Potter Professions

In another million years of waves lapping and milling, this beach called Playa de la Cantera might show sand - maybe brown rather than white, but fine and smooth under your feet. For the time being, a mix of gravel and pebble covered the beach; only the waterline showed fine shingle as a first step toward the goal in this long-running project.

Gabriel placed his steps carefully, grateful for the sneakers on his feet. Glancing around, he saw unknown faces, but not too many of them. A tighter group fifty yards ahead, noisier and more vivid than the other guests, looked exactly like the crowd in which he was expecting to find Beverly.

He had guessed right. He was still walking, checking one face after another, when a voice from the flatwater zone called, "Gabriel!"

He shielded his eyes. "Hi, Beverly! Am I glad to find you here."

She came out of the water, reached him, and hugged him. "Hey, Gabe - boy, have you grown since we met the last time. Come on, let me introduce you to our lot."

With a grin, he noticed that Beverly didn't care about the rivulets she dropped on him while hugging. They certainly would evaporate quickly, but the Beverly in his memory had been considerably less casual.

She turned around and put her arm around his shoulder, then called, "Hey folks! Look here, we've got a visitor. This is Gabriel, fastest traveller in town."

She turned toward the waterline, where a young man was walking in their direction. "And here's the one who didn't let me talk on the phone. Gabriel, meet Cameron, jealousy on legs. Cameron, here's the one who'll teach you manners."

Laughter rose in the group. Someone made a remark Gabriel didn't register because he concentrated on the one figure who stepped closer, who examined him with an expression more outraged than mocking.

"Hello, Gabriel. Before you start your lesson, let me tell you, as long as you're not telling me where you really came from I won't believe a word. Considering the time when I heard you on the phone, you must have been somewhere in the next town."

Gabriel smiled. "Hello, Cameron, nice to meet you. No, I really was in Bulgaria, that's why I'm still one hour in my own past."

His attempt at a joke failed completely. Cameron, apparently not used to travelling through time zones, said, "Huh?" and turned to the other people. "Here, you're all witnesses. Not only isn't he telling me where he came from, no, he's using some psychobabble that's way beyond his age. I guess he's a hoax from the shrinkhead faculty."

A young man sitting next to a girl on a blanket said, "Never mind, Gabriel - you must understand, in the first fortnight after their practical, there's just no sense in listening to the nonsense these prosperous shamans blurt out. Nothing serious, just stress symptoms."

"That's lawyer bullshit," protested Cameron, and tried to say more but a howling and whistling chorus drowned out his words. From what Gabriel could hear, law was much more strongly represented in this group than medicine.

"Sit down," said the young man to Gabriel, examining him in a way that somehow didn't fit a lawyer. "You look sufficiently tanned but those dark sweat spots worry me a bit. This sun is nothing to fool around with, so - "

"That's okay," interrupted Gabriel, then began to strip down to the swimsuit he wore underneath. "I just emptied three cans of soda over there in the bar. I had a talk with Susan."

"Then it's not Cameron you should teach a lesson but Willy. He's been trying to get into a conversation with Susan for quite a while." Ignoring the laughter his remark had raised, the young man kept his eyes on Gabriel's body a moment longer until the shirt was off, revealing a deep tan. Then he nodded.

"What kind of lawyer are you," asked Gabriel, "that you behave like a doctor?"

"None at all. I changed from law to medicine, to show them that a working brain isn't counterproductive for a doctor. By the way - I'm Don, and this young lady at my side is Fiona."

"Hi, Don - hi Fiona," Gabriel managed to reply before his hand was grabbed by Beverly, who pulled him to the waterline.

For the first few yards, the water was muddy, more from all these people wading around than from waves breaking at the shoreline. Some yards further on, Gabriel felt the ground drop off beneath his feet. This coast seemed extremely steep, compared to the Black Sea and others he knew.

