Chapter Twenty-Three - The Proposal
The waft of ill-intent that was Lord Voldemort's current, inconvenient form had taken to counting. It gave an illusion of patience when dealing with the young mind that was his current target. Since time seemed quite arbitrary for him, he reached three million thirty-eight.
He had taken on the guise of reflection, of the inner wisdom that supposedly lay buried beneath the impetuousness of youth. The passivity of the role was frustrating and a special sort of torture as he, a bare coalescence, had no way of venting such. Still, the building of trust would make the next steps in his future return easier.
The situation was not all cost though. Lord Voldemort had learned much about goblins, their magic, and the way galleons could dance. He had learned that goblins had their own, primitive version of apparition that translated as Rock-Walk. It was the reason that many muggles, and wizards, preferred flimsy wooden homes still, and could be valuable when it came to retrieving the Wand. In return he had, as the insight of wisdom he portrayed, instigated researches that had torn holes in the world view of his… liaison. Both wizards and goblins were shown to be weak in the selected readings, the unofficial histories, just waiting for a strong leader to step in. It was the ambition of youth, the naivety of youth, that allowed the one he counseled to believe that it would be he.
Pressure, Lord Voldemort considered. A goblin should have an innate understanding of pressure. It stood to reason. One did not have to delve too deep below the surface before the literal weight of the world stressed and bent rock, forced water into deadly jets, and even made the air potentially deadly. Pressure was dangerous, of course. It could release explosively, which was why most avoided the phenomenon in any form. Pressure properly channelled, however, could do work, an idea his liaison should know well. Curiously, humans too seemed to grasp this, and had become the undue weight upon the magical world. That was a problem, however, that could wait.
The thing about pressure, though, was that it found weak points. The liaison - no, that was not the word that fit, decided the tenuous Lord Voldemort. The potential portal had cracked a bit earlier in the evening, just enough to cause the most inconvenience. Killing the girl out right would have been better. There would have been an investigation and suspicions, but no evidence. Imprisoning the girl in the foul catacomb would have resulted in the same and was more dangerous, but it might have troubled the portal less. The Obliviate and adulterated potion to hide the evidence was the riskiest course, because it depended on how skillfully the memory charm had been done. And that, irritatingly, might only be known when the aurors arrived.
In a way, it was fascinating that the direct action was so troubling to the portal. It was, after all, now his ambition to see the current world order overthrown, and plans for such had already killed a dozen or so wizards. It was also an advantage, since the troubled mind sought once more the counsel of wisdom though quiet, meditative contemplation and magical relic. Finally, it was an opportunity. Rashness of action was only a matter of the situation getting ahead of the 'wisdom' the portal thought himself to possess. With guidance, skill, and perhaps a small portion of the magic that Lord Voldemort was, the diadem could be hidden from the senses of others and be worn at all times.
v - v - v - v - v
It was not that the morning had come too early, it was just that the night had never really ended. Whatever had been in that cup, thought Gabrielle, would have been perfect for a morning like this. She had to admit that the espresso had not been perfect for the night. Between the stimulation of the flavorful drink and the restlessness of Mags, she had hardly slept at all, and now would have no chance for any. Mags was awake and causing a scene. Madam Pomfrey had awarded Gryffindor five points for her 'help', which set off Mags because she thought that she had lost Gryffindor points. The first-year had trouble grasping that she could actually earn her House points. When she finally understood, she assumed it had been due to Gabrielle's influence, and the hugging began.
Saruchi, who was back to being Saruchi, eh, mostly, pointed out that the cat ears were no longer cat ears but had grown to be more like the ears of a donkey. She had gotten some sleep because she had been shielded from the flailing first-year. Mags slept like she 'swam', arms and legs all over the place. Perhaps she was dreaming of swimming - Gabrielle really did not want to ask. Saruchi would have a chance for more slumber, though, as Madam Pomfrey dismissed Gabrielle and the exuberant Mags from the infirmary. Gabrielle was able to free herself from Mags only after pointing out the girl was still in her night clothes, and would lose the points if she went to breakfast like that.
v - v - v - v - v
Breakfast was amazing! It was another international theme, and the nation chosen this time was France. Gabrielle was astounded by the breads, croissants, and crepes stacked up on the serving plates. There was butter, several types of jam, and fruits. Strawberries, blackberries, pinkleberries, and even stickleberries - already dethorned. There was even pain au chocolat, of which Gabrielle took two - one for now and one for later. It was a wonderful, nostalgic array which her fellow students did not fully appreciate. They jostled over the platter of fried eggs and what looked like Toulouse sausage. Hardly traditional, sniffed Gabrielle. Malachite was winning that contest.
If Gabrielle had one criticism, it would be the absence of a cup of strong coffee to dip her bread into. There was tea, of course, and milk, but neither had as mature an image as a dark, intensely flavored coffee, the slight bitterness cutting through and enhancing the sweetness of the meal. She poured milk into her cup because she had to have something and she was not going to ruin this breakfast with tea. She vowed to appreciate the house-elves' efforts by consuming the lot.
That pledge would be difficult to honor. The pinkleberries were a little mealy, and the strawberries were definitely the magic-grown sort. The stickleberries made up for it though. Even the woody bit at the base of the thorn had been removed. That was difficult. Gabrielle had tried to help once in the preparation and, well, eh, the past is the past. It was far down on The List that Fleur kept anyway.
