Chapter Twenty-Six - Queen of Hufflepuff
Gabrielle traced the dark circles under her eyes with a finger. Maman would be horrified. Fang was as restless as Mags during the night. No, worse. She had been woken several times in the night by the hound's huge tongue washing her face. Mags might kick and elbow, but she was not that gross.
The enchanted ceiling showed the imminent arrival of dawn, which was, apparently, when Fang began his day. Since his day was going to start with something that definitely should not be done in the common room, Gabrielle's day began as well. She hoped, once Fang was back at Hagrid's cottage, that he could manage for a few hours alone.
What the ceiling had not shown was that the snow falling the previous evening had stayed for breakfast. Gabrielle had experienced snow before, of course. There were several snow falls every winter at Delacour manor. This was, however, the most snow that she had ever been expected to walk through. There might have been the slightest of, eh, oversights in the selection of footwear she had packed.
Gabrielle did not trudge miserably down to Hagrid's cottage, her feet wet and freezing. She was a witch, a proper witch, which meant that she glided along the uncleared path on her broom, landed at the door in a patch where she had used her wand to vanish the snow, and then was dragged off her feet by Fang once the leash was loosed from the broom's handle. She had let go of the tether quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid falling face-first into the snow. There was magic in the world, though, so her feet had remained on the cleared patch and at least her shoes were still dry.
Once inside the cottage, Gabrielle threw a lot of logs into the stove and conjured a large ball of flames to go with them. That, she knew, was quite forbidden, but, mon Dieu, did it feel good. Gabrielle had been told, essentially, that she should use her broom instead of the stupid main staircase. That recommendation had sort of become any staircase, and occasionally some of the longer hallways, over the months. None of the professors had said anything, probably due to the preemptive detentions. They might also allow the conjuring of fire in an emergency like this, but the Headmistress surely would not. So, it was important that nothing go amiss, which was when Gabrielle noticed the room filling with smoke because the damper was still closed.
Not that there was much reason to worry about the stone cottage burning down, however. The 'nufer' crabs had shown how resistant the building was to flame. Professor Hagrid had penned them up in a small enclosure built against the side of the cottage, 'fer socializin, ye ken'. Two weeks after their birth, which still made Gabrielle shudder, their anal glands had matured. This meant the creatures could, as fire crabs on the paternal side were known for, erupt flames from their rear ends if they felt threatened or anxious. Or bored. Or, tragically, if they themselves were on fire. The wool inherited from their mother, coated in natural oils, burned well. The chain-reaction took, according to the professor, less than a minute to kill all of the, eh, crambs and to destroy the pen. The scorch marks on the wall formed a sort of ramshackle memorial, which was only sad when the mother ewe would stand quietly and stare at it.
The fire, worried a second thought, had been outside. The stove, which was beginning to change color, was inside. Inside, along with all of the things the Professor had that were not made of stone.
Gabrielle thought about that, and decided, logically, that there was nothing to worry about. The fire was not inside the cottage; it was inside the stove. The stove was supposed to have a fire inside of it. Was that not its entire raison d'être? Also, there were no witnesses, which, another thought noted, was not something to think unless there was a suspicion they would be sought. She decided to feed Fang and then return to the castle. Quietly.
The larder held many bits and pieces of various animals, all of which were unidentified. That is, the particular species was unidentified. Gabrielle knew a spleen from a kidney, a femur from a fetlock, a scapula from a, eh, eh… whatever that tentacled-looking thing was. Gabrielle chose based on what would fit in Fang's stomach and color, because a balanced diet was important. She found an egg-sized hole in one of the joints, under which was Pipe, with an egg-sized lump for a stomach.
The larder had gotten much colder than it was supposed to have. The cooling charm must have been a very simple difference one. Gabrielle had been required to 'expand' on such charms at her brief time at, at her former school. Which was not something to dwell on. The point was that Fang's breakfast was rock-hard, and so was the one-armed former guardin' gnome.
After a brief search, the cottage was mostly a single space, Gabrielle found a huge iron frying pan. Then she found a far smaller pot, because she could not lift the larger pan to the stove. Fang's breakfast would be done in courses. It took very little time for the snow she gathered to melt and boil; Gabrielle was feeling rather proud of the fierce heat the stove provided.