He dived down, only to realize that the water wasn't nearly as clean as that of the Black Sea. Well, he hadn't intended to paddle around anyway. With strong kicks, using his legs only, he approached the spot in the shallows where he sensed he would find Beverly. But when arriving there, he found the water in this area so clouded that he quickly lost interest in the common water game of surprising attacks. He came up, climbed out, and reached the spot with his clothes.

---

The girl called Fiona looked at him. "Want a towel?"

"No thanks."

In this hot sun, he'd be dry within less than five minutes, except maybe his swimsuit. Even so, Gabriel hardly ever used a towel - coming out from the shower, he would hold his arms in a triangle upward to cast the air stream spell that dried him more efficiently and in a more hygienic way than any towel, and it didn't make laundry work for the house-elves. But he didn't feel like saying all this here.

Don turned to him. "So where do you really come from? Or is this a secret?"

"Not at all," replied Gabriel. "But it's like I said - from Bulgaria, more precisely, from Durmstrang. Actually, our holiday house is near Primorsko - that's by the Black Sea."

"Ah, yes. And what gives us, of course with Beverly in first place, the honour of your visit?"

Judging by Don's look a second ago, the medical student didn't believe a word of what Gabriel had said. The last question - asked in a tone of friendly sarcasm - confirmed this assumption.

Gabriel remembered a lesson from his father on how to cope with such situations, a lesson that had stuck with him well because it matched his own approach. According to this lesson, the best he could do was simply tell the truth - in the dullest words he could find.

And so he did. "I'm looking for a singer for a band."

Fiona nearly collapsed with laughter, then came up again. "That's great," she gasped, "that's ... I've been waiting so long to see someone shut Donald up like that, after him asking things that are none of his business, as usual."

She sent Gabriel an appreciative smile, which froze upon seeing his face. "Erm - you ... please tell me you aren't ... you're serious, aren't you?"

Gabriel just nodded.

Don started a low chuckle, which grew more strongly after a moment, then he rolled around in a fit, unable to defend against the blows that rained down on him from a red-faced Fiona.

When Gabriel himself, infected by the scene, started to join in Don's laughter, the girl calmed down. "I'm sorry," she said, "please excuse my bad manners - it's just, well - "

"It's okay," interrupted Gabriel, still chuckling. "I know that it sounds a bit weird. We're a student band, you know, and we got the permission to rehearse in the Durmstrang school - practising with the equipment, getting used to halls that size and so. Well, and today we had a rehearsal ..."

He waited a few seconds because at this moment Beverly arrived from the water, closely followed by Cameron.

"Yes, we were rehearsing, and when we had finished, I asked how it was, and that was when Alexandra asked, 'Why do you play together when nobody sings?' Well, and we had asked that ourselves before, but when she said it ... Alexandra is five, you know, and doesn't bother to be polite. Anyway, now we're looking for a singer."

Beverly's face was a living question mark. "Why'd you come to me for that? You don't expect me to sing in your band, do you?"

"No." Gabriel grinned. "But I remembered a girl I heard once, and this was an evening when you were the babysitter for both of us. Caitlin's her name, if my memory serves - "

"Yes, of course!" Beverly's eyes had widened. "Yes, her voice should be up to the task. Caitlin - er ..." Beverly pulled her lower lip between her teeth, then looked up again, beaming. "McFarlane! Caitlin McFarlane, her father's an engineer for Groucho, so it shouldn't be a problem at all for you to find out the address. Best you ask my mum directly."

Gabriel nodded. "I talked with her first, before coming here."

"I KNEW IT!" Don turned toward the frowning audience. "I knew he didn't come directly from Bulgaria. Ireland - that explains everything."

Groaning, and a remark about someone who'd made better jokes than this one in the past. Fiona looked a Gabriel and said, "Just ignore him."

"This Caitlin," said Gabriel to Beverly, "how old is she now?"

"Older than you - about two years, I think, maybe a bit more."

Which meant she was sixteen now, or maybe seventeen. Good news, in Gabriel's opinion, because it would simplify things. With a girl of fourteen, most parents would go crazy at the thought of their daughter performing on stage in the evening.

