(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.