Gabrielle need not have worried about the effort by the house-elves going to waste. She had decided that four pain au chocolat was a more appropriate quantity for a mature young woman such as herself (two now and two for later). Especially since Cath had been dared by the other Cats, and so had tried a bit of the brown goo that had dribbled out while baking. It was determined that it was not 'the cargo' but simply chocolate. The pastries went quickly after that.
Crepes are an unleavened sort of pancake, very thin and light. They are delicious with fruit and a little cream, or even just a little butter and sugar. It was hard to imagine them being thought of as exotic. Yet it seemed like every table had one or two students wearing a crepe as a mask. Did no one travel?
The one who had travelled, obviously, had rolled her crepe into a cone and filled it with berries and cream to near bursting. Suki-chan took a bite of her cornucopia, and then frowned.
"Eh, what is wrong?" asked Gabrielle. The cone was now undone and the contents were being picked apart with chopsticks.
"It tastes of pineapple," explained Suki-chan. "Pineapple is no good. It brings evil spirits."
"Eh, what?"
"I do beg your pardon." The Fat Friar's head popped up through the table. "I was simply curious about this remarkable repast."
"Oh, eh, I am certain zat she did not mean you."
"If you are thinking of Peeves then, well, child, he has gotten himself trapped in a crystal. It seems that no one can get him back out."
Gabrielle allowed the 'child' remark to pass. The Hufflepuff ghost was hundreds of years old and probably set in his ways. Suki-chan was picking out all the stickleberries, looking for a place to put them. Gabrielle offered her plate.
"Mind you, no one has actually tried."
"Does ze Headmistress know zis?"
"I should think so, my dear. She sent the crystal, chain and all, down a loo," laughed the ghost. "One reaps what one sows, as it is written. Never mess with a lady's unmentionables."
"Eh, would you mind not, eh, manifesting in ze butter?" Gabrielle hoped that she did not offend him by not caring about the plight of the poltergeist at all.
The post began to arrive shortly thereafter, and owls crowded around Gabrielle. She could not think of a reason why all her mail seemed to come at the same time, or why the owls could not just drop the letters. She was just glad that they were satisfied with the crepes. There was a letter from the Burrow, another from Fleur, two from Maman - that could not be good, but neither looked like a Howler - and a box of trouble from Stanislaw. At least, she assumed it would be trouble. He was not going to visit again, was he? The box went into the handbag before Portia could notice she had it.
The letter from Fleur was surprisingly brief. It had no pictures of Louis. He must be so different now, thought Gabrielle. Fleur was warning her of a goblin at Hogwarts that might pose a threat. Well, that was not exactly news. She wondered if she should tell Fleur of the doppelganger. Her sister might conjure a way to blame that on her. Included along with the warning note was a magazine clipping listing seven common spells that could also be used to make one's bust appear more ample. Gabrielle sighed.
The first letter from Maman, opened very carefully, just in case, had only one photo of Louis in it. One! Was she no longer part of the family? Little Louis was building a castle on a beach next to the heavy surf. He was using rocks instead of sand, running back and forth with handfuls of them. So cute!
The second letter from Gabrielle's mother was just a copy of an article from Le Monde Magique, about Papa's "Grand Prix". The magazine was full of praise and enthusiasm for the successful event, which Maman had circled with glittering lines, even though two wizards had been killed. Or, possibly, because two wizards had been killed. One wizard died when, eh, Jerry's can of dragon fire exploded under his seat. Who this Jerry was, was not explained. The second participant died after being pulled into his car's 'gearbox' by the sleeve of his robe. Gabrielle was not certain what a gearbox was, but determined that she would keep her hand, eh, hands well away from it. Did all cars have gearboxes? It sounded very mechanical from the feel of the word - gear-box. The article had a photograph of the dragon fire explosion. It was not a very good photo. The car and, Gabrielle supposed, the wizard were there one moment and not the next. In between was a huge fountain of orange-red flame. That part was quite pretty; the charred, mangled wreckage following was not. She wondered what he had been planning to do with it, if the stuff had not blown up. Probably it was to be poured into the gearbox. There was already talk of next year's race being, eh, Grander.
The letter from the Burrow was written by Mrs. Weasley, as Gabrielle expected. She was formally inviting Gabrielle to stay at the Burrow over Christmas. Obviously she would accept. That would be great fun, and George and Louis would visit. Mrs Weasley had included -two- photos of Louis. One was of Louis feeding himself with much enthusiasm and not quite so much accuracy. The second photo was of her nephew and, surprisingly, a goblin throwing toys at each other. The goblin was hiding behind a bed tipped on its side. Gabrielle assumed they were playing because she could not imagine a grown goblin having that poor of aim, unless they had only recently grown arms. Her young nephew rarely missed; he was very advanced for his age.
Gabrielle had been absently tearing crepes into strips to feed the owls as she read her posts. Looking up, since she just noticed the photo of Louis from Maman was gone, she found six owls waiting for a snack. Only three of them had actually delivered anything to her, so she tried to shoo them off. A cooing knot of Hufflepuff witches revealed where the photo was. Of course she would have shared, but it would have been nice of them to ask.
