Chapter Nineteen - Visitations, Right?

"Ah, Miss Delacour, our youngest - er, guest. Ahem. Bon soir, bon soir - welcome. You look lovely, my dear," gushed Professor Slughorn. Gabrielle was somewhat taken aback by his enthusiasm. Perhaps it was due to her being a guest, or because he was verging on the Winterhall stage of life, or perhaps it was because she was no longer wearing the school robe over her dress, but she found the attention from him unusual. The neckline of her dress plunged into very little, but, it was possible, it was just enough. Which, a shameful second thought offered, might be a help for her potions marks.

"I've always meant to ask, your accent, you are from northeastern France?"

"Eh, yes, but we are not zat far from Paris."

"Your sister has moved to this green and pleasant land also, I believe?"

Ah, thought Gabrielle, this was about Fleur. Relief or disappointment - it was a close thing. "Yes, after she, eh, married, of course." A gentle warning, though Fleur could take care of herself.

"Oh, and I believe your father was mentioned in Le Monde Magique? Something about a Grand Prix?" asked Slughorn.

"He was?" Gabrielle was not spending on international delivery, so she had not heard that. There was certain to be a copy, or three, casually left out in Maman's sitting room, though. She smiled proudly.

"I dare say the event has captured 'la fantaisie' of French wizards!"

"I just hope it captures market share," muttered George.

"Eh, what?"

"George Weasley, my dear man! Welcome, welcome."

"Could be, could be. Can you ever be sure?"

"I believe, in this instance, that there is little doubt," claimed the professor with a slight nod toward the beaming Gabrielle. "Do try a glass of the scotch. The distiller is an old friend."

v - v - v - v - v

The Halloween Ball, reminisced Gabrielle, had been fun. Or, at least, the little more than quarter hour of it she had managed to experience had been fun. Mags had fetched the handbag for her after finally being convinced that she would not be missing out on some sort of mass hugging event, and that she was only helping to squash Gabrielle. The insane Gryffindor had set out to retrieve Gabrielle's things right off, dismissing the suggestion that she find a coat or cloak. Mags revealed that she had gotten her own clothing while holding just a single item of what she had once worn while under the effect of the potion to her. Which worked out well at the time because she had been tossed into the lake again because of the detention. Gabrielle supposed that the, eh, vigorous swimming style Mags preferred helped her be oblivious to the state of Bemonius's nose.

More time was spent not at the Ball because she had had to ferry Sukiya back to the dorm. George had suggested transfiguring her friend into a vase to match the others and leaving her, but that was only because of the talisman. Gabrielle had to use her broom, and of course Mags could not be dissuaded from climbing on too, because that was what they had done the last time. Gabrielle insisted that George come along, though he had to walk. She remembered the covetous witches from the dance at the, eh, other school, and this time they would be able to converse with him!

The overloaded broom made it to the dorm all right, because it was in a favorable direction, that is, down, but the travel was still slow. Slow enough that Sukiya recovered sufficiently to not want to miss any more the dance. It was not a full recovery though, since she also wanted to use the broom again for the return trip. Sukiya apologized repeatedly for the imposition, all the while tightening her grip on Gabrielle. She would not get off the broom, and Gabrielle could not. So, therefore, neither would Mags. George was no help at all, choosing instead to magic the sofas of the common room so that they meandered around like cows in a field.

The return trip was not in a favorable direction, but took less time. George offered a short cut, which turned out to use a spiral staircase that would have been tricky for Gabrielle to manage even if she had been the only passenger on the broom. The broom-borne witches cleared the obstacle in seconds, thanks, in a small part, to a push by George. The greater part of the assistance came from the Comet's Tail that George had placed on Mags during his encouraging effort. Gabrielle had experienced the prototype of the prank ages ago. The riders shot up the spiral staircase, turning like mad and leaving a trail of smoke and cinders. There was a lot of screaming. The only thing that kept the three from being ground against the curving wall were Mags' churning legs.

Unfortunately, Gabrielle and her passengers ran out of spiral before they ran out of spiralling. When the twisting stairs reached the straight hallway, the prank turned them straight into the wall, just below the painting of the battle of Nee woods. That was from some goblin rebellion - goblins fleeing a wizard posing dramatically with a wand while the village behind him burned - and was also the least important thing to notice as Gabrielle crashed into the stone, because Suki-chan then crashed into her, with Mags crashing into them both.

