(22) The Goblin Fair

On their way down the corridor from the Headmaster's office, Hermione said, "I need some air."

She pulled up on the rusty latch of a tall mullioned window. The lower half swung open with many squeaks and a puff of mildewy dust.

"Mr Filch should clean the windows once in a while," she remarked, and, laying a forearm on the sill, she gestured to Giselle to join her in gazing out into the night and at Gryffindor Tower looming close by, its upper floor ablaze with light.

"Isn't it beautiful," said Giselle. "How nice to have a dorm in such a lovely place."

"Don't you like being in the basement? You do have a charming view of the lawns and the forest from your Common Room windows."

"It has its advantages, I suppose. We're near the kitchens and the Entrance Hall."

"And you haven't miles of stairs to climb, like WE do," Hermione added with a soft laugh. "Why not spend the night with us? We're just around the corner from the tower, and one flight of stairs down from it. One of my dorm mates has gone home for some sort of family meeting, an inheritance squabble, I think. You can sleep in her bed tonight. Besides, Ron will be in a better mood if you're there in our Common Room. You know how frumpy he's been lately, ever since Viktor took me to the Fair."

Giselle felt squeezed between Charlie and Roger. A slight faintness came over her. Seeing this, Hermione thought Giselle was dwelling on the mystery of her parents' disappearance, and suddenly the import of her and Giselle's experience that night struck her as ultimately unsatisfactory.

What had they uncovered that was not already known? Professor Snape had tricked the goblin into killing Minnex, who was believed to be responsible for Giselle's parents' fate, but nothing was certain. Yes, there was a horcrux, but it had not been found. Instead, they came away with just their wands.

Something had been left behind, but either she could not remember what it was, or simply didn't care. She had a very strange, sort of 'missing' feeling about it.

"What's wrong?" asked Giselle. "If it's Ron you care for, then why not excuse yourself from Viktor Krum's affections?"

Hermione smiled. "Is that what's bothering you?" The smile faded. "I thought you were dismayed at not finding out more about your mum and dad."

Giselle turned from the window and leaned back against the wall. "I sensed more about them than I was willing to tell," she said, and looked apologetically at Hermione, who nodded and said, "Same here."

"They were involved in the horcrux thing, and they didn't want Faerie Ministries or Fudge to know about it," Giselle continued. "That young man bossing around the locals, I just know he's Professor Frumlow's nephew."

Hermione was intrigued. "Really? I do remember he was called Armando, and I wondered if he was related to Armando Dippet, the former headmaster, but of course that's silly. So, he's Professor Frumlow's nephew! How weird."

"The two poles he ran off with," Giselle said, a hand to her mouth. "I kept thinking of the two staves that Professor Frumlow uses."

Hermione gasped. "Huh--! Do you think? You did mention to Snape about Frumlow... bothering... your grandmother when she was a student here. But I've such a hard time imagining the springy professor being caught up in this. Wait...! It was in his classroom that you and I had that vision about the pyramids and heard the voice of that young man, Armando, talking about Voldemort. Oh, I'm sure it was his voice, it MUST have been."

Giselle turned and crossed her arms on the window sill. A breeze was stirring her hair, bringing with it the smells of the night; the tar of the Durmstrang ship on the lake, the crisp smell of woodsmoke from Hagrid's hut, the cinnamony aroma drifting over from the Beauxbaton house carriage. These did not erase from her memory the dank smell of the pyramid passages, the odor of great age, of ancient death. She looked over at Gryffindor Tower. How old, how austere, how mysterious it was, those steps that the Four Founders had taken, up the stairs of the towers, each Founder having their own plans and desires...

"Salazar Slytherin," Giselle whispered, glancing at Hermione. "Why was Roger sorted into Slytherin house? Don't you think he has some little part in all this?"

Hermione turned her head away, as though caught thinking something that she oughtn't. "Oh...  now that you mention it. I had that strong feeling about Krimson Johan being connected in some way with the Marvolo Curse, and, well, I felt that Roger was with him, you know, sort of like... helping him. But I didn't want to upset you, so I kept quiet about him. Everyone knows he likes you. I just supposed you were fond of him, without losing your fondness for Ron's brother, Charlie."

"Helping him? Roger helping Johan?" Giselle bit her lip, a surge of anger going through her that immediately made her feel guilty. She remembered what Johan had said to her on the Tunnel of Love ride, that Roger had gone to see the gypsy fortune-teller, 'Madame Moonbeam.' And wasn't she the Eff woman, the wife of Minnex?

No, she thought, the WIDOW of Minnex. She put her hands to her face and sighed.

"I don't think I'll ever know all that's happened," she said.

Hermione laid a hand on her shoulder. "Maybe it's best if some things stay hidden. Come on, it's after curfew. You ARE staying the night with us?"