Shooing away the owls, with one last bit of crepe for the smallest because the owl reminded her of Lieutenant Mimsey before he had grown, made space for two, more distinguished specimens. Harry Potter's owl Hedwig and Suki-chan's family's owl Fulheim-oh-no alighted in tandem. They apparently remembered the chaos from last time and had bided their time. The arctic owl did not have a note or envelope, but one of the special boxes from the twins. She could feel the distinct shape through the wrapping. Another box of trouble, thought Gabrielle. She put that into her handbag as well, next to the one from Stanislaw. The sight of the two packages sitting together raised the hairs of the back of her neck. It was a Gabrielle, Mistress of the Mirk moment - a premonition. Bad things, very bad things, had happened the last time Harry had been near Stanislaw. There were reasons she had nightmares. Gabrielle moved the box from Stanislaw to the other side of the handbag, next to - oh mon Dieu, where were the Sisters?
That annoyance would have to wait also, as Hedwig ignored the offered crepe and instead hopped onto the back of Gabrielle's chair. There the owl investigated the mystery of the donkey-like faux ears by pulling on them. Gabrielle could feel the tugging, but sort of distantly. The real distraction was Suki-chan. The contents of the delivered scroll made her face blanch.
"What is wrong?" blurted Gabrielle. Was that rude?
"Nothing," replied Sukiya. She tried to roll the scroll up quickly, made a mess of it, then hid it on her lap.
"Is your family okay? Your, eh, fazzer?" asked Gabrielle. "I can help?"
"You will?" Sukiya brightened. "You are best friend, Gigi-chan."
"Is zere a reason zat you are doing zat?" That was addressed to Hedwig. A second thought wondered if it was more than the colors that had put her into Hufflepuff. At least her clothing was the right, eh, shade for ninjing. Eh, ninjaning?
"Probably because Potter is wanting a reply?" It was Malachite that suggested this, not the owl.
Gabrielle now noticed that apparently the entire population of Hogwarts could recognize Harry's owl. What would he need to put into a box? A vision of a filthy pillow once used by a rat came to mind. There were others? "Tell him I will send an owl." She said this to Hedwig without thinking, though it was also to herself. Harry must have forgotten that the Great Hall was not a spot to keep secrets, eh, secret.
"Does he talk to animals too?"
"Eh, what?"
v - v - v - v - v
Hank ''Helthas-Far" Shafiq tried not to glance at the latest souvenir jersey figures, as it only worsened his heartburn. No potion or elixir had yet eased the worry and dread that fired the cauldron of his innards, so he poured two fingers of scotch. The bottle came from that new French distillery, the one whose name he never said because he was not certain how to pronounce it. Two hand's worth of fingers and he could imagine the woman drawn on the label was actually real.
It was not always this way. The trouble, ruminated Hank, began like most trouble did - one gets what one thinks one wants. He came from a prestigious family, though he had to admit that his particular branch of the family tree was more than a bit gnarled. It was the reason he used the exotic-sounding moniker, which hinted that he was maybe born closer to the roots of the tree rather than from a punky branch. His late business partner had certainly counted on the name to add a little magic to the moribund quidditch team. He himself had always believed that he would be an elite owner, given the opportunity. And the galleons. Need galleons to make galleons - that sort of thing. Goes with being an elite.
The Cannons proved to be as resistant to transfiguration as any Postal owl. Lavish recruiting parties, brilliant and quite modern training regimes, and flash new uniforms did nothing to change the team's results. Hank worried at first for the supporters' reactions, then realized that the early season hope that became the same dismal end was their only expectation. It was in the team's motto, "Let's all just keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best." Even the sanctions levied after the Gecko Glove fiasco was just taken as proof that management was at least trying. The non-regulation leather had been utterly useless anyway. Bloody lizards are only sticky on their feet. He had half a mind to see to the wizard what sold them, if he could be bothered to find out where New Caledonian was. Somewhere north, he supposed.
Hank also avoided looking at the crumpled note on the desk. There was, in fact, absolutely nothing on the desk that he wanted to see at the moment. Aside from the glass with the remaining scotch. The note was almost the same as the one he had found on this very desk about a year ago. He had no idea what Potter spent his galleons on, but it was certainly not quality stationery supplies.
That first note had been completely unexpected. Hank could almost conjure a time when, as the dynamic part of the management team, it would not have been a surprise to attract the attention of top talent, perhaps in the first week or two of his tenure. He could not remember if Potter was in a famous phase at the time or a notorious one when he discovered the wadded parchment on his desk. Potter had asked for the seeker spot on the first squad as an 'important, decisive karmitic initiative' against You-Know-Who. Hank did not know what that meant and did not ask. Celebrity aside, there was no way that he could allow that to happen and still have a team. At least, not without a tryout. Kernsie had cleaned out his locker that same day.
Seekers were a strategic sort of thing in quidditch. Punters oohed and ahhed over the preening pricks, but a team could win with just average talent on the broom. Everyone knew that, Kernsie notwithstanding. Potter, though, could dominate a game, like the old motto, "We shall conquer." It was not only quick captures; as a seeker he could not handle the quaffle, but the regulations were less clear about being hit with it. He spent the entirety of a match tearing around the pitch as fast as he could get that Firebolt to go, diving through formations. More times than not, an attempted pass would be broken up, either by the quaffle clipping Potter's broom or by it striking the opposing seeker who was chasing Potter wondering what in Merlin's name he was seeing. Teams complained, but Omniscope replays proved Potter never altered his lines. Opposing chasers shortened their passes and held the quaffle longer, which meant less scoring. And more chances that the Cannons could win.