Mags then continued spinning down the hallway, filling it with smoke and trampling Gabrielle with her magically motivated feet. Suki-chan was uninjured, cushioned as she was by Gabrielle. She pulled Gabrielle's crumpled form upright. Gabrielle, dazed and abraded, could hear George's laughter echoing up the flight of stairs. She was holding what looked like a short length of a branch, with a splintered end. In the state that she was in, Gabrielle could not quite work out what is was. Her disorientation caused her to miss what Suki-chan had said. The President of the League of Transfer Students diagnosed catatonia, and slapped Gabrielle across the face.

The broken and bespoke broomstick was going to be a real problem when it came to navigating Hogwarts, but it did put a definitive end to the quidditch question. George was apologetic, but not particularly contrite. Because it had been funny. He promised to have the broomstick repaired and tucked it into a pocket. Gabrielle was surprised when he also asked for the shattered wand with her Grandmere's hair at its core. She had, of course, planned to have it fixed one day, eh, somehow. The ruin of the wand had been entirely that Tibault's fault, or the Dark Lord's, and not George's. So his offer to have it repaired meant, to Gabrielle, that he was more sorry than he led on. That encouraged her to extract a few more promises, such as actually dancing with her, not leaving her side, and not using his wand at all. Gabrielle had not forgotten the wine-to-butterbeer fiasco, and did not want him banned.

The dancing had been the best. The flowers providing the music had begun to wilt, and were playing at a slower tempo. A slower tempo meant slower dancing, which in turn meant -closer- dancing. It had been heavenly, at least for Gabrielle. George might have been regretting the metal pants.

In a slight oversight, Gabrielle had neglected to extend the promises to the post-Ball Slug party. There was no dancing, so that did not matter, but there were many professors and Ministry people who wanted to speak with George, or the reverse. Gabrielle found herself wondering if they could leave, which would probably not be the polite thing to do. There were, she noted, no slugs. Which was just as well.

Gabrielle sat in an overstuffed armchair, well away from the platters of hors d'oeuvres and dainty puddings on the long table across the room. The, eh, circumstances of the Ball had not given her a chance to eat, so Gabrielle had assumed it was simply hunger that had drawn her to the arrayed delicacies. Instead, it was her sensory humours acting up. Professor Slughorn had rather extravagant tastes, and she had been completely immersed in the desperate battle between the royal beluga sturgeon and the merfolk who risked their lives to gut her for the eggs she carried. Gabrielle only emerged from the vision of the watery fight after she had feebly swum away, dying, with her innards exposed to the weak creatures she had fed on for generations. She was left with a powerful, and straightforward, sense that her last day had sucked, and the ire of Professor Slughorn for having "gobbled" down almost thirty-six galleons of caviar.

Gabrielle was not the only student in attendance, but she was, aside from the Head Girl and Head Boy, the only one not attending to a tray of food or drink. That is, except for the annoyed witch who once had over-priced fish eggs to offer. The stocky Head Boy was hovering close, an overreaction to the Seer's trance she had experienced, though it was just as likely that he was meant to prevent her from trying the crystallized fruit or the little mounds of greens with the tiny fried eggs on top. Gabrielle wondered if those were from miniature chickens.

"Eh, are you alright?" asked Gabrielle. The Head Craig looked exhausted.

I've got a lot in, er, on my mind lately. Assignments, research, and N.E.W.T.s are coming up. There's dealing with troublemakers too."

So much, thought Gabrielle, for polite conversation. She wondered if she was actually sentenced to be in the chair, or if it had only been to allow her to recover. It would be embarrassing if the chair grabbed her.

"I know what that stone is," declared the Head Boy.

"It's quartz," blurted Gabrielle. She regretted trying to speak with him, since now the hair on the back of her neck was signalling a premonition.

"I meant I know where it came from. I've made a study of the hidden histories of the magic world, and - "

"How did you find zem if zey are, eh, hidden, as you say?"

