A sequel to "G is for Gabrielle" and "He Does Write"
Chapter One - Like Losing
The girl stared at the rambling fieldstone farmhouse as if she had not seen it before. Which she had, but it was the neat stone-dust path, lined with rose bushes still with late summer blooms, and the wide wrought-iron gate that surprised her. This landscaping had not been there in the morning, but now it looked as if the manicured entrance had been there for the centuries the house had suffered.
The girl was really more of young woman, though one had to look closely. If she was a kind of dragon and her scales were carefully examined, one would find nearly fourteen years of growth, though the last few markings could be debated. The girl's, sorry, young woman's name was Gabrielle Delacour, and she was resigned to the description petite. That term was certainly better than slight, short, or insignificant. She had, in fact, grown, but in her opinion it did not count if all her clothes still fit. A meager two centimeters, generously rounded up, in height hardly qualified as a growth spurt, but at least the vague promises on her chest had become definite prominences. The smallest named size, it was true, but they had at least reached a defined size. With strategic structuring cleavage was possible.
Gabrielle was more than just a petite young woman dressed head to toe in black, with cropped blonde hair. She was a witch as well, so it was not the sudden appearance of the roses, gate, and path that made her pause. In the world of magic, things suddenly appeared all the time, like the dray of dead-white squirrels that had colonized the grounds of Delacour Manor. No, what she was having trouble with was why these additions had come to be at the Winterhall Estate. And, eh, who was paying for it.
The hairstyle was her mother's doing, a pixie - in the muggle imagining, at least - cut, because the assembled experts judged that Gabrielle's hair lacked the luxuriousness needed for greater length. Gabrielle would have preferred to have kept her locks longer, because the short cut reminded her too much of those times when her hair had been nibbled to a similar but uneven length, and what had been lost. But she somehow got the sense that her hair had rather liked the attention and praise, and had become, in a way, their hair. Certainly the stubborn tresses refused to grow at all. Or perhaps, Gabrielle thought at times, it was a conspiracy with her ears, which had been declared her best feature. Which was, in her opinion, unlikely, except that she could not see her ears very well.
The monochromatic clothing was difficult to explain and seemingly impossible to get rid of. Gabrielle desperately hoped it would go unnoticed.
"Och, Ah see ye kent th' polish Ah pit oan th' auld place, mah wee mirk lassie."
Gabrielle turned to the speaker, a thickly-built, graying man wearing a knitted sweater, a plaid skirt, and tall, green rubber boots. Eh, that is, kilt. He did not look ancient enough, in her experience, to be a danger, like the insane wizard who had bequeathed her the property, but the skirt worried her a little. That is, the kilt worried her. She assumed he was a wizard, since the man, whose legs were far too hairy, really, for a skirt, had been hired by the goblins of Gringotts as the caretaker. Gabrielle had been assured, after her family had been introduced to the man, that he spoke English. She continued to have her doubts, but now nodded and gave him a small and hopefully appropriate smile. Her mother and father were storing the borrowed car.
"Dae ye hink yer Maw will loch it?" asked the caretaker, blushing slightly. "She's a braw hen, an' yer dad is a verra lucky dobber."
"Eh, yes?" guessed Gabrielle. The caretaker's name was Robert Mac-Something-She-Could-Not-Remember, which made speaking to him even more awkward than not understanding half of what he said already did. What did mirk mean?
"Bonjour, Robert," greeted Gabrielle's mother, who neatly avoided the issue by only speaking French. The slight blush became a furious one as the man hurried to open the new gate. Papa, noted Gabrielle, only glared. Madame Delacour stepped through, cupped a rose in a pale hand, and sniffed it briefly before giving Robert a radiant smile. The gate he held was the only thing that prevented him from sagging to his knees.
The Winterhall Estate was hers, or so the goblin from Gringotts had told Gabrielle, but it did not feel that way. The furnishings were not hers; the linens were not hers. With Maman here, the new furnishings and the new linens were not Gabrielle's either, though they were at least more familiar. The problem for Gabrielle was the lingering presence of Granary Winterhall. Not as a ghost or spirit, drifting through the walls at night when she slept or regaling her at breakfast with endlessly repeated stories of his life. No, it was that Gabrielle could See the past, and the past of the expired Monsieur Winterhall permeated the very walls of the place.