When the last course, the chef's selection of organ meats in scummy gray broth, was served, Gabrielle filled the pan again with snow and set on the stove. Soon, when she could barely stand to touch the heated water, she took the pan from the stove and dropped Pipe into it. The water immediately began to turn brown, which meant, once more logically, that garden gnomes were a sort of tea. Or disgustingly filthy. She wished she had put her gloves back on before picking him up. The heat would have been all that she would have done for the unfortunate creature, but the egg-sized lump caused the gnome to float the wrong side up.
Gabrielle managed a Bubble-Head charm, of sorts, for the garden gnome, but cancelled it. Fleur had practised that before the Tri-Wizard tournament ages ago. It was a spell that needed practice, it seemed. Gabrielle's attempt only covered the side of the gnome's head, and was full of water. She would need to touch the filthy, soggy Pipe and pull him from the murky water for a proper attempt. So for that, she needed a stick.
Kindling was nothing more than a thin bit of wood, and Gabrielle was quite at home with transfiguring thin bits of wood. The stick became a fork, though with a really short handle and really long tines. As planned, of course. She levered Pipe's head clear of the surface, trying to hook the tines over the edge of the pot to secure him. Two of Hagrid's rock cakes for a counterweight helped, with another going into her pocket for dire emergencies. Truly dire emergencies.
Gabrielle was just finishing explaining to Fang that he needed to stay in the cottage and to keep it secret by not barking at absolutely everything when she heard a splash. Should have used a bigger stick, she thought with a sigh. Should have left him in the larder, corrected a second thought.
Before a new stick could be found, though, there was a splutter. "Aw fox," complained Pipe weakly. "I's soup noo."
v - v - v - v - v
Hufflepuff had won the quidditch match. No one had informed Gabrielle of that. Even if Hufflepuffs were not thought of as boastful - do not ask a couch-boy about his belt buckle - that seemed odd. The team's victory did not completely explain the cascade of murmuring when she entered the Great Hall, though. The obvious attention to her arrival panicked Gabrielle momentarily, until she remembered that she was not supplying the blackmarket as she had been at... eh, before. It was not as if she would have known the outcome, having been incapacitated by a vicious, and uncalled for, bludger from, eh… Addy-boo.
Gabrielle actually wanted to know more about that rendezvous than what had happened on the pitch after she lost consciousness. Malachite did not seem any different this morning, and what she and Addy-boo had done, may have done, was not the sort of topic to bring up out of the blue. Especially in such a public place, though it was hard to be alone in Hufflepuff. So instead, she asked her fellow beater about the note from Valmai, and what would happen in six years.
Malachite was not useful in answering that question. She was far more excited by the existence of a note than its cryptic meaning. Gabrielle wondered if it had something to do with the Quidditch World Cup, assuming that ever got back to a normal schedule. There would be another, normally, two years after she graduated. Except, the brief missive did not exactly contain a clear invitation to a luxury V.I.W. (Very Important Wizard) box, with complimentary luxury foods.
Of course, luxury food did not exactly imply good food. The current breakfast offering could be considered luxury, for example. It was another international theme, this time from Sweden. Gabrielle learned that from the helpful placard next to the bowl of pickled herring, which was next to the bowl of creamed herring, next to the plate of smoked herring. There was a lot of herring, at least in her general vicinity. The cheeses were on the other side of the Cats, and further down she could see platters of cured meats.
There were potatoes, naturally, and beets, strangely. Except everything was cold, save for the bread. The various rolls and buns were going quickly. Gabrielle did not see any fruit, but there appeared to be preserves of various types. Just not near her, trapped as she was on her island in a sea of herring.
Suki-chan was enjoying the smoked herring with her rice. Gabrielle had had some of that, and some creamed herring, which was not bad but also not something she would choose unless choice was limited to herring. The distribution of baked goods was very uneven, in her opinion.
Gabielle spotted one of the first-years from her Divination detention class, a boy named Wendell or Wentworth or something. He always managed to spill his tea. He tried though, so he was earning an 'Exceeds Expectations'. 'Wen' should be enough, hopefully. She waved and called, "Excusez moi, eh, Wen. Will you pass ze bread over here?"
The answer was apparently yes, as the boy rocketed out of his seat and snatched the tray up. The feeling Gabrielle had was probably not a premonition, but she was certain this was going to be awkward.
