Chapter Thirty-one - Not Everything Ends Well

Avada Kedavra was the spell Gabrielle's arch-nemesis had used. Given the unhurried state of instruction in the Martial Arts at Beauxbatons, and her singular year in the discipline, the incantation meant nothing to Gabrielle. Anyway, all that Gabrielle could see that had happened was that her wand had exploded with a tortured shriek - as if she had needed another reason to loathe Tibault Granencole! And he was still on top of Soleil, where he had collapsed, laying as motionless as the colt. That sight still really bothered her, so Gabrielle impulsively dragged him off the colt by his collar - the metric ton. Tibault slid off the fallen animal and landed in a heap in a way that left Gabrielle feeling queasy. She went around to the other side of the limp Abraxan and, just in case, tugged again urgently at the halter.

The act was still useless, and the scene on the other side of the Abraxan was so much worse. Professor Festeller lay in a pool of blood, while Hermione and the others stood near the partial skeleton of Whatever-tail. What was left of his flesh was still smoking and burbling. Gabrielle dropped to her knees. Soleil was dead - there really was no way to deny it any longer. Tears filled Gabrielle's eyes. Soleil was dead. He would have been king of the herd, assuming Montaigne let him, and now he was dead. This was so much worse than the poor burnt bowtruckles, because they would have just gone on being bowtruckles.

That was not a very good thought, and it was followed by a worse one. This, a guilty thought accused, was her fault. She should have brought Soleil back to his stall before going into Stanislaw's tent. No, Gabrielle realized, she should not have even gone to the tent! Why had she been so stupid? That, her internal Fleur explained, was like asking why water was wet.

Gabrielle reached out and scratched behind Soleil's flopped ear. The coat she had brushed daily was still so soft, and the body warm. What would Professor Elevagre say? Soleil was her responsibility. Had been. Oh mon Dieu! What would the Headmistress say? What would she do? There would be detentions forever!

Even as Gabrielle slumped forward to bury her face in Soleil's side, she had spotted a furtive movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned to look, in case it was another rat that was actually a wizard.

The approaching creature was rat-like, but it was only Sauveuret bounding, after a fashion, toward her. The squirrel was greatly hampered by the short chain of three toads that had attached itself to his bottlebrush tail. In his mouth, Sauveuret carried a translucent mass that Gabrielle had initially thought to be Poisseux. However, the mangled ball was definitely not toad-shaped in the least. A delusion that persisted until the squirrel dropped the crushed Spellotape next to her. Gabrielle could clearly make out the twisted remains of a leg. The sight made her sick to her stomach, then panicked. She combed through her hair frantically until she found Pepi-Z. Granencole had not managed to kill him too. Gabrielle breathed a sigh of relief, but that was not enough to stop the flood of tears for Soleil and Poisseux. Herr Von Schnittwinkel too - had she not Seen the final battle?

And, eh, of course, for the professor, at least a little, encouraged another guilty thought. Professor Festeller had not done anything to deserve what Granencole had done to him. Probably. Thinking that actually made Gabrielle feel a little better, because clearly everything was Tibault's fault. Why, Gabrielle wondered, was he even here? Except for the one, not-quite-minor incident, she had had no interactions with him at all. That, however, was a stupid thought - she had long feared that Granencole would come after her. Gabrielle had just always thought that the confrontation would be within the corridors of Beauxbatons. She had never, ever imagined so much death though.

"[Like a bloody bludger - bam! Right in the face!]"

"[Ron, don't. You can see she's upset,]" admonished Hermione. "[We should go and see to her.]" Gabrielle rather liked that idea. There was only so much that a squirrel could do in the way of comforting. Was he hugging her arm, or just trying to climb?

"[Uh, er, umm... I, I should probably help with Ginny...]" Gabrielle liked that idea even more - the bludger comment had not gone unnoticed.

"[Harry's gone after her already. Come on. It'll be good practice.]"

"[Double potions again! Good practice for what?]" asked Ron, not moving.

"[Well, children often cry.]" A second thought wondered if it would be better if they stayed away. The two did not sound like they would be very good at consoling.

"[So? What of it? I don't see why... You, you aren't... Are you? Merlin, what are you doing out here?]" asked a now flustered Ron. "[You should, you should - I don't know, but fighting is not it!]"

"[Ron, what are you talking about?]" asked Hermione.

"[Huh? Er, what were you talking about?]"

And just like that, thought Gabrielle, I am forgotten. She decided that those two would probably have been as useful as the toads staring unblinkingly at her. The amphibians were all on the thin side, dull brown, with yellow eyes. Gabrielle expected that the toads were siblings, based on their resemblance to each other. Although, that made for very large families. Why they were there was not something she could discern from the way they sat. She supposed the three were mourning poor, mangled Poisseux. What had happened to her pet? Something involving Tibault, no doubt. Gabrielle was sure it had not been Soleil, otherwise Poisseux would have been a Spellotape crepe.

These thoughts were not in keeping with the mood, but neither was the clattering behind her. It seemed to Gabrielle that the lower creatures incapable of acknowledging grief were her fellow witches and wizards. She lay her head against Soleil's muzzle, and prepared an accusatory glare for the one disturbing her scene of pathos.

Gabrielle was not prepared for something landing on her though. She had assumed that the dueling was over, mostly because almost everyone was dead. Or, the terrifying thought suddenly came to her, were they? Tibault had looked lifeless when he had slumped to the ground after she had pulled him off of Soleil, but what if he had only been somewhat dead? What if this was his final attempt at vengeance? She screamed and flailed at - a blanket? No, a set of robes.

"[Ah no, will you look at tha'? An' I was gonna have 'im round the pub too. Holds 'is drink better'n Fred.]"

Gabrielle looked up. It was George. The clattering had been the work table, which now had many more legs than before. The multi-jointed legs gave it an insect-like appearance, and showed that far too much effort had gone into it. And that far too much firewhiskey had gone into George. Had he really completely missed the stairs the entire time?

"[Lose a roun' of Snap Explodin' Strip? Most birds would have doffed a shoe, an' you took off your shirt,]" grinned George. "[You are a goer.]"

"[Eh, what? Aah!]" squeaked Gabrielle. The pinch to her lower cheek reminded her of several things. She shrugged the oversized robes over her shoulders, and noted that the sheer black bodysuit had become stiff and crinkly over her chest. She would have to mention that to George later. Much later, when he was less pickled and more apt to remember. And there would be a later, of course, because she had the portkey. Gabrielle patted Sauveuret's head and gently asked, "Eh, could you bring my handbag, eh, please? It is not heavy." The toads had slipped away somewhere.

