough, though, to see the attacker fall. Unfortunately, the thing only fell into a small pound, the sort that Selene was fond of conjuring, complete with lily pads and small frogs.

"Alecto! Alecto! We've got to - oh. Oh, Merlin!"

"Moon…"

"Right!" said Selene crisply, with determination. "Er, right," she repeated, with a lot more uncertainty in her tone. There was a lot of blood, coming in gouts, and she was far more certain when it came to plants and herbs than animals and cousins. Well, Selene thought, there was hardly a way to make things worse, She fixed an image of a freshly, and poorly - raggedly - pruned branch in her mind's eye, and aimed her wand at the wound on Alecto's mangled shoulder. The hot pitch made her cousin howl, but that was an improvement over the gurgled mumble before and the blood stopped. Selene quickly repeated the spell for the wound on Alecto's side. Another screech of pain that began, possibly, the healing process. "We need to run!"

"Bury…" gasped Alecto, feeling for her wand. She could not push herself upright at the same time since her other arm was some distance away.

"Oh Alecto, don't give up now," encouraged Selene. "Can you stand?"

"No…" began the nearly former Death Eater. It was too late, though. The deadly staccato had started anew, and she could see there gleaming attacker through the remnants of the window. "Get -"

"Get what?" interrupted Selene as she tugged. "Auntie's dead. You have your wand. Now -"

'Get away' was what Alecto had intended, but it hardly mattered now as Selene's head exploded. 'Three, four' were Alecto's last thoughts.

v - v - v - v - v

Unk slumped at the booth table he shared with the pretty stranger. A passerby might have changed 'at' to 'onto', but no passerby would have noticed in the first place. His drinking companion was a short, sturdily-built witch with red hair. She might have seemed an odd choice to share a table with, given the thorough smashing of the established magiarchy earlier, but this was a muggle pub and he was using a glamour. It was also -that- sort of pub, and she might have some goblin blood too. Very possible, since nearly the first thing she had said to him was to ask if he was a chicookvan player. When he replied no, not for years, she had run her hand over his shoulder and expressed surprise. Then she ordered drinks.

Unk had not chosen the pub to dabble in mixed blood. It was simply the first safe drinking establishment on a line between the bloodbath in Birmingham and the headquarters of the Completely Clenched Fist of Might. It was the shock at seeing the carnage that was doing it to him - he had been nursing the same drink all evening after the witch across from him had sat down. She had had at least six, and was chatting away while displaying her cleavage. Unk was on to her game though. She seemed to know a lot about the rebellions, but he did not believe a word of her voiced support. Gimmy, that was her name, right, cute name, was just looking for some fun and probably a bit of gold. Unk wondered if her name was short for Gimmak or Gimchok.

Gimmy, who was also using a glamour, tipped a little more of her drink into Unk's. It was easier now that his eyes rarely left the gap in her blouse. The liquor was some foul goblin distillation. The owners of the pub only knew it as an ethnic specialty that sold profitably. The drink hid the small doses of potion well, or well enough that a half-pissed goblin could not tell.

The witch, a disguised Ginny Weasley, was enduring the third evening of what she thought of as Luna's Revenge. In the aftermath of their latest little tiff, Luna had provided the names of the pubs her father swore were key gateways in the goblin rebellion network that was supposed to be such a threat. Ginny could see no threat beyond how poorly done most goblin glamours were, and just how much of the vile liquor they were willing to pour into themselves. The poor sods did not even pretend to think they had a chance with her. Maybe it was the red hair; she had had to fend off worse behavior at Hogwarts. She supposed that failing at being a slag was not really something to worry over.

"Hey Unky," started Ginny, giving him another pat on his upper arm. She needed to ask before he ended up face-down on the table. "You ever hear of the You-need-to-shoot-elk?"

"The Unishtozhitelk?!"

"Oh my Otivamn! Shhh! Not so loud," whispered Gimmy urgently. She leaned forward a bit more to be closer to his ear. "You know him? They say no one has ever seen him."