She was not incorrect in her expectation. There was no place to set the tray down due to the large number of variations on the theme of herring, so Wen just stood there holding it. He had gone red in the face, which Gabrielle suspected was the result of not breathing, because the rolls and buns were quite picked over. The tray could not be that heavy.
"I-I'm sorry, Miss Delacour. All's left are the ones with seeds and other bits on 'em. It was Tinker - he had three of the ones with icing."
"Zat is, eh, fine. I like ze seeds." Gabrielle selected three buns.
"Ah! That's not sugar on that one - it's salt," warned Wen.
"I know," smiled Gabrielle politely. There were many very good boulangeries in Paris. "Eh, no one licked zis, did zey?" The tray had been in front of the first-years.
"That last bludger from you was bloody brilliant!" blurted Wen. He winced, and added, "Sorry ma'am."
"Mistress," suggested Saruchi. Gabrielle noted that there were no Swedish bananas.
"Sorry, Mistress. Barrik never had such an easy capture!"
"Eh, Barrik?"
"You know him as Barky. All he had to do was cover the hole where the bludger hammered the snitch in to stop the bleeding, and the match was ours," explained Malachite proudly.
Gabrielle had chosen her buns already, but had begun to distribute the rest in the hope that an empty tray would suggest something to Wen. Specifically, that he return to the other first-years. It was more polite than telling him to go away.
"It was bloody amazing! You're bloody amazing!"
"Oooh," chorused Gabrielle's friends. And most of those within earshot.
"Eh, what?"
"I-I-I mean you're on the quidditch team, you've got a wicked bat, and you're already a third-year!"
"Already ze zhird year?" How, wondered Gabrielle, was that a notable quality? Did many Hufflepuffs need to repeat years?
"And I think you're pretty!" continued Wen. One could tell when his brain caught up, as he blushed furiously. "We! We think you're pretty! Pretty smashing!"
"Eh, okay," started Gabrielle. She doubted she could be heard over the merriment Wen's blunder had evoked. She nodded and smiled, since he had complimented her.
That was it for Wen though. He spun around so abruptly that the remaining breads never realized that the tray had left, and hung in the air for a moment before falling. The baked goods never reached the floor, however, as Hetty suddenly appeared with a tray to catch them. With a tray, and with a look of annoyed disappointment.
Gabrielle looked at the house-elf blankly, wondering why Hetty had turned up if it bothered her so. And, it bothered Gabrielle to see an expression she had long-suffered growing up appear on the elf's face. It had been Wen-something that had spilled the remaining rolls anyway. She decided to return the look, but probably only managed annoyed.
Of course, Gabrielle was not the only one staring at Hetty. The attention was causing the house-elf to become paler by the moment. This was, Gabrielle recalled, coggy-disownment or whatever, and that could lead to breakfast-ruining vomit. She knew what to do, at least for Hetty. "Eh, can you make more of ze rolls wizz ze icing?"
Hetty disappeared after furrowing her brow in concentration, just as Gabrielle expected.
"Ye jist order that house-elf to do something?" asked Cath.
"Eh, no. I asked Hetty a question. She will go find Tembe to help her zink. Zen she will come back and I will ask her anozzer question." Hopefully the old elf will be busy in one of the towers. Finishing eating breakfast was imperative. "May I have ze -"
There was a quiet pop, and Gabrielle sighed. It was not Hetty, though, but the raisin elf.
"Miss'ress. 'Embe is here."
"Oh, eh, hello Tembe. Eh, I zink Hetty is looking for you. You should not let her find you until breakfast is over."
Another look of disappointment. What had she ever done to the house-elves? "Yes, Miss'ress," said Tembe. He then ducked beneath the table.
That was unexpected, and might have seemed like a silly place to hide, but, Gabrielle realized, logically, it was surprisingly canny. Hetty would not return until she had been told what to say by Tembe, and if the old elf was here then that could not happen.
"That was an order," accused Cath.
"No, zat was a warning."
"I think she thought you were a first-year," stated Saruchi. She wrote a few lines in a small notebook. That was interesting to Gabrielle as it was a possible sign of a return to normal. Normal for Saruchi, at least.
"Ze house-elf? Why would zat - "
"No," interrupted Saruchi. "That quidditch player. That is why she wrote six years."
"The Valkyrie," added Malachite.
"I am in ze zhird year! You know zis."
"Did you tell her that? It would be difficult to tell because you… Er, I mean, next to Malachite and the other beaters you're..."