"They are hidden from wizards, because - "

"Mais, you are a wizard, no? Ze hidden realm, eh, zat is, history would still be, eh - "

"I meant human wizards," growled the Head Boy.

"You are not ze human wizard?"

"I… am going to have Theophania watch you."

The Head Craig looked annoyed, so Gabrielle was not opposed to the idea, but she needed to explain. "I, eh, do not need to be watched. It was ze sensory humours. I am grounded by zem. Zat is, sometimes."

"Oh. Right. Divination."

Gabrielle decided that she would not wait for the change in guard and would test the chair, or at least its reaction time. She did not particularly like the way the Head Boy had scowled the name of her talent. One of her talents. She braced her hands on the padded arms of the chair, and was glad to feel not a twitch of the furniture preparing itself.

Of course, launching herself out of the potential, upholstered prison would have been easier if Professor Hagrid, the real Professor Hagrid, had not stepped in front at that moment. Gabrielle's escape attempt was short-lived, not that Hagrid appeared to notice the collision. "Hullo Gigi, lad."

"Professor," returned the Head Boy sourly.

"Eh, hello, Professor Hagrid," said Gabrielle more warmly. It was very possible that her comfortable confinement was to be pronounced over.

"Professor." That was all the excuse offered by the Head Craig as he turned to leave. That was, thought Gabrielle, very rude.

Hagrid heaved a sigh, which was no small action for a man his size. He seemed, after his deflating sigh, well, deflated. The polite thing, thought Gabrielle, was to offer him the chair. There was surely no way the furniture could argue with a polite, respectful action, yes?

"Ah, that boy," said Hagrid glumly.

"Would you like to sit down, Professor?" smiled Gabrielle, trying to radiate helpfulness. It might help.

"Jus' Hagrid will do," said Hagrid absently. "Sich a shame. Me, you, and him have a bit in common."

Gabrielle rather doubted that, although all she really knew about the Head Boy was that he spent a lot of time on the seventh floor and that he was quick to blame her if she happened to be near when something went wrong. She had never seen him at Hagrid's cottage, but perhaps he had found a way to eat a rock cake too? Hagrid would always give her two with, bleah, tea. One would be cracked open with the clever knife from Gaston; the other would join the growing pile in her handbag - the truly emergency food.

"Boodge up le smidge, luv," requested George, popping up suddenly from behind Hagrid's bulk. Except that he did not wait for Gabrielle to move, and so sat on her. "Close one there with your 'troll', big man. Sorry about that. Bit derivative anyway."

Gabrielle wriggled and flailed her free arm, to little effect. What was the point of this? "George, whmmph -" Her protest was cut short when George leaned across her.

"Er… yeh. Classics are the best, so's they say. Seems ter me he enjoyed it… Er, I think yer squashing poor Gigi," suggested Hagrid.

My wand, thought Gabrielle. She should have used a ribbon to hang it around her neck, no matter how stupid, how juvenile it would have looked. The blond stick was useless to her in the handbag. George's own wand was closer, but equally unaccessible pinned as she was.

"You don't need to worry about this one," assured George. "Now, ever tried your hand at raising boomslangs?"

'This one' was not a particularly polite way to be addressed. Especially by one who, well, who was supposed to be her fiancé. Had he not, wondered Gabrielle, enjoyed the Ball? That is, what little of it they had been to in the traditional way. She was not just entertainment, yes? A question answered by a mean thought that brought up her sudden and exposed return to form.

Or... or maybe this was a test, came a hurried and not at all desperate second thought to blot out the idea that she was very entertaining in the very wrong way. Perhaps George wanted to know if she would leave angry or burst into tears. Perhaps it was a challenge for her to do something equally ridiculous and rude. Which would be, a peeved thought noted, rather difficult in the current situation. She could hardly move beneath his bulk, and could not even speak with his shoulder in her face. Hmm…

"Well, of course they are restricted. Or should I say, regulated. Yeah, that's the word for it. Wouldn't dream of asking you to get involved in the illegal, or rather, unregulated trade. I just think there's potential there as pets for, you know, the discerning redheaded…" George trailed off, looking confused.

"Alright there?" asked Hagrid.

"Unsurprisingly surprised," answered George with a grin while twisting about to look at the large wet spot on his shoulder.

