(21) The Goblin Fair

"Sir," said Giselle urgently.

Snape turned and looked back at her. "Have you sensed something?" he asked. He sounded skeptical.

They had been going down a broad passage and came to a chamber thoroughly ransacked by tomb robbers centuries ago. In the light of their wands lay bits and pieces of dusty artefacts on a floor covered in the remains of a reed carpet.

Giselle nodded, glancing over at Hermione, whose eyes were gleaming with the same spark of intuitive emotion.

"Yes, here, I think," Giselle said, leaning her ashwood staff toward a low stone shelf.

Snape directed his wandlight on it. Among the smattering of debris was a yellowed scroll, so fragile with age that it seemed to be crumbling even as they looked at it.

Snape flourished his wand.

"Instructions for the embalmers of a princess of the Ramses dynasty," he said. "I don't see the relevance. What have you intuited?" he asked Giselle.

"It's about someone I know," she said.

Hermione lightly touched the scroll with her staff. "Not someone we know personally," she said, "but someone we've heard about. And this princess... she was accused of infidelity to the prince. It's something to do with a sexual taboo."

Giselle gasped, a hand to her blushing cheek. "The Marvolo Curse!"

Hermione drew a deep breath and looked at Snape. "Exactly! My head is full of Slytherin images, sir. And I'm getting a very strong feeling about a Slytherin student."

"The Marvolo who attended Hogwarts over sixty years ago," suggested Snape.

"Pardon me sir, but no. Well, not him exactly. It's Krimson Johan, a seventh year Slytherin student."

Snape arched a brow. "A muggle-born eager to prove himself worthy of greatness," he remarked, "but sadly overestimating his worth. And as for the Marvolo Curse, we have no substantial evidence."

Giselle steeled herself. "Sir, my grandmother was accosted by a victim of the Marvolo Curse when she was a Gryffindor student, in the same year as my Aunt Minerva."

Snape had turned to continue on, but paused to inquire of her, "And who was the cursed one?"

"Professor Frumlow, sir. I heard him confess it to Krimson Johan, in the east gardens."

Hermione turned enlarged eyes upon Giselle.

Snape made no reply. His expression was impassive. "We shall keep all this in mind," he said. "We are approaching the burial chamber of Queen Isa. We might be viewing myself and others, perhaps only ghostly glimpses at certain moments, depending on the time of our arrival. Intuit what you can of it. And you needn't be distracted by any images of my past predicament," he added sternly. "Come."

Dumbledore finished writing his note. Folding it, he turned to Doris and said in a firm voice, "Esther Roundhouse will obey my summons promptly, or she will not live to regret it."

He extended the note to Fawkes, who clasped it in his beak. "Try the residence first," he said to the phoenix, "at Red Slippers Lane, number fifteen, Spellbroke Abby. If that fails you, the Ministry Annex at Cheapside."

Fawkes was gone in a flash.

"Doris, will you be kind enough to go down to the gates and welcome Esther when she appears? If any persons accompany her, they are to be discouraged."

Doris cackled a laugh. "With pleasure, Albus."

Dumbledore faced the Pensieve, resting his hands on the rim. "Meanwhile," he said with a trace of anxiety, "I shall see what can be done to rescue our missing people from the cruel past."

Caprice stood outside her caravan wagon, hugging her cloak about her and looking fiercely down at the goblin grovelling at her feet.

"What did you find out, Kroft?"

"The Boss was taken by Severus Snape, seen by three of my fellows, spellbound they swear, taken to the professor's quarters."

Caprice felt a thrill in her heart. Severus, abducting Jon? For what reason? Could it be only about the incident at the pyramids, or was there still a flame for her burning in his breast?

She sighed, shaking her head. Don't be such a fool, she told herself. But still she thrilled to the possibility...

"What else?" she demanded.

"Mistress, have mercy, but I've nothing else to report, though I risked life and limb to learn all I could!"

Caprice looked over at the vendor booths, at the sparse crowd ambling along the fairy-lighted thoroughfare.

"Tell Boogum I will see him now," she said calmly. And Kroft was quick to do her bidding, his cap blown off by the speed of his churning legs.

Not a minute later a tall mountain goblin in black and silver leather came up to Caprice without a sign of diffidence. He stood with a magic carpet rolled under one arm and a hand on his sheathed dagger.

"You remember my instructions, Boogum?"

"Yea, Mistress Minnex."

"Do not dare call me that!"

Boogum smiled. After a moment he gave a curt nod. "As you wish, my lady."

"Go, then. Determine what happened to the horcrux, discern its whereabouts, and you will be rewarded beyond your greediest dreams."

He contemplated that, and this time his smile was sincere.

Professor McGonagall stacked the graded papers neatly in her satchel, and with a nervous sigh leaned back in her desk chair, drumming the armrests with her fingers. Her mind was on her niece. How was it going? Let there be no mishaps! And anyway, what harm could come from dwelling in a memory?

She stood and smoothed her gown of dark emerald, her brows knitted in thoughts that had been nagging at her all day and had grown even more insistent at dinner. Was it because Upton had seated himself next to her at the faculty board and was so cloyingly nostalgic? He spoke of only the good times, the best of times. Not a hint about... about what Gee had overheard. Upton, a victim of the mythical curse? Laying hands on Isabel--? The absurdity! But just suppose--?

Professor McGonagall made up her mind. She went out to the fifth floor corridor, saying to the groups of students, "Curfew in thirty minutes," and, as she descended the stairways to the ground floor, "you would all prosper if you spent as much time on your homework as you do gallivanting about."

She went down the long gloomy passage to the iron-studded door.

"Quietus portalis," she intoned. The door opened silently.

She crossed the classroom without the slightest sound, pausing once to look back at the storage closets that were making a soft tapping noise. She smiled. The staves, wanting out.

At the office door she hesitated, listening. She imagined she could hear the sprong and squeak of Upton's knees, and pictured him rising up to snatch a book from a high shelf, coming back down for a series of bounces in place, swaying to keep his balance.

She was remembering how it happened. It was during their sixth year. Upton had apparently misunderstood Professor Kettleburn's cautions during Care of Magical Creatures class, and carelessly turned his back on the scythe-beaked flamingo.

A wonder he didn't bleed to death before Kettleburn, quite familiar with such a loss of limbs, was able to staunch the flow with a clamping spell. And it had not been a very good example of it, with Upton's severed knees held tight by huge false teeth.

Professor McGonagall knocked on the door.

"Eh--? Is that you, Mrs--"

"It's Minerva."

"Oh! Now there's a delight. Come in," and the door swung open.

Snape held up a cautionary hand. Giselle and Hermione peeked under his arm.

The burial chamber of Queen Isa was too vast for the three wandlights to illuminate more than a central sarcophagus and ranks of clay miniatures depicting charioteers and swordsmen. Snape remedied the poor visibility with a moonglo charm.

A hazy white orb now hung suspended just below the frescoed ceiling, shedding a dim but adequate light throughout the chamber.

"Sir," said Hermione, "I don't sense anyone else here, but... there's something about the stone casket."

Giselle sensed it also. She and Hermione looked instinctively into each other's eyes, as though they could better understand what each  was feeling in the depths of their shared thoughts.

They followed Snape to the sarcophagus. All around them, on the walls and on tamarisk-wood shelves, were gold and bejewelled items flashing and rippling in the glow of the orb. But it was the sarcophagus, guarded by the miniatures, that held their attention.

On the dusty carven lid were two small boxes, open and empty.

Snape shone his wandlight on the image of a two-breasted raven carved in the stone of the lid, the image flanked by the two boxes.

"All is as it was ten years ago," he said. "We are too late to witness what occured here between Minnex and myself. But that is not my concern at the present time. I expect a visitor, soon. I have taken pains to ensure it. You two will retreat to the doorway when he arrives, and shield yourselves. Do not engage him except in self defense. He is to be left to me."

Hermione squeezed Giselle's hand and said, "Professor, won't you explain what occured? Oughtn't we to know? Isn't this Minnex person the Fair's manager? Isn't that what Headmaster Dumbledore told us?"

Before Snape could reply there came from down the passageway a tapping of staves.

The two girls held their breath, pressed together shoulder to shoulder, staring wide-eyed at Snape. He did not seem surprised or alarmed.

A young man's voice said, "Voldemort has nothing to do with this, haven't I made that clear? He's dead, you dunderheads, haven't you realized that yet? This was not his doing. He was just the idea behind it. Weren't you there when Hexaba's mother explained it all? Do you think Caprice disagrees? No, of course she doesn't, it's her goblin mate who has set this up. And when he's through with them, they'll be at the heart of it." A pause, then: "That's a pun, you numbskulls."

A short grunting laugh. The tapping was becoming louder, along with the scuffling sound of feet. Snape drew the nervous students to a corner and held a finger to his lips. They sensed his Misdirection spell enveloping the three of them.

The orb vanished. A gloom descended. Into the shadows, a torch in hand, came the young man and two hooded wizards with staves, followed by two turbaned men carrying a body on a litter of canvas attached to parallel poles. The young man held the torch over his head to better illuminate the sarcophagus.

"Here, Armando?" said one of the litter bearers.

"Of course, yes, on the casket. Move those boxes out of the way. They've served their purpose. El Jinn, remove the poles. Give them to me. Hurry! We haven't much time."

The young man held the two poles in one hand, swishing the torch around as he looked about the chamber. The wizards muttered to one another in a skeptical manner.

"Minnex says he managed to shake off Snape by summoning a tomb robber's corpse, a tall goblin fellow, animated by hell's own devils," said the young man, sweating in his tweed suit. "What a fix Snape was in! Can you imagine? But that'll teach him to keep his nose out of our business. Come on, gouge the eyes out of Studmann and be quick about it! He won't complain. Hexaba ended all his worries well enough."

Horrified, Giselle saw the turbaned men leaning over the dead body on the litter that lay on the sarcophagus, their elbows moving up and down as they wielded their knives.

"Done," said the one called El Jinn.

"Out of the way then. Dump the body in the corner."

Two things happened at once.