Giselle thought of Roger and the comfortable Hufflepuff Common Room, so settled and predictable compared to Gryffindor's.

"Yes, I'd like that," she said.

The Fat Lady made them wait while she spooned sugar into her coffee cup and selected a cookie from a confectioner's box. "Oh, are you wanting in? I assumed you were going to wander around all night. And who is this bashful thing with you?"

"She's the daughter of the man who decides which paintings will stay and which ones will be thrown out," Hermione said casually.

The portrait swung inward. "Watch your step, dears. Have a good evening."

The table where Harry, Ron, Seamus, and Neville were sitting was messy with textbooks and papers, quills and inkbottles, but you would never guess they were doing their homework. A bishop chess piece was kicking the toy statuette of Viktor Krum around the table, a better entertainment than charting backwards comets for Astronomy class.

When Ron saw Hermione and Giselle crossing the room, stopping here and there to answer a friend, he hurriedly stashed the Krum toy in his pocket, wincing as it bit his thumb.

Harry grinned at Giselle. "Did they boot you out of Hufflepuff?"

"I've been banned for life, but I'm just going to ignore it. Isn't that what Gryffindors do, ignore the rules?" She winked at him.

"Only when nobody's looking," Ron said. "Pull up a chair and do our homework for us."

"Ho ho," said Hermione. "We're going to relax by the fire and have some hot chocolate with marshmallows. We've been rather busy, you know, not like you four, goofing off all evening."

Seamus turned around in his chair to look up at her. "What's all this about looking into a bowl of water and watching memories? How daft is Dumbledore, anyway? Did you win any house points for us?"

"Yes, we did. Ten points each for our houses. And you guys could win us a point or two if you'd do your homework like you're supposed to."

They held out their papers and quills for her to take, but Hermione tut-tutted and went off to the refreshment counter with Giselle.

Aunt Minerva came in at 11:30 to announce Lights-Out. By then there were only a few students in the Common Room. She saw her niece sitting on the rug by the smouldering fire, leaning back against a sofa, a cup in hand, saying something to a sleepy Neville, who was putting away a packet of seeds and nodding wistfully.

"Off to your beds," said Aunty. "Giselle, I suggest you Accio your sleepwalking medicine if you intend to spend the night here."

But in the fuss over getting ready for bed, Giselle forgot about taking her medicine. She lay awake an hour or so talking to Hermione and Parvati, whose canopied beds were to either side of hers. By then she was yawning more often than talking, and talking more often than thinking. And then, in the moonlight through the east windows that shone on her bed curtain, blinking and yawning more often than anything, as silence took over and the clocks lulled them to sleep.

Mrs Norris raised her head, her whiskers quivering. What was that coming down the marble staircase? A human, no doubt, by the smell of it.

She jumped down off the pedastel by the dungeon entrance and, extending her front legs, her rump arching up, she stretched. Should she inform her master that a student was out of bed? No, the pity, he would not want to be awakened in the middle of the night.

Mrs Norris slunk into the shadows cast by torches flanking the south corridor that led to that long passageway where she had caught a mouse the other day.

Here came the student. Mrs Norris recognized the scent of McGonagall's niece, that prissy wallflower who Argus would say was little better than a squib.

The cat growled under its breath as the girl walked by.

There was no one in the dark classroom to see Giselle sleepwalk through the big iron-studded door, just the stars in the moon-hazed night outside the high windows, and they merely twinkled.

She walked in the slow, graceful fashion peculiar to sleepwalkers, her filmy white nightgown seemingly made of smoke, her hair catching what few winks the stars gave her.

She came to Frumlow's office door off the front of the classroom. Here she stood still for a minute, appearing to be completely indifferent to the banyon-wood staff floating up to her. Then she turned her head to look at it, her face expressionless.

She was not surprised by the staff's presence. Hers and Hermione's had been left behind in the burial chamber, in the past, and both girls had quite forgotten about them. Not even Dumbledore remarked about their absence. But now here was Hermione's staff. Giselle felt that it was a gift from the past, given to her by someone's memory, or spirit.

She gripped it, and with no reaction at all to the cool pleasant feeling caressing her arm, she walked through the office door.

"Your opinion, Severus?"

Snape sat staring at the burning logs in the fireplace. "The victim whose life energy formed the essence of the horcrux was Samson Studmann."

"I thought you would say so," remarked Dumbledore, linking his hands in his lap. "Studmann was slain by Hexaba, or so we all believe. And if it's true that the horcrux is a product of Tom Riddle's enhanced ghost, and meant to secure his future resurrection, then he used Hexaba as a proxy. In short, he possessed her."

