(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.