"That wouldn't matter anyway. You would need to be of-age to play in the league," explained Malachite.
"Eh, what? I zought - Oh! Portia!" Gabrielle stood. "Excuse moi."
"Harry Potter got a decree from the Ministry. If she got something like that she could play," continued Malachite.
v - v - v - v - v
"Portia, wait," called Gabrielle. Long tables looked dramatic and all, but that failed to take into account the effort needed to go around them.
"I'll catch up to you in the library," said Portia to her companions before turning to Gabrielle. "Forsooth and, and nonce, Mistress of the Mirk."
"Forsooze to you too." It might be a local traditional greeting. "Eh, when is ze next, eh, convocation?"
"Tonight. We have them twice a week, you know."
"Eh, well, I have a lot of de-, eh, tasks. Also, no one told me zere was a schedule."
"Oh, right. You missed the Resolution Conjunction of Temporal Streams and didn't get signed up for the newsletter."
"Zere is a newsletter?" Gabrielle could not overlook the emphasis on the word 'missed'.
"It's really cool. You need the proper incantation to reveal its secrets, and it can only be read by moonlight!"
"But, eh, what if it is a new moon?"
"I mean, a candle mostly works too, but you don't get the same effect."
"Oh, eh, of course."
"Why this sudden interest though? We put a lot of effort into things, and then you stopped showing up."
Effort, wondered Gabrielle. They did not even bother to send the newsletter. She decided to ignore that too, which was clearly a sign of maturity. "Zere is beaucoup Seeing to be done, and you were very good at chanting last time."
It was impossible to miss the change in Portia's attitude, because it was like the sun rising over distant mountains. Gabrielle smiled and stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Some of it is, eh, for Harry Potter, so I wanted to do it in secret, but zat is difficult. Ze Coven is secret, and ze, eh, decor is very mystical."
"Oh Merlin," whispered Portia, with a small shimmy.
"Eh, zis is very secret, of course. Also, no incense, if you did not know." Gabrielle was becoming more enthusiastic about the idea herself the more she considered it. The mystical setting was something she only thought of as she spoke. Nona had her weird cottage for her Seeing, but even then would rearrange it for the seances. The Darkest Shadows did all manners of odd things to their circles. That probably did not amount to anything real, but it might set the right atmosphere.
"Darcy is going to be thrilled!" gushed Portia.
"Eh, what? Who is Darcy?"
"N-never mind that. Just forget it, please."
"Eh, okay." A second thought decided that it should definitely be remembered. A third thought began to anticipate regret. Gabrielle then spun, because Pepi-Z was tugging at his tether.
"Miss Delacour. My office, please."
"Oh, eh, yes, Headmistress," said Gabrielle glumly. Now that she thought of it, the smoke from the chimney would definitely have been visible from the castle.
v - v - v - v - v
What role does a familiar play in a wizard's life? The most typical answer for a modern witch or wizard is companion. Not many centuries ago, however, the answers would include protector, guide, spy, and personal assassin. For a wizard with very special talents, or very special delusions, a familiar could even act as an adviser, generally with poor results.
It was the decision to hide magic from the muggles that reduced the roles a familiar could play, and the very size of the typical familiar as well. Panthers no longer lounge before the hearth to keep an eye on visitors. Bears and wolves are exceedingly rare as traveling companions. King cobras no longer visit enemies in the night. Wyverns, hippogriffs, and, if historical accounts are to be believed, manticores are now thought too large and too hard to conceal for modern times. Save for the occasional Mister Nubbies, most familiars are versions of more mundane pets. With diminished size comes diminished capabilities, unfortunately. The modern familiar usually takes on a simple chore or household task to stay busy. It is said that it is best to keep a familiar occupied, otherwise they may become a nuisance...
A translucent horned toad stalked down the line of his followers. Three toads, his most loyal, a large mouse with a ribbon tied into a bow around its neck, a finch, and, most recently, the squirrel. This was enough, though of course things would be easier with another two toads or even that hedgehog. However, there was no time. The situation had changed, and an opportunity presented itself like a slug on the underside of a leaf. That which he sought was left in hiding more often than not of late.