There was, for instance, the spot in the tiny kitchen, between the old wood stove and the window. Gabrielle had stood there by chance on the flustered tour the caretaker had given, and had been rooted in place, nauseated by the taste of the tar on the pipe stem in her mouth while she her nose sought refuge in the faint scent of cherries buried in the noxious cloud she breathed. Her eyes had still seen the field outside, but as a blur of passing seasons. Years reeled by, each one duller and less bright than the one just passed. Her father had lifted her up in his arm like she was a child, breaking the trance. And Gabrielle could not use the small bedroom at the end of the hall at all, not without succumbing to gut-wrenching sobs, since that was where the body of the late Winterhall's murdered daughter had been laid out and mourned. Gabrielle slept on the sofa downstairs, since her parents used the larger bedroom. Which would be fine once her owl, Lieutenant Mimsey Plumes, finished off the mice infesting the chimney. He was not exactly a quiet eater - how did he make those smacking sounds with just a beak? - and he tended to hoot excitedly when he did catch something.
The Winterhall Estate was hers, but Gabrielle could not forbid use of it. She would have much preferred staying at the Burrow with the Weasleys. Gabrielle was certain that Mrs. Weasley would not have minded, and the Weasleys certainly had the room. As far as Gabrielle knew, only Ginny kept a room there now. Even so, of course, family dinners were common, and that, suspected Gabrielle, was the real reason for this exile at the Winterhall Estate. Which was ridiculous, because she had contact with George all the time, though, obviously, not physical contact. The current exile could not prevent that.
The metal beetle with its magicked wings had been vital to Gabrielle's sanity, even if using the artifice was itself maddening. Poking at the little segments on the wing was slow and error-prone, and having to piece together the return message a letter at a time was not any better. George had come up with some improvements, a word that took nearly a minute itself to arrive, but it was impossible for her to make the alterations herself. That the insect was no better than it was when it had been given was something that she did not want to dwell on, because of what it meant.
Gabrielle preferred using her owl, of whom she was rather proud. Lieutenant Mimsey was no longer the scrawny, stupid, half-chewed bird that had volunteered his pathetic services during that horrible summer. Well, he was not so stupid at least. Just, eh, excitable. Under her care, the Lieutenant had grown fully, and then some. His wingspan was nearly one and a half meters, and he was strong enough to lift a dining room chair. His talons were strong enough to gouge the wood of that chair too, something that Maman had not failed to notice. Gabrielle was made to stand at dinners until it was repaired. The bird had made dozens of deliveries to Gabrielle's friends at Beauxbatons, and at least half as many to Britain. The long trips across France and the Channel were nerveracking for Gabrielle, since she was not sure if her owl could swim if the worst happened. She always tried to use the lightest parchment for those letters. What the bird returned with was often heavier, but since the Channel crossing was earlier in the trip on the way back he was not as likely to be tired over the water.
The morning had been spent visiting Gabrielle's new nephew, Louis. He had grown nearly as much as the Lieutenant had since the last time she had seen him, and Gabrielle was quite happy to be his favorite aunt. Louis called her "Ga", or "Ba", or occasionally "Ta", all of which Gabrielle translated as "Aunt Gabrielle, whom I love very much." He was already starting to walk! Sort of. It might have looked more like an extended fall to anyone who did not know how precocious he was. Louis had red hair like his father's, and it was surprisingly thick and silky for a seven month old. His skin was as clear as his mother's, with not a freckle on him. Gabrielle had carried him about the entire visit, half because he had wanted her to and half because it made her feel like a queen. Maman had certainly been a little jealous. The adoration of little Louis almost made up for the disappointment that George was not visiting also, nor Mrs. Weasley, nor even Ginny.
"Gabrielle! What have I told you about this rodent of yours?" The annoyed voice was Gabrielle's mother's, and came from the tiny kitchen. It made Gabrielle sigh, because natural instincts were difficult to change. Autumn was coming, and Sauveuret was hiding food again.
"I am sorry - Maman!" blurted Gabrielle after hurrying to the kitchen. Her mother brandished a stiff and petrified Sauveuret by his tail, his snout transfigured into that of a pig's. "There, eh, there was no reason to do that."
"Now the creature looks as he acts," dismissed Madame Delacour.