The team was winning, and more than they were losing. Not much more, mind. The energy Potter brought to the game was the fire under the team cauldron. The problem was what was in that cauldron. Even if the others could match his effort, there was no way they could match his talent. A lot needed to be changed if the team would really contend for the title.
There were galleons for it now, though. The stands were full up these days of fans coming out to see Potter fly. Jersey sales were through the roof, provided the name Potter was on the back. Even concessions sales were up. The "full Cannons" experience was expected to require a prolonged stay on a toilet the following day. That was borderline libelous; the only thing holding back the solicitors was it being mostly true. Even accounting for hiring the second tea-witch, though, profits were up.
This was where Hank had always imagined himself. Where "Helthas-Far" was supposed to be. New equipment - new, regulation equipment - was on order. New talent for the next season was nearly signed to new, bulging contracts. Hank's owls and Floo calls were no longer ignored. Galleons were spent chasing more galleons.
It was all very exciting, and equally terrifying, because the galleons being spent were really just the promise of more galleons to come. And the galleons they chased were merely the hope that there would be more. It was a house of cards, which was normal for this sort of thing. Except Hank knew that his was built using a deck for Exploding Snap. There was a clause in Potter's contract, the Clause, that granted him unconditional, unlimited leave from the Cannons if You-Know-Who returned. The note on the desk was undoubtedly invoking that, which is why Hank had not yet read it.
v - v - v - v - v
'Tis Potter tapping at my door, thought Hank Shafiq morosely. Quoth the Seeker, "Nevermore." The bottle was mostly empty, and he was feeling lower than a goblin's hearth. A proper combination to recall that muggle poet, er, Poet. Or such. Suppose I should throw open the door, remembered Hank. They were always throwing open doors in those days.
He did not throw open the door with ye olde drama, because Hank was a wizard. He instead aimed a bit of magic at the door, which caused the doorknob to fall off and scuttle off into a corner. Not exactly the result he was looking for, but fitting. Is it now yet a door? 'Til it's fixed, nevermore.
"Mr. Shafiq? Can I have a word?" asked Harry Potter. He stepped into the office because the door had swung open slightly, not because he had been invited.
"Of course, of course," replied the Cannons owner, mustering a jovial tone he did not feel. Woe unto me, evermore.
"You haven't read my note."
"Ah," Should have known he would see it, thought Hank. Potter had still spotted the snitch at Falmouth even with their supporters waving the "special promotion" lollies with the gold wrappers. The hometown seeker had been in tears. "Nevermore."
"I'm not invoking the Clause, exactly, if that's your worry," explained Harry. "Are you all right?"
Hank managed to close his mouth after that jaw-dropping revelation. Had he heard correctly, or had he been driven mad by a bloody black bird? Or dodgy French liquor? There was supposed to be a bird, right? He leaned to look past Potter, and nearly toppled.
"It's not even noon, sir."
"Only this, and nothing more."
"Erm, right. Look, I may need to miss a practice or two, or curfews, from time to time and I'd rather not get fined, right?"
"So it's not... him?" The other reason to avoid the note was that Hank would rather not be among the first to know. He did not want to be on anyone's short list.
"I wouldn't wager against it," warned Harry.
v - v - v - v - v
"Tha' went as well as expected. Fair play to ye, yer eejit."
"I have apologized already," said Gabrielle quietly. Catherine was angry. It was better to be contrite than to ask for clarity when she spoke like that.
"An' you'll chucker it again if she wakes up. Wat were ye tinkin'?"
Gabrielle did not reply. Her efforts to make her potions practicals more, eh, practical had, in fact, not gone as well as expected. At least not as well as she had expected.
"Four things! Only four things on the list not to use. How many did you manage before the Dying?"
There were, in Gabrielle's opinion, a number of others who shared the blame. The obsessive muggle who had roasted the powerful coffee beans was one, and Mags was another, along with Madame Pomfrey for fetching Mags. The large breakfast and lack of sleep had Gabrielle nodding off in class, and she had missed an important bit at the beginning of potions. Fault also lay with Professor Slughorn for trying to show that potions were not just a matter of dull rote learning. His experimental lessons usually listed several suggested ingredients to try and incorporate, and not the reverse forbidding them. That might have been why they were written in red chalk, though, reflected Gabrielle. She did not recall him explaining it, though.
Anyway, there was definitely no one dying. Katherine, having been closest, had been slightly scorched, like a creme brûlée, along with inhaling the fumes like the others. Madam Pomfrey's bird had ordered rest for her. That is, if you believed it could speak. Gabrielle escaped injury when the cauldron failed because of the hat. It had appeared just as the red-hot cauldron had ricocheted off the ceiling. The cauldron had engulfed the tip of the giant black cone, and not her head. Potions was about the only sanctioned opportunity for Gabrielle to conjure fire, and she knew she might have overdone it a bit when she finally had the chance. The hat smelled like it was still smouldering, but no one would help her take it off. At least, not with Catherine there to glare at them.
v - v - v - v - v
"Do you think my feelings reached him?" asked Sukiya.
"You definitely reached him," replied Gabrielle. They were walking along a third floor corridor to reach an 'up' staircase that would become a 'down' staircase if Gabrielle used it. A second thought suggested trudging as a better description of what she was doing. This day felt like the longest day ever.