Snape was the first to feel the psychic undulations, the first to recognize the physical vibrations that immediately followed. He was the first to react when the two helpers dragged the body of Studmann to the very corner where he, Hermione, and Giselle, stood; the girls raising their wands in a wave of anxiety. He flicked his own wand of flexible yew, stunning the two men and causing the staves of the wizards to twist out of their hands and stick to the ceiling. As one the pair of rogue warlocks fled the chamber.

Armando Frumlow had staggered back from the sarcophagus, dropping the poles and drawing his wand with a shout of dismay and exacerbation. "What the devil is this?" he cried out.

He saw the two men fall over backwards just as the throbbing entity at the casket became visible. It had broken into the past. It was a mountain goblin in black and silver leather, its ensorcelled dagger pointing at Snape.

"Severus!" said Armando. "How--"

Hermione's spell sparked away from Armando's quick counter spell, one of a dark red hue that had her colliding with Giselle.

For that first moment Armando was not aware that Snape was battling what he, the ambitious young man, had not yet seen. He was crouched down, duelling against teen witches with a snarling smile on his face, and with questions in his squinting eyes. He was both troubled and amused by the actions of who he assumed to be Hogwarts students, their wands flicking a little clumsily in their frenzy of emotion, their cantos voiced in shrill tones as they hopped about, bumping into each other as often as not. In his confusion over their presence here, he grew angry, vengeful, and the light of his spells began to move toward the green shade of the spectrum.

Giselle couldn't stop herself from trying to hide behind Hermione, for the Gryffindor girl was much the better at duelling and in much greater control of her fears. And so Giselle found herself casting spells in spurts, then ducking back behind the wand-swishing, fast-chanting Hermione, cringing as she sensed the spells evaporating in the heated hexes from the young man. She could see the effects of the hexes playing out around her, barely deflected by Hermione, blurred pictures of monsters and mayhem, ocean waves and landslides, a whirl of chaos, one after the other. She knew what would happen to her if one of those hexes seized her; their images told the story.

Out of the corner of his eye Snape watched Armando Frumlow. The potions master had his main focus on catching Boogum's killing curses in a vortex spun from his yew wand; catching and winding up the energies, weaving them into a spell so much deadlier than Boogum could conjure. The goblin was becoming taut and awkward from a growing panic. He was badly outclassed. He did not try to delude himself into thinking otherwise.

What could he do to usher himself back to the time and place from whence he came? He dare not risk asking Snape for mercy. He saw no generosity in Snape's cold eyes as the humming vortex sucked up the chain of spells. Something terrible was building. Something was coming that had Boogum's knees shaking at the thought of it.

Then his chance came.

Armando had tossed the flaming torch at the girls, had snatched up two poles and a bloodied pouch from amongst the stunned men, who were now rolling over, gasping, their hands fumbling at their robe pockets. And now Armando was rushing out of the chamber; Hermione, kicking away the torch, casting a spell that bound the groggy men tightly in their robes, like straightjackets.

Snape flung the vortex out into the passageway in hopes of stopping Armando's escape. There was a flash of bright green light shot with purple. But still the running feet of the young man was heard, fading with the distance.

Boogum could hardly believe his luck. The carelessness of Snape astounded him, bringing the disturbing thought that Snape was setting a trap for him. But he could not let this opportunity pass. He swung his magic dagger with all his strength and shouted, "Avada Kedavra!"

Snape pressed a hand to his chest, his face turning a pale green, the dark gleam of his eyes extinguished like blown-out candles.

He collapsed to the floor, lying lifeless beside the discarded boxes, the body of Studmann, and the strewn figurines of charioteers.

"My God I did it," whispered Boogum, but in the next moment, as Giselle and Hermione sagged to their knees in shock, he felt a familiar psychic force pulling at him. That which had held him in the past had now released him. He did not struggle against it. He grimaced, shutting his eyes, and was gone like a stone sinking in deep water.

"Stop crying," Hermione said.

There was something in her voice, something full of relief and a strange joy, that dried Giselle's eyes. She followed Hermione's gaze and saw that it wasn't Professor Snape lying in death on the cold dusty floor of Queen Isa's burial chamber.

It was Jon Minnex.

Dumbledore turned from his office window. The Sorting Hat, on a shelf next to it, scrunched down as if embarrassed at something.

The Headmaster paid no mind to this, but watched as Esther Roundhouse let herself in, alone, closing the door with exaggerated care. She stood there looking at Dumbledore with an innocent expression. Her smile was tentative. Her long lashes fluttered in the manner of one thinking dreamy thoughts.

"Thank you for coming so promptly, Madame Assistant Minister," said Dumbledore. "I assume that Doris Crockford is sending your entourage in the opposite direction."

The woman in the chic witch's gown of red silk and black lace lowered her smile slightly. "Yes, and I wonder at the lack of protocol," she said.

She glanced at the Pensieve on the stool in front of the desk. Then she took off her satin gloves and looked over at the drinks on a sideboard near the fireplace; at the black leather armchairs, the lampstands burdened with Transfiguration Today magazines.

"I am to assume then," she said, "that this is a social occasion, since my aids have not been invited."

Dumbledore had gone to the sideboard. "I seem to recall that your drink of preference is gin and tonic, on the rocks. Here you are," he said, handing her the cut crystal glass.

She took it mechanically, her eyes steadfast on his face. "You are forecasting inclement weather," she said. "I myself seem to recall that you're fond of metaphors and prefer not to be blunt."

Dumbledore motioned for her to be seated in one of the armchairs. When she did so he sat across from her and made a toasting gesture with his glass of rum and cola.

"Here's to blunt speaking," he said in a genial tone. "You cast a hex on the Pensieve bowl, Mrs Roundhouse. It was meant to trap the observers in the actual past. You succeeded, up to a point. And I know why you did it. You, like Cornelius, our esteemed Minister, wish to cover up any sign or hint that Voldemort is gathering strength, and that his return is imminent. You and Cornelius believe that the rumored horcrux in the Cheops pyramid was made by Voldemort through a proxy. But unlike Cornelius, you wish to cover up this evidence not to spare the wizarding public from a terrible scare, but because you desire Voldemort's return. You hope to make it seem that his imminent return is poppycock, so that Voldemort's path to resurrection will go smoothly."

Esther looked scandalized. She made a face of surprised confusion and uttered a mirthless laugh. "Albus, really. You ARE in need of a vacation. I deny any such act and you may examine my wand if that will lay your suspicions to rest. Yes, of course Cornelius and I are keen to put these rumors to bed. Why upset the wizarding world for no good reason? But I must ask..." She took a sip of her gin. "I must ask why you are so irrationally suspicious of me?"

Dumbledore was not the least fazed by her reaction. "You were destined to be sorted into Slytherin house, twenty four years ago, but this would not serve your purpose. And so you cast an immanent charm, an Emotive Deception charm upon yourself. The Sorting Hat saw you as Gryffindor material."

Esther grunted a sour laugh. "How absurd, Albus. I was an eleven year old plebian witch. How could I have cast such a high level charm upon myself? You can't be serious!"

"I am as serious as Isolde Carrow, a Slytherin seventh year back then, who assisted in your introductory lesson during the summer before your first year. If you like, I can recount the many connections that the Carrows have with the LeStrange and Wassala families, with the Scottish Effs, and the unhealthy interest that your husband, Randolph, has with the dark arts."

Esther set down her glass and dried her hand with a paper doilie. Her expression had become somber and smouldering. "My family is nine generations of Gryffindors. That is on the record. Look it up."

"And all nine have produced a total of eighteen condemned murderers. Two per generation. That's a tad higher than average. Every family has their bad apples."

Esther stood up. "So that's your evidence, is it? Every generation has a couple of misfits and therefore I must be a bad apple. That is laughable, Mr Headmaster. Good evening to you."

She strode to the door. It opened as she reached it. Severus Snape stepped aside to let her through. Their eyes met. Dumbledore saw the irony on Snape's face as Esther Roundhouse stared up at him, struggling to keep her composure.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked.

"I am not in the mood to be insulted," Esther replied through her bared teeth.

Snape watched her going down the spiral staircase, around behind the stone gryffin, then closed the office door. To Dumbledore he said, "Now might be a good time to end our students' little adventure."

"Indeed," said Dumbledore. He went to the Pensieve and picked it up carefully as Snape stepped back.

He flung the contents onto the floor.

There was a splash of light, the smell of steam in the air. Three figures appeared.

Hermione and Giselle got up off their knees and stood gasping in relief and heartfelt gratitude. But the body of Minnex, lying at the foot of the phoenix perch, was entirely indifferent.

"Who killed him?" Dumbledore inquired of Snape.

"One of Caprice Eff's henchman. A mountain goblin ostensibly employed at the Fair. I'm sure he has made tracks elsewhere."

"See what you can do to locate him, Severus, but don't be too hard on Caprice. I intend to give her a bit more rope to play with, at least until after the Quidditch All-Star tournament."

"And the Assistant Minister of Magic?"

Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"Regarding her," he said, "we shall have to be very clever."

Then he turned to Giselle and Hermione, beaming at them. "Twenty merit points for both of you, and ten points each for Hufflepuff and Gryffindor."

Snape frowned.

(20) The Goblin Fair

"Aunt Minerva told me they're in the teachers lounge, and to go right in," Giselle said to Hermione as they came out into the Entrance Hall. She meant the staves.

It was odd to go into the lounge like that, to just walk in and take what was yours, a feeling of importance. And going up the many stairways and along the mostly deserted corridors, carrying a staff, was like a dream that seemed too real to be allowed.

Moaning Myrtle tossed bits of toilet paper at them when they stepped in to the girls room to spruce themselves up. On the way down the last corridor to the Head of School office they kept wondering at each other if there could be a piece of toilet paper in their hair that they might have missed.

They were five minutes early. "Do come in," they heard Dumbledore say." So they opened the door and came into a softly lighted office.

Giselle noticed right away that Hermione was nervous, finally, after days of expressed excitement. Giselle felt it like a wave of uneasiness merging with her own. It was a let down. She realized just then how much she had relied on Hermione for moral support, and now it seemed to be slipping away.