Gabrielle turned back to George and asked not-so-gently, "Why did you not use the stairs? Tibault lost his senses. He killed Soleil!"

"Uh, um, the table is my hat," replied George.

Gabrielle stared for a long moment at the love destiny had chosen. "[I zink you, eh, mean, perhaps, chevaux instead of chapeau,]" she said finally.

"[Nothing's ever right with you birds. Where's Ginny? Where's Harry?]" asked George looking around.

"[Where is 'arry?]" repeated Gabrielle shrilly. "[He is wizz Ginny, and zey are kissing, wizzout doubt!]" Hermione and Ron were embracing close to the vaporous remains of Wormtail.

"[Merlin, what's this all about?]"

"[I am upset, very much! You should know zis! Tibault killed Soleil, he killed ze professor, he killed Herr Von Schnittwinkel! I zink he killed Poisseux also.]" Gabrielle rose to her feet and closed the distance to George. He took a half-step back before his arms reacted in a potentially life-saving way. They had wrapped themselves around Gabrielle's shoulders, drawing her closer.

"[Uh, right. Uh, there, there,]" said George stiffly as Gabrielle resumed weeping with her head against his chest. "[Cor, what a lump on your head.]"

v - v - v - v - v

Severus Snape stood silently, somewhat stunned, watching the group of his former students from just beyond the ring of stones enclosing the camp. The left sleeve of his shirt was undone, but had nearly fallen back into place. The deepening gloom helped hide his presence, though the Disillusionment charm probably did more. He had recovered his wand; one does not live with such an instrument for decades without developing an affinity for it. The tent that was once besieged was now simply warded. The wards would be trivial to dispel for the curse-breakers, of course, but the addition of an age-line would confuse them into thinking it was something more, at least for a while.

In any case, the carnage was apparently over. That was what the wayward Death Eater was struggling to grasp. The body that Dark Lord had used, had been so comfortable in, lay askew and lifeless on the ground. The Mark Snape bore had faded once more. The vessel of the Dark Lord was not the only corpse, but Potter, Granger, and the Weasleys were not only alive but appeared to be uninjured as well. Except, perhaps, for the youngest of the Weasley horde, who was pale, drawn, and clinging to Potter. It seemed inconceivable that the teens, as unaware and as vulnerable as they were now, could have remained almost completely unscathed. As inconceivable was that the Dark Lord had not foreseen the encounter. Was that the result, ruminated Snape, of using a student's body and being swayed by a student's natural impulsiveness and typical lack of forethought? Or was the Dark Lord losing some faculty in each transfer? That, thought Snape darkly, was worrisome. Coldly calculated cruelty was one thing, the slaughter of a psychopath another.

Thus distracted, the normally wary Snape did not sense the thudding arrival of the cottage until the bird-like legs that carried it were disappearing below the simple hovel as it settled. Baba Yaga, he instantly recognized. An unaccounted for element that could explain the remarkable fortune of Potter and his friends. Though that in itself would be nearly as extraordinary as the outcome, since the Baba Yaga were known for their determined independence and rejection of the rules of magical society. Where they held sway, they were... accommodated. That one of that coven would intervene on behalf of Potter, though, thought Snape, was simply ridiculous. Unless, of course, this was something the Headmaster had set in motion.

From the door of the cottage emerged a dour old woman dressed in gray, with sharp, dark eyes that took every bit of Snape's willpower and training to look away from. A less aggressive intrusion than the Dark Lord would choose but no less powerful, the shocking turn of events had lowered his guard, and the last half hour of those had played through Snape's mind before he was able to recover his defenses. The Baba Yaga started in his direction. Snape recalled another fact about the Baba Yaga, and ended the charm hiding himself, tucking his recovered wand out of sight.

"[Cauldron crud, the greasy git is back,]" groaned Ron. He raised his wand, but Hermione grabbed his wand. "[What?]"

"[Best if you put yours away too. If Nona is with the Baba Yaga, then wizards and wands are the first of many things they don't like,]" advised Hermione.

"[Baba what-a?]"

The conciliatory gesture by Snape spared him further scrutiny, and possibly the ridiculous sort of curse one would normally read about in children's stories. Like of the wizard who sought out a Baba Yaga to cure a perpetually sour stomach, only to try and Confund the crone out of a promised payment. His punishment was an ever-burning incinerator as a stomach, which not only doubled the original condition's pain but also required the building and use of a fireproof privy.

v - v - v - v - v

Squirrels, from a limited, abstract point of view, are similar to Abraxans. A very, very limited point of view. Not so much physically, as the tree-dwellers lack wings, hooves, and enormous size, but in the sense that they also do not readily move in reverse. The handbag Sauveuret was sent to retrieve was not overly heavy, but it was extremely clumsy for a creature with more tail than leg to drag while pointing in the preferred direction of both squirrel and huge, flight-capable horse. Pulling it along as the small mammal scuttled sideways was slow, but faster than repeatedly tripping over the burden.

Sauveuret, with a brain about the size of the nuts he had been living on, did not wonder why he was dragging such a thing. He did not wonder why he did not wonder at that. This was the way familiars were. When such creatures were away from their witch or wizard they did not so much forget as much as remember more mundane things, like 'acorns are good' and 'owls are bad, except for that little one there.' Those that study magic in its essence view this either as a built-in safeguard allowing the animal, ordinary or magical, to move easily in the wider world, or simply as a natural consequence of being away from the thaumatic aura of its owner. The latter is controversial, as it would require the actual existence of thaumatic aura, while the former just requires a bit of common sense on everyone's part. Detractors of the aura hypothesis deride the notion that of course a wizard's own aura prevents the detection of another's, while proponents mock the idea that a wizard would have common sense - he would, of course, have superior, magical sense.

How familiars arise is also a question mired in uncertainty. As the wand chooses the wizard, so, it is said, does the familiar. Except in the case when a wizard visits the local animal purveyor to purchase one. Even then, the given advice is to acquire the first creature to react strongly to the wizard in question. Which is why the more exotic species and expensive crossbreeds are stacked right up front practically blocking the entrance, while the more common and mundane, such as toads - specially bred - languish in the back corners. Why have a dull old tabby when there is an ocelot or half-kneazle available at, what is assured, a bargain price?