Poisseux centered himself in front of the line, setting himself at a very determined angle. They would strike tonight. The finch would be the lookout, the squirrel would gnaw an opening, and the mouse would work the latch. He and the toads would secure his goal. Afterward, the finch would fly and the squirrel could help the mouse escape. And then, the age of bipedalism would be brought to an end. Also, snacks.
v - v - v - v - v
Gabrielle thought about the visit to the Headmistress' office. It had been very confusing. First, no mention of the fire had been made, probably because it had not spread from the stove. That -could- be interpreted as a bit of fire where it was expected was now allowed. Like, for example, a hearth in a chilly common room. Or not.
What had been mentioned were the house-elves. McGonagall was baffled by the very logical reasoning Gabrielle had used, and was certain that Gabrielle was doing something wrong. Though, she would not, or could not, explain what that something was. It was not very helpful, though, for Hetty to suddenly appear with a confident 'yes'. Gabrielle tried to send her away by asking Hetty if she could count the number of snail-like streelies in Africa, but Hetty immediately answered with a no as she did not know what an Africa was.
Finally, the Headmistress was very certain that Gabrielle had something to tell her. She was also very curious about Gabrielle's fingers. Or, perhaps, Gabrielle's hands. That would not be unusual if McGonagall was a healer or worked in a hospital. Healers always wanted to look at her hand. Wrist, really. But the Headmistress had shown no interest before, and Gabrielle had nothing new to share about anything Harry Potter might be up to distract her. It was an awkward interrogation.
Fortunately, and unfortunately, Professor Sprout brought the session to an end. Fang had managed to escape the cottage, and was scratching up a castle door trying to get inside. This was deemed to be Gabrielle's problem because, 'I've not finished my tea'.
v - v - v - v - v
The Coven of Darkest Shadows definitely attracted the eccentric sort. That was a thought that Gabrielle was comfortable having, since she had been dragged to the previous meetings and did not even get the newsletter. Portia did not simply tell her where the meeting was, instead Gabrielle was shown how to read the hidden sigils at each junction that pointed the way. The sigils were clever, a lot of effort, and needed one of those Thurlow lenses she had seen in Albania to be viewed. Or, in this case, a bit of translucent red muggle plastic. Why not just say that it was the room next to the tapestry "Oh Cursed World, My Damned Boat Sinks"?
Gabrielle supposed it felt more secretive that way, though the effort was somewhat undone by the florid garland of black roses that decorated the door to the, eh, Convocation. She slipped through the door after making sure the hallway was clear. The room was quite dark, lit only by a few candles in the middle of a large clear space.
"Welcome, Mistress of the Mirk." Gabrielle recognized The Bashful, eh no, The Baleful as the speaker. It was really difficult to make out where the voice was coming from exactly. It was mostly dark, and everyone was wearing their Cloaks of Darkness.
"Eh, zank you," replied Gabrielle politely to the room in general. She then fell over a cloaked Shadow while trying to move out of the doorway. Her eyes had not adjusted yet, and it really was very dark in the room. The black cloaks the Coven wore made it even -
The cloaks were black, noted a second thought. Very, very black. Just as black, in fact, as the one she wore. "You kept zem?!"
"Let us begin with the Consecration of the Internal circle," intoned The Baleful dramatically. Whispers and some muted giggles followed. "I meant the Infernal Circle. Obviously!"
The Consecration took quite some effort, and it seemed most of the Coven had a part in it. The finale was Gabrielle's favorite part, and not just because the ritual was finally completed. One of the larger Shadows, who was probably only Michael, stood in the center of the cleared space, arms raised as magical energy whipped his Cloak of Darkness. He held an actual staff in his hand, which he crashed to the ground. There was a flash of light and a clap of thunder when it struck. That the magical energy was really light winds coming from the wands of other Shadows, and that the explosion came from a Weasley Wildfire 'Hot Potato' #3, did not make the spectacle any less entertaining.
There was a small oversight, though, in that the candles at the center had collapsed into a flaming, molten puddle, but Gabrielle easily extinguished the flames with the Snuffer-Outer spell in only two attempts. That was another, even smaller oversight, since the flames had been the only source of light in the room. Wands lit up the room with the dull illumination of the boring light spell, and there was a break as Shadows were sent for more candles.
Portia quietly pointed out the faux pas that Gabrielle had committed, which was to applaud at the end of the ritual. This was, she asserted, an attempt at Serious Magic, and not just for fun. Gabrielle nodded politely and promised not to do it again. A second thought noted that Probably-Michael seemed very pleased by the brief applause. One could tell by the strut to his stride, since his face was still hidden.