Dumbledore was setting the Pensieve bowl on a stool that stood in front of his desk. Professor Snape was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, looking at the two students as if they were inopportune house elves encroaching on his quiet time.

"I'll just have a look at your staves," said the Headmaster, smiling at them in his Friendly Uncle sort of way.

He took possession of Hermione's staff. "African banyon wood, hmm, one of the better makes," he mused. "Tibetan red-raven heart. Very responsive, but a bit on the conservative side. You won't get much of a knudge from it, Miss Granger."

He handed it back to her and took Giselle's.

For a minute he said nothing, though it was obvious that he was considering something intriguing, and perhaps perplexing. His fingers were sliding over the carven designs, touchingly, like fingers on piano keys.

"Mr Clement Swiddle has added a second heart," he said, "which he believes works in unison with the first, rather like a duet. I knew about the compatibility that ashwood has with a number of other types, but I question whether it can unify two diverse hearts. No, it must be these magic sigils carven at the top end of the staff that bring such a peaceful cooperation between the two hearts. I wonder? Is one a female heart, and the other a male heart?"

This is what had got him thinking before he spoke up. Giselle sensed that he was formulating a theory.

Doris Crockford appeared suddenly, the act of opening the door disspelling her Misdirection illusion.

"Carrows and Greyback, at the Hogs Head," she was saying, removing her cape. "Never a good sign when those two are together."

"Aberforth is keeping me informed," said Dumbledore. "You know Minerva's charming niece. This is Miss Hermione Granger, one of our more exceptional fourth years. Miss Granger, this is Madame Crockford, the one person who can exert some control over the Loch Ness sea-serpent. She will be with you and Giselle on your mental travels tonight, but at a distance. We don't want to risk influencing your intuitive insights. And that's why I'm not going to say anything more than what I told you two the other day. You will be looking for clues regarding the horcrux and the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of Mr and Mrs Odin McGonagall."

At her table in the caravan house wagon Caprice seethed with anger and a burgeoning jealousy.

She was staring into her crystal ball, which after many fruitless Incantations had at last formed a scene in Dumbledore's office. This had surprised her, for her intention was to discover the whereabouts of her absent husband.

And there he was, seated in an armchair by the fireplace, looking with uncharacteristic passivity at the Headmaster's guests. Who were they? She couldn't determine. She was focused on Jon, her anger boiling as she thought how he must have betrayed her to Dumbledore. He had sold her out, to save his own neck.

Too upset to maintain her trance, she watched the scene fade away. For a minute she sat smouldering in her hatred of the unfaithful husband, grimacing at the memory of that morning when she had wailed in despair, fearing that he had met his end and her last confederate had been taken from her.

Caprice looked across at the black bird hunched on her stack of books, and said to it, "I will not be surrendered over to them, Horus. Come. There is one thing we can do, and do it we shall!"

She rose, flung a cloak around her, took up her wand and a stoppered jar, and left the wagon with the black bird fluttering behind her.

She strode off toward the lake. A group of idle goblins stood around arguing and gesturing at the dwindling crowd at the fair. But seeing Caprice they scattered like blown leaves.

She went on along the reedy shore of the lake and into the forest.

She was following a Centaur track that wound through the pine thickets. It led her to a moonlit clearing. Here she smoothed away the pine needles to expose the bare earth, and unstopping the jar she sang a dark canto as she poured out a thin puddle of blood.

She stepped back, breathing heavy. A flourish of her wand caused the black bird to ruffle its now red feathers.

The two-hearted red raven tilted its head over the little pool of blood. The moon's reflection was orange in the puddle. The raven pecked at it.

"Out of the way," said Caprice, shooing off the bird as she dropped to her knees, gasping in her excitement.

She flexed the fingers of her left hand. With infinite care she touched the pool of blood with her fingertips, slowly drawing a pentagram with the reflection's orange light.

It glowed intensely for a moment. It darkened, becoming what appeared to be a hole. Taking an anxious breath, Caprice let her hand sink into the hole, deeper and deeper until her left shoulder dipped in the blood and she could feel the rough stone of the sarcophagus with her fingers.

"If it's the horcrux Dumbledore seeks, then he shall have it," she was muttering, "and in such a way that Jon Minnex will get what he deserves."

She felt the carven symbols, the dust of millennia, but... Where was the horcrux? Had it been stolen?

In a panic she swept the stone lid with her hand, searching for what should have been there in easy reach.

Gradually her anxiety turned to the harsh realization that Jon, or someone unsuspected, had carried off the horcrux. Her hope of revenge was dashed.

She leaned back, her bloody hand clenched and empty, her furious face uplifted to the mocking moon.

"NO-O-O!"

This is really weird, Giselle thought, pleased that she felt quite rooted in Dumbledore's office while gazing around at the desert vista under the ambivalent moon.

She had held hands with Hermione when they leaned cautiously over the Pensieve; Crockford across from them but remaining erect.

The transition of perspective made them a little dizzy, but upon having a quick look at their breezy, balmy surroundings, they felt refreshed. It did seem like they were breathing the Egyptian desert air, but Giselle was aware that it was her imagination which made this appear more real than it was.

"Who's this?" Hermione wondered, tilting her staff toward a middle-aged man that neither she nor Giselle could identify. He seemed to be looking at them, and the expression on his plump shiny pink face was both crafty and worried.

"That's Mr Womblatt," said the voice of Doris, whom they couldn't see. She was somewhere behind them. "A Death Eater who accompanied Professor Snape. But Mr Snape was not yet a member of the Hogwarts faculty at the time of this memory."

"Oh!" said Hermione. "This is SNAPE'S memory we're in. We'd been wondering..."

"Then where is he?" asked Giselle. "I don't see Professor Snape anywhere! Aren't we supposed to see him?"

"I didn't say it was Severus Snape's memory," Doris whispered hurriedly. "Quiet now, Womblatt is speaking."

"...not be a good idea. We wouldn't want Caprice catching sight of us. She's our one lead, and on a wild goose chase she'll take us if she knows we've been trailing her."

Womblatt appeared to be listening to the person he was looking at, someone standing in the same place as Hermione and Giselle.

"All right and hell's bells. Go on then. Trust in your Misdirection spell. I'm heading off for the Sphinx. They're getting impatient. I'll have them wait another hour for you. Don't be longer. You won't find the secret entrance without us."

Giselle was gazing down at an oasis, where she could see a number of camels lying on their legs folded underneath them, chewing the cud and occasionally bellowing like cows.

Several tents had been set up along the large pond. Some men in turbans and loose flowing robes were positioning a sort of curtained booth between two palm trees, while a camel shook its humps and began drinking at the pond.

Then suddenly she and Hermione were in the midst of the camp, stepping out of the way of men coming and going, and imagining that they could smell the rancid odor of the camels.

"Of course we're not really here," Hermione remarked as she ducked a pole carried on a kafir's shoulders. "But it's just a natural reflex to want to stay out of the way of things. Have you spotted something, Gee?"

"I think that's my mother! She looks just like my photos of her!"

A young woman had stepped out from a tent nearby, full in the moonlight. She had pale auburn hair tied in a bun, and wore a khaki blouse and shorts.

"About time you showed up," she said, apparently to the person in whose memory this was occuring. She was looking directly at the two students standing side by side. "Did you ditch Hardmore? Hope to Merlin you did. Well, come inside. Odin's feeling better."

Isabel McGonagall went back into the tent, holding the flap open as Giselle and Hermione's perspective shifted dizzily to the tent's interior.

"It's my dad!"

Odin was reclining on some tasseled cushions, eating dates from a sack and dropping the seeds on a handkerchief spread on the plastic floor. He was long-legged and thin. He had not shaven for days, and his short russet chin-beard was surrounded by stubble.

He bent his injured leg and laid a hand gently on his bandaged knee. "Even so, I'd rather walk than ride a camel. Blast these muggle customs. But we're stuck with them until we're through with the mission, hopefully by next week."

Giselle exchanged looks with Hermione. "I don't know what to think," she said, sniffing and wiping an eye. "Am I supposed to be objective? I just want to hug them, and I can't!"

Hermione squeezed Giselle's hand tenderly. "I understand," she said, "but all we're seeing and hearing are just memories. It's like watching a movie, really. I know it's hard for you, and I don't want to give you any false hope, but we must just try to let our intuition take over and follow our instincts, because maybe your parents are still alive somewhere! That's the important thing. Hang the horcrux, it's just a side issue."

"So they've put their hope in the horcrux being stashed in the Sphinx, have they?" Odin was saying, his smile a worried one as he looked questioningly at where Giselle and Hermione stood. "You know that Hexaba LeStrange and her mother arrived here an hour back? Yes, flying in on their broomsticks. Ha. The Ministry will like that I'll bet, with muggle tourists still loitering around the pyramids."

Odin sat up, his smile fading. He was glaring toward the tent flap. "I must say, Severus, I don't altogether trust your help mate. She's up to something with the head Kafir, Ngali. Don't trust him much, either. They're hiding something from Minnex. You'll remember that Armando Frumlow warned us about Caprice, in Cairo, about her meetings with Hexaba's snake-charming mum."

Odin looked at the narrow space between Giselle and Hermione. "This is getting too crowded, old boy. Too many fingers are in the pie. Look, we know Womblatt is an agent of the Loyalists. He thinks the horcrux was made by Voldemort, the first one, the experimental one. Take your group and meet up with him at the Sphinx. I don't advise taking Caprice with you, but that'll be your decision. Keep them busy looking, while Severus goes to Queen Isa's tomb in the Cheop pyramid."

Odin listened for a few moments, nodding. Then with a shrug he said, "Maybe. But I trust Armando more than anyone else who's involved in this caper. You know how fond the snake-charmer is of him. He's gotten on the good side of a number of rascals. I trust his opinions. No, I think our best bet in finding the horcrux is Queen Isa's tomb. And never mind all the flack about Inferi and other walking dead. Just rumors, probably, to scare off the would-be tomb robbers."

"Darling," said Isabel, "Mr Pomfrey is here, with the potions we requested."

"Pomfrey himself? Well, damn. This means the Ministry's got wind of our intentions. Have him come in, won't you, Bella?"