"I, eh, was closing ze, eh, Zhird Chaos Gate," explained Gabrielle, blushing slightly. "It, eh, was open."

"Needed lubrication, did it? Had a sticky hinge? You close it by drooling on it?"

"By chanting! You would know zis if you were not sitting on me."

"What about the first two then?"

v - v - v - v - v

Gagnek pulled into the estate's entrance, the gate closing automatically behind him. It was a muggle contraption, yes, but he appreciated the heaviness of the gears. They were not just for show, unlike the ones for a magical version. The motor still baffled him - he'd had a look into the metal strands feeding it. They were copper, completely solid, and cost forty pounds and nine to repair.

The automobile Gagnek drove was pleasing to him as well. It was older - classic - with good iron everywhere. The 'transmission' was a symphony of meshing metal to him (four hundred thirteen pounds to fix). The way the heavy diesel engine clattered was soothing after a long day counting. Knowing what he did, patterns were becoming plain to him as the cursed double-lever started to bite. The drive from London was the best part of -

A movement on his right interrupted the master counter's thought. He stopped and flung open the door in annoyance. "Weasley."

"Always a pleasure, Gaggy. No, really. Or, rather, really, no."

"How did you find my estate?" There was quite a lot of magic used to protect the secrets of Gringotts, and the same was used to protect the employees.

"Potter has connections in the Ministry, and they apparently have spies within Gringotts," explained Bill Weasley. He noticed the direction of the goblin's gaze. "I'll put it right. I'll even do you a Dyavolak Portatak."

"What do you want?" Harry Potter, Ministry spies, the cursed double-lever - Gagnek could imagine the fire that would burn his world. Thank the All-Mighty that the shine of gold was appreciated everywhere.

"What would you say if I said 'One purse, one natsiyak, one leader'?"

Behold, thought Gagnek sourly, the first of the flame. "Come inside. I need to arrange passage to the Caucasus mountains."

"Always do enjoy your wit."

The house was modest on the outside; though the thatched roof it once had had been replaced with far more trustworthy metal. It was larger on the inside, but not entirely due to magic. Goblins, having been forced to hide underground long ago, retained a penchant still for that environment even in more tolerant times. Behind nearly every door were stairs leading down.

"This is lovely, Gaggy," said Bill, looking around. "Very well done. With a bit more light, I think even Fleur would find it nice as well."

"Mmm." That was a compliment only if one knew the curse-breaker's wife.

"Snookies, is that you?"

"Yes, dearest. We have a guest." Gagnek did not need to look at said guest's face to know he would be grinning.

'Oh? Who is - That's a wizard!" The speaker was a slighter, younger, and pendulously female goblin, wearing an apron.

"Sharoka," indicated Gagnek.

"Enchanté," said Bill, quickly stepping up to take her hand. He kissed it lightly before it was snatched back.

v - v - v - v - v

"Hey Unky, how's our rebel-without-a-brain this morning?" The young redhead pushed into the spare bedroom, dropping a wicker basket onto the small writing table. The table, a simple chair for it, and the bed were the only furniture.

Unk the One-Eyed grunted in response. He had been plotting for days the spasm of violence that would free him. Once, that is, he figured out how to free himself from the cursed wooden chain and manacle on his leg, that tethered him to the bed. And if the girl came in without her wand at the ready. Neither had come to pass this day, however. "You may kill me, but you'll never take my freedom!"

"Don't be like that - Mum's done you Gruesome Goblin stew #2 today," said Ginny cheerfully. "And we already have your freedom."

"I'm still free in my head."

"With plenty of empty space to rattle around in, I'm sure. Anyway, you've got a visitor."

The axe spun through the air, remarkably true, striking Unk fully in the face. The thrower charged forward with a cry of "Gobba!"

Until, that is, the young warrior was scooped up by his aunt. "Very good, Louis! You remembered about taking Mummy's knives." The soft toy axe flew back to the toddler with a flick of Ginny's wand, pleasing him greatly. "Sorry, he still thinks you're here to play."

"Gobba!"