The new candles required another round of shriving and invoking, with a lot of wand-waving. The ceremonial delay allowed Gabrielle the opportunity to extract from her handbag, unseen, the package from Stanislaw and the kettle. At least, she did not think anyone noticed her rummaging, as it seemed to take a lot of Shadows to light the candles. The only impressive moment was the silent spell that lit said candles. Gabrielle could not tell who among the Shadows had cast it. That, she realized, would be an excellent way to do magic that one was not supposed to do. A second thought brought up the disaster that had started the Black Period, and wondered if she had lost her senses. Her own progress toward non-verbal spells was middling. She did not need to shout as much now, unless she was in a hurry.
Finally, Gabrielle sat around the flickering candles with Portia, The Baleful, and another Shadow called Lilith, who was selected by The Baleful. The rest of the Coven sat outside of the Circle. Gabrielle went over the chant that was not strictly required but would add to the show. Immediately there was a problem.
"No, no. Zis is, eh, not a song. You must all say ze same zing at ze same time. Like ze muggle music." Those outside the Circle of, eh, eh, Something were creating the Cacophony of Distraction. The advice did not produce the results she wanted.
"So it is music but not a song? How does that work?"
"It's called opera, you uncultured troll."
"I've been to a muggle opera! Didn't like the way they danced all on their toes. Unnatural, in my opinion, but, you know, muggles."
"Perhaps zey could just, eh, hum?" suggested Gabrielle to The Baleful, who sighed and stood.
"We seek Resonance. We must align with and magnify the Dark Resonance of Cosmic Frequencies flowing through the, um, um, Invisible Boundary Lines," began The Baleful.
Gabrielle had no idea what the girl was talking about, so she turned her attention to the package. The box was much smaller and squarer than the last one. That probably meant it would be burned up chunks of something. She wondered if Stanislaw had gotten a new Gleasson thing. Apparatus. The same strapping as before sealed the package "Eh, Portia?" hinted Gabrielle, pushing the package toward her.
"That's a Secure-It-Tie seal. My father uses them all the time. You don't need to cut it, just touch your wand to it and say your name," explained Lilith.
"Eh, you are certain? Ze sender is a curse-breaker." Gabrielle wondered if that sounded cool to anyone else.
"I'm sure. You can tell by the red tinge where the eyes should be."
Gabrielle would have checked, but did not have any notion of where the eyes should be for a woven band securing a package. She pulled out her wand, lightly touched the strapping near one of the ends, stated her name clearly, and failed to release the bands. That was not wholly unexpected, but at least she could now tell where the eyes should be. Gabrielle watched the rampant end of the strap warily.
"You have to say it the same as it is in the address," insisted Lilith. Gabrielle felt that Portia's stiletto would be faster. She glanced at the scribble, risking a stinging slap from the swaying strap.
"Gabrielle, Mistress of the Mirk." More quietly, though. This still did not work, and now the back of her hand hurt from the snake-like strike. Gabrielle, very briefly, wondered if the hidden contents were flammable.
"Actually, um, it's written as Gabrielle, Mistress of the Mies," Portia pointed out with the tip of her knife. No assault for that.
"Eh, what?" Gabrielle looked at the addressing herself, and saw no way to see it as merely bad handwriting. If it was supposed to be French, then it meant crumbs. If it was German, well, it probably was not something nice either. Did Stanislaw think this was funny? "I zink we should use ze knife."
"Oh, but if you take it off carefully, it can be reused," advised Lilith. "Up to three times. Really, the makers really should fix that."
Gabrielle considered that, and the long string of insults and expletives she could require him to say, but it sounded a little childish to stoop to his level. "Will it, eh, burn?"
"I, uh, don't think the Headmistress will like that," warned Portia.
"Zen use ze knife."
v - v - v - v - v
After a minute of very thorough slashing, Gabrielle was able to pull the dull silver chain through the gashed sides of the package. She nearly dropped it in shock when what dangled from the chain was revealed. It was a necklace, with a small, translucent crystal held in a silver cage. And, it was very similar to the one she wore, sempre, hidden by the fabric pouch - black, of course.
"Is it something you have encountered before, perhaps in a previous life? Is it an echo from the Dark Plane?" asked The Baleful.