The two were leaving the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, heading for Professor Hagrid's cottage for Care of Magical Creatures. Going up to the third floor was the easiest way to get back to the ground floor while Gabrielle was without a broom. Suki-chan's ink-stiffened brush had succeeded in surprising Michael, a Gryffindor that she had taken a liking to. The sneezing fit he suffered as a result left it a question as to whether there were any feelings to be reciprocated.
"I wish there was some place to go on date," whispered Suki-clan before breaking into giggles.
"Eh, you do not keep a notebook about him, do you?"
"Miss Delacour."
Gabrielle stopped short, hunching her shoulders instinctively. It was the tone of voice the Headmistress used. She turned, and had to tilt her head up to see McGonagall's face from under the oversized brim. "Eh, yes, Headmistress?"
"Do you recall what I said regarding certain types of spells, and your casting of such?"
"You, eh, said zat it was, eh, okay. In class! I remember zat," replied Gabrielle. "And, eh, everyone will be fine. By, eh, tomorrow."
"More correctly, I said that flame conjuration was permitted if and only if required by the class lesson."
"Eh, yes. Ze cauldron needed to be hot. It, eh, did, perhaps, become too hot, yes, but zat was -"
"And in Defense?"
Merde, thought Gabrielle, that had not only been a daydream. The little ball of flame had shot from her wand with such authority that she was sure she had only imagined doing it. "Eh, zat was an accident?"
"A mental lapse, then. Come along to my office and we will review which devices Mister Filch has at his disposal to bolster your memory," threatened McGonagall. Gabrielle could not tell if she was serious, or teasing. "Off you go, Miss Shimagina."
"Hai, Headmistress McGonagall-sensei." Gabrielle was glad to see that Suki-chan at least had the decency to look back in dismay as she once more hurried away unscathed.
"Eh, zere is Professor Hagrid's class," began Gabrielle.
"I rather suspect you'll be more than making up the time there soon enough."
"Eh, what?"
Gabrielle was led to the Headmistress's office. She knew the way, but that was the best way to think of it. Much better than being pulled along by the brim of the scorched hat. Definitely better than being dragged. Since the presence of McGonagall meant that Gabrielle did not have to actively plot a route, there was plenty of time to dread being expelled. She had not even managed a single year! This was going to be bad.
"M'Lady! A word of caution!" The voice came from a portrait, though it was not the witch who was the subject of the painting speaking but a smaller knight who stood next to the painted jug of wine. "I've ridden the full length and breadth of the castle to warn you, through the dark forests of 'Picnic at the Dragon's Den', past the inferno at the 'Wedding Reception for Iodine'. I fought the deadly-"
"You say you rode, Sir Cadogan," interrupted McGonagall. "Where, then, is your horse?"
"My horse? Why Zephyr, my noble steed, is right there by the wedge of cheese, er. Oh. Hmm, damnedest thing..."
"Never mind. I shall assign a deserving student to find it."
Well, thought Gabrielle, that is my night sorted. Unless she was expelled immediately. Would she be able to distract the Headmistress sufficiently with more stories from Albania? Or, perhaps Professor Trelawney's visions?
"Thank you, mistress. He gets a bit ornery when I ride him the full length and breadth of the-"
"Yes, yes. And your warning?" asked the Headmistress.
"Ah. There is a suspicious young cur in your office. Slovenly in appearance; I fear he means to do you harm!"
"I'm sorry, did you say 'in my office'?"
"Indeed. Had I been there and the interloper stood close enough to a painting, I would have taken a slice of him!"
"Does he have red hair?"
v - v - v - v - v
The young cur did not have red hair. The trespasser's hair was dark, unruly, and on top of Harry Potter's head. The Headmistress was scolding the portraits in the room for being unable to recognize him. They claimed to have easily identified him, and had informed Sir Cadogan that the so-called Heir of Slytherin, a former student whose presence had led to deaths among the faculty itself, had crawled from the Gates of Hell apparently located beneath the Headmistress's desk. They could not see how the knight had gotten it so wrong. Harry declared that flying for the Cannons was a matter of convenience and personal choice, and said nothing about the quidditch teams they supported.
Gabrielle was seated in the Windsor chair. In fact, she was imprisoned in the chair, since it could, at a word from McGonagall, extend its wooden arms enough to wrap around her trunk several times. It was difficult to see that as a good thing. It was, a second thought furthered, difficult to see anything at all. The chair had tilted the hat forward and she could mostly see her own lap. Gabrielle did not have to see, though, when she heard the familiar sound of the antlered stone being adjusted. Long experience - or premonition! - told her that it was not aimed at the one who had just broken into the office of the Headmistress. That was very unfair, even if it was Harry Potter. Especially as the Headmistress had made her enter the office first, the scorched point of the hat leading the way.
"Now, Harry, let us begin with how you gained entry to this office," said McGonagall.
"Erm, the usual way, I suppose," said Harry.
"The usual way would be through -that- door -after- receiving permission."
"Oh. Then, er, not the usual way at all," nodded Harry. "What's she done?"
"Miss Delacour is intent on burning the castle down," said McGonagall in an off-hand way. "There was an incident at Beauxbatons, I am told. Now -"
"Good thing the castle's mostly stone. Not like that barn in Albania."