Giselle felt a wave of dizziness.

She was floating up a slanting wall of huge stone blocks. A pyramid. She looked up and saw the moon glowing just above the pinnacle.

And just below the pinnacle was a dark recess in the wall, as though one of the blocks had been retracted. She and Hermione were heading straight for it.

A dark figure proceeded them, a figure Giselle clearly sensed to be Snape. There were others behind them. But these were cut off suddenly when she and Hermione followed Snape into the recess, a downward sloping tunnel, the stone block grinding back into place. This prevented the other people from entering the pyramid. Giselle sensed their surprise and anger.

She saw Snape pause and look back at the closed entrance. In the light of his glowing wand his expression was a mix of relief and satisfaction. He said to the memory's source, "If my efforts were productive, you are about to show your true colors."

To Giselle and Hermione it felt like the sudden jolt of an earthquake. They were thrown against a wall of the tunnel, feeling the pain of the impact and staggering sideways, holding each other, as Snape clenched a fist in exasperation.

"Not good enough!" he said. "He vanished before I could identify him."

"Sir!" said Hermione, a hand to her bruised forehead. "All this is real! What's happened?"

Snape ignored her for the present. Giselle sensed his feverish thoughts, his attempts to salvage what had not been an entirely successful work of magic.

"Sir! Explain!"

"Miss Granger," he replied in a strained calmness, "we are now actually in the past. It is no longer a memory. But our motive and our goal remain the same. You and Miss McGonagall will keep a firm grip on your staves and obey me without question."

In the Head of School office, Dumbledore drew his wand and gazed around, puzzled and anxious, at the sudden disappearance of Snape and the two students. Only Doris Crockford remained, and she was as shocked at the occurance as the Headmaster.

"The Pensieve liquid is turbulent," she remarked, looking up at Dumbledore for answers. "They have been sucked into the memory, body and soul! How can this be?"

Dumbledore lowered his wand. "I wish I had an explanation," he said, "and not just a clue. Yes, they are in the past, and it is possible that they could alter past events. This would seem to be the reason for the magic behind it."

"You have a clue, you say?"

Smiling sternly, Dumbledore flourished his wand. 

A clear image appeared in the air. Doris crowded up next to Dumbledore and squinted at the picture of his office door opening slowly, cautiously, of a black-gloved hand extending through the doorway, holding a black wand with red stripes.

"Why, it's a replica of Salazar Slytherin's wand," she said, glancing at the Headmaster. "But who is this woman holding it? And is she the cause of this trouble with the Pensieve?"

Dumbledore waited for the image to fade away before replying.

"As to what her cause is about, I can only guess," he said. "But as to her identity, this is the Assistant Minister of Magic, Esther Roundhouse."

(19) The Goblin Fair

Giselle had been standing there for only a few nerve-wracking minutes, which seemed hours to her, when Mr Swiddle looked in from the archway and crooked a finger at her.

"Gee, if you would."

She stumbled at first, her knees felt so shaky. But scolding herself for a timid little mouse, she went walking into Snape's office looking like she was to receive a prize.

Swiddle motioned for her to follow him into Snape's private work room.

Giselle stopped pretending to be brave when she viewed the room with its strange smells, its shadowy bluish atmosphere hardly relieved at all by the four small windows in the rear wall near the high vaulted ceiling.

This was the 'sanctum sanctorum,' the holy of holies, as Hermione once described it to her. It was rimmed with age-old codices and scrolls, stone jars and odd figurines made of jade and crystal. A table near the back was quite long, lacquered black, squat candles at each end, the flames acting as if they were angry. And... music, very faint, very weird, barely audible, as though the breath of the two people in the room was from some far-away place where nothing was to be spoken above a whisper, and things hid themselves in the dark.

Snape stood with his back to the table, facing her and Swiddle. He held a small book in one hand, the forefinger marking his place in the volume. Giselle didn't dare look at his face. Her eyes didn't rise above his waist. She looked up at Bea's father instead. He was smiling at her, an uncomfortable smile, his forehead sweaty; the staff held unsteady in his twitching hand.

"It was the bird," he said to her.

It was then that Giselle noticed the iron cauldron on the table. A thin gossamer thread extended from the cauldron's rim to an unfamiliar black bird squatting on a stack of books near the edge of the table.

"Actually, as Professor Snape has explained to me, a woman's voice, speaking through the bird, you see," Swiddle said awkwardly. "Part of an investigation that he is involved in, you see."

"That will do, Mr Swiddle," Snape said. "I wish to speak privately with Miss McGonagall."

Swiddle seemed relieved. "Of course, sir," he responded. "I'll wait in the lounge."

As he turned to go, Snape said to him, "Leave the staff."

Giselle looked back at him. Without turning around or saying a word, he leaned the staff against the stone wall and went off through the doorway as if he couldn't get away fast enough.

The staff leaned upright. It floated over to Giselle, who, stepping back in surprise, held up a hand indecisively.

Snape spoke in his slow affected manner. "Grasp... your... staff."

She did. And the warm sensation was somehow admonitory, as though the staff was displeased by her hesitation.

"Miss McGonagall, I think it would be prudent if you and Miss Granger brought your staves to the Headmaster's office tonight."

Giselle steeled herself to look up at him, at the cold dark eyes appraising her. "Yes, sir," she said. "I'll tell Hermione... Granger."

Snape set the book on the table beside the cauldron. Strangely, this action eased the tension Giselle had felt, leaving her curious but not so nervous now.

"The woman you heard expressing fear and consternation is the estranged wife of the man you will be seeing in the Pensieve," Snape was saying. He stood staring down at Giselle, his hands in the pockets of his black cassock-style coat.

Giselle had a flash of insight. "Do you mean the half goblin man, the manager of the Fair?"

Snape's eyes narrowed. A slight smile appeared on his lips. "I suspect it was your staff that inspired your question," he said. "The two red-raven hearts that Mr Swiddle so craftily conjoined. He has been several times to Egypt and the shores of the Red Sea, capturing and studying two-hearted red ravens, the type that never mates, but is content with itself alone. It might be important for you to remember that."

Giselle felt a dread come over her. Was Bea's father in some way a part of the mystery she was to be thrust into tonight?

Snape reached out to grip her staff.
"Don't let go of it," he said to her sternly.

Giselle stiffened, her pulse ringing in her ears, her heartbeat thumping her chest like a drum.

Snape frowned in thought. He slid his hand down the ashwood to the little mound of dried sap, closing his fist around it.

"Shut your eyes," he said. "Do not open them until you're told."

Giselle closed her eyes tightly, her bottom lip between her teeth. She knew what was coming.

Roger gazing into Madame Moonbeam's crystal ball. His mother buttoning her fashionable suade coat, picking up her wandcase and stepping down the short flight of stairs to greet Cornelius Fudge. "You look lovely, Esther. Are you quite sure you're up to this bit of intrigue?"

A rat scurrying behind a house in Godric's Hollow and jumping in through an open window, past a jack-o'-lantern and a basket of candies, seemingly tiptoeing down a hall, then scrunching down behind a child's toy, shivering as a young man, engulfed in a dull green haze, falls dead to the floor. A woman screaming upstairs. A baby crying. A broken wizard in dark robes tumbling down the stairs, to lie still, his serpentine face twisted in agony, his body dissolving by degrees.

Eyes... Eyes...

The stone eyes of the Sphinx aglow in the moonlight, watching the long camel caravan. The curtain of the hoodah swept open, a beautiful bobbed-hair brunette leaning out to call to the head Kafir, "How far to the Oasis of Horus?" And he turns to look up at her, his kaftan whipping in the night wind, the jewel on his turban shining like a fallen star. "We shall arrive before the moon sets, O Mistress of Ra!"

Silence. Darkness. Figures walking through dense shadows, the steady tapping of staves on stones, a vibrant male voice echoing out from the triangular door of a dark dusty chamber. "It's mine! You have no right to claim it for Riddle! Take your scarab ring and be gone!"

Bright sunlight reflecting off the surface of a pond. Streaks of shade from date palms. The frightened voice of a youth. "Armando! Armando! Come back! Come back!" A stream of laughter, coiling and writhing like a charmed snake. "Dance the Seven Veils! Dance or die! She who dances here, for me, shall live forever and forever!"

Along the shores scatter the covey of red ravens... all but one. It trots over the pebbles, over the sculpted dunes, hopping up upon the stone sarcophagus. It tilts its head, staring at the puddle of blood. Deftly its beak pecks at what shines in the depth of the blood: the golden smear of a setting moon.

Snape released his hold on the staff.
He turned and pressed his hands down on the table.

"You may open your eyes," he said, gazing at the gossamer thread.

The black bird ruffled its feathers, but was silent.

"You will read chapter twenty-two," said Professor Vector in her sixth period Arithmancy class, "on the use of geometric symbols in place of the odd numbers between zero and ten. I expect a quiet time while I grade your quiz papers. When the bell rings you may dismiss yourselves. Remember that dinner will be served a half hour earlier this evening."

Giselle gulped. A half hour earlier. That was because of her meeting tonight with Dumbledore, at eight. Just enough time to brush the crumbs off and gargle with a mouthwash. She felt her stomach tieing itself in knots. How could Hermione focus on her reading when such a scary thing was coming up?

She smiled crookedly at Hermione, watching her turn a page and poise her quill above her notepad, while Ron was struggling to stay awake next to her, his head dipping and rolling. Harry was resting his chin on his knuckles, probably daydreaming about the goblin Quidditch game coming up on Wednesday, or maybe about the third challenge in the Tri-Wizard Tournament, whatever that turned out to be.

Giselle roved her lazy gaze around the classroom, this smallish chamber socked away in a corner of Sprick's Tower, the shortest one in the castle complex, being just four stories tall, but with a very high pointy roof... 

It helped relax her nerves, thinking of mundane things. All through the school day Giselle had tried to push the visions to the back of her mind. She was afraid to think on them. Snape had not explained any of it, and she thought she might know why. Better to let such things percolate in her subconscious, where intuition came from. No use trying to figure them out with the noggin. It would only make things more difficult.