"Don't you worry about that, Gabriel. A bit older is just the right age, believe me, them being ahead in experience is much better than the other way - "

"Will you shut up!"

The first voice, as Gabriel learned a moment later, belonged to Steve - a grinning face, not looking guilty at all. The interruption had come from his girlfriend Blair, who looked pinkish now, muttering something about stupid young men who seemed having forgotten how delicate -

"Yes, sure," said Steve at this moment, "I know, but a bunch of med students is just the wrong place to expect any tact - and besides, look at him, he didn't flush the least bit."

Which, of course, was all Gabriel needed to turn dark red, and Blair to chide Steve again for having the tactfulness of a ramrod.

Just then, another voice said, "I'd like to hear about this band, Gabriel."

When Gabriel looked up, the owner of this voice added, "Hi - I'm Mitch. I play the guitar - acoustic, that is. And you?"

"Flute, mostly."

Gabriel was grateful for Mitch, who had saved him from embarrassment, had saved him again when he didn't ask immediately about other instruments, and instead suggested they should discuss the issue some minutes later uphill at the tents, while some other people hopefully prepared dinner.

Gabriel found this an excellent idea. His body was two hours ahead of these students; the word dinner alone seemed enough to make his stomach rumble and his mouth water.

---

The tents belonging to Beverly's group stood in a loose formation around a center place - a kind of open-air kitchen with camping stoves, with wooden planks forming a bench here, a low table there. It was far from the comfort the Krum holiday house could offer, but to Gabriel's eyes it looked great.

Mitch returned from his tent with a guitar in his hands. "This place isn't much by any standard," he said, "but it has some big advantages. Here you can do what you want because nobody keeps any order, and the people you'll find here are either poor or young or both, that makes for a nice atmosphere. Lots of music here, and I'm not talking about radio or something like that."

He sat down. "So what else do you play, if flute isn't the only one?"

"Accordion, or concertina. And harmonica of course. Then xylophone. And keyboard, but only because there's no one else, and sometimes you just need it."

"But flute's your preference?"

"Yes," nodded Gabriel, "definitely."

"Pity you didn't bring it with you, because then we could - " Mitch stopped himself and watched as a beaming Gabriel opened a narrow pouch at the left leg of his jeans - just opposite the pouch for his wand - and extracted a small wooden flute.

"Hey - great, doesn't look much but at least you weren't fooling me." Mitch grinned. "Okay, let's see how we go together before anyone asks us to do kitchen duty."

Without another word, he started to play his guitar. Maybe he was no Tomas, but for sure Mitch knew what to do with six strings. After a moment, while Gabriel still listened, he started to hum, and then to sing. Greensleeves - no doubt selected because it was well known, offering a quick way of uniting two musicians who had met for the first time only minutes ago.

Gabriel kept silent until Mitch had finished the first verse. Just when the refrain started, he took over, hitting the long tune without any preparation, replacing the voice with the clear, sweet whistle from his flute.

On the next verse, he fell down to low volume and looked invitingly at Mitch, who understood at once and resumed his singing. In the next refrain, Gabriel still kept his volume low enough so Mitch's voice could be heard over the flute, then in the last and final verse he returned to his higher volume - and to his improvising.

By then, people had already gathered from the various tents. They stood there, watching the two musicians, and after a moment sat down, staring.

For the next five minutes, Gabriel kept noodling around, as he called it - playing with the theme of the song, well in sync with Mitch's guitar, climbing, falling, accelerating while Mitch followed - Mitch who didn't play in such an improvised session for the first time - almost falling silent when it was time to let the guitar lead, until they both stopped at once ... to add a final, quiet refrain in which Mitch's voice could be heard again.

There was a few seconds' silence, two musicians beaming at each other, then the applause rose from all sides. In all the noise, Beverly came over, grabbed Gabriel by the shoulders, and gave him a kiss on the cheeks. Then she turned to send a challenging glance toward Cameron, who did his part by waving a fist and growling dark threats.