The hat Gabrielle wore might have rekindled from the burning rage she felt. Distracting the Headmistress with some interesting information or gossip had been her plan all along. It was not unexpected that Harry would try the same. But this, this was disaster! Her minor transgression was about to become part of a Pattern of Behavior, one that would see her waiting outside on Fleur's doorstep for the portkey to take her to a furious Maman and the next miserable apprenticeship.
Gabrielle needed to say something, but a second thought remembered the accusatory stone in time. She blurted, "It was because of zat rat!" The declaration was a little muffled by the brim.
"You keep a rat in your room," reminded McGonagall.
"Eh, what? Sauveuret is a squirrel; you know zis. He sleeps in a knitted, eh, pouch, or somezing," explained Gabrielle. "Ze rat was, eh, also ze wizard." The one that dissolved or melted. It was not important to her at the time.
"The rat was also ze, the wizard," repeated the Headmistress slowly. "You mean the rat was an animagus?"
"Pettigrew. She is talking about Pettigrew," inserted Harry.
That stone, thought Gabrielle, should be pointed at Harry, though if it was it might explode. While she knew at the time why she was in Albania, it was never very clear why everyone else had come. Listening to Harry, everything that had happened was to save her from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, who was controlling Tibault, who wanted to kill her. All that was said was mostly true, but not all was said. Halfway through this tale of rescue, the Headmistress absently lifted the hat from Gabrielle's head and put it on a shelf. The chair that held her was not relieved of that duty, though. There was no point in trying to be invisible if she could not slip away.
Even though Gabrielle had actually been present at the time, she was learning of things too. Unless it was all just Harry bending the truth, that is. Tibault had aimed a Killing Curse at her! It had backfired on him because of the hair from her Grandmere in the stolen wand's core, which protected her. That was a story that made an excellent excuse for the wand's condition, if George could not have it fixed. Even if it might not actually be true, Harry Potter had said it.
Learning that the wand had saved her left Gabrielle feeling a little sad, though, because if she had known she might have been able to save Soleil. Eh, somehow. The Abraxon had landed in front of her and was hit by Tibault's first attempt. Soleil only ever hid from Nona. Gabrielle tried to imagine herself leaping forward to block the curse, but there was always too much Soleil. Everything ended with the prince dead at her feet in a forgotten field.
"And you feel your proposal, Potter, this Department of Magical Antiquities, will be enough?" asked McGonagall.
"Yes. The, erm, working hypothesis is that, without the phoenix-core wand, Riddle can not fully return. He needs an item with a powerful enchantment as a sort of battery," explained Harry.
"Battery. Working hypothesis. I hear Ms. Granger's voice in this."
"Um, yeah. But we helped."
"Evidence?"
"It's not like these were Ministry meetings with a secretary to take notes!"
"I am quite certain that you and Weasley made… valuable contributions," smiled McGonagall. "I was asking after the inspiration for this working hypothesis."
"Oh, right. We're pretty certain that Riddle had Hufflepuff's Cup with him. It, er, was destroyed, a bit, during the fight. Sorry."
The Headmistress did not say anything for a time, but did glance at the stone. Gabrielle knew what Harry said was true about the Cup getting destroyed, but had not been paying close attention to the rest while imagining saving Soleil. Or perhaps the antlers did not need to be aimed so precisely after all.
"I have, as of late, developed an interest in antiquities," started McGonagall. She seemed to be watching Gabrielle for a reaction, but that might have just been paranoia. "I feel that Hogwarts is not regarded as foremost amongst its peers when it comes to such studies. That impression can simply not be allowed to continue. I am certain that the Board of Governors will agree to the new department on at least a probationary basis."
Gabrielle wondered if the Headmistress knew that Professor Festeller was dead. He was the one that went on the Beau- her former school's expeditions. That was a thought that worried her - would there be Hogwarts expeditions too? She could all too easily imagine the ongoing detentions being extended into the summer as a way to acquire free labor. Would she be needed to cook, dig, or lick?
"I believe a Department Head, Emeritus would be advisable. The Governors are quite set in their ways, which is the euphemism I will use here. Ms. Granger will have to make allowances for pig-headedness. In exchange, old money competing for prestige is an excellent source of funding."
"Yeah, like sponsorships and naming rights."
"Endowment is the academic term," informed McGonagall. "And should you manage to find Ravenclaw's diadem, try not to destroy it."
"What?! How did you know-"
"Calm yourself, Potter. There is a trail of dropped breadcrumbs, no, croutons leading to that 'working hypothesis'. A strongly enchanted object is needed, Hufflepuff's Cup, a kettle from the right era - it is not much of a leap. And there is no point to glaring at Miss Delacour; she cannot turn her head at the moment to see it."
Gabrielle agreed with that. Not only about the grip of the chair, but that no one had said that the kettle was a secret. A second thought opined that it was reasonable to assume that it was to be one. She would definitely treat whatever was in the box Harry had sent as such.
"In any case, she was doing as you are now, which is to distract me from some misdeed with a bit of interesting information."
"That, erm, thing in Albania, there was sort of an agreement between the school and some curse-breakers that paid for a lot of it," explained Harry. "Could look them up, possibly?"
"You mean Stanislaw? He was here before!" blurted Gabrielle. A second thought pointed out that she, and what she had done, had nearly been forgotten.
"He was?" asked Harry. "Why?"
"Zere was zis charmed shovel handle zat, eh, Sebastion, I zink, found."