Post owls often straddle the line between just being creatures useful to wizards, such as goblins, and true familiars. Especially as the modern wizard or witch has little need for, as an example, a vigilant and attentive raven, and would find the circumstances of one difficult to explain to the ever more numerous muggles. Owls, having a reputation in muggle stories of being wise, are easier to excuse.

v - v - v - v - v

Severus Snape realized his mistake shortly after sequestering his wand. He should have apparated away instead of trying to sate his curiosity, which would have saved him the current awkward scene. Especially since the sight of Potter embracing a young woman with red hair was a too vivid reminder of what he once could have had, had many, many things been different. He turned away from the couple and watched the Baba Yaga work on the Abraxan. Beyond, one of the notorious Weasley twins was gingerly holding close the girl Snape had seen with the animal. It suggested an opening gambit. Snape cleared his throat, and finally broke the silence. "[The child is familiar. Who, might I ask, is she?]"

As could be predicted, it was the Granger girl who supplied the answer. "[That is Fleur Delacour's little sister Gi-, er, Gabrielle. She was one of the hostages during the Tri-Wizard Tournament.]"

Snape considered the claim. "[Are you certain? I recall a girl of her age, but that was several years ago.]"

"[It was four years and two months,]" said Harry coldly. "[Some of us don't forget.]"

So much for polite conversation, sighed Snape. At least the wands were away. "[That is the Dark Lord,]" gestured the potions master.

"[Was,]" smirked Ron. "[What a little rotter.]"

"[Do be quiet, Ron. Wormtail had you by the throat,]" added Hermione sharply.

"[What? That was the plan! Harry, tell 'er that was the plan!]"

"[It was only an idea, Ron.]"

"[And a bloody good one, I thought!]"

This was useless, thought Snape. Interrogation, and perhaps limited to yes or no answers, was the best way to deal with students. And former students. Most wizards, in fact. "[What happened to the Dark Lord?]"

"[He lost a leg off his cauldron when the Blond Bludger flattened him. Textbook blatching if I've ever seen it,]" explained Ron.

"[Thank you, Weasley. Concise and not at all clear,]" said Snape. "[Very much in keeping with your essay assignments.]"

"[And who was off looking for their wand before, you bloody great wanker?]"

"[Ron, that was really rude,]" scolded Hermione. "[You know she doesn't like to be called that.]"

Snape stepped closer to the skeletal remains. What curse had done this? A jagged, gold-colored lump caught his eye. The position of the bones, with one arm clutching the other, was evidence of a progressive magic, similar to that which had afflicted the Headmaster. The lack of a lower arm identified the victim. Was this Granger's work, a spell found in the Restricted Area? She was held in the red-haired ape's arms, and a vengeful witch could be quite nasty. Or was this Potter's doing? Snape could not imagine that, but then the so-called Chosen One had dispatched Bellatrix, the werewolf, and, again, the Dark Lord.

Staring likely mortality across the wand, Snape sought a bargain. "[This will attract international attention. Did you bother with a plan for afterward?]"

"[Pettgrew was a Death Eater, and that was Voldemort,]" said Harry abruptly. "[You're the one who is wanted by the Ministry.]"

"[Will anyone besides those involved with their deaths attest to that? Fame is fleeting, surely your own experiences have shown you that?]" reminded Snape. "[Do think; I know it is difficult.]"

"[We can get away,]" assured Harry, prompting an eyeroll from his former professor.

"[I know you can flee, idiot,]" snarled Snape before he caught himself. The couple before him reminded him too much of James and Lily.

"[What is it that you want to propose?]" asked Hermione.

"[If you will provide a full accounting of the events from the appearance of the Dark Lord onward, then I will dispose of the remains that should not be here, and otherwise obfuscate events,]" offered Snape. "[The others in camp will emerge soon; time is short. No drafts or citations are required, Miss Granger.]"

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle was having difficulty concentrating on her grief. There were two problems. The first was that the effort to ride the table out of the expedition's hole had been, eh, quite a lot of effort. The sweat that dampened George's shirt had stopped being gross and was now affecting her sensory humours. The male scent of George was affecting other humours as well; female humours, Gabrielle supposed, which left her unexpectedly squirmy and wishing to burrow herself completely into her very nearly fiance.

George was, unfortunately, the second problem. He was surprisingly evasive, leaving her desire for intimate closeness, for contact, frustrated. He was also inordinately interested in the lump on the back of her head. If, Gabrielle thought, George believed that prodding the injury was going to help then he was clearly no healer. All thoughts of poor Soleil and Herr Von Schnittwinkel were overshadowed by sharp, stinging pains and a concern of where her hips should be.

And that was all right, since it was George. It was just a little annoying. He does write, thought Gabrielle, but this was so much better. Especially when she felt him stiffen. Not stiffen in -that- way, but in the sense of not dodging so much. The opportunity was not to be wasted, and Gabrielle started forward for a full-body embrace.

Except that a hand, with strong, bony fingers, caught her shoulder. Gabrielle was not expecting that and let out a short shriek, which ended when she realized that it was Nona. "Fëmijë, ai nuk është gati për se. [1]"

"Eh, yes, of course," agreed Gabrielle out of habit, though that had not sounded as if a chore had been assigned. "Oh, eh, your house is back."

"Ajo do të jetë e vështirë, [2]" sighed Nona. The crone sighed again, with a touch more emphasis, when she pulled the mirrored sliver from around Gabrielle's neck. It was now a mottled, tarnished mess.

"That is not my fault!" blurted Gabrielle when she noticed Nona's expression. "I'm sure it was that Tibault's doing. He completely lost his senses! He killed -"

"Ju do të keni bekimet e mia, fëmijë, [3]" interrupted Nona. She pulled from a pocket and handed to Gabrielle a looped cord of brown leather from which hung a tiny, polished stone in a silver wire cage. "Sempre. Sempre."

"Eh, thank you, but, eh, I will be leaving soon, so -" There was the toad leg too. Gabrielle had the sudden, horrible vision of Nona stalking the corridors of Beauxbatons, wanting her amulets back.

"Dhe kjo, [4]" continued the old woman. In her hand was one of her dolls, only this one had the form of a horse and was woven from hair from Soleil's mane. Two wings made from small bundles of feathers were tied to its back. Gabrielle took the creation with unsteady hands; the world blurred as tears came again, and she could not help sobbing. Not that her tears had any effect on Nona - she was already heading back to her cottage. But, since there was magic in the world, George's arms enveloped her again. Gabrielle leaned back against him.

"[That ol' crow was scary as a skrewt,]" whispered George. Those were not the words of comfort that Gabrielle expected, and neither were the ones that followed. "[I really gotta take a piss, luv.]"