"Yeah. Haven't seen. Tip of the spear, us," returned Unk unsteadily. Smash the established magiarchy, yes, but maybe not the nicely proportioned Gimmys.

"Ooh," cooed Ginny. "No surprise there with these arms." Another squeeze - they were like coiled flobberworms. "My leader of the pack on the front lines." She almost made herself gag with that one.

"More… political. Galleon squeezer," sighed Unk. He took a carefully measured gulp of his drink.

"Thought leader and master counter. You're pretty high up then, yeah?"

Unk grinned at that. It sounded a lot better that way. "I'm the, the… vrugkok also."

"That much as well?" asked Ginny, feigning awe. That word was not among her hastily acquired vocabulary of Gobbledegook. "You said us before. Do the others do -anything-?"

Gimmy was mostly witch, thought Unk, but she really, really understood. "Oggie and Max're only free on weekends. Tieka skims galleons and thinks I don't know. Blago only cares about the automatik - hic. The Halfling's at that school, but is still the runner."

"The automaticket? I haven't heard of that at all," said Ginny with an exaggerated, petulant frown.

"'S secret," explained Unk, teasing.

"A big secret?"

"Biggest."

"Of course you're in on it. Leader an' all."

"Yeah."

"So... what is it?" Ginny leaned closer yet.

"Still secret."

"Unky! You're not going to tell? Not even a hint?"

"No." Unk downed more of the drink that he did not remember he had already finished.

"Come on, Unky. Be a dear," said Ginny, whispering so she could breath right into his ear. The last two refills were nearly all potion. "I promise you won't regret it."

"Can't tell," said Unk. Gimmy frowned again, her eyes disappointed. Her grey eyes - the eyes of the Unclean clan. He had not noticed that before. "But… here." That was a bare whisper as he set the Omniscope on the edge of the table.

Ginny dropped her jacket on top of the Omniscope. "Fancy a walk, Unky? I could do with a breath of fresh air." Quieter, and again right into his ear, she added, "Might be too conspit - conspeck- consensual to use here."

Unk was many things. Chief among them was being more inebriated than he knew. Another was being unaware of the greater stage on which he was just another tragic figure. He was quite aware of the sharp and cute Gimmy, though, who was going to be a bit of fun. "Yeah, 'know somewhere with a nice view. Private."

"Purrfect."

The next morning Unk was once more many things. Chief among them was being horribly hungover. Another was being unaware of where he was and why he was shackled. His bonds were made of dense oak rather than iron. He was quite aware, now, in retrospect, that Gimmy was probably not even the slightest bit goblin.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle made a mental note to learn how to create new spells. That was for solving the problem of how to have a mental note become an actual note, in a situation where writing materials were not readily in hand. A situation, just as an example, where one found one's self being bodily dragged out of the castle. Gabrielle needed a physical reminder in case she got hit in the head, and forgot the original mental note, which was to find a way for Pepi-Z to give an audible alarm. The red bobble was unable to rouse her reliably when she was sleeping.

The quidditch pitch was cold and dark. That was, Gabrielle had carefully reasoned out, because it was still night. Mount Mal believed that it was nearly dawn, but she was, Gabrielle was certain, wrong. Gabrielle had, under duress, sort of promised to try out for the position of beater on the Hufflepuff quidditch squad. It was not a promise that she had intended to keep, but, well, that determination had not accounted for the equally determined Malachite. And, her unexpected deductions regarding the handbag - Mal had not fallen for Gabrielle's attempt at delay, saying that if she had the handbag then she probably had what she needed. That included the beater bat, the broom, and warm clothing. Gabrielle had only been allowed to change from her nightdress when they had reached the changing rooms!

Gabrielle examined the bludgers in their case while Mal argued with the captain, a tall, it went without needing to be said, seventh-year of possibly African descent. He was bald, which was either a matter of style or unfortunate family history. Strangely, he wore a pair of small spectacles that looked nearly opaque even though it was still night.