She reminisced about lunch. Curried rice, all sorts of veggies... Roger had sat across from her and saw that she got first dibs of the sauces and dressings. He even poured her pumpkin juice for her, and talked about his mother coming later in the week to watch the Quidditch finals...

Well, that part about his mother wasn't so great, was it? It had got her thinking about the visions. What sort of 'intrigue' did Fudge mean when he greeted Esther Roundhouse in the Ministry's dining area? For Giselle was quite sure about the location of the scene. Was his remark just a figure of speech? But... And here Giselle shivered. Why did she see Roger's mother in a series of spooky visions?

And suddenly the bell was tolling. Sixth period was over. Everyone was up and shouldering their book bags.

Hermione came hurrying up to her. "Have dinner with us, Gee," she said, eyes twinkling with excitement. Ron was patting his stomach, greedy for the dishes, as Harry called to someone in the doorway that seemed to shake from the rumble of feet coming along the curving corridor.

"I've got that frightful climb up to Gryffindor Tower," Hermione was saying as she zipped up Giselle's bag. "Hufflepuff's just a hop and a skip from the Great Hall. Wait for us by the stairs, won't you?"

"Will do."

"And cheer up! It's going to be perfectly safe, you know, we aren't really going anywhere, just bending over the Pensieve bowl." For a fleeting moment Hermione's eyes shone with a misty sympathy for Giselle's side of things. "It'll be all right. I'm off! Wait for us!"

And dinner went much too quickly. Giselle had hardly ate two bites when the desserts popped up. She turned and leaned over to look around behind Harry's back at the faculty board as Ron burped and Hermione commented on bugs in the salt shaker. Yes, Dumbledore had nodded to Giselle. She was sure of it. He was sampling a cream puff that Auntie had suggested he try. Was it one of hers? Auntie would go down to the kitchens whenever the urge happened to strike and bake a batch of croissants or something.

Giselle grinned at herself. Keep on thinking of little silly things. It does help.

But it couldn't slow down the clock.

"Nearly seven-thirty," Hermione said, pushing away her saucer of miniature raisin cakes. "Shall we start up, Gee? We can tidy up in the girls restroom on the fifth floor, if you don't mind Moaning Myrtle."

Giselle sighed, a hand to her chest. "We are to bring our staves with us," she said.

(18) The Goblin Fair

Sunday was hectic. There was Quidditch practice in the morning, and then again after lunch. Katie had come down with a fever, one that puzzled Madame Pomfrey and had her going through all her books and sending owls to St Mungo's for advice. And so Giselle was suddenly put on the starting line-up as third Chaser in place of poor Kate, who sat propped in a chair by a window where she could see the Quidditch pitch.

In the evening Giselle had a pile of homework to finish up. The Common Room was full of papers drifting around and textbooks arguing with their owners, along with the usual noise of scratching quills and desperate pleas for help on subjects that nobody really liked, the stodgy stuff that made you almost want to sneeze, it was so old and musty. Then there were the sorts of spells that seemed to make no sense, like how to multiply an itch and subtract a laugh. No one wanted to be the target of such spells, of course, and so you ended up casting them on chess pieces.

The most aggravating thing was trying to fall asleep in bed when you had slept through breakfast and weren't the least sleepy at Lights-Out. The alarm clock was shouting at you to get up, after what couldn't have been more than five minutes of sleep. Monday mornings were always like that, bleary-eyed and frumpish. But THIS Monday morning had an extra dimension of awfulness. It was THAT Monday, the one that Hermione was so anxious to wake up to.

At breakfast, Giselle, coming in a few minutes late, saw that Hermione had her completed homework papers spread out on the table, telling Ron to be patient as he held his own papers out to her to be double checked. Harry was leaning across the narrow space between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables talking to Cedric, something about a maze, while Giselle tried to squeeze by.

"I've kept your scrambled eggs warm for you," Bea said, taking the cover off the plate. "The owl post came early. Here's a letter for you."

Giselle snatched up the envelope, hoping it was from Charlie. But no, it was a letter from the Faerie Summer Camp in Ireland, confirming her reservation for the week of August tenth. "Five Easy Tricks For Better Incantations," she read, "Getting The Most From Low Intensity Charms." There were photos of the new tree houses where the campers bunked, and refurbished classrooms in an ancient Viking stronghold near the beach. Well, that's all very nice, she thought, salting her eggs, but I'd rather know if Charlie's back from France yet. Sea monsters!

For almost everyone else it was just another Monday: classes with a quiz and 'the next chapter' to frown at. Giselle wondered how she could possibly keep her mind on her studies, knowing that immediately after dinner she would be shoved into a bowl and told to solve the mystery of her parents disappearance.

She bit into a slice of bacon and let her gaze slide along the faculty table. Here she was, an unexceptional fourth-year, expected to do what the teachers up there ought to be doing, if the Headmaster wasn't so eager to push favored students into harrowing circumstances rather than call upon these masters of magic. Why was Dumbledore so certain that his way was best? What was it about students that led him to believe that they had a better chance of success than his faculty members?

Giselle recalled what Auntie said once, that confidence was precious but over-confidence was catastrophic. Was that it? Must any success be the result of a certain degree of uncertainty? Did a teacher tend to be over confident? Was it the 'uncertainty principle' that attracted Dumbledore?

There was the bell.

It was especially nice having Herbology in first period, to go outdoors in the cool freshness of the morning. Everything smelled new and clean. Giselle wanted to dawdle on her way to the greenhouses, to half close her eyes and breathe deep, to drink the air, to raise her arms a little and feel like a bird in flight.

As usual she was urged along by the crowd, just Hufflepuffs in this period today. But the greenhouse, in some ways, was even nicer than being outside. The plants drenched the air with their fragrances.

At the work table were rows of pots with small tendrils of seedlings just emerging from the soil. The center of the table had little piles of short slender sticks made of various woods.

Giselle stood midway down the table, between Bea and Lori. Cedric was across from her, his back turned as he talked with a gentleman in a frock coat and hat. It wasn't until Bea waved at him that Giselle recognized the man. It was Mr Swiddle, seated on a stool with a notebook on a knee.

"What's your father doing here?" she asked Bea.

"Something to do with his experiments, I guess."

Professor Sprout hushed everyone. "Class, you'll remember that in our last lesson we discussed the two general types of plants, the sociable and the isolationist. For your quiz today you are to determine which of the two seedlings in your pot is the sociable one, then identify the species. Now, take one of the sticks and put it upright in the soil. The seedlings will immediately begin to climb the stick. But one of them will oppose the other plant and retreat from it. Identify the sociable plant and write your answer on a slip of paper, sign it, and leave it with me when the hour is over. And no talking to your neighbors!"

Giselle reached for a stick, and, trying to recall all the different types of sociable plants, she pushed the narrower end of the stick into the moist earth of her pot.

The two seedlings fondled it a moment with their tiny leaves, but neither plant seemed anxious to climb it. Giselle looked closer. The stick was slightly splintered. Was that the problem?

She pulled it out and randomly grabbed another stick.

A warm pleasant sensation went up her arm.

Surprised, she held the stick close to her eyes, sniffing it as well. Why, it was ashwood. She was certain of it. But why did it react to her like her ashwood staff? Did ashwood have a magical property?

She put it in the soil. At once the two seedlings began to wrap themselves around it, to inch their way up. She waited to see which plant would recoil from the other and slither back down. Would it be the Grouch Weed? Or the Highfalutin Hibiscus?

Apparently neither one! They seemed to be getting along winningly.

Giselle looked around at the other pots. Their seedlings were wrestling, scratching, biting each other. Some were trying to climb out of their pots. Hers were the only ones that got along. Why? she wondered. Were they both sociable? Had Sprout made a mistake and put two sociables in this pot?

But Grouch Weeds were known to be strict loners. Giselle remembered reading in her Herbology textbook just last night about how a Grouch Weed had gnawed through a pine tree in order to have more space to grumble to itself.

"Ah!"

Giselle looked over her shoulder. It was Mr Swiddle, leaning over her to stare at the two seedlings hugging each other around the stick. He picked up the pot and turned it in his hands, his face aglow with a rapturous euphoria.

"Eureka!" he said as Sprout hurried up to him.

"Amazing!" she said, astonished. "I see you were right, Clement. It's the wood!"

"Ashwood," said Giselle, proud of her knowledge. "I recognized it because it's what my magic staff is made of."

The other students were watching the scene with wry amusement.

"Your staff?" inquired Mr Swiddle. "Ashwood? I had thought that ashwood was much too pliant to be used in heavy spell work. Pomona, may I borrow Miss McGonagall?"

"Yes, by all means. And do keep me informed."

Swiddle took up Giselle's book bag. "Come on!" he said to her with a childish enthusiasm.

She followed him out to the lawn, her curiosity at the bubbling point. What was this all about?

"Humor me, Gee, and run down to your dorm room and get your staff. I'll be waiting in--"

"It's kept in the Alternative Magical Methods classroom," she said breathlessly, caught up in his excitement, "in the storage closet. We're not allowed to keep--"

"Come on then!"

Five minutes of fast walking brought them to the big oaken door. Swiddle pushed it open. It sent shrieking echoes through the room.

"Pardon us, Professor Frumlow, but we'll just be a moment. We've come to fetch Miss McGonagall's staff, if you don't mind."

Giselle, out in the drafty corridor, heard the familiar squeak of springs.

"Well, er... Yes, you may."

She trotted behind Swiddle, past the Slytherins craning their necks to stare at her, to the broad closet in the far back corner. When he opened it Giselle felt a tug on her heart. It was as though the staff had missed her and was happy at her return.

She took hold of it. Her arm sang.

"Bloody wonderful," Swiddle said, beaming. "Let's find a place to examine it."

They went back down the endless corridor, through its thick dank gloom, and down two more passageways where rusty armour stood between heraldry shields and fire pedestals that gave off the dimmest sparks of light.

At last they came to the Entrance Hall.

"Professor Snape!" Swiddle hurried over to the Potions Master who was just then coming out from the lounge. "You've no class to teach this hour?"