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle pawed half-heartedly through the jumbled mess in her handbag. She had come across the bottle of Goose-Gone in what had been clearly a minor miracle since she could simply not now find the portkey that Papa had sent. In truth, Gabrielle was no longer really looking. She needed a wand, and she had neither of hers. Worse, and she would have to admit this at some point, she would never have the rustic wand again. The wood, with its twist or whatever, was thoroughly splintered from the end to nearly the tip. The hair that had been taken so roughly from Grandmere was charred and stained with greasy black soot. It was completely ruined, and Gabrielle found herself wondering if the twist had really been a defect after all. She decided to keep the remnants, in the futile hope she might find a way to get it fixed. Preferably before Maman ever saw it.

What Gabrielle was actually focusing on was Sauveuret. The little squirrel was sitting quietly, it's tail barely twitching. That, Gabrielle thought, was not normal at all. Pepi-Z sat to one side of him, the tangled ball that had been Poisseux on the other. The toad brothers - or sisters, of course - were arranged in front. Lieutenant Mimsey hopped energetically behind their rank, until he toppled over. The amphibians had not plodded away, but had instead tried unsuccessfully to hide themselves in a fold of fabric. In a robe twice the size Gabrielle would normally wear, they had managed to choose where her elbow ended up. The gathering was all very formal, and Gabrielle just knew what it was about. They wished, they all wished, to go with her.

Gabrielle would, of course, take Pepi-Z, and her owl. Lieutenant Mimsey would be fine after he grew a bit, she hoped. Poisseux was crumpled, but it was not as if he would start rotting. She knew that Maman would not be happy about it, but Sauveuret had been so very helpful that it would be completely ungrateful if she left him. Maman would understand that sentiment, since ungratefulness had been a common topic during an earlier phase. The toads on the other hand...

Well, they were just toads. Gabrielle supposed that they had helped Poisseux, but, really, that was a mark against them given what had happened. If the brothers had tried to stop her Spellotape pet, then she would feel more kindly toward them. But, Poisseux was dead and these scrawny specimens were no replacement.

Why, asked a second thought, was Poisseux lined up with the others? There was a kind of symmetry there, noticed Gabrielle: zombie, squirrel, zombie, toad, toad, toad. Zombie - that was what was important! How could Poisseux be dead, when he had not exactly been alive? Gabrielle plucked him from the supplicants and examined him more closely, turning him around and over. There was no movement that she could see, but Gabrielle thought that if she had been completely crushed then she might sulk as well. She decided that he was as alive as he had been before, ignoring the thought that tried to work out the logic in that one. The result was a slight lift in her mood, and four more pets.

v - v - v - v - v

The lift did not last long. Soleil was still dead, and Nona's doll was not a second chance like Poisseux's Spellotape was. George was, Gabrielle assumed, still in the loo; he was the only who had even remembered that she was there. Which was to be expected, of course. Except, also, for Nona, but now her house had walked off with her inside it. Once the cottage was out of sight, which did not take long as it was clearly magical, everyone brought out their wands again. Harry and Ron were giving that older wizard all sorts of nasty looks, which was at least rude and not very mature. Hermione was putting quill to parchment. Gabrielle could not see why Harry was not more concerned for Ginny - the redhead had not said anything since arriving, which was, in Gabrielle's experience, an extraordinary departure from her normal manner. Gabrielle found the silence, guiltily, somewhat better. But worrisome, too.

Gabrielle sighed. She just could not come up with any names for the lackluster amphibians she had rashly adopted. It was not that they were completely interchangeable: one's eyes were definitely closer together, and another was missing a claw on a front foot. She had considered various forms of the description scrawny, because Fleur did not like to repeat herself in her critiques, but Gabrielle could not do that because, well, Fleur. The real issue was that they were just toads after all, and had not really done anything particularly noticeable. Collectively she still thought of them as the Brothers - or, now that she had looked much more closely and done the squeeze test, the Sisters. Perhaps that was all right for now, as they always stayed close to one another. Not that any of it really mattered.

Gabrielle swept the Sisters from her lap and brought her knees to her chest. She wanted to leave - she needed to leave this awful place. Really, she wanted someone to take her home. Leaving would be an easy thing to accomplish, if she had her wand. Or, if someone had a wand to use for her - someone who was not pickled. Why was it called a loo? She had the thought that she should learn how to brew the purgative from Maman.

Gabrielle jumped up, startled as she just noticed the black-clad, sour-looking wizard who now stood close by. He had a wand, but was using it to lift Tibault's body. The sight of her attacker once more rising knotted her insides.

"[What are you to the Baba Yaga?]" asked the wizard in a low whisper. Gabrielle, who was having a flashback to the last time she had seen Tibault hoisted in this manner, did not answer, so the question was repeated.

"[Eh, what?]" asked Gabrielle carelessly. Fortunately, the Goose-Gone had done its task.

"[The old witch, what are you to her?]"

"[I help wizz, eh, her work,]" answered Gabrielle vaguely. That was better than explaining about the potatoes. Or the special rock. "[Is, eh, is he, eh, dead?]"

"[The boy, yes. The other... perhaps Potter can explain,]" said the hook-nosed stranger. He then let out a long, loud, bleating flatulence. The emission sounded exactly like a herd of Rumble sheep [5] she had once heard when Papa had been called to Alsace, and ended with an irritated flick of the wizard's wand. Tibault barely slumped earthward before being gathered up again magically. Gabrielle turned away, because while she should have been shocked and appalled at the gross manners on display, she was in fact struggling to keep from laughing. Which was, and she did not need Maman to remind her, not appropriate.

"[Bugger off, Snape.]" Gabrielle turned around, and the farting wizard inhaled sharply. George had finally returned.

"Ma baton!" exclaimed Gabrielle at the sight of the slim blond stick in George's hand.

"[Yeah. I got it from that house-elf. Bit of an old hen, that one,]" said George.

"[Nice likeness of the headmaster. The contusion truly is your medium,]" said Snape. "[Why?]"

"[Oh, I need a reason, do I?]"

Gabrielle ignored the cryptic exchange and thanked George, who seemed intent on this Snape. George also seemed to have recovered from the pickling. That was good, since if the portkey did lead directly to Delacour manor then Maman, and perhaps even Papa, would be there. Gabrielle returned to her handbag, backed up exactly five paces, then sprang forward. "[Accio portkey!]" she shouted as she jumped, landing with a flourish of her little wand that was not strictly necessary, but looked good.

"[You've got a portkey?]"

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle sat up in bed. Why, she grumbled to herself, was it like this? She was not tired, not really, but Maman had sent her to her room anyway. It was well past midnight, yes, but Gabrielle could still hear the others talking. The dismissal was not fair, and she knew that Papa was behind Maman's sudden fussing, all because she had briefly closed her eyes. While laying her head against George's chest, finished an honest thought.