The bludgers were definitely older than the ones at - well, the ones at her other tryout. There was a lot of pitting on their surface, and flattened spots in places from hard impacts. Gabrielle ran her fingers over those spots, wondering if the cause was due to the bats or a wizard's head. Maman had said that some wizards had really hard heads. The bludger was warmer than she expected - it was close to freezing outside by her estimation - and fairly thrummed. The enchanted iron ball felt a lot like Pepi-Z had felt back when he was alive, and Gabrielle liked that. Its twin in the case rattled and strained at the restraints holding it, so Gabrielle stroked the second as well. The two bludgers looked nearly identical, but the second felt less excited than, eh, determined, perhaps. Gabrielle fought the urge to give them names. She would, after all, be hitting them soon.

Malachite came up, looking annoyed. "Stokesy isn't keen on it, but it he's willing to let you have a go."

"Oh, eh, zen I, perhaps, should not?" She tried to sound at least a little disappointed instead of hopeful.

"No, no. He's just worried about telling Barky, but Barky really wants to play Seeker."

Gabrielle was going to ask what the current Seeker thought about that, but that might be construed as taking an interest. Malachite was definitely in her element though. Gabrielle had never seen the witch so comfortable.

"Let's start with a basic ground warm-up," suggested Malachite. "Which one do you want to use?"

"Geo - eh, zis one," said Gabrielle. She had been petting both bludgers, and could not help thinking of them as George and Fred.

The target was a wooden outline of a chaser on a broom, mounted on a heavy post. This would spin, apparently, if it was hit hard enough. Gabrielle could not see why one would bother. The target was not moving, and she was not on a broom.

Malachite released the strapping on the bludger, and struggled a little to keep it under control. Gabrielle stood some distance away with her bat, now the center of attention. There was decidedly little practicing going on at the practice. At least this part of the grounds was lit by the wands of the curious. Malachite, once she had stepped off the required paces, threw George the Bludger at Gabrielle. The iron ball rocketed toward her, until it met the bat she swung.

The area just outside of the practice pitch darkened a little, as members of the Hufflepuff quidditch team, save for Malachite, took a step back. When the wooden chaser ground to a stop, it was missing the part that was supposed to be its head. Yes, thought Gabrielle, the bludgers were very much like George and Fred. She might have been able to redirect the bludger toward the target, but the rest was the magicked ball's doing, no doubt for the fun of it. She caught the bludger in the crook of her arm as it came close, spinning like a top until it slowed.

"I knew it. She's the one."

"Do you believe it now, Trinity?"

"My name... is Donna."

"Merlin's oofs! That was a brilliant strike!" raved Malachite, slapping Gabrielle heartily on the back. Painfully, from Gabrielle's perspective. A second thought wondered what an 'oof' was. The sound one made when slapped on the back? "I told you Gryffindors don't lie."

"Zey do play pranks, zhough, and so, I zink, does zis bludger," said Gabrielle. She patted the black ball tucked under her arm. "Zat was not me."

"Let's get her up in the air. Dank, load the training program." Gabrielle jumped a little. The captain's voice was surprisingly deep. Though, he was a seventh-year after all, thought Gabrielle.

"Um, right. Click! Buzzzzzz…"

Okay, thought Gabrielle, that was more than a little weird. She looked around, wondering if something was going to happen. Nothing did, except that Dank, a chaser, stopped making the noise after a while and stood looking sheepish. It was natural, as a witch, to wonder if he was supposed to use his wand. The captain, though, also a chaser, did not question it.

The problem was that no one wanted to fly around being the target, not after seeing what, eh, George-B had done to the wooden stand-in. Eventually it came to rounds of Wand-Cauldron-Wizard between the seekers and chasers. Except for the captain, of course, who needed to observe. Donna, short for Belladonna, lost. She was the starting seeker, and it surprised Gabrielle that the dark-haired girl could not use her standing as influence. It must be, Gabrielle decided, a Hufflepuff thing.