"No, wizard," said Gagnek. "I am not here to play either."

v - v - v - v - v

"That was a bit much," said Bill Weasley. He and the master counter sat out in the back garden, watching the grey sea roll in. It was November, but the cold rain did not reach the magically sheltered garden. The tea setting was undisturbed by the near gale force winds. "Still, spare the rod and spoil the child."

Gagnek watched the son of the curse-breaker hack at his father's leg with the stuffed toy axe. He and Sharoka did not have any children of their own, yet, but one could hardly avoid seeing children, both normal and human. So he felt certain that the small wizard was exactly that - not a child at all but some sort of miniature adult pretending to be a child. Children of any sort should not look like marble sculpture come to life. Still, it was not his place to comment, nor wonder just what a spoiled wizard would look like if not what was before him now, so he just tilted his head to acknowledge that words were spoken.

"Tell me about the thing in the Omniscope."

"They call it the automatik. He does not know how it works."

"Who does?"

Gagnek regarded the cake slice, noting the geometric perfection of the cut. Counting needs precision, which leads to an appreciation of such elsewhere. "There is one called Blago. I do not know his clan."

"The others?"

"There is one called Tieka, and one called Halfling. There are two more; I know them to be as idiotic as my neph - as my brother's son."

"Any wizards involved?"

Gagnek was not surprised by the question; the Ministry's reach was long, but goblins were hard to grasp. Wizards were not. "There was one. Gutted for some reason. Unk does not know why."

"Gutted," repeated Bill. He took up his wand and tapped his relentless attacker lightly on the head. The small wizard gleefully ran for the house, the two braids in his hair flying out behind him. "Up in Scotland, was it?"

If there is a Dark God, thought Gagnek, then I have surely made a deal with him. Unk's safety was not assured, even if Weasley held him. This ridiculousness of killing wizards - customers - could be swept aside, but the damned double-lever…

"The automatik - quite shiny, I'd say," began Bill. "Looked to me like an expensive shine. Where, the mind conjures the question, did the galleons come from?"

This Gagnek did not reply to. The murder of wizards was legtimate cause for Weasley's continued involvement. And, he had to add, keeping Unk. The financial ruin of one or more clans was not.

"A cell in a rebellion needs a connection to others. I understand this Halfling is at Hogwarts. Why?" asked Bill, the gracious host turned interrogator.

"What?" Gagnek was surprised.

"Liquor loosens lips. Possibly more than the rod? The Halfling was the 'runner', delivering orders from the Unishtozhitelk to the 'tip of the spear'," explained the wizard. "From Hogwarts?"

Gagnek put half of his cake into his mouth, as much in the hope of choking to death as it was a means of delaying a reply. The damned son of his kin had mentioned something about that - infiltrating wizard institutions or the like to bring about the next golden age of goblin blah blah blah. The school seemed an odd choice, an ineffective choice, especially with Dumbledore gone. What was there? Other than, supposed Gagnek, a large body of targets.

"Ze subtle flay-vair, eet is lost, when you eat like zat."

Gagnek looked to the wife of his host, and found himself straightening up in his seat. He did not greet Fleur, as he could not swallow everything at once.

"Gabrielle eez at 'ogwarts. She eez safe zere, yes?"

v - v - v - v - v

"The arm Snape. Show me the arm."

Severus Snape was neither very surprised nor shocked to find Harry Potter in his private study, still wearing the ridiculous regalia of the Cannons. Annoyed was a different matter. There was obviously no ward or anti-apparition jinx that could keep him at bay. Attempts had been made. Snape undid the buttons on his sleeve and jerked the sleeve up. There was no hint of the Dark Mark.

The private study was part library and part bedroom, and not meant to receive guests. Or Potter. There was a single chair, and Snape took it. The room was attached to the rest of the house, of course, which was itself well outside of London. There was a bit of land that came with the house, much of which was given over to some sort of conservation effort having to do with frogs. The home was a refuge, a safe-haven, and Snape preferred to loathe it because it was also essentially a prison. The property and the magic that hid it from the Ministry, from mutual… acquaintances, was provided by the wizard before him who was visibly relaxing.

"That does not guarantee that his influence has not put some plot in motion," warned Snape. The Dark Lord had said that he could not die, and had returned in one guise or another several times. It was like something from a fable, and was an area of intermittent research. "Only that he has chosen not to announce his presence yet."