"Eh, I have seen somezing like it before," replied Gabrielle vaguely. Then, after a second thought repeated to itself the question, added, "Eh, what?"
"Let us begin," announced The Baleful. She addressed the rest of the Coven, "Join in only after the second repeat. And stay together, right?"
Gabrielle, who was still somewhat stunned by the appearance of the necklace, was not quite ready. She was staring at the crystal, holding the chain in both hands. That was a bit of a problem for Portia and Lilith, until they decided to hold Gabrielle's knees. It was only a little ticklish, and did not much distract her.
The crystal held by the thin wires was, Gabrielle decided, hazier and less clear than the one that she had been given. This one was more like a chunk of snow than frosted ice. The sort of snow one gets after a heavy storm, when the sun can barely create a crust on top in the bitter cold. A cold that came often this winter. A cold she herself felt more than ever. That was less due to the harsh weather than the darkness lingering nearby, and that was something no one put off forever.
She could not protect the city, nor the fighters inside of it. Their fate was their own. She did what she could, though, and kept the road across Lake Ladoga open, performing the daily ritual from the rough winter shelter on Valaam. Open to supplies, to refugees, to reinforcements. The siege would fail. Though, how many had died already? Were any of them worth her life? Was the life of an old woman enough to save any of them? Would the others laugh at how she had expended her life?
Gabrielle set the tied bundles of twigs into their positions and turned to the fire. Russian winters made one prone to rumination. The thought had been vain. A small failing among many, which made her sigh. She would do what she could for as long as she could. A furtive glance at the dark presence made her wonder if long enough would reach the spring. Was the shadow of a shadow closer than yesterday? If her life or the firewood store expired before the change in season, then so many more would perish. She reached beneath her long fur coat to grasp the amulet, and commanded...
Gabrielle found herself standing in the sudden silence. "Eh…" Nothing was on fire though, so she sat back down.
"Prithee, Mistress of the Mirk, what was that?" asked The Baleful.
Prithee? What, wondered Gabrielle, did that mean? The Coven did not have their own language as well, did they? That would be a little much. She might as well try though. That was the Hufflepuff spirit. "Forsooze and once. I, eh, zink it was to keep ze Grim away. Eh, no one is, eh, hurt, yes?" That, through unfortunate circumstances, sometimes happened.
"Oh, an abjuration!"
"Eh, did I say any names? Eh, prizzee?"
"I don't think so. You were sort of muttering like my grandmother in some foreign language, so I couldn't really tell," replied Lilith.
"What did you See?" asked Portia.
"Eh, well, zere was zis -"
"Reveal the Vision to us all, Mistress of the Mirk," said the Baleful. Then she whispered, "That means say it loud enough for the others to hear."
v - v - v - v - v
Part of Gabrielle wondered at the ambiance created by the Darkest Shadows. The humming did sort of resonate, which was a little eerie whether or not it was actually cosmic. It actually gave her a little chill. Another part of Gabrielle wondered what it was about the kettle that she could not get anything from it. The amulet had taken almost no time at all. Had she used all of her mystic energies in one go? Or had the break for the Brewing of the Ephemeral Elixir, and biscuits, thrown her off?
Gabrielle turned the mangled kettle over and over in her hands. If she was grounded by her sensory humours, then she was at a loss. There was no detectable odor from the ruined metal, and she had tried a small lick before. That is, when she had been alone. Not everything, she supposed, had a secret to give up, but there was a large hole punched through the face on the side of the kettle. The violence of the act suggested there was more to know. That was logical.
The edges of the hole were jagged inward spikes that looked a bit like the teeth of a forest lamprey, though obviously much bigger. What spell, wondered Gabrielle, had done that? Which was not the question of interest. Why it was done was not the real question either. The hole was not made through the center of the face, but through the mouth. Someone had wanted to shut the kettle up, which Gabrielle could completely understand from her own experiences. All she needed to know was who had had a probably-regretted, momentary outburst after likely being repeatedly provoked by the charmed appliance.
Another chill went though Gabrielle, and she shivered a little. Was it possible for the Dark Resonance to resonate more warmly? Or would the question make her sound silly? The thought twigged a memory from one of her childhood friend Philippe's muggle grimoires. Sound could resonate, and even make other things resonate. If she recalled correctly, things that resonated also vibrated. There was a picture of someone screaming at a wine glass until it shattered. And, she knew that vibrating things could make sound. Sound would be heard, and hearing was controlled by the sensory humours.
