(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.