Gabrielle cradled the transfigured squirrel in her arms, and bit back any excuses or arguments. After a year of seemingly endless strife and feeling as if she was a disappointment to everyone, Gabrielle was simply glad that she was still welcomed at Delacour Manor, although it was an effort at times.
Sauveuret grunted, authentically pig-like, at her. "You will be fed the whole winter. You know this. It is not even that cold yet!" reminded Gabrielle. She took the animal's over-stuffed cheeks in her hand and squeezed. Out popped two of the specially fortified nuggets that were his normal feed, half a cornichon, and a soggy red ball of yarn.
"And you are not to help him!" scolded Gabrielle. The red ball of yarn was Pepi-Z, her zombie pygmy puffskein. "Honestly! He does not even like pickles." Now she would have to find all of Sauveuret's hiding spots before Maman did. The easiest way to accomplish that would be to set her three toads, the Sisters, to the task, but then that meant letting the amphibians out of their own punishment early. Gabrielle was not sure where the Sisters got their ideas from, because if she did she would put stop it and find them a new source.
Gabrielle sat down on the sofa that doubled as her bed. The upholstery was a dull, green woven fabric, with an oddly nobbly texture to it. She expected that it would not outlast Maman. Gabrielle wedged Sauveuret's tail between two cushions to prop him up. She thought that that might make him look neater and, eh, more domesticated, but she was wrong.
Thoughts of things domestic made Gabrielle shudder, at least when they were associated with the legacy of Monsieur Winterhall. Bill and Fleur lived in a neat, lovely home in St. Otterly Catchpole. Their house was not as cozy, to her at least, as the Weasley's home the Burrow on the other side of the village, though Gabrielle could easily imagine living there herself after marrying George. Then it would be Fleur who was not allowed into certain rooms, instead of her!
Not that Fleur and Bill would live there much longer. Fleur always attracted a lot of attention in the village, of course, but one Look and even the boldest would retreat. That was not the case with Louis. No amount of charms could keep back the adoring strangers when Fleur took him out in the pram. This so disconcerted her sister that Fleur insisted on moving. The Shell Cottage sounded very nice, and it was a seaside property, which sounded interesting, but it was much further from the Burrow. That would not matter once it was connected to the Floo network, but until then it would make visits from Louis' favorite aunt more difficult.
v - v - v - v - v
"Gabrielle! Are you dressed yet? We are leaving soon," called Madame Delacour from the top of the stairs. The new bathroom was hers; Gabrielle made do with the kitchen sink for washing up. The less said about the tiny, rickety building out the back, the better.
"Already?" asked Gabrielle in surprise. Though a question, it was enough of an answer for her mother.
"Hurry up! I do - not - want your father to feel rushed," ordered Gabrielle's mother.
"Yes, Maman," agreed Gabrielle. The sigh that accompanied the reply was not theatrically enhanced. This was another example of what Maman called maturity, which Gabrielle came to understand as 'not arguing'.
The sigh was for the reflection in the mirror. Gabrielle was dressed - how long could it take when everything was the same color? But, was she - dressed - ? That was something that was much harder to discern. The dress she wore was one of the horrors from her childhood, but now it was very tolerable as the bright floral pattern on a yellow background had become very subtle patterns of black on more black. The hem had been also been adjusted slightly upward, and the work was straighter than most of her previous attempts. Gabrielle wore it with warm tights, also black - as if she had any choice in that. Tights were an amazing accessory - they clearly showed her legs, yet she was also demurely covered. They were cheap too, because color and pattern hardly mattered. Gabrielle could buy from the bargain bin, and still wind up with the purchase matching perfectly. Because it would be black. The combination was definitely not a child's fashion, but did it send the message that she was a capable yet quite-ordinary-and-not-living-a-cursed-life-in-any-way young witch - mature young witch - who wanted some answers? Would a skirt be better? Gabrielle now regretted taking the time to check her socks for acorns after finding Sauveuret's cache of crackers in her trunk.
The only spot of color was the freshly washed Pepi-Z, clipped to her hair by his tether. And, as always, the pendant that Nona had given her. The leather cord had been replaced by a slim silver chain, though the polished stone was now kept in a cloth satchel - black, of course. The satchel was necessary because there had been... issues... with it before.