Snape gave Swiddle and Giselle a look of subdued interest. "That is my good fortune, yes," he said. "How may I be of assistance?"

"May I utilize your classroom for a brief experiment?"

Snape considered. "Is Miss McGonagall a necessary adjunct to your endeavor?"

"It's her staff we'll be examining, sir."

Snape walked past them and started down the dungeon stairwell. "I grant you twenty minutes," he said.

He did not remain in the classroom with them, but retired to his office beyond the dark archway behind his desk.

"Here," said Swiddle, hurrying over to the sinks, where he seized a large ladle and hurried back to the school table in the front row where Giselle stood smiling wonderingly. He set the ladle on the table.

"A simple levitation charm, if you would, Gee."

"I'm not sure how to flourish the staff, Mr Swiddle."

"In general, you need only hold the staff off the ground, a firm grip. Try it."

Giselle took a deep breath. She lifted the staff and intoned, "Wingardium Leviosa."

The ladle rose up and turned slowly in midair.

"Very good. Now have it move toward the back, to the door, and return."

Since this was merely an extension of the charm, Giselle need only say, "Presto facto."

The ladle sailed swiftly off to the classroom door and back again.

"Excellent, sweetheart. Now, disspell."

"Fini," she sang, a bit off-key. The ladle fell clattering to the table.

"Sorry," she said, blushing.

"No, you did well. Finishing a charm requires the F-sharp minor tone, and many find it difficult. Now, if I may--"

He took the staff and laid it gently on the table. Then with a nervous wince he removed a small bag and bottle from his frock coat pocket.

"A dried red-raven heart," he said, gingerly taking it from the bag and balancing it on the staff. "Tree sap, to bind the heart to the ashwood," he continued, unscrewing the cap from the bottle. It had a brush attached, thick with the gooey resin. He spread the substance over the heart and wood.

"You see," he said, wiping his hands with a cloth, "your staff now has two hearts for its core, and this should mean that any spell you cast with this staff will be cancelled out by the conflict between the two different hearts, since each came from its own separate red raven. You know this?"

"Yes, Professor Frumlow explained it in our first lesson."

"Very good. BUT... if ashwood has the socializing property we saw in the greenhouse, then the spell you cast with this staff will be effective. Have a go! Cast a small enlargement charm on the ladle, if you please, Gee."

He handed her the staff.

It seemed to her that the warm pleasant sensation was more pronounced than ever before. This was encouraging. She looked at the ladle.

"Um...."

"The canto is sung in D-flat with the third interval suspended."

"Oh, yes, I..."

She cleared her throat, lifting the staff.

"Enlargo minimum," she sang in a whisper.

The ladle's handle grew a couple inches.

Swiddle pressed a hand to his chest, his breathing heavy with emotion.

"Merlin's beard, it works!" he said, his eyes shining with moisture. "After all these years of--"

Then he reached for the staff. Giselle let go of it reluctantly.

"These carvings on the top end," he mused, his brows furrowed in anxious thought. "Could they be magic sigils? Has this something to do with the compatibility of the two different hearts?"

Giselle shrugged. And at that moment they heard a woman's cry come from somewhere beyond the dark archway. It was like a wailing groan that rose as a crescendo, then abruptly ended.

With a glance at the frightened Gee, Swiddle went across to the teacher's desk.

"Professor? Is all well?"

After a silence that hung heavy in the air, they heard Snape say, "I suppose you had better come hence, to avoid any unsavory rumors."

Giselle stood rooted to the floor, watching Swiddle pass through the archway. He had taken the staff with him.

She felt it tugging on her.

(17) The Goblin Fair

Giselle hurried down the walkway to the castle's back entrance. But the big oaken door wouldn't open. There were rules against using magic to open locked doors. You were supposed to inquire of a teacher if you wanted in.

She stood gazing down the garden walk, the bricks dusty with cottony seeds from the bushes along the outer wall. Vaguely she heard Frumlow speaking to someone around a far corner of the walkway.

Was that her Auntie's voice answering him? Auntie had a plot of garden to herself on the east side. I'll have to risk Frumlow seeing me, Giselle thought as she started off along the bricks. There's no reason to think he saw me hiding, no reason for him to think I eavesdropped. He'll think I'm just out for a stroll. But Auntie will know I've something to discuss with her. She'll know.

"Where do you think you're going?"

It was Roger, sitting on a concrete bench in the shade. He had a book on his knee, an arm resting on it, leaning forward and looking at Giselle with a sour smile that was meant to be good-humored.

At first Giselle was angered by his remark. But then she realized that none of this was his fault. He must be under a lot of stress, having to take antidotes for what might not be curable.

Not curable... the Marvolo Curse? Was he cursed as Frumlow had been cursed? She remembered Roger telling her about curses and other weird stories that Krimson had spoken of to him; something about wanting Roger to join him in a private project.

"They'll not be at dinner tonight, Krim and Elenore," he was saying. "They'll be getting crumbs from the kitchen table. Serves them right. Detention every night, but that's too good for them.They should've been expelled. I heard what Krim and Professor Frumlow were yelling at each other about. Did you happen to overhear? I thought I saw you come in through the arch."

Giselle didn't know how she should answer his question, so she changed the subject. "Is the new antidote helping?"

Roger leaned back. His lank smile was gone. "You know about all that, do you? I say, does your Aunt Minerva tell you everything that goes on at the school?"

She was offended. "Of course not!"

Roger hung his head. "Never mind my bad manners," he said, fingering his book. "I'm not myself anymore."

"I know," Giselle whispered, her eyes misting over.

Roger forced up another smile, a little brighter this time. "Come sit with me. I say, this is a public place. Isn't that Ravenclaw Tower behind you? We're out in the open, you know. You're safe here, even with me."

"I'm not afraid of you," she said, blushing.

"Well, perhaps you should be," Roger remarked, eyeing her suspiciously for a moment. Then he sighed. "I've been reading about the legends and superstitions at Hogwarts," he patted the book, "all the spooky stuff that was dreamed up in the different dorm houses. Too bad, really, that one of the legends is true."

Giselle couldn't hold back her thoughts any longer. "Yes, I heard what Krimson and the professor were saying!" she blurted out just above a whisper, her cheeks flaming hot.

"Well then, you know what the problem is," Roger said matter of factly.

"Isabel Channing is my grandmother! My mother was adopted! I've never heard a word of it from anyone in my family!"

Roger stared into the darkness of his  mind. "So, that's why your Aunt told you about me. She oughtn't to let you see me. Better that you keep away from me. You're one of the prettiest girls in the school. I thought so the moment I saw you, on the train. I wanted everyone to wander off so I could be alone with you, and talk... just talk... and hold your hand... just... hold your hand."

He looked at his hands. They were trembling. He was grimacing, a vein in his forehead pulsing. He stood up abruptly, leaving the book on the bench, and walked off toward the archway.

Giselle almost called to him to come back. The words were on the tip of her tongue.

She followed Auntie into the Great Hall for dinner that evening.

Everything was so festive; festoons of spring blossoms draped between the tall windows, the ranks of floating candles overhead giving off colored flames. The six crowded tables were noisy in a lighthearted way. But Giselle felt a ripple of tension, for Madame Hooch sat next to Dumbledore with a sheet of parchment folded in one hand; the Quidditch All-Star team line up. It was to be announced when the desserts came up.

Auntie squeezed Giselle's arm and went up to the faculty board, taking a seat next to Sprout, with Snape on her other side. He wore a preoccupied expression. He looked at Giselle as she went sideways between the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables. She was trying to smile at the faces that greeted her, but she couldn't manage much gaiety. She kept thinking of her talk with Auntie. It had left her confused and skeptical.

Giselle sat in her usual place, near the front end of the table. Her friends around her were chatting boisterously. They didn't seem the least aware of her mood. Roger was further down, nodding mechanically to what Lori was saying to him about the scrimmage trial.

Was Lori safe sitting so close to Roger? Was she sending signals to him that he might construe to mean more than what she intended?

Oughtn't I to warn her? thought Giselle. But... warn her about a curse that Auntie said was utter nonsense?

They had their talk in Auntie's office, after she had taken off her gardening gloves and slapped the soil off them against a tree stump that held a pot of geraniums. In the office she laid her linen coat on a sideboard next to the door to her living quarters, so as not to forget to put it in the hamper when she went in her rooms to clean up and dress for dinner.

Giselle had sat there watching this pantomime of the normal things in life while her mind revolved around life's dark mysteries.

"Now, what's this about house legends and permanent curses?" her Auntie said with a practiced frown, sitting next to her niece, dabbing her face with a washcloth.

Giselle had trouble getting started, but after the initial stammer she let it out like a dam bursting.

Aunt Minerva simply ignored all the guff about house tales. But the idea that her sister in law, 'Bella,' had been adopted by a woman made sterile by a wicked assault on her, from a young Upton Frumlow, no less, left her aghast. Her astonishment was a mix of incredulity and outrage.

"But Professor Frumlow ADMITTED it!" cried Giselle.

Aunt Minerva pressed the washcloth to her forehead, her eyes wide with a deep, incomprehensible despair. "Upton was such a friendly, considerate boy," she said in a strained voice. "He.... I suppose it is just possible that he... was too forward with Isabel on that... one occasion. But we never heard any such tale, and Isabel certainly never changed in any profound way. We have always been the closest of friends. I was the one who suggested her daughter Bella ought to go out with Odin, my sweet younger brother."

"You don't believe my mum was adopted? Because Grandmum couldn't have babies of her own."

Aunt Minerva dropped her hand and let out a long aching sigh. "Had your mother been adopted, the family would have known about it," she said with a trace of obstinancy. "You can't keep secrets very well from a family of witches and wizards."

"But maybe Granmum used a spell to keep it a secret from everyone."

"Gee, you are in your fourth year at Hogwarts, and you believe that magic can go undetected by accomplished magicians? Not if they have the smallest suspicion. No, dear, whatever young Upton Frumlow may have done to your grandmother, she did not adopt a baby girl. Your mother is the biological daughter of Warren and Isabel MacDougal. As for the Marvolo Curse, there is no evidence of it whatsoever. Nor any evidence that gremlins haunt Ravenclaw Tower, nor that the ghost of Sir Lancelot goes around in the middle of the night blessing Gryffindor boys with his sword. Nor, might I add, any evidence that the Tooth Fairy is a Hufflepuff alumnus."