The portkey had, as Gabrielle had expected, taken them directly to Delacour Manor. They had arrived into the old ballroom in the vacated wing, the floors layered with conjured cushions. That was both embarrassing and completely unnecessary. The lack of furniture was enough to prevent mishaps, and if Ginny thought that she was too heavy then the redhead should have gotten her own portkey. Which Ginny did have, but the portkey Hermione had made was not as good as a real portkey and the others would have had to fly back. Gabrielle tried to say that the Ministry portkey was only for her and -one- guest, and since George would have to fly alone... But then Hermione insisted that portkeys did not work that way, launching into a primer on magical transport.

Gabrielle swung her legs off the bed and felt for her housecoat, before summoning a tiny, dancing flame on the tip of her wand. What was she going to do about her missing underwear? In the flickering light she discovered the Sisters squatting beside her pillow with the double-zombie Poisseux, and that obviously meant that they were not in the box she had provided for them. Toads were, Gabrielle was finding, not particularly obedient. Sauveuret, though, was more cooperative. He was still curled up in her sock drawer. Gabrielle knew that she would have to tell Maman about him at some point, and tell the little squirrel about Madame Chouisse's cat. Not tell, of course, not really. She had not yet seen the other squirrel she had left with Maman; right now she was choosing to believe that it had made a full recovery.

Gabrielle had, at the last moment, once it was clear that everyone would be sharing her personal portkey, tried to insist on taking Soleil. Rather, Soleil's limp body. She did not really like the thought of just leaving him alone on the ground, and there were plenty of places on the grounds to... bury him. If only, in the rush, she had remembered that she could have used her handbag. Then their arguments would have been moot.

The sudden arrival of so many unexpected guests would normally have tried Maman's patience, knew Gabrielle, so when Ginny insisted that they would use their tent her offer was readily accepted. Disguised, of course, as polite reluctance. The guest bedroom, befitting the manor house and Grandmere, who most often occupied it, was actually en suite, and there was plenty of room. Gabrielle suspected that Ginny's true motive was to be able to stay with Harry, or to keep an eye on George.

Now she crept along the hall, heading for the voices filtering past the guest room's door. Which was silly, decided Gabrielle, since this was her home and she was not a child to be expected to stay in bed. She crouched at the door to listen. Just, she supposed, out of habit, and to make sure she was not interrupting anything, eh, incorrigible.

"[Why can't I be the one to keep it?]" That was Ginny, and the petulant tone assured Gabrielle that at least one of the couples was not doing anything embarrassing. "[What if it happens again?]"

"['Cause it's mine,]" replied George. Gabrielle thought he sounded a little preoccupied, and that probably meant that his metal beetle was out. She frowned at that. "[If you want one, go to the goblins yourself and listen to the runty gits whinge about leg joints. And they're bloody expensive.]"

"[You gave one to her,]" noted a tart voice belonging to Hermione. It seemed that no 'snogging' was going on now.

"[Do you mind? I am in the middle of something here.]"

"[Wasn't as if the prophecy was useful anyway,]" complained Ron. "[It was only true after it happened.]" Gabrielle felt as if she was beginning to follow the conversation. Whether she could enter would depend on which way it went.

"[Simply brilliant, that was,]" said George. Gabrielle knew he was rolling his eyes. "[It's like you can say things without using your brain at all.]"

"[Yeah, well, I guess you've been wrong -]"

"[It wasn't a compliment, Ron,]" interrupted Hermione.

"[What about you, Harry? Don't you think we should have one?]" prompted Ginny.

"[What? Oh, erm, yeah. I've got the galleons, probably.]"

"[Seeing could be helpful, after all,]" added Ginny. Gabrielle smiled at their recognition of her talent. Talents. It was time to make a grand entrance.

"[I dunno. What if we don't have anything she can smell?]" doubted Ron. "[Doesn't she have clotted humours or something?]" Or not.

"[Grounded humours, and that's dead easy to fix. You just have to give her a knock on the head with a spoon.]" Why, Gabrielle wondered, had she bothered with any concern at all for Ginny?

"[Ladle, actually. What's wrong Harry?]" prompted Hermione.

"[I've just been thinking - ]"

"[If it's about those galleons again, I'm interested,]" announced George.

"[No, it's about Voldemort. There's, erm, at least one more out there. Dumbledore found one, but, you know, it was Voldemort who kind of led us to the others,]" said Harry.

"[Please do be a bit more vague,]" added George.

"[I thought you were in the middle of something,]" argued Ginny.

"[Was, but now I've reached the end because the fiber-addled can't find the start,]" explained George. After a long pause, he continued. "[I mean Fred's a git and he's not even trying. Mind you, I probably should have waited to make the changes.]"

"[Please do be a bit more vague.]"

"[Ha ha. Should I tell our dear ol' Mum that you've admitted to being a follower of You-Know-Who? Imagine what that'd do to the wedding plans,]" teased George.

"[Mine or yours?]" asked Ginny. Gabrielle thought, what?

"[What?]" blurted Harry.

"[The locket,]" recalled Ron. "[Found that on our own, right?]"

"[Stumbled across it is a more accurate description,]" noted Hermione. Gabrielle shuddered at the memory of the locket. Perhaps it was better if they thought her humours were clotted.

"[So what? We've got time now. If it's like last time, it'll be ages before he finds someone daft enough to stick him in their head.]"

"[Maybe, Ron. Or maybe he's had enough practice that it'll be tomorrow,]" said Harry.

"[You're also underestimating your fellow wizards, dear brother. There's someone out there right now thinking they know just what Quirrel did wrong and that it'd never happen to them,]" added George. "[Make some of our best customers.]"

"[What about Malfoy?]" asked Hermione suddenly. "[What of it does take a decade or more?]"

"[Forget that ferret,]" said Ginny. "[Er, the potion should last that long, right?]"

"[Suppose it doesn't?]"

"[Then it'll be off to Azkaban; like father, like son,]" answered Ginny.

"[Sorry, Hermione. We need Malfoy because we, er, need Snape. I don't like it any more than you do -]" started Harry.

"[I like it,]" inserted Ron. "[Not fussed at all about that.]"

"[But Voldemort trusts Snape, and he'll summon him when he does come back,]" continued Harry. "[Having Malfoy will make Snape cooperate. Besides, there, erm, was the prophecy.]"

"[That's a new side to you, Harry.]"

"[Which prophecy?]"

"[That bit about not having either's heart. I'm sure that's about Snape and Wormtail.]"