"Ah, Gabrielle, my dearest," addressed her father as he entered. Gabrielle turned, and raised her hand to her mouth in shock. Her father was half-covered in oily sludge and looked like he had been too close to a lightning-catcher. "I wonder if you might - "
"Papa! What has happened?"
"Hush, my little cabbage. There was… a problem, slight, with the car. I - I know you can contact that, that George. I just need a small -"
"Henri? There is smoke," called Gabrielle's mother from upstairs.
"It is nothing, my queen."
"It is a lot of smoke, Henri. Has Gabrielle set fire to the plantings? Again?"
"I did no such thing! And, eh, that was an accident," protested Gabrielle. "I have already apologized for that."
"I am done for," moaned Monsieur Delacour. He headed out of the house with drooping shoulders, and Gabrielle followed.
The car, borrowed from the Weasleys, was the source of the thick, dark smoke. It came from the front part of the car, which had the cover up. Gabrielle's father produced his wand and aimed a stream of water from it onto the convoluted metal. Gabrielle took out her wand, conveniently tucked up a sleeve, to help. She had been studying a number of useful spells for these situations. Which were not all that common, at all, thought Gabrielle, though one would not think that the way Maman went on. She raised her wand, but found her father's hand on it.
"There is a restriction on under-age magic here. You must remember that," warned the elder Delacour.
"Oh, eh, that is right," said Gabrielle dejectedly. The Winterhall Estate lacked the extensive warding that the Burrow had. Those kept the Ministry detectors from, eh, detecting, and it seemed to Gabrielle that mostly Ministry families had them. "The tire is still burning," she added helpfully.
Gabrielle watched her father fight the flames, and wondered if this could constitute an emergency. She could use her wand then. There was the Flameproof Mousse spell, for instance, or Schiele's Snuffer-Outer. Both would make short work of the persistent fire, and the mousse also had a pleasant lemon flavor.
"Havin' a wee motur trouble, mistress ay th' mirk?" asked Robert, the caretaker. Gabrielle startled. Where had he come from? "Ah can gie ye a hain when the fire is it. Ah ken a bit abit muggle cars."
"Eh," began Gabrielle. A bit a bit? That sounded small. Was he making fun of her height?
"What hae ye dain, man? Th' pistony things ur stickin' it!"
v - v - v - v -v
"It is unnatural," complained Monsieur Delacour quietly. The car, with the very boisterous help of the caretaker, was back in running order. Minus the 'pistony things', however, which were now in the boot.
"Yes, Papa. But see? We are going faster now," replied Gabrielle. She was sitting in the front of the car, next to her father. Three red lights were blinking on the panel in front of her. That was new. Her mother sat regally in the back, with her eyes closed. "The British drive on the left side."
"I did not think that applied to wizards also."
Gabrielle rolled her eyes at that, but she knew her father was feeling embarrassed, so she took pity on him. "It, eh, does not. It does apply to the cars, though."
"Ah. That could have been clearer, kitten." That made Gabrielle frown. The condition of Mr. Weasley's car was - not - going to be her fault. Oh, an orange light now. The symbols on the lights meant nothing to Gabrielle.
"The travel is more comfortable now," added Madame Delacour. "It is almost pleasant."
"Perhaps we could go even a little faster?" hinted Gabrielle. They were leading a long queue of cars along the two lane road. The frustrated muggles stormed past at any opportunity. Gabrielle wondered what the other drivers thought of it, since the Weasley's car was Unnoticable with the charms.
The car lurched as their speed increased, but only briefly. "Henri, my love, I prefer the more sedate pace."
v - v - v - v - v
The Burrow came into view once the correct single track road had been found. And that was done only after fortuitously coming across the turn originally missed. Gabrielle suspected that that was more due to blind luck than her father's navigational skills. Her Maman had praised those skills, but Gabrielle thought that perhaps they were imaginary. She was sure that a quick Point-Me would have been safe if he would have kept his wand down. Maman was very pleased that the trip would soon be over. Gabrielle had to believe that the other drivers on the road would be very pleased as well, since Papa's uncertain course made him even more of an obstruction.