"Let the feast begin!" sang Dumbledore.

Giselle had been staring at Frumlow when the invitation came, and now she was startled by the varieties of food popping up on the table. She had never really gotten used to the suddenness of it.

"I know exactly how you feel, Gee," said Deidre, scooping up a huge pile of scalloped potatoes.

"You do??"

"Don't you think I'm just as nervous as you about whether I've made the team? Oliver played very well, but I blocked two more shots than he did. Roger scored four times against Oliver. I only allowed two scores, and that second one was deflected in, after I had knocked it away."

Felix expressed his doubts that he had done better at the Beater position than his two Slytherin rivals. Lori, sliding down the bench to join them, said she was confident that Fred Weasley had made the team, and that if there was any fairness in the world she would be joining Fred.

The wait was agonizing for them, but not too terribly much for Giselle. She hoped to make the team, of course, but Quidditch wasn't the uppermost thing on her mind that night.

At last the entree dishes vanished, and, with a series of squirty little pops and whistles, the desserts appeared.

Madame Hooch scooted back her chair and stood up. No other sign was necessary. The Great Hall fell silent.

"Now for the reading out of those try-out participants who have been selected, after much discussion, to be on the school's All-Star Quidditch team," said Hooch. "This will be followed by the line-ups for the Durmstrang and Beauxbaton teams, respectively."

She paused to clear her throat.

"For the position of Keeper, Oliver Wood. Back-up Keeper, Deidre Fleetwood."

Deidre waved at Oliver, who was being roundly congratulated at the Gryffindor table. He waved back and said something to her that was lost in the noise at the Hufflepuff table as Deidre was applauded for getting on the team.

Again, silence as Hooch gave her parchment a shake.

"For the position of Seeker, Cedric Diggory. Back-up Seeker, Harry Potter."

Giselle was pleased and clapped for both. She gave Felix a smile. He was rubbing his hands together and staring at the ceiling.

"For the position of Beater," Hooch said, "Thomas Bluntquill and Fred Weasley. Back-ups are Felix Franklin and Connie Eggstrom."

While Giselle applauded the winners and made a face of consolation for the disappointed Lori, she was pondering which of the Beaters she had watched in the trials was Olga's brother, or perhaps cousin. Giselle hadn't heard that Olga had a relative at Hogwarts. She raised herself off the bench a little and searched the Ravenclaw table. There was Olga, shaking a boy's shoulder; a brute of a boy with teeth like a nutcracker and blood-red hair.

"And now for the Chaser position," Hooch said, motioning for silence.

Giselle closed her eyes. It seemed bad luck to be watching.

"Roger Roundhouse, Katie Bell, and Calico Jacks. Back-up Chasers are Irma Wormhole, Alexis Allan, and Giselle McGonagall. Congratulations to all the team members, and warm gratitude for all the participants at the try outs. And now Headmaster Karkaroff will announce the line-ups for the Durmstrang team."

Giselle opened her eyes. She would rather not have to, but she just had to see where that delicious smell of hot persimmon pie was coming from.

Snape excused himself from the faculty board, to the chagrin of Karkaroff, and left the Great Hall through the side door.

He took the long narrow passage to a stairwell, descended to the dungeon level, and guided by the stubs of fluttering torches he came to the Potions corridor.

He crossed the dimly lit classroom, passed through the archway to his office, and into his private workroom.

On the long work table lay Jon Minnex, a black sheet covering him from feet to shoulders. His eyes were dulled, gazing at thoughts in his drugged mind that were little more than commas and question marks.

Doris Crockford sat on a bench against the wall, below a high shelf where jars and metal boxes stood quivering slightly. She grinned at Snape, clacking her teeth on her pipe stem.

"Has the potion taken full effect?" he asked her.

"Perfectly," she said. "So perfectly that I despair of ever brewing the Devil's Quarter as perfectly as this."

Snape went up to the table and gazed down at the pale lax face of the half-goblin.

"You understand, Severus," Doris said hesitantly, "that all the rules have been broken. No croaking of bullfrogs tonight. No flight of owls. No warble of the nightingale. Only the red raven, pecking at the moon's reflection on a pool of blood, will be active."

"As expected," said Snape, looking over at the old necromancer impassively.

"It could get us in a deal of trouble, Severus."

The grim smile formed on his lips.

"More trouble for Minnex, than for us," he said.

(16) The Goblin Fair

Giselle started to go with her Auntie and Roger to the Infirmary, but Auntie said, "Best that you enjoy the rest of your holiday here, Giselle."

Whenever Auntie called her 'Giselle' instead of 'Gee,' she could be sure that Auntie was of no mind to argue.

Giselle looked around at the rides and the crowds, and felt lonely. Her friends were all here, somewhere in the crush, having fun, but that seemed more like a dry fact than something to be happy about. She decided to go to the Common Room. It would be quiet there and she could catch up on her reading. And besides, maybe Pomfrey would tell Roger to take a bit of rest in his dorm.

She mosied around until Auntie and Roger were going up the porch steps to the castle's main entrance, then picked up her pace, crossing the east lawn where the flying lessons were given.

She stopped when she saw a group of Slytherins come out to the porch and start joking around. They would certainly tease her if she came by them. So she turned along the Old Wall, as it was called, and followed it to the archway into an inner courtyard. This would take her to a back entrance to the corridor that angled around to the Hall.

As she walked along the bricks between the flower gardens, her intuition said, 'Hide.'

She slowed, a hand to her chest. Hide? Why should she hide?

"Professor Frumlow," said Krimson, whom Giselle could see through the thin branches of a juniper sapling. The boy was standing in front of the professor, presumably, on the far side of a blossoming hedge, but she couldn't see Frumlow; only hear his voice.

"Eh? What is this about?" was spoken in a guilty tone. Giselle hid behind a buttress of the castle wall, below an enormous window. 'Stay put,' her intuition was warning her.

"Professor, I want to know how you can apparate from the school grounds. I know it's not supposed to be possible, but an alternative method... Mightn't there be one? If there is one, I feel certain you would know, Professor Frumlow."

"Were there one, I would hardly be disposed to telling it to a Slytherin undergraduate."

"I saw you apparate! At night, by the lake."

There was a pregnant silence.

"You, boy, are trying my patience."

"Then I'll try it even harder, Professor. I know you were afflicted by the Marvolo Curse when you were a student here, a Slytherin student, I may add."

"You, boy, are getting a little too big for your britches. You were fortunate not to have been expelled. Keep at it, and you won't be so lucky the next time. Off with you. This is my time for botany, not for listening to nonsense from a muggle-born."

Giselle could feel the anger rising in Krimson at the mention of his parentage.

"And your mother, sir, was a squib prostitute who didn't think your father was worth the trouble to marry."

Another horrible silence.

"HOW... DARE.. !"

"I'VE EVIDENCE!"

"SHUT your filthy mouth, boy! What evidence are you gibbering about? Is it the Curse? Is it? What evidence could you possibly have about a ridiculous pornographic fairy tale?"

"The diary of Isabel Channing, for starters, Professor! I found it in the Room of Requirement. And you can stop pretending you don't know about the room, sir, I can see well enough that you do."

In the silence that followed, such a wave of faintness came over Giselle that she put a hand on the buttress and the other on the ledge of the window sill to keep from falling.

Isabel Channing. Her mother's maiden name. But surely this could not have been her mum. It dawned on her then that it was her grandmother who was meant. Her mum had been named after her grandmother and called 'Bella' by the family. She had been in Gryffindor, and so had Grandmother. Giselle stood fixated on the silence, on the tension that was building.

She heard the squeak of springs, then a long sigh; picturing Professor Frumlow sitting down on one of the garden benches.

"Isabel was as dreamy-headed as all the other Gryffindors," he said, like a penitent confessing his sins. "I spent enough time among them to know of what I speak. Minerva was the only one I knew who didn't while away her free time in flights of heroic fantasy. She would chide Isabel for being so caught up in silly daydreams of conquest and valor."

"Isabel mentions her friendship with Minerva McGonagall, in her diary. Here's proof that I have the diary, sir.  She wrote about the time you accosted her behind the greenhouses. She wrote about the Curse, and what it had done to you."

Another silence. Giselle tried hard not to think of what her grandmother must have experienced in the untended growths, the shady tucked-away places behind the greenhouses.

"Do you want to hear more, Professor? Do you want to hear about Isabel's daughter? But how could Isabel have a child, when because of the Marvolo Curse you wrapped yourself around her like a snake, and--"

"No!"

"Don't deny it, sir. Isabel could not have children, not after what the Curse made you do to her. I'm not blaming you, Professor. You were a victim of the Curse. Isabel adopted a baby girl and not even her dolt of a husband knew about the adoption. He was too busy with the Grindelwald affair to pay much attention to his wife."

Giselle heard the springs creaking and the sound of stave-ends striking the brick walkway. "What proof of the Curse do you think you have, Mr Johan? I always believed the proof was in the inaction of Headmaster Dippet, in the fact that nothing was done to me. It was like no one knew about it! It was like Isabel herself knew nothing about it! What other proof could there be? You say she wrote about it? She never mentioned it to me, never!"

Giselle sensed someone else coming into the courtyard. She was in a funk over what she had heard about her mum being adopted. Was this tale really about her mum and grandmother? Could it be that it was just a coincidence of names? She wanted to run to her Auntie, but her intuition was screaming at her to stay hidden.

"Sir, I have proof, but I intend to provide it to one person only, and you, Professor Frumlow, are not that person."

A clinking, clanging of springs. "No, but I can guess who that person is, and guess without the help of 'Madame Moonbeam.' I know who you toady to, boy. It's Hardmore Womblatt!"

A quick tapping of footsteps. "What's this about Daddy? Krim, what are you blabbing about?"

"What are YOU doing here? We agreed to meet in the library."

"Something's... come up. I need to talk to you, in private."