The tryout did not last very long. Gabrielle hit the bludgers toward Donna, Donna deftly dodged them, and Malachite returned the bludgers toward Gabrielle. Gabrielle found that she could tell the bludgers apart by the way they flew, and noticed that, eh, Fred-B's efforts were flagging, as if it were bored. She tried to hit the laggard into a trick shot, which the iron ball was able to grasp on the third try. The bludger sailed wide of Donna again, only this time it ricocheted off the returning George-B. Redirected, Fred-B slammed Donna across her wrists, surprising the seeker and debrooming her. She fell heavily to the to the sand below and curled into a ball. Gabrielle could not help but think that if it were at least dawn then fewer wards would be needed for light, leaving at least some for rescue. She first turned her broom toward the fallen seeker, but then thought that she should corral the bludgers. Just in case, she thought, they had the notion that it would be fun to finish the job.

That was a small mistake. The bludgers were making for her anyway, so one was easy enough to catch. Easy to catch did not mean easy to stop. The momentum of the ball, Gabrielle thought it was the one she had named George-B, spun her around the broomstick like a pinwheel. Briefly. She was also debroomed, but unlike the seeker did not fall. Gabrielle hung from the bludger, not exactly feeling lucky that a year of handling feed, cages, and overweight, spoiled half-kneazles as an apprentice allowed her to do so. She was definitely headed downward, but there was much greater outward direction to the flight as well. Loosed bludgers were magically constrained to the pitches, but, well, she had to admit that she had a pretty tight grip on this one. If she could somehow face the other way, Gabrielle might have been able to see where it, and she, were headed.

v - v - v - v - v

"So," began Ginny Weasley as she settled next to Harry Potter. They sat under the moon that filtered down through the bare canopy of an old oak, near the bank of the pond, which was itself near the Burrow. "I'm thinking I'll leave the Quibbler."

"What? Really?" asked Harry.

"Well, yeah. Luna will be impossible to deal with after this," sighed Ginny. "She was right about everything, the goblins, the Destroyer, even the 'mecha'. Well, more or less right. I'll never hear the end of it."

"I'm still suspicious of this Destroyer bloke," sniffed Harry. "Another leader with secret plans that almost no one has seen? We've done this before. Isn't that the same as that 'Chairman'? And didn't he turn out to be bloody Voldemort in disguise?"

"It's a fair point, sure, but these are goblins, Harry. Why would they follow a wizard, especially that one? The goblins didn't do any better than the average wizard when Moldywart was around."

"Still the same, Gin. He could use glamours or legilimency to fool them. It could even be another round of possession, like that student he used in Albania."

"But wouldn't he consider goblins below him?"

"Riddle considers everyone below him. And Grindelwald used regular people, the muggles, against wizards too, right?"

"That's not the history that's taught, but -"

"It's him."

A silence fell, broken only by the furtive, and expected, sounds of a young couple keeping each other warm.

"Well, well, well. Wot 'ave we 'ere?" It was a small voice from a small creature. "Let's see some eye-denny-cajun, if'n ya - hey! Wait, wait, dis is -"

A flick of a wand, and the quiet returned. After the splash, and after the spluttered outrage gave way to delight. "Heyho, a krebit! Das de stuff." After some wet crunching too.

"So, you'll fly for the Harpies?" asked Harry. The mood was sort of lost listening to the late, loud supper the guardin' gnome had found.

"Just as a member of the practice squad for now," replied Ginny. "I do think I have a shot, though."

"That's brilliant."

"Not having to fight that mechanical writer will give me more time to check on Hermione too. Keep her in the right Floo pipe, so to speak."

"Ginny -"

"She tried to kill you. That doesn't bother you?"

"She was making a point."

"That her cauldron's losing a leg? Where did she even get that gun?"

"From, erm, Fred, apparently."

"Ah. I might have guessed," sighed Ginny unhappily.

"The point is, is that we still don't know what made the goblin attack so, er, effective," reminded Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Dodged.

"The, er, bullets the goblins used were twice the size, right? That has to make it easier to hit a person," insisted Ginny.