The last visit Gabrielle had made to the Burrow and the Weasleys was at the beginning of the summer, in June. A visit which tragically coincided with Fred dragging George to some 'exclusive zone' in Ukraine for the entire time she was in Britain. Which, unfortunately, might not have just been down to Fred's basic trollishness. There was the possibility, suspected Gabrielle, that the circumstances were the result of a conspiracy between Fred and her father. That would have been a ridiculously unlikely thought a year ago, but… But being expelled from Beauxbatons - unjustly and unfairly expelled! - had not only ruined her life, it had nearly ruined everything.
The order expelling Gabrielle from Beauxbatons was kept secret at the beginning while the first of a long series of appeals were made. These were rejected, sometimes so quickly that it made one wonder if the owl with the refusal had set out before the owl with the petition. Once the term had begun, though, there was no hiding it. Particularly if one took a class with Professor Duedancorp or Professor Duedancorp - they answered questions with more than a little smugness, or so her best friend Monique had written.
The timing of the awful decree, and the delay resulting from the futile attempts to overturn it, left few options for continuing Gabrielle's magical training. Fewer by half again, after taking into account Papa's restrictions - only witches were suitable tutors. And the candidates still needed to pass the scrutiny of her mother, which, as far as Gabrielle could tell, meant only witches older than Maman were deemed acceptable. The rest were 'flighty' or 'undisciplined' or even 'silly'. Unfortunately, the available teachers meeting all the requirements were either too ill, too wary, or too busy to add another student. Two, however, did offer an apprenticeship.
An apprentice was, Gabrielle had come to learn, very much like a student, except instead of spending the day with friends and fellow students she spent it with a grumpy taskmaster. And, instead of a palace replete with house-elves, there was only the lowly apprentice to take care of - everything -. It was like living with Nona all day, with less ladle and more scolding. Gabrielle was apprenticed to Madame Noircallot, whose home was not at all large enough to escape her snoring. Madame Noircallot also tutored several other witches and wizards; Gabrielle was often used for demonstrations. Or, perhaps, target practice, something which ceased when Gabrielle showed that she could manage a decent shield spell.
Reflecting back, Gabrielle knew that Nona had saved her again, even if the old Albanian crone would never realize. It was while working at the crystal ball, reaching over to right a toppled candle that was already spilling its wax onto the carpet, that the pendant from Nona that Gabrielle wore, sempre, slipped free. Madame Noircallot was spouting utter nonsense about the importance of breathing at the time. Gabrielle was pretty sure everyone would know that breathing was important; it was like saying a beating heart was important. The older witch had startled when she spotted the pendant, and then swore, which startled Gabrielle. Gabrielle had then swore herself, because she had dropped the candle and set a patch of the carpet on fire. That was put out quickly with a small flood of the lemony spell, and then Gabrielle was put out. Put out, dismissed, and sent away. Thank Merlin that Lieutenant Mimsey had not been off to Beauxbatons at the time, and that Monsieur Toulier had not been out in his lorry, because otherwise she would have been stranded.
Maman, recalled Gabrielle, had been put out as well, very much so. The only thing that limited her anger was that when they returned to Madame Noircallot's home the following day, so Gabrielle could grovel, apologize, and beg for a second chance, they found the place completely deserted. That lent credence to Gabrielle's version of events, which was that Madame Noircallot had completely lost her senses and any regard for the students in her care. While her mother was forced to accept that explanation, the blame still fell upon Gabrielle for the old witch's sudden descent into insanity. Unfairly fell, Gabrielle would insist, for all that mattered; it had become, for Maman, a Pattern of Behavior.
The undeserved abandonment, the description Gabrielle preferred over 'second expulsion in as many months', could not have come at a worse moment. Especially when it came to receiving any sympathy or understanding. Papa had continued to file appeals, and called upon many favors to open several lines of inquiry into affairs at Beauxbatons. Particularly affairs having to do with the new tower. He had been very aggressive, Gabrielle knew, because Maman felt that the Delacour name was sullied. That did not keep her from blaming Gabrielle for everything, of course. Unfortunately, Madame Maxime had connections as well, and in a particularly rancorous, particularly inconvenient hearing, it was revealed that the source of certain contraband, the Weasley Wheezes, had been none other than the daughter of one of those who had pushed the hardest for the restrictions. The result was an embarrassment for Gabrielle's father, and, being the way that favor for governing works, that which was done for the favors that the Delacour patriarch had called in was then itself called into question. Papa was not sacked outright, but was reassigned to a less influential position inside the Labyrinth beneath the French Ministry. It was more genteel, but the message was the same: get lost.