Gabrielle put her ear to the jagged hole in the kettle, and shivered again. Next time, she would suggest using the room's chairs or some of the pillows from the Divination classroom, instead of sitting directly on the cold floor. She could argue that the Echoes of the Dark Plane coming through the Invisible Boundary Lines were blocked by the Freezing of the Earthly Bottoms.
There did seem to be a sound coming from the kettle, though it was very indistinct. It was even possible that the murmur she heard was just the echo of the Darkest Shadows. Gabrielle was expecting more of a tinny, fading voice still spouting things like, "You are not a proper witch." Or, "No hot water for you!" Or even, "I knoweth what thee didst!"
"Silence, thee bootless contrivance. I have done naught."
"Oh? Thee has't stolen away my queen's coronet."
"Bootless and witless! I have merely borrow'd her precious from Mother."
"Coystrill! The lady knoweth not yond it wast taken!"
"Wherefore wouldst the lady? Mother is e'er too busy with her beloved school."
"Thou has't admitted the deed! Alarm! Alarm!"
"Silence, low pot! Thy false queen has abandoned thee as she has abandoned this house."
"Alarm! Alarm!"
"Silence!"
"Alarm! Alarm - no! Unhand me!"
"Fear not, unworthy vessel. I bring thee to new friends."
"Fie! My domain is the kitchen; I am needed daily."
"Were needed, perhaps. Now the grand castle provides."
"What is this place?"
"Once a smithy, but what use has't Mother for it anon?''
"At least there is a hearth yonder."
"And a farrier anvil."
If there were crimes, then Gabrielle had added to them. She did not think borrowing the crutch her mother had used to climb to her current station was one though, and neither would be disposing of a defective kettle in the well. What did it matter anyway? She would leave for Albania and a new life, away from the overbearing presences. She would become the Ravenclaw who would be remembered. She would -
"You're bleeding."
Gabrielle looked down at the kettle impaled upon the pointy bit of the anvil. It had survived? Except she did not see the anvil anymore, nor the kettle, just the candles. Had she thrown it into the well? No, she was still listening to it, and she could not put it down. She could not put it down because it was stuck on her ear. The Shadows noticed.
"It's cursed - it's eating her!"
"Gumming her more like it."
"Could be sucking her brain out, like, like..."
"History of Magic?"
"The stiletto can cut metal," offered Portia. "Well, stab through thin stuff, at least."
"Eh, no," refused Gabrielle quickly. This had once been Ravenclaw's kettle; someone was going to want it. And the current number of holes in her head was just right.
"What should we do?" asked Lilith to the Baleful.
The Baleful sighed. "I guess we ought to wrap it up here. You two take her to the infirmary. Cursed or otherwise, Madam Pomfrey can handle it. I'll get the Gathered started on the Rite of Ashente Purgato."
v - v - v - v - v
Madam Pomfrey was able to handle releasing Gabrielle's ear from its predicament, but not immediately. She had claimed that she needed a few minutes to prepare a dressing, but Gabrielle could hear, with her other ear, the laughing. Lilith had transfigured a length of parchment into a pink bow around Gabrielle's head to support the kettle, and then left it to Portia to accompany her to the infirmary. The bow had turned the usual black in short order. Portia excused herself when Pomfrey met them, saying that there was a potions essay to do.
The desertions left no one to help Gabrielle fend off Pomfrey's bird. The creature insisted on pecking the side of the kettle, which was amazingly loud if one's ear was inside of said kettle. Any sudden movements would shift the kettle, and remind Gabrielle of the teeth-like, jagged metal trapping her. Shooing the bird with her hands only invited a jab from its beak. She was forced to endure the abuse until the bird hopped to the end of the bed to croak, "Not cursed. Not cursed."
That was still not three words, but Madam Pomfrey accepted the diagnosis without question when it was repeated to her. Not for the first time, Gabrielle marvelled at how much more advanced medical care was in Paris.
The removal of the kettle did not take very long, and was accomplished by stuffing gauze between the ear and the jagged rim and then yanking. That hurt, and Gabrielle wondered if it was supposed to teach her a lesson. At least the salve that followed was magically soothing. Gabrielle expected that rest would be ordered, but Professor Korbel came and announced that the something something hound needed something something. He stomped off before she could ask for a translation. Gabrielle sighed.