"You must be referring to Pomfrey's latest favorite case," said the Headmistress. "I believe she kept the pouch as a souvenir."
"What?" asked Harry.
v - v - v - v - v
Gabrielle was making her way to the Great Hall along a rarely used corridor, lost in thought. The corridor was rarely used because the floor was heavily slanted from one side to the other. Gabrielle wondered if they somehow ran short of wall for the one side.
There were no additional detentions for her minor transgression. Possibly because there was no room in her schedule for more, or because the humiliation of having the Headmistress try to throw biscuits into her mouth while the Headmistress and Harry took tea was a sufficient substitute. Which was not even that bad compared to having to witness what her hat and the Sorting Hat were doing behind McGonagall as she spoke. At least her hat had no mouth to grunt with.
Gabrielle had missed Professor Hagrid's class entirely, and would soon miss her study group. She was determined not to miss dinner, because McGonagall's aim was not very good. There was no reason for her to have been there for the planning of the museum and lecture rooms the still proposed and completely nonexistent department would need. After all, there were just some old quills, a mangled kettle, and an old cup. Gabrielle's latest premonition was proven, as destinations for the summer were discussed. At least Harry looked restless as well.
Gabrielle's thoughts were focused mainly on avoiding anything to do with digging. She would not mind staying at the Burrow, of course, with George there to take her to Hogwarts when her burgeoning Seeing talent was needed. That would be fine, even desirable, because she could babysit Louis. But she had not recognized many of the places suggested by the Headmistress. It was important to remind Papa of the dangers, many dangers, she had faced in Albania before Maman learned of this 'honor' and 'opportunity'.
The cry of "Miss Delacour! Miss Delacour!" interrupted the strategizing. Gabrielle turned and was engulfed by Mags' tight embrace, the first-year's face buried into her abdomen. Gabrielle struggled to free her arms, which became a more general and frantic struggle as Mags dug fingers into her sensitive sides. Was she, wondered Gabrielle, always this strong? And, added a second thought, have such large fingers?
Neither was the case, since at some point in the struggle the brunette became a redhead, and the first-year became a large male Weasley. But which one? Applying logical deduction in this situation was almost impossible - she could hardly take a breath. Gabrielle lifted her knees and balled herself up. Fred, she was certain, would let her fall while George would, eh, do something else.
It was George, since she was not dropped to the ground in a heap. At least, not dropped yet. He had straightened up, and now wore Gabrielle as a hat. Which was all right with her, since with her arms free she was able to embrace, well, his head at least. He could probably breathe.
"Ummoo 'uv. M'ot oo oom mrr."
Gabrielle breathed in the scent of the man below her. It was definitely George; George, a potions classroom, and something sharper, acrid. The sharp odor was somehow familiar. It - it was like the smell of the smoke from the barn. She frowned. This was Harry's fault for bringing that up. Now that she had smelled it, though, she could not unsmell it. Logically, the odor came from something George had been working on, so it was only on his clothes. Logically, she needed to get beneath those clothes, so she pulled at the collar of his shirt while trying not to fall off of his head.
There is more to the sensory humours than just the nose, of course. Critical information was flowing in from other parts of Gabrielle, and it broke through the grip of George's scent. Something very, eh, stiff was trying to get up her derriere. And elsewhere! Gabrielle tried to spin herself around atop George's head, failed to maintain her balance, and slid to the ground clinging to his collar. She could hear the buttons on his shirt pop off to slow her descent. It was probably Fred's shirt anyway, thought Gabrielle. Son corps est magnifique, added a second thought.
George turned to face Gabrielle, and since she had not released her grip of the collar the act pulled her closer to his bare torso. He pulled the shirt back over his shoulders, which forced her to move even closer or let go off the collar. She moved closer. The lack of sleep the night before and the long day made thinking difficult, so her brainstem took over. She nestled her face against his chest, and reached into the ruined shirt to hold him.
"And you've not even tried the broom yet," said George.
This is what she needed, thought Gabrielle. She definitely would not have nightmares if George slept with her. That was decidedly against the rules though. But if he could disguise himself as Mags, then Malachite would be no problem. In what she would later desperately explain as a Mistress of the Mirk technique to use her sensory humours as a guidepost to the Hidden Realm to See, she lightly ran the tip of her tongue along his chest.
George stiffened. "Ah. Headmistress."
The initial taste did not Reveal Unto her anything new, so Gabrielle thought to try again. Her ears hurriedly bypassed the currently useless brain to reach the brainstem directly. She sprang back, then looked slightly confused. "Eh, what?"
"You've not even tried the broom yet," said George.
"Oh. Oh!" Where, wondered a second thought, was McGonagall?
"I roused an old duffer from his dotage to take a look at it. Gave it a bit more oomph."
"Eh, okay." The broom did not look much different, apart from the new shine on the handle and the neatness of the bristles. It was enough, given its previous condition, to be in one piece. "What does zat mean?"
"Give it a go and see."
Gabrielle set the broom on the floor and commanded, "Up." The repaired broom smacked into her hand, which surprised her because it would normally take a few tries to wobble its way to ready. She climbed onto the refurbished stick, and had, yes, a premonition. It might be a good idea to find out what had been done to the broom; her hand still stung. "What was changed? Is it going to hurt?"
"It won't be the broom that'll do it," grinned George.