"Yeah, but if it is him, then it's still early days."

"If?" Potter, noticed Snape, appeared distracted by his thoughts, but kept his wand up. Ten points for Gryffindor.

"There was an attack on Alecto Carrow, killing her and members of her family."

"I.. see. She had a great many enemies, though, and rivals, who may have sought retribution."

"It wasn't a wizard that did it, at least not directly," explained the orange-clad seeker. "What do you make of this?"

Snape took up the folded packet from where the boy - the young wizard had set it on the desk. It did not upset the potion master at all that his former student was still wary of him. "It… appears to be rust."

"I know that bit! What was it?"

"Iron? Even muggles know this reaction."

"That was buried in the leg of an old oak table, after going through Alecto or, er, her cousin," described Harry. "There's no trace of magic on it."

"None, or none that the Ministry knows?"

"Well, the Department of Secret Idiots took some, but -"

"Sir! Sir!" came a high-pitched shout, just before the door crashed open.

"Ravi! No!"

"Sir! I made a potion! Look! Look it!"

Two small boys ran into the room, though it was clear that one was in pursuit of the other. The smallest brandished a large cup of brown sludge, which sloshed perilously close to disaster. The taller of the two stopped short and stared.

"I made it! Vava did the cutting 'cause the knife is sharp and the fire 'cause the fire is hot but I put the things in and stirred it until it was done," explained Ravi, who needed a breath. "I was gonna drink it but Vava said no 'cause it was too strong so I wanted to give it to you. It's a potion!"

The potion master, dressed in somber black and appearing unfazed by the interruption, accepted the cup as soon as was possible before it was spilled. He dipped into the cup and rubbed the sludge between his finger and thumb. "Barely one," judged Snape, "but, yes, this is indeed a potion."

"I made it!" declared Ravi, who has climbed partway up the chair to swing back and forth.

"Erm…" said Harry.

"You - you're Harry Potter!" gasped the taller boy. "You're in the paper!"

"Er, yeah."

"These are the widow Shastry's sons. Ravi is the one convincingly imitating a monkey; Vanava is the one who seems to have Stupified himself. You've met them before, but they might not remember that."

"I made a potion! Vava did the cutting 'cause -"

"Boys! I have told you so many times not to bother - Oh, Mister Potter. I am sorry, I did not hear that you had arrived."

"Hello Mrs. Shastry."

"Mama, I made a potion!"

"Potter eschews normal methods of entry, preferring to arrive via mystery," explained Snape. "I believe he does this to appear, what is the phrase, oh yes, 'cool'."

"No, half is not knowing, er, I mean -"

"Come Ravi, Vanava. You will help me prepare the tea," said the widow as she herded her boys to the door. "That is alright, is it?"

"Erm, of course," nodded Harry, hoping his face did not show his reluctance. If he had a Tower of the Mind, then he yet to find a key to the damned thing.

"Oh, I nearly forgot to mention, the latest batch of Fudgeum yielded 31.4%."

"Indeed? I shall note it down," said Snape.

"He came by a big monkey. I sawed it," started Ravi as the door closed.

"That's good then?" asked Harry.

"Modern healers are exploring the opinion that leeches failed as a cure-all simply because they were not large enough."

There fell an awkward silence, as the wizards wondered how long the preparation might take. The help provided by the small ones was the unknown factor. Finally, the Boy-Who-Lived produced the Omniscope confiscated by Ginny.

"Highlights from your last match?" asked Snape, rolling his eyes. "No thank you, I'm sure every twitch of your broom will be described in wretched detail in the Daily Potter tomorrow. I can wait."

Harry rolled his eyes as well. "Still the biggest arse in Britain not attached to Hagrid. This is a recording of the Carrow attack." He used his wand to seal the door, in case Ravi had sort of made tea.

The former professor watched the slaughter, and had the thought that, of the Dark Arts, there was no darker art than the human mind bent on violence. The recorded events were a curious mix of magic at the highest levels and brutality at its most primitive. Few wizards, though, were able to enchant such a large metal - Rust. Iron. -Nullified iron-.