"As he later possessed Quirrel," said Snape. He stared across at the pensive Headmaster. "Armando Frumlow insisted that Voldemort was dead and therefore not an active player in the horcrux scheme. This might be in compliance with the demands of Esther Roundhouse, if indeed she is the ringleader. Armando mentioned that Minnex, in league with Caprice Eff and Hexaba's snake charming mother, was to bring the McGonagalls to an end of some sort. It doesn't appear that Odin and Isabel McGonagall were killed for the purpose of the horcrux, but for some other reason; perhaps just to silence them. I've no doubt that Minnex was their killer."

Dumbledore nodded. "We agree, then, that the horcrux, wherever it has been hidden, is for the sake of Voldemort. But what is its appearance? What is the object? Was Miss Granger or Giselle able to offer any insights?"

"Indirectly," Snape replied. "They sensed something about the sarcophagus. I believe that the two empty boxes on its lid held the material essence of the horcrux at one time. Young Frumlow commented that the boxes had 'served their purpose.' Evidently an additional piece of the victim was required: Studmann's eyes."

Dumbledore nodded again, but with less conviction. "Two boxes, two eyes. How unique this horcrux is, a container of some sort that holds not only a split-off of Riddle's soul, but also selected body parts from his victim. Why this need for a material essence?"

"Perhaps a proof against mere spiritual resurrection, when a bodily resurrection is desired."

Giselle stood in the middle of Professor Frumlow's office, the staff held away from her side. It gave her a gentle tug, as though not to wake her, but prompting her to walk across to the partially open door of the living quarters.

Giselle entered a Victorian-style room, her eyes half closed, and letting go of Hermione's staff she walked over to a pair of bookshelves. Here she glanced at the bedchamber doorway and saw that the bed was occupied. A single small candle burned on a bedside stand. Then she turned her sleepy attention to the space between the bookshelves.

Slowly, deliberately, and with no apparent emotion, she placed her hands on the professor's twin staves that leaned against a curtained window.

She was immediately awake.

The shock of finding herself in these unfamiliar surroundings drew a cry from her. She stepped back from the staves, wringing her hands, moaning in gasps.

"Who's there--? Answer me!"

Giselle ran to the office door. She fumbled with the latch. Thankfully the door was not secured shut by a spell. She flung it open and hurried out into the classroom, bumping into school desks and bench seats as she headed pell-mell for the iron-studded door.

It was bolted shut on the inside, but the seconds it took her to throw back the iron bolt had her trembling and whimpering. She could hear the creaky spronging noises of Professor Frumlow going into his office. In another second--!

Giselle jerked the heavy door open so vigorously that her chin was cut by the iron plate that covered the door edge. She ran as fast as she could down the passageway, fearing the whiteness of her nightgown would be visible to her persuer in the dense darkness.

She hoped he would not chase after her and that he had not identified her. For a reason she couldn't have explained she feared him terribly. That her Aunt Minerva was Deputy Headmistress and could smooth away any trouble did not lessen her fear.

Would Professor Frumlow use a hex on her that would drag her screaming back to him? The idea further terrified her. Magic was not to be used against a student except in a class demonstration. But rules were not likely to discourage a desperate man.

Giselle ran down the adjoining corridors in a weaving stagger, out of breath, her side aching, until at least she came to the Entrance Hall.

At the basement steps she stopped to listen. Was he coming? She strained her ears. No sound of springs creaking. Relieved, she went down the steps in a normal manner, trying to catch her breath and to calm her thundering heart.

She tapped the designated barrel five times. It opened, and into the carpeted tunnel she went, feeling much better. She was thinking that she had made too big a deal of her predicament. After all, she could not be held responsible for her sleepwalking, and her panic was understandable.

By the time she entered the vacant Hufflepuff Common Room she had convinced herself that no trouble would come from her unconscious faux pas.

Her eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light. The Common Room was not as vacant as she had thought.

She stood aghast. Her overriding emotion was one of extreme despair. 'I must look a dreadful mess!'

But Roger, seated in an armchair staring at her, did not think so. He saw an alluring Giselle damp with sweat and looking like a wild thing.

His mother was not amused.

Esther Roundhouse, seated with her back to the hutch's door, had seen the bemused and titillated look on her son's face. She stood and turned to face the reason for it.

"Who is that? Is that Giselle McGonagall? Look at you! What do you mean, cavorting through the castle in your nightie? No, I'll have no excuses, young lady! Get to your dorm room and don't be surprised when you're given a suspension, you wanton twit. Don't stand there like a street strumpet! Get to your room!"

Roger watched the mortified Giselle hurry up the steps to the girls dorm. He let out his breath, his hands shaking.

"I'll have more to say to you tomorrow," his mother announced in a flustered tone. When he looked up at her he could clearly see the probing spirit of her eyes drilling into him.

"Pack your trunk in the morning, after third period," she continued. "My mind is made up, and there's nothing your father can say or do to change it. You're transferring back to Slytherin. It's where you were sorted, and it's where you will stay."