(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.