(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."