"Mmm." Harry could see how that might matter, but did not believe that it did. When Hermione had pulled out the rifle and started firing, she had only been a few feet away. It was magic that had kept him safe, mostly, er, safe, especially at the start, not his later efforts. It was also magic that Ginny's 'little talk' with Hermione afterwards in private had not been fatal either, whatever had happened. Neither girl, nor Ron, who had to help Hermione after, wanted to discuss it.

"Do you think Fred's under an Imperious curse?" asked Ginny, not for the first time. "Possessed?"

"No."

"You're sure, are you?"

"If there are magic bullets, then wouldn't he have given Hermione some? Fred just, erm, has the wrong impression about something," said Harry. The mood was definitely gone now, and he was starting to feel the chill.

"Something I don't get to know?" The tone of the question was as a dragon opening one eye as an intruder tried to slip by.

"Gin…" replied Harry. No more was needed, since this intruder had been by plenty of times before. Fred had somehow learned the contents of his letter to Moony; that much Harry was sure of. He was less certain if Fred had learned of what his godfather had found, and what it might mean. Which brought his thoughts back to Riddle. "You haven't, erm, felt anything, or had any odd dreams, that sort of thing? You would tell me, right?"

"I haven't."

"Do you, erm, think it's still, you know, er, working?"

"Why Mr. Potter, are you asking me if I want to make a little magic?"

v - v - v - v - v

The door to the office shuddered under the heavy thumping. Samuel H. Sterner, Section Chief, First Order, High Dean of the Training Corps grimaced. It was, he supposed, his own bloody fault for once trying to dodge an encounter with Weasley, his personal Dementor. While the lad remembered little of what his instructors tried to impart, Weasley never forgot that.

"Yes, all right, enter," barked Sterner.

"Hi Dean, First Order, and the rest," said the tall redhead cheerfully. He took a seat, but left the office door open.

"Weasley," managed Sterner.

"Is there any tea? Been run ragged today, you know?"

"Been run ragged today, you know… what?"

"Sir."

Samuel H. Sterner counted that as a victory, closed and sealed the door with his wand, then fetched out the teapot and kettle. Obviously it should be the junior member providing the service, but Sterner liked this set and did not trust the bungling Weasley. He had sent another of his trainers to Mungos. A soft pop snapped Sterner's head back around.

"One for me, please, if you're having some," said Harry Potter politely.

"Potter!" exclaimed Sterner, his shock coming through. The door was closed and sealed by his own wand, and there were two anti-apparition jinxes in place along with the usual Ministry warding. If the man could slip through all of that with apparent ease, what did he need of the Ministry?

"A biscuit or three, for me," added Ron, surreptitiously pocketing the small vial and cork which, from much experimentation, produced a sound nearly identical to a well-done apparition.

"Why look, my invisible tea cart is right out," replied Sterner. He took his tea with a little lemon and sugar, so that was all that he put out. "What is it that you want this time?"

"What I want is for you to -" started Ron.

"We've had a bit of luck regarding those murders," announced Harry, verbally stepping between the two to get things moving.

"You have?" asked Sterner. He had not seen any reports about this, or heard rumors.

"It's a bit, erm, political, for now," continued Harry. "We've got to be careful."

Samuel H. Sterner, Section Chief, First Order, High Dean of the Training Corps barely contained his reaction. By focusing on one irritant too closely, he had quite forgotten the larger web upon which he was still trapped. "What do you want me to do?" he managed finally.

"We need you to get any information about any student linked to goblins from the Headmistress at Hogwarts," explained Harry.

"Linked?"

"By, er, blood, directly or in their family."

"I think even Weasley could tell if a student was a goblin."

"Oy, watch it you."

"Why have me do it? It can not be a formal inquiry."

"'Cause McGonagall always makes feel like I forgot an assignment, and Harry has his own 'source' to contact," answered Ron.

Sterner poured the tea. There was really no way to argue with someone who would say that so bluntly.