That was not a happy memory, at all. In any way. The explosion when the news reached the Delacour household marked the nadir of Gabrielle's thirteen years. Rash words and rash actions had followed, with many more words after the actions. It had been like living with an everlasting Howler. This began the Black Period; at least Gabrielle hoped it was a period since that implied that it would end. Which it had not done so far. No more, Gabrielle quickly reminded herself, mostly to think of something else, pentagrams. Ever.
Just as abruptly as the Delacour household had fallen apart, suddenly - magically - fortune returned. Another apprenticeship had been found; it was in the southern part of France. That was… better, because what was said could not be unsaid1 and what was done could not be undone.2 Then the very same night, Gabrielle's father had come home late, so late that Gabrielle feared the the Labyrinth had claimed him. He announced that he had resigned his position at the Ministry. That shock was followed by another, which was that he was now the proprietor of a small distillery specializing in fortified wines.3 With partners, whom he did not name. Maman, recalled Gabrielle, somehow managed to be shocked, upset, enthusiastic, and suspicious all at the same time. A new product was in development, and the mysterious associates needed local management.
The new apprenticeship was with Madame Pommejoues. If the witch was older than Gabrielle's mother, it was not by much, and both flighty and, well, not silly but unserious came to mind. Gabrielle was sure that her Maman would have rejected the offer, except that Professor Elevagre, Gabrielle's former Natural Arts instructor, had interceded. The potential prestige added by the endorsement tipped the balance to accepting. Gabrielle's own opinion on the matter was, of course, not considered at all.
Madame Pommejoues was relentlessly cheerful, quite fat, and a bit on the short side. That made her the complete opposite of Monsieur Pommejoues, who was eternally sour, almost emaciated, and tall. The Pommejoues ran a shop in French magical village of Chamoix that offered a wide variety of magical creatures for sale, though they specialized in kneazles and crossbreeds. The pair also raised most of their own stock, too. That was where the apprentice came in. Madame Pommejoues took care of and fed her prize kneazles, while Gabrielle was expected to care for the rest and clean everything. That was nothing when it came to the toads (specially bred), the African streelers, or the horklumps, but it was quite another cauldron when it came to the jarveys, the jumping ferrets, and the griffin. Who would want a jarvey? Worse were the ones Gabrielle knew were rejects. These were creatures who were old, injured, or unwanted. Or all three, as in the case of a blind Hebridean Black dragon with a mangled wing. The dragon appeared too old to do more than snarl at her, and that was good because Gabrielle was certain she would not be able to run in Madame Pommejoues' oversized leathers. Gabrielle did not like the dragon, Corey, because she had to bring the scaly, lazy lump a live deer each morning, and then call out directions to the lumbering creature to help it find its fresh blood meal.
For an apprenticeship, in Gabrielle's opinion, there was too much dung and far too little magic. Madame Pommejoues, Gabrielle decided, was no better at potions than she was, at least after the second or third try, and Gabrielle had not been shown any magic beyond some basic household spells and those useful in herding cats. There was nothing to further her careers in Seeing and curse-breaking. Monsieur Pommejoues was no help either. He completely ignored her, and if he did need something done he referred to her as 'the help'. The thought had come to Gabrielle that perhaps Professor Elevagre had received some of Madame Maxime's wrath too, and was passing it along in this favor. The entire year would have been a loss if it had not been for her own resources, which were delivered by the Lieutenant from George. Even so, between chores, tending the assorted creatures, and self-study, there was hardly any time at all for scrying. Which, a second thought noted, was probably a good thing.
Apprentices are not like students, however, when it comes to holidays, because there were no holidays. The week in June was only grudgingly allowed, and only because Monsieur Pommejoues had answered when Madame Delacour made her persuasive request via Floo. But even that meager break was ruined, except, of course, for Gabrielle's beautiful nephew Louis, because George was not there. The hint that there might be a conspiracy leading to George's absence came from the piles of paper in her father's den with circles made from colored wedges. Those provided enough evidence for Gabrielle to assign blame. The wedges meant a private computator, or "PC", the "PC" meant Philippe, and if Philippe was involved then that meant that the Weasley twins were Papa's silent partners. That was logic. It followed then, logically, that it was Fred's fault that the trip to Ukraine just happened to be during Gabrielle's precious week.