When the audience had calmed down, Mitch said, "Well - I had little doubt that you would find the right note at the right time, Gabriel, but you still took me by surprise. Such a rich sound from this small thing!"

"It couldn't be much bigger," explained Gabriel, "not for my taste. I have bigger ones, but that's a different style. And what's more, this is a Miyikura, they know how to do it, real masters in wood they are."

"Masters, huh?" Mitch nodded. "Yeah, that's the keyword here. All right, you Irish piper, what next?"

* * *

Sandra sent a last glance at the mirror, then stepped back to make room for her friend Héloise. "Your turn," she called over her shoulder in the general direction of the bathroom where Héloise was laying the fundament for blinding beauty.

In the Benedict household, a mirror large enough to check one's own appearance belonged to resources in short supply. The two girls had figured out long ago how to divide scarce goods: Sandra got her share first, but Héloise's share was bigger.

Usually it worked to mutual satisfaction. Here, too, Sandra felt no need for incessant turning and bending and craning of the neck to check that her clothes fit as well as they did a minute ago - or as badly.

These clothes gave her no reasons to complain. They had fetched them from home: Héloise from the house in the Goblin quarter of Paris, and Sandra from Carron Lough. She had dropped the initial idea of apparating home alone and selecting Héloise's dress rather quickly when realizing that her friend was unable to give a clear order. So she had summoned her to Paris, had apparated further to Ireland, returning five minutes later ... and then had waited another half hour until Héloise could make up her mind.

The Veela came out of the bathroom and stepped in front of the mirror. She wore cream-coloured pants, a halter top, and black high heels, comfortable enough to dance in them without qualifying as an acrobat. The pants were skin-tight from the hips to the knees, then grew in width according to the current fashion. Héloise used this form quite expertly - she wore her wand in a kind of holster at the lower leg, out of view yet not farther away than a quick reach.

Sandra's own solution had a similar elegance; she would go without a wand at all. For her, this was a small penalty because she could cast most spells in a wandless mode. Sure, there were a few spells that would not work without a wand - Lumos, for instance, only who needed a glowing wand tip in a disco?

Her own clothes looked considerably more conservative than Héloise's - at first glance, that was; Sandra felt not the least bit second-rate. A blouse of deep red silk with golden ornaments, cut like a traditional Chinese cheong-sam in its tightness and its half-height collar, emphasized her Chinese features. Only the sleeves were different: while a traditional cheong-sam was sleeveless, the sleeves of her blouse covered half of her upper arm. Her make-up added to the Oriental expression. Except for the colour - black - her pants were pretty much like those of Héloise. Even so, she had no chance to use the same holster trick; her wand was longer than Héloise's while her legs were shorter.

Also with respect to her friend's hair, she wore her own jet-black hair short. Not as short as an animal's fur but in clear contrast to Héloise's long, silvery waves. There was just no sense in competing against Veela hair.

Sometimes, such a cut paid off, if only in the amount of time required for hair care. It gave her twenty minutes for sure until Héloise would be ready. She walked down into the living room.

Grandma Benedict and the kids were sitting in front of a TV. This thing looked really old; it had probably already been outdated the year before Sandra was born. She came to a halt and asked the traditional question of any girl dressed to kill.

"Do I look all right?"

Donovan gave her a short glance, said, "Sure," and resumed watching the program.

Deirdre took a moment longer to examine her, then said, "You look gorgeous! So - so Chinese."

"Now, isn't that a surprise," laughed Sandra. "It took me long enough to learn this style of make-up."

Grandma Benedict couldn't muster much enthusiasm. "You look fine, sweetheart," she said, "only that place you want to go - I don't like it much."

This worry wasn't particularly new to Sandra. She had heard it earlier this evening, when they returned from the beach to tell about their plans for the evening. Patiently listening and not protesting seemed the best answer; how would someone with such an old TV appreciate a modern disco?