A short silence was followed by creaking and a rapping of staves. "Remember what I said, Mr Johan, about fortunate circumstances," Frumlow warned as he wobbled away down the bricks. "A shut mouth will favor you with closed ears."

Giselle stiffened, pressing back against the crook of the buttress. Krimson and Elenore were coming in her direction.

"Pomfrey has given Roger another antidote," the girl said.

"It won't work any better than the first one. The Curse has seen to that."

Giselle watched them pass through the archway, her heart down around her ankles.

(15) The Goblin Fair

"Thank you for coming by, Mr Swiddle," said Caprice that afternoon, watching the frock-coated man go down the steps of her caravan house wagon. "I hope you enjoyed your reading."

Clement Swiddle settled his short-billed square hat on his greying hair and smiled up at her. "My pleasure it was," he said, pondering a thought. "And, er... enlightening it was, too, Madame Moonbeam. 'One of the two will return.' Hmm. Always convenient knowing what the future brings."

"Do tell your friends about me. I'll be closed for the next couple hours. They might want to have a go at it this evening."

"Quite likely, I should think." He gave her a wave and went off into the crowd of fair-goers.

Left alone, Caprice now looked as if she hated everyone and everything. What she wanted was a stiff brandy. She hung the 'Closed til 6' sign on the knob and shut the door, leaning a hand against it and letting out a long breath.

Where was Jon? Why hadn't he come back? The Quidditch try outs had been going on for two hours. What was he up to? Was it... Snape? Dumbledore? She couldn't imagine Jon Minnex being delayed by that oaf Frumlow. Could it be that Moody was sticking his nose into things?

Caprice went to her liquor cabinet by the back room. She reached for the latch, and then froze up. She stood as still and as silent as is possible for a living person.

There was someone in the shadows behind the extinguished candlesticks. But she dare not look. It was too late for that. There was nothing she could do except stand there and let fate play its card.

The sense of a presence grew stronger. Whoever it was, she felt it drawing nearer. It was then that she realized that this thing was from the realm of the dead. She was never more certain of anything.

"What do you want?" she whispered. It was difficult enough to breathe, let alone speak.

There was no answer at first. It seemed to Caprice that the shadows had merged into one vengeful entity and were coming for her.

Then a voice, hardly more than a thought, reached her like a dying breeze.

"Volde..." The rest of the name vanished. "... Horcrux."

Caprice began to tremble. So it was that! That hideous thing of ten years ago!

"Not him," she gasped. "Not his. Not mine. Not Jon's. We didn't..."

It felt like her words were being suffocated by the thing that confronted her; like it did not believe her and was grasping the words so as to squeeze out the truth.

"It wasn't us," she said hoarsely. She could not bring her hand down from the cabinet. She was paralyzed. She was defenseless. What would this thing do to her? Could it suffocate her? She was having a harder and harder time breathing.

"Who...?" said the ghostly voice.

What was meant by that? Was it about the horcrux? Here she could not tell a lie, because she didn't know the truth. Only her suspicions. That was all she knew.

Or was there more she knew that something prevented her from remembering? Could it have been--?

"Who..." The thing was coming closer.

"The Death Eater!" she cried, her fear drawing tears from her eyes.

She dropped to the floor.

She lay there feeling her strength slowly returning. For one awful moment she thought the thing was coming down upon her. But it was only her pounding heart. That was all.

She was alone again.

Doris Crockford used her pipe stem to push her crinkly white hair away from her face. The breeze, she thought, was getting chillier, there in the forest where she stood by the grave.

The grave. Of course, that explained the cold air. The spirit was returning to its bed.

Doris hugged her cloak snugly around her and waited for what was left of Hexaba to reach her. There was a misty whiteness between two hoary oaks. It was coming like a little cloud of fog through the trees.

Doris directed her wand by degrees to turn to the grave, to the mound of mold and damp earth, of broken twigs and wilted leaves.

"Come now, and sleep," she said to the ghost.

It lingered a moment in the air. Then it sank into the ground.

"No, go on, please, have the last one," Roger said with a grin, pushing the little box of fried chips closer toward Giselle. "Don't believe what they say about bad karma for taking the last one of something."

"Oh, I DON'T believe it," Giselle said, "for if it were true, I would be in such a bad way, you know." She put the end of the chip between her teeth. "You see? I'm not superstitious." She bit down on it. "Well, not about everything."

They were sitting at a picnic table a short ways back from the flow of the crowds. The cafe was a caravan wagon with an awning on three sides, tables and folding chairs, and strings of fairy lights that were not burning, because fairies sleep during the day.

"I say, it's been great fun being in Hufflepuff."

"You like it?"

"Absolutely. You can't imagine what it's like in Slytherin. Totally different atmosphere. Everybody is scheming about something."

"You mean playing pranks on each other?" asked Giselle with a laugh. "You should visit the Gryffindor Common Room if it's pranks you're studying. The Weasley twins have everyone in stitches. Do you think Fred will make the team? I'm awfully anxious to find out who's made it. Certainly YOU." She took a sip of her popberry juice.

"I've heard how good Fred and George are, as good at pranks as they are at Quidditch. But..." Roger shifted in his chair, turning his cup around on the table. "I don't think I'd have stayed at Hogwarts if your Aunt hadn't agreed to transfer me to Hufflepuff."

Giselle put on a serious expression. "Was it that bad? Were you bullied or something? Was it Draco and Pansy? I noticed they would hang around you a lot."

"Want more chips? A burger, perhaps?"

"Thank you, but no, I'll simply explode if I do."

"Well, Draco is a climber, you know. He'll suck up to anyone who he thinks can elevate his status. Perhaps I shouldn't say so. My mother is fond of the Malfoys."

His mother, the Assistant Minister of Magic. Giselle reminded herself of this. It sounded strange, somehow.

"Then, Draco wasn't too much of a bother?" she asked.

"A nuisance. Pansy wasn't too  bothersome, just that she goes along with what Draco wants. No, it wasn't them so much as this chap, Krimson."

He saw Giselle's surprised look that almost instantly became a worried one.

"I say, do you know the chap?"

Was Roger jealous? she asked herself. Should she tease him a little? No, better not. She wasn't really sure of Roger yet. Though he was the perfect gentleman, there lurked not too far back in Giselle's mind a cringing sort of suspicion about him. It was fed by the sudden momentary gleams in his eyes when he thought she wasn't looking at him. But... couldn't that just mean that he was very attracted to her? It didn't have to mean anymore that that, did it?

"No, we are not really acquainted," she said. "Well, actually, he was in my car with me in the Tunnel of Love ride," adding quickly, "the Blind Date tunnel, you know."

Roger nodded thoughtfully. "Did he mention that I was looking for you?"

Giselle smiled, her cheeks growing hot. "Yes, and I was very... interested. If you're still hungry, please don't mind me! I eat like a bird. I don't mind at all if you want to order more of whatever."

Roger looked away, smiling at some thought.

"I'm learning to control my appetite," he remarked. Then he frowned. "Krimson is full of weird stories about lingering curses. He kept bringing it up to me all last semester. It was like he was trying to recruit me into joining him in some project."

"You mean dark magic stuff?"

"Yes, of course. No other kind of magic is of much interest to a Slytherin. Perhaps I shouldn't say that. My father had a certain curiosity about it. I think he got it from my mother. And she was a Gryffindor," he remarked in a puzzled voice. "A Gryffindor... And here I was sorted into Slytherin, when obviously... I say, the Sorting Hat could do with a good brushing."

Giselle breathed a faint-hearted laugh.

"Hullo!"

It was Bea, loaded down with game-booth prizes. "I'm like a walking toy store," she said. "Father's here. And he just has to win EVERY little thing! Roger, Professor McGonagall is looking for you. I told her I thought you were at the Kafir Cafe. I don't know what it's about."

Roger had stood up. He waved a hand. "No problem. It's probably about the transfer. Shall we see your Aunt, Gee?"

Professor McGonagall was standing near the line to the Ferris Wheel, talking to Sprout and Flitwick, a half eaten Coney dog neglected in one hand. She saw her niece and Roger approaching. Sprout and the Charms master took themselves off.

"Yes, Professor?"

"I hate to interfere in your holiday, Mr Roundhouse, but I have to ask you to come with me to the Infirmary. Madame Pomfrey has another curative potion for you."

She took a bite of the hot dog.

Roger stood there as though confused, but Giselle sensed that he was reluctant to obey the summons.

"I suppose..." he said. "If I must..."

"Yes, you must," Professor McGonagall replied.

"Come in, Doris," said Dumbledore. He sat forward at his office desk and opened a jar of lemon drops.

Doris slipped in stealthily and closed the door. "I'm afraid I was seen by Argus and his cat," she confessed. "I forgot to cast the Misdirection spell on myself. I am getting old."

"I use that excuse myself on occasion. Have a seat and a lemon drop. I know you like them. It was you who introduced me to the habit."

"Aye, when you were just a lad," Doris said nostalgically. She eased herself down in the chair and helped herself to the jar. "It was the Death Eater, Albus. So says Caprice."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "Truthfully?" he wondered, patting the gryffin heads on the armrests.

"She knows more about it than she consciously realizes," Doris said, putting the lemon drop on her tongue. "I think it's Minnex who altered her memory."

"Likely so. The Death Eater who accompanied Severus to the pyramids was Hardmore Womblatt."

"Founder of the Stalwart Group? Hardly a worshipper of Voldemort's Loyalists. And he must've believed that our trustworthy Snape was dedicated to Voldemort's memory."

"Let's hope so. Now, we have Minerva's niece and Hermione Granger's shared vision to consider, in Upton's class the other day. They both heard an unidentified male voice insist that the horcrux had nothing to do with Voldemort. I'm very inclined to accept the vision as valid."

"Oh yes, certainly it is," Doris said, as with a guilty smile she reached for another lemon drop.

"Take the jar with you when you go, Doris."

"I had planned to. And you want me here in your office Monday evening at eight o'clock?"

Dumbledore gazed at the Pensieve on the shelf by the stairs. One of Fawkes' feathers lay, twitching, near the bowl.

"If you would be so kind," he answered.