This time, as the Burrow finally drew closer, the visit was more of a surprise, and the reason behind it still secret, in case there actually was a jinx. That is, a second jinx. The unannounced plans, thought Gabrielle, probably explained Maman's insistence on using the Winterhall Estate, even though Gabrielle was certain the Weasleys would not have minded the imposition. Mrs. Weasley would have welcomed them as enthusiastically as she did now, waving cheerfully from the window.
The car rattled to a stop just past the house, halfway to Mr. Weasley's shed, in which the vehicle would probably be making a long stay. This did not worry Gabrielle, since that would mean that she would be making a long stay. She burst from the car, only to be rebuked by her mother. Gabrielle carefully rolled her eyes - before - turning back for an inspection, since that was a sign of maturity.
Madame Delacour was out of the car quickly as well. She often said that wheels affected her humours. When Gabrielle came to her, she quickly ran her fingers through her daughter's hair. "Your hair is good… Not so… Where are your earrings?"
Gabrielle could hear the ellipses, and that was another sign of maturity as her mother, in exchange for the lack of argument, supposed Gabrielle, began leaving off phrases like 'for once' and 'flat and dull'. Except, this time Gabrielle had made an effort and used the secret muggle salve on her hair. It had apricot extract in it. Allegedly, since the list of ingredients were neither recognizable potion fodder nor a list of botanicals. The concoction did, however, leave her hair just a little bit livelier and a little bit shinier. "Eh, I could not wear them because of the ferrets. The piercings closed up again." Having a jumping ferret dangling from an ear was not something worth repeating.
Madame Delacour sighed quietly. Gabrielle knew that the jewelry was meant to draw attention to her ears, her reputedly best feature. But she had a picture now of one of her ears4, and it was, in her opinion, just an ear. There was no reason to go on giving it airs. Gabrielle turned back to the house.
"Gabrielle," began the Delacour matron. "You may - borrow - this, - just - for today." In her hand was a bright red, silk scarf.
The emphasis was, Gabrielle knew, not exactly intended for her, but for the lingering jinx that beset her as the Black Period continued. On the unfortunate day that it began, the day all her brains had forsaken her at the worst of moments, all her clothes had turned black. And, as if to prove Maman could become angrier, all the clothes that were meant to replace the magically ruined ones turned black too. If an item was given to, bought for, or bought by Gabrielle, it turned black. Somehow, clothes that were simply borrowed did not, if the lender really meant it. Which was a little worrisome, because the dress that Nona had forced on her once had not turned black. It remained its ugly dirt brown color, which implied to Gabrielle the the old witch was expecting the drab frock back. Even though it fit and was the only thing in her entire wardrobe that was not the exact same shade of black, Gabrielle never wore it.
Gabrielle quickly tied the scarf around her neck, then, after noticing her Maman's expression, untied the smooth cloth and made a show of trying to re-tie it using the tiny, mysterious mirrors that were, inexplicably, stuck on the outside of the car. The performance was another act of maturity, because it allowed Gabrielle to hand the scarf back to her mother with the request that she tie the cloth. All without commentary or arguments. That was better, but a second thought opined that it still felt like losing.
Madame Delacour took only a few seconds to arrange the colorful accessory with her wand. A look in the car's mirror showed that it was carefully arranged to look carelessly tied, and gave the blackness a dramatic flair. The effort was, Gabrielle thought, not much different than her own, but it looked much better. Perfect, in fact.
"I can show you the spell, later, if you wish," offered Madame Delacour graciously. Less graciously she added, "But only if you promise to practice it - a hundred times! - using a pole or tree. Or that rodent. I do not want you to choke yourself."
Gabrielle gave her mother a patient smile and said nothing before turning to hug Mrs. Weasley hello. The careful smile theoretically put her one up, if only she could convince herself that she was not losing.
1 This was only partially true. There were memory charms after all.
2 She had tried, many times.
3 Magically fortified wines, of course, in addition to the traditional.
4 The normal method to see one's own ear in full is to use two mirrors. A method that is far too dangerous for a witch or wizard to use for such a trivial purpose. For if a wizard should catch more than a glimpse of the infinite, he risks losing the sense of which reality is his own. A search through the infinite can take more than a lifetime.