"This was taken from a goblin?"

"Yeah. How could you tell?"

"Magic can be used on metals, but few wizards or witches do it well. Goblin magic has an affinity for metal. The rust you found almost certainly comes from so-called nullified iron, a substance of which only the goblins know the secret," explained Snape, though his mind was trying to recall another import detail.

"Erm, nullified iron?"

"Yes. Crumbles to rust very quickly unless carefully preserved, and is unaffected by…" trailed Snape.

"What?"

"Is unaffected by magic, including the natural, inherent defensive magic every wizard is born with."

"Oh." Harry now understood the point the Hermione was trying to make with that muggle rifle. Although, she could have just written it out. "And the goblins just worked that out?"

"I rather doubt it. The delivery method, though, appears novel."

"Copied from the muggles. The, er, Browning M2."

"Truly? Well, there is worse. The Dark Lord, before decamping for Albania, experimented with animating a small bronze statue. I do not know what became of it."

v - v - v - v - v

In the magical ether that filled the world, unseen and unsensed by most, the tenuous existence of Lord Voldemort stewed. For, though he was a being of pure magic in this realm that he alone appeared to command, he was a finite being of said magic. A coalescence of self, a will-o-wisp on a foggy moor, a ghostly minnow in an infinite pond. He could sense the mundane, physical world of ordinary wizards and witches, but not as much of it as he needed. This was the dichotomy of his current state. Lord Voldemort had access to the infinite, could be anywhere in the world, but was pinned to the physical objects that allowed him this coherence. He had unlimited magic here, but could only manifest the barest amount through the mind, the wand, of another. It was infuriating.

Not physical objects, but physical object. A singular item. That was a problem that needed to be corrected, ironically by sacrificing the one precious reliquary. Such was an action that needed careful planning, and that was something the essence of Lord Voldemort had time for. Already what would be an epic moment in the history of the world had been set in motion. A brilliant plan to set two magical worlds against one another, while internecine conflict ate away at both. All the magic would be his, and in time, Lord Voldemort would become the infinite.

Any plan, of course, is never really foolproof, because fools appeared to number among the infinite already. The unwitting allies that were the goblins grew up playing at rebellion and secret organizations, and were taught the power of the distributed cell network as if it were a piece of their heritage. Convinced by rhetoric or galleons, they would carry out piecemeal orders without needing to know the whole. It was unfortunate fate that placed the biggest fool into the most inconvenient spot. And it was not even Potter this time.

v - v - v - v - v

The room was cheap because the equipment was costly; costly and clearly far more important than a few comforts. The bed was an after-thought, partially tucked under one of the heavy worktables. Days of take-away containers surrounded it. The tables were covered in said equipment, sheets of calculations, delicate scales, forges, and lumps of metals of various sheens. The walls had no decoration, but were layered with parchment holding formulas for alloys arrayed around octagons scribed with runes. This was metallurgy at its highest level. This was the room of a mind focused on a single obsession.

It was also the room of a mind that had abandoned it. Conspicuous was the cleared area on the larger, stone-topped table, and the four pins stuck through the middles of other sheets of parchment but not securing one themselves. The cell had been compromised; the members had gone into hiding. Gagnek sighed.

Not all the members had disappeared; chaff does separate from wheat. Two had returned to the one-time headquarters of the Five Fingers of Futility, or whatever the name was now, to look for Unk. Oggie and Max were mostly used as muscle to move the automatik, and as sponges to soak up beer during the political lessons. The depth of their knowledge was quite shallow, or their ability to deceive was quite deep. The two gave a description of the 'Halfling' that went, "Kind of, you know, wizard-ish, but, like, not completely, right?"

Gagnek, his mind elsewhere, turned to leave, his foot knocking aside a chair hung with laundry. The stumble revealed a small box with stubby metal posts - a box that Gagnek recognized. His vehicle had one: it was filled with acid and lead and was needed to make the engine work (thirty-two pounds to replace). The usual metal strands led to a tub still brimming with a bluish fluid. In the fluid, attached to one of the strands, was a finger-sized rod of, of… Could it be? Yes, Oreikhalk!