"[I dunno, Harry]" cautioned Ginny. "[Wormtail sure sounded like he was flying for team Dark Lord there at the end.]"

"[Well, Ron did tie him to a Wildfire - ]"

"[And it was the plan! Don't forget that.]"

"[Shut up, Ron. Honestly,]" complained Ginny.

"[Yes, I think we'll all be clearer on plans in the future,]" declared Hermione firmly. Her tone made Gabrielle reflexively duck her head. "[Speaking of plans, we should work out how we'll be getting back home too. Er, before the news gets out.]"

"[I don't think that's possible. That was a professor at Beauxbatons, and Harry was involved, so-]" Herr Von Schnittwinkel and Soleil too, thought Gabrielle sadly.

"[I didn't do anything.]"

"[I know, Harry,]" said Ginny quickly. "[I meant that because you were there the news will travel faster, and further.]"

"[Which means that all the official channels are out again,]" concluded Hermione.

There was a long pause. "[Why do you all assume that I never use official channels?]" asked George, though he sounded pleased to Gabrielle's ears. "[As it happens, Fred'll be along in a day or two.]"

"[I thought you couldn't get through to him?]" queried Ginny.

"[It's completely garbled, yeah, but he's quite a ways south of us now, and moving half a foot back and forth. Though he'll claim nine inches.]"

"[Erm, what?]" That mirrored Gabrielle's thought.

"[Uh... oh! Urgh.]"

"[South? Are you certain?]"

"[We're not completely identical, by the way,]" announced George. "[And I think that bit's working, but if you want to check just look behind the door.]"

Gabrielle did not wait to hear whether anyone would, but was scurrying back down the hall as quietly as she could. She scolded herself mentally - she should have just knocked and gone in. It was too late for that now!

A chattering alarm call brought her to a stop. Sauveuret was clinging to the crown moulding, Pepi-Z in his front paws. He called again once, then put the red bobble in his mouth and hurried away. Gabrielle stood for a moment, then moved to follow her new pet.

It was too late for that as well, and Gabrielle's frozen form drifted slowly into the air. "What are you doing out of bed?" It was Maman. "Where are you going?"

"Eh, I, eh... was going to offer them some tea," said Gabrielle. This was plausible, if she had thought of it and if she had gone into the room.

"At this time of night?"

"They are, eh, English, of course. They might drink tea at anytime."

"I think not. Your father is not pleased as it is, and I was able to arrange with Madame Lavoille to... salvage... your hair. The appointment is the first one in the morning. I think that it may take some time. Possibly days. You will need a manicure as well."

Gabrielle was stunned. She had been attacked and Soleil was killed, and this was the response? "But, eh, they might be leaving -"

"Yes, they will be leaving. Your father can have the illegal entry overlooked, again, and it is Harry Potter, but he has his limits. Particularly when it comes to young men."

"Maman!"

v - v - v - v - v

The staff room was silent now, except for the barely audible gurgle of a calming tea being poured into cups and the rattle of those cups that were held by shaking hands. The atmosphere in the room was still oppressive, with the blistering outrage, umbrage, and plain rage finally beginning to dissipate like the stinking vapor from dorm seven. The three witches and four wizards around the table represented the core of the teaching staff. The more junior members, unseasoned in practical management survival techniques, lay unconscious. Their bid for tenure would depend on their recovery, even survival.

Healer Maltranchier poured the tea. Those who clean up after magical disasters and carnage are difficult to rattle. It helped that he had no direct responsibility for the students, other than keeping them alive and mostly whole. Herr Korbel could hardly portray himself as an authority in the Martial Arts if he flinched facing a foe. His steely countenance had been maintained, though now he mopped a brow that betrayed his body's more natural reaction. Professor Pleinbouillois, more experienced, more blase, and, frankly, more senile, dozed off again. His four score years of cauldron fumes offered peace of mind, or, perhaps, a mind in pieces. Madame Sombrevoir, having foreseen, of course, had fortified herself with a few sips of Calming Draught before the meeting, and many more of brandy. The professors Duedancorp, sharing the one rattling cup, clung to each other. Professor Elevagre would have appeared catatonic if not for the incessant twitching of his eye and compulsive tightening of his bandages.

Staff meetings during the summer months are unusual, and, therefore, are not perfunctory events with relaxed, informal agendas. The infrequent meetings are called to address specific crises, most often regarding budgetary maneuvers, staffing decisions, and more rarely events in the wizarding community that had the potential to endanger the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. There had been three called during the current break. The first two had concerned the raising of the new tower, with the instructions to petition, harangue, and harass patrons and alumnis for additional galleons. The new structure had not yet reached the point of folly yet, but that pejorative could now be seen just over the low rise, behind the trees, waving its metaphorical hand. The headmistress was like a sealed cauldron these days, and problems with construction were a fire.

The traumatizing meeting that had just finished concerned critical financial losses, a tragic staffing update, and what Madame Maxime had called an imminent threat to the very existence of Beauxbatons itself. The staff had been recalled shortly after the owl bearing the bad news had arrived, which was two days after the message had been sent. That itself was an additional two days after the chaos at the expedition's camp, the chaos mostly occurring after the actual curses had ended.

"That, mmm, was quite a shock," said Maltranchier calmly. "Some tea, Elevagre? How is the leg?"

" - love her, What am I going to do?" mumbled the Natural Arts professor.

"What?"

"What?!"

"What?" This was from Elevagre himself, though the haunted look did not leave his face.

"Did you, mmm, just confess to an improper relationship with an underage student?" asked Maltranchier.

"Merlin's ghost, man! What are you saying?"

"You just confessed to being in love with the Delacour girl!" accused a Duedancorp.

"I knew it!" declared the other.

"And I know you share one brain, making you both half-wits! The Abraxan herd loves her," said Elevagre.

"That is not what you just said," argued the sisters.

"I didn't say anything."

"That is, mmm, not completely true," interjected the healer. "You may not have, mmm, realized you were speaking."

"The Abraxans know the seasons; they will be upset if she does not return," continued Elevagre, mostly to himself. "I would have made them her charges. In lieu of the flying."

"The decision is ridiculous. She will be here for the next term," declared Madame Sombrevoir.

"You have foreseen this?"

"I will see to it." It was not the answer Elevagre was hoping for from a professor of divination. "There are no grounds."

"Festeller is dead, and so is the colt," reminded Duedancorp - the one holding the spoon, not the one holding the cup.

"You can not possibly suspect the girl!"

"No, unless they were burned, no. It is impossible. She has neither the skill nor capability," judged Korbel conclusively. "There were reports of an attack, of a troll, and der Auserwählte [6] was there."