That, thought Gabrielle, was not the reassurance needed. The corridor was still deserted - she always thought the slanting floor was due to the portraits. The people in them were always facing the wrong way, like they refused to acknowledge the other side of the corridor. There was a fading sense to the passage, like the League room. The whole of it was an advantage now - no witnesses. Gabrielle set off, slowly at first, then gained speed. The broom felt more capable, and definitely eager. But, would it last? After two passes, she pulled up to hover near George and await the telltale bucking.
"It's no Firebolt, but it'll stay even with any Cleansweep and beat all but the latest quidditch brooms off the mark to the bludger. A proper beater's broom," described George proudly.
"Ze broom feels much, eh, stronger, yes. Is it really ze one I made, and not a copy?"
"It is. You'll find there is a difference between expert and master. Most of the work old Jewkes did was inside."
Gabrielle realized that hovering near George had a major benefit. If she wished to thank him properly, sincerely with an embrace or kiss, well, she did not have to wait for him to understand the situation and to cooperate by bending down. She nudged the broom a little closer. The element of surprise should not be needed, but, eh, George might think it funny to try and escape. At least, muttered a second thought, you do not keep a notebook about him.
The broom seemed to like the idea of being closer to George, or was starting to act up, since it kept moving toward him even though Gabrielle willed otherwise. Subtlety was what was needed to catch him unawares. Edging him backwards to the wall was hardly that.
"Eh, zere might be somezing, eh, not right wizz ze broom..."
"Hmm, I wonder," grinned George. His back was against the wall now and the broom continued to press itself and its rider into him. He showed no concern, so Gabrielle relaxed. If he had added a spell to have the broom bring her close to him, then all the better for her! The only inconvenience was that she was a little too high off the ground. The height had been fine for the sudden pounce she had originally planned, but now she was head and shoulders above him and too close to bend low. A second thought wondered if that had been his intent.
Gabrielle countered the tactic by embracing George's head and laying her cheek on top of his head. This had the additional effect of burying his face in her chest. "Ze wand was fixed also?" The question was more to distract him from escape plans. Which he would be thinking of because it was a game to him and not because he really wanted to get away from her. Probably.
"No, sorry, luv," said George, his voice muffled a little. Gabrielle wished that she could worry that he might suffocate, but they were only molehills, not mountains. "There wasn't much left of the core at all that was intact, and the wood had lost most of its affinity for magic."
"Oh." That was not unexpected, but at least now she had the story from Harry to tell. Gabrielle hoped that Maman would not ask Grandmere to give another hair.
"Jewkes barely had enough, and even had to stretch it a bit with some hippogriff heartstring he had laying about. Throws nothing away, that man. Literally - his place is a disaster. It's not strictly regulation now, mind you, but no one will find out without taking it to pieces."
"Eh, what? Who is Jewkes?"
"Leonard Jewkes, best known for the Silver Arrow, very retired," explained George proudly. "Made some... poor decisions a few years back. Fred and I set him right," he continued. "Really seemed chuffed about working on a Delacour broom. Er, let's keep all that secret, luv."
"Eh, does zat mean ze broom is a wand?" Like Suki-chan's brush? How much ink would that take? She had no doubts about which Delacour this Jewkes thought that the broom was for. And, wondered Gabrielle, why would the broom not go down at all?
"That's the Law of Parallelism argument. It doesn't fly, ha, here because the intent is different so-"
Gabrielle grew frustrated of trying to get the broom to do as she needed by willpower alone. She struck the handle of the stick she rode to point it in the desired direction. A second thought recalled the significance of the phrase "proper beater's broom", but it was too late. The broom pinwheeled under her, delivering a textbook tail-strike not to a bludger but to its rider. She was flung down the deserted hallway, colliding with the only suit of armor along the entire corridor. The thing might have tried to catch her, but there is little difference between the stone floor and iron when considering cushioning.
Many parts of her body hurt, but nothing felt broken, for which Gabrielle was extremely relieved. Another night in the infirmary, with Pomfrey sending for Mags, would be too much. She stood up, dusted herself off, and tried to arrange a nonchalant expression on her face. The subjects of several portraits had sensed the commotion, and now watched with interest. She knew George would be laughing himself silly, or trying to hide it.
Gabrielle turned, and found George down on one knee holding out a small box with a ring in it. It was not what she was expecting. That is, it was not what she was expecting right at that moment; she had been, of course, expecting the gesture at some point in her future. It was fate! Their hearts have been entwined since they first met; this was proof of that. It might, urged a second thought excitedly, be a good idea to say something.
"Gabrielle Jean Delacour, would you - "
"Oui! Bien sûr! Je t'aime!" There was no point in being coy. She grabbed the ring and slipped it onto her finger, then threw herself into George's embrace.
" - like to try the Fairy Ring of, of... Oh, bugger."
"George, why?! Why?" It was a cry of anguish. There was no embrace. Gabrielle stared way up at what should have been her fiancé, having been drastically shrunk. Her arms and legs were spread apart, stretched taut and trapped by the mountains of inky cloth surrounding her. She had shrunk, but most of her clothes had not, which left her very exposed. And angry. Very angry. In her struggles to free at least one arm, Gabrielle caught sight of wings.
George bent low and reached what appeared to be a massive hand toward Gabrielle. He probably, complained a second thought, wants to count whatever he likes to count in these situations. The hand reached past her and gently pulled a wing straight. "Feathers..."