Gagnek smiled as he pulled the rod from the fluid and undid the wrapped strand. This was a clue. This was evidence. This was more than sufficient profit to fund a pleasant refuge in the Caucasus mountains when it all went tits-up. Vive the bloody revolution!

v - v - v - v - v

It was Saturday, and Gabrielle had just finished having an early lunch. The meal was the first of the day for her because the session with the Headmistress had gone well into the night. McGonagal was fascinated by Gabrielle's ability to put names to the former owners of a collection of old quills. At least, some names to some quills. Names were important. The efforts were exhausting, but also hopefully enough to make up for being late to nearly every single class since the loss of her broom. She had to wait until the stairs were nearly empty. Gabrielle had thought of trying to make another broom, but it was, eh, definitely too cold for -that-.

Gabrielle had just finished having an early lunch, or a late breakfast, depending on how often she ate later, of course, and was just leaving the Great Hall when faithful Pepi-Z began tugging at his tether. She turned around to see who was sneaking up on her, but the ambush lay on the other side of the door. Something was thrown over her head, and she was silenced and petrified. Twice each!

Gabrielle was then gathered up before she could topple to the ground, and carried off. She would have thought that the action would garner more attention, or even alarm. Certainly more than Sukiya's "Ganbatte!" Gabrielle could not tell if her friend's spell had done anything at all, though.

The blame, Gabrielle suspected, lay with the Slytherins. From what the Headmistress had recounted, Professor Slughorn had greatly changed the tone of that House. There was almost no talk of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and seizing the Ministry; now it was all about how to convince people to -give- them the Ministry. Practice was needed, and, old habits from the senior classes, they would occasionally resort to kidnapping first-years or Hufflepuffs to discuss something called time-shares. Those were, Gabrielle had heard, either a load of dung or the greatest opportunity ever, depending on how the 'meeting' had gone. The more 'successful' ones required some effort by Professor Korbel to reverse. Thus, Gabrielle viewed her current predicament has nothing more than an inconvenience. Or insult, in case her captors thought height equated with age. At least sometimes there was a small gift at the end.

Except, it did not feel to Gabrielle that she was being taken down to the dungeons, but rather that she was being taken out of the castle. That was easy to discern; it was much, much colder.

Now dread crept into Gabrielle's mind, and she made a determined effort to break the magic holding her. She had years of practice from Fleur, after all. It was very possible that Mags had not kept her fervid promise after all, and had revealed from where and from whom she was getting the Red Geyser feminine product pranks. Which, Gabrielle feared, meant that her abductors intended that she share Mags' usual punishment. She was going to be thrown into the lake!

A second thought less panicked over contracting a fatal case of the Grippe in the frigid waters thought about the spells cast on her. Casting spells non-verbally was advanced magic; those taking her had not managed it. Gabrielle had not recognized the voices, but they were not wholly unfamiliar, and not even solely female. If it were not the Gryffindors, then perhaps she was not headed for a dunking.

Of course, mayflies and beetles are all the same to the wrong potion. Avoiding a certain fate for an uncertain one was not much of an improvement. Would they, Gabrielle wondered, take her into the forest? She knew there were things, creatures, that watched and followed her there. Were these the shy sort that might come to her aid if things got desperate? Or ones that might join in for a light snack?

There was some fumbling by the ones carrying her, and Gabrielle heard a door close behind her. That eliminated the two possibilities she had thought of - she was not going to die of the Grippe nor be eaten. Grounded as she was by her sensory humours, Gabrielle could tell where she was even before the cloth was pulled from her head. It was not that difficult to recall the, eh, fragrance, the pong, of the quidditch pitch changing room. So she was not at all surprised to see Mount Mal when she could see. Gabrielle used her number one Deadly Glare.

"Don't look at me like that," warned Malachite. "We let you skive off for all the practices."

"Mum mum meee." The Silencio, eh, both of them, was not overcome quite yet.

"You can lift the spells now, but someone watch the door."

Gabrielle sagged when the spell holding her rigid - mostly rigid, she had managed to twitch her legs - was cancelled. She crossed her arms across her chest and continued to glare. Malachite stepped back, to be replaced by the captain whose name Gabrielle had completely forgotten.

"Welcome, to the desert of match day."

"Eh, what?"