"What about the unglook?" asked the Duedancorp holding the cup.

"If that, mmm, exists at all, it would not suddenly open a hole through a man's chest," said Maltranchier. "The opposite would be most likely, mmm, unless she was trying -not- to pierce Herr Festeller."

"You claimed to have Seen that the expedition would be successful," sniped the Duedancorp pair.

"By all accounts," sniffed Madame Sombrevoir, "the Goblet of Fire is doing just fine."

v - v - v - v - v

The worst news in the wizarding world arrives on the wing. There is no point in shooting the messenger when the main result would be the messenger turning its tail feathers in disdain. A Floo call is for good news; while the recipient may not fit through the smallest of hearths, it was possible the old family curse just might. Finally, if things do get decidedly nasty, the delivered note offers the sender plausible deniability, a muggle concept widely adopted. In a world of wards, jinxes, and charms, scrolls are tied with ordinary string or ribbon and envelopes are sealed with little more than a blob of wax and an easily duplicated insignia. Forgery is often alleged if the recipient takes the missive 'poorly', which is the genteel phrasing for sworn vengeance. Some stoop to using low quality copies of their very own seals, a widespread practice among counselors.

A wizard's letter can take on the character of its contents, when these are intense enough. An envelope that arrives blackened and smouldering should be handled with trepidation; poisonous green and reeking of noxious fumes suggests employing a curse-breaker. A love letter that has not turned pink and begun trailing tiny red hearts aims for little more than a dalliance.

The first envelope delivered by owl skittered to a stop at Gabrielle's feet, and promptly burst into flames. The post was a total loss because it -was- much harder to conjure water than fire. The smoking delivery and subsequent fiery destruction of the message was not viewed with alarm in the Delacour household. Not even by Gabrielle's father, who had a more immediate, red-haired concern. The reason for this was that Fleur had received a least a dozen of such conflagrations, that Gabrielle could recall, during her sister's school years. While the content and identity of the sender were obviously lost, there was no doubt that the motivation had been jealousy - jealousy over looks, standing, or paramour. Gabrielle's mother viewed the latest pile of ash as nearly cause for celebration; it meant that her youngest was not hopeless.

That Gabrielle had at least tried to extinguish the burning missive was an indication of how greatly the summer holiday had improved in little less than a week. The five guests made her the natural partner for George, which, of course, she knew she was. Except when Papa was home. Gabrielle could not actually interest the former beater in any romantic discussions of their future, or she had been too circumspect, but George was willing to teach her spells. Particularly after she had gotten carried away, slightly, while spinning her flames and showing off. That, he had said, showed excellent potential. Except, the half-dead apple tree was now probably fully dead. Gabrielle liked the spells with lots of wand movements; George guiding her hand made her feel warm all over. And it made her forget poor Soleil, at least for a little while.

These were not private sessions though, and soon everyone wanted to help. Harry insisted that she learn a shield spell. Ginny helped by sending small hexes and jinxes at her for practice. Hermione tried to improve Gabrielle's transfiguration skills, which was very dull, and Ron taught her a stunner so she could get back at Ginny. That turned out to be a very bad idea, the result of which the boys apparently found extremely funny. For her part, Gabrielle felt that knowing a spell to make one sneeze bats was stupid. And, surprisingly painful.

The darkness descended with two arrivals. The first arrival was Fred and an effervescent Verity, who, rather confusingly, chattered at length about this being her first time in Paris. Fred made faces behind her. Perhaps he thought it was a form of communication, but all Gabrielle knew was that George would be leaving.

And that was all right, thought Gabrielle, because, well, he does write. Also because Maman was clearly reaching the end of her broom over the series of harmless, relatively harmless, pranks. Gabrielle blamed an oversupply of Slippery Slope. Lightly smeared on the floor, the victim slid helplessly in the direction the mucus-like fluid was spread, gaining momentum all the way. Gabrielle had, not that she had admitted as much, used it to pitch a flailing Ron out of a second floor window, because Nibbles was a stupid name to call anyone. He had landed in the rose bushes below, which Gabrielle had quite forgotten about. Maman had not forgotten the plantings though. That was nothing compared to George's use of the substance though. In the morning before Fred and Verity arrived, Gabrielle stepped from her room and was suddenly whisked down the hall, down a flight of stairs, through the kitchen where Maman was preparing breakfast, and into the pantry where the supplies were stored. Gabrielle stumbled back soaked in milk, dripping with egg, and covered in flour. If there had been a pan big enough, she would have made a giant's crepe. Maman was incensed over the splattered kitchen, but it was also partially her fault too. After all, reasoned Gabrielle, cleaning up would have been much easier if the eggs and milk had not been moved from their normal places. Why had there been so many eggs? Thank Merlin that Papa had already left.

If Gabrielle could have, she would have switched to, eh, clean plates that morning. Of course, she was a little late getting to the table, needing first to unglue her hair. Slytherin' Sludge did not need much water to activate. The amount in a swallow of tea was enough, but only Hermione figured that out soon enough. The guests to Delacour Manor, save for the bushy-haired witch, began vomiting a bright green slime, which slowly crept over everything in a two meter radius of the puddle. That was a poor follow-up to the crepe catastrophe, but it was made worse when the afflicted chased her from the dining hall, spewing the mess widely as they went. Maman retreated from the chaos with a bottle of wine, which meant that she fortuitously missed the clean up, during which Gabrielle learned that no matter how good one was at vanishing spells they were not appropriate for cleaning clothes. At least George -had- underwear beneath his now-disappeared trousers, and that had not been her intention anyway regardless of how Ginny teased. Gabrielle hurried off to clean herself up, in the regular fashion, again. Conjuring underwear had not been among the lessons.

Fred and Verity arrived after a less traumatic lunch, the preparation of which was left to Gabrielle as her mother was "indisposed". Gabrielle was at a bit of a loss, since while there was onion, there were no potatoes and, if possible, fewer cabbages. The midday meal consisted of an odd combination of onion and minced, stale ham sandwich soup. It was, Gabrielle felt, underappreciated. Especially considering what she had to do to get the hot water - the entire kitchen was totally against her. It had only been crepe batter.

Two more guests, in Fred and Verity, brought the total to seven, which meant that Gabrielle still rounded out the company. She found George sitting on the flagstone floor of the entrance hall with his wand out. Which would have been very suspicious except that it was George, so it was more expected than anything else. Gabrielle knew it was him because Verity was not beaming nearby.

"[What are you doing, George?]" asked Gabrielle. She did not expect the actual truth, of course. She would just need to avoid that spot.

"[Just a little something so's you don't forget me,]" explained George with a wink.

That did not please Gabrielle. Not that she was at all worried over some little prank, or even a big one. What bothered her was that he thought she might forget him. They had a bond. Did he not know that also?

"[Eh, ze ozzers… You have to go wizz zem?]"

"[Got to. You can see Fred's got enough in his cauldron with Verity.]"

"[You, eh, everyone could stay. Zere are many zings to see in Paris.]"

"[That's not your Mum talking. Can't blame her; Ron frays everyone's bristles,]" said George. "[Not your Dad talking either.]"

That, thought Gabrielle, was certainly true. It was very annoying that Papa was more cognizant of her budding relationship with George than the target of her affection was. Gabrielle stepped close and stood behind George, but could not think of anything to say. He was going to leave. He was always going to leave - she had known that; she did know that. She herself would be leaving again soon; the school year started in just over a week. A few more days was certainly possible, was it not?

"[Er, this is a bit awkward, but would you mind facing the other way round for a moment?]" asked George.

Gabrielle did so, and decided to blame her disappointment on Fred. He was acting peculiarly, even after accounting for Verity and general Fred-ness. Maybe it was just the way with English wizards, but he always seemed to have his wand at the ready.

"[There, that's sorted then,]" declared George. He stood up behind Gabrielle, and she turned to face him. "[Aw, cheer up, luv. No need to be glum.]"

"[Can you not stay longer, a little? Anozzer day?]" begged Gabrielle more hoarsely than she expected. She was blinking rapidly now. A part of her family tree wondered if a few tears might win the day.

"[Not this time,]" said George. "[Once things settle out back home, Fred and I can do another tour. You've got the beetle too; I'm sure you'll get the hang of it. So, give us a smile?]" he added, tilting up her chin with his hand.

Gabrielle would have tried to smile, but was struck with a depressing epiphany. She was a little sister! That was why their relationship was not progressing, why he touched her the way he did. She was part of his life, that was true, but she was only next to Ginny. Gabrielle wanted to scream in frustration - she should have been putting the lack of undergarments to good use. Or found a way to get a pair of Mrs Udderly's little helpers. She should not have lost her nerve when she had climbed into his bed. That was not a sisterly act! If she did nothing now it would be him forgetting her! Even if she did try poking at the beetle every day.

But even as Gabrielle thought that, she knew it was too late. The others were packing up and preparing to leave. Unless they hit a bridge again, they would be across the Channel tonight. Gabrielle could feel the pit opening beneath her, but before she succumbed there was one last hope. "[Give me ze kiss!]" blurted Gabrielle. "[Eh, now, before ze ozzers come.]" She tried to smile in a definitely not-a-sister sort of way, and hoped that it did not look stupid. Another thought came to her, and she quickly added, "[If it is not on ze lips, I will stab you.]"

v - v - v - v - v

The second arrival was another owl, that dropped a toasted-looking envelope. The latest Post smouldered peacefully, the way the blackened trunks of slightly ruined trees could after a minor forest fire. Gabrielle was listlessly chalking a wide warning circle around the spot that George had been working at. Whatever the prank was, she wanted to be in the mood to enjoy it, and that seemed like it would be a long way off. George and the others had left, taking away the sea of companionship that had buoyed her spirits. The awful events that she had been able to ignore she now could not, and, on top of that, was a quick kiss on each lip separately really the same as a lingering kiss on both lips together?

Gabrielle could see the emblem of Beauxbatons on the outside, and pulled the envelope to her. She quickly dropped it, because it was smouldering. Gabrielle drew out the petite wand and waved it in exaggerated motions, calling out, "Aguamenti!" The brief spray of water did little but make her feel sadder, since it only reminded her that George was not guiding her hand.

Stamping on the letter with her shoe proved more effective and Gabrielle was able to extract the folded parchment inside. At no point did she wonder at its condition, or what might motivate such a missive, since her thoughts were only on recent losses.

The letter was brief, though Gabrielle did not read it at first. Her eye was drawn to the single word written in thick letters that took up a third of the parchment, and that word was... EXPELLED. She stared at it dumbly - if this was a joke then it was not funny at all. Gabrielle examined the envelope more closely. It certainly seemed like it came from Beauxbatons; there was nothing off about the florid emblem or addressing. Save for the shoe prints. If it was a forgery, then it was well done. Which meant either George or Fred could have done it. Probably Fred, because this was more mean than amusing. What was the point? She read:

The Beauxbatons Academy of Magic strives to create a safe, traditional, yet thoroughly modern learning environment, and expects the students privileged to attend its richly historic palace to be studious, conscientious,and possessed of a firm moral character. The Beauxbatons Academy of Magic has determined that the student Gabrielle Jean Delacour, hereafter referred to as the treacherous miscreant, is none of those. Said treacherous miscreant has outrageously and flagrantly violated Article Thirty-Four of the Student Contract, which is, since the treacherous miscreant clearly did not read that section of the Contract, the one about not stealing from the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. In this case, theft of valuable school materiel. Therefore the treacherous miscreant is, by order of the Headmistress, hereby, forthwith, irrevocably, and quite definitely:

Okay, thought Gabrielle, this was still not funny. Nor believable. It was hard to imagine that Fred would think this even an attempt at a prank. The whole of it was just stupid and insulting. If, reasoned Gabrielle, it had been about the tower or the Wheezes, then maybe it would have been a shock or fright, but stealing? She was no thief, unless it was her own things from Maman. This was just... A hesitant, pained second thought quietly, figuratively coughed and brought forth a recollection of having solved the study carol problem... by putting the last one not held to the floor by the conjured hands into her handbag.

No, thought Gabrielle, now shaking slightly, she had put that back; she was certain of it. Mostly certain. Almost certain. No helpful recollection of the act was offered up though. In fact, decidedly unhelpful images of the study carol lying askew in the depths of her handbag were all that did come to mind. She had definitely intended to put the borrowed piece back in the library. So this was just, eh, a careless mistake. That, decided - hoped - Gabrielle, made this merely an unfortunate misunderstanding, one that she was sure that the Headmistress would - Oh mon Dieu, panicked Gabrielle! If, if the Headmistress blamed her for poor Soleil then, then -

"M-M-Maman! Maman!"

v - v - v - v - v

Appeals, petitions, and alternatives take time to be rejected, denied, and found. It would be a year before Gabrielle's formal education continued.

1 Little one, he is not ready for that.

2 It will be difficult,

3 You have my blessings, little one,

4 And this,

5 Specifically bred for that similarity, because it was funny. Recall the popularity of Poot Powder.

6 the Chosen One