---

As though having sensed Sandra's thoughts, Grandma Benedict rose from her armchair with a sigh, followed by a deep groan. "You take me for senile, don't you? Follow me, young lady, I want to give you something to put my mind at ease." These words were accompanied by a look that wasn't old-fashioned at all, then the old witch waddled toward the room in which she kept her voodoo stuff.

Sandra followed, gripped by curiosity but at a loss to have a guess. It wouldn't be a chastity belt, would it?

Metal ... The material was the only match between Sandra's mental joke and the thing Grandma Benedict held in her hand. An ornament - long, thin, in a style of costume jewellery that would have looked horrible anywhere; luckily, Sandra's fire engine-red blouse covered even that. Still stranger yet was the shape - it looked exactly like a trident about four inches long.

Sandra took the piece and examined it, then looked up. "What is it? And what am I supposed to do with it?"

Grandma Benedict showed an amused grin. "No, dear, this isn't a sample of bad taste in mulatto jewellery."

Sandra blushed slightly, reminding herself not to underestimate again a voodoo priestess just because she was old and fat.

"You can wear it as an ornament, or carry it in your bag if you like. It's important only that you have it at hand. To the outside, it's a picker for the pieces of fruit in the typical drinks here on the island - you know, it's quite unladylike to grab them with your fingers or to push them into your open mouth. So it looks perfectly normal when used in such an environment like the Starlight Palace."

A picker for the fruits in a punch! Sandra nearly giggled.

"But on the inside it's a drug tester. See that hilt? If this little disk changes colour, there's something in the drink you should avoid at all costs."

Sandra stared at the small disk-shaped handle at the end of the three tips, suddenly feeling admiration. "Hey, cool! It's magic, isn't it?"

"What else?" Grandma Benedict put the ornament in Sandra's hand and took that hand while closing it around the piece. "And now promise me to test every drink! You're a sensible girl, very much so for your age - if you say you'll do that, I feel a world better."

Sandra was astonished. "Is it that bad there?"

"I've heard stories - enough that I worry. It depends on the people you are with, and I don't know them - but you don't know them either. So if you use that thing, we're on the safe side - the fruit drinks are the best anyway, so there's no risk of having an embarrassing scene."

Sandra didn't think this precaution was really necessary; on the other hand, if it was as simple as that ...

"Okay, I promise. Can you fix it to my blouse? I think that's the best place for it."

The woman smiled in relief. "Good girl! Hold on - yes, doesn't even look bad on this terrific garment."

---

When Héloise came down the staircase a few minutes later and noticed the ornament near Sandra's shoulder, her only comment was, "That's the weirdest thing I've seen on you in a while, and that says something. Anyway, let's go."

They said goodbye, then walked outside - Grandma Benedict would have a fit from the air popping into empty space after an apparition jump right from the living room. Out in the street, Sandra took Héloise's hand, said, "Here we go," and aimed her jump into the space between two palm trees only feet apart. Nothing in the boys' appearance had indicated they were wizards, so she wasn't in a hurry to reveal their witches' nature.

The time span between apparating and summoning measured in fractions of a second, about the time someone might need to blink an eye. Nonetheless, each time she carried herself and her friend to some destination, Sandra was reminded of her brother's superior technique. Maybe it was envy.

They came out exactly as planned, well covered by the tree trunks. Looking around, Sandra saw the headlights of a car in the distance. Focusing her attention on that spot, she saw that the car had to be a convertible, and the two heads that were visible just above the chassis had to be those of Zack and Neil.

"Where do you want me to send us?" Sandra asked her friend. "To the rear of that car or right into the back seats?"

"No, not the back seats - you'd scare them off!" Also thanks to her low voice, Héloise sounded almost imploring, a very unusual attitude for her.

Sandra had the wisdom to suppress any reply. Instead, she brought them to a point about ten yards behind the car. From there, they walked side by side toward the vehicle.

Coming closer, Sandra realized that what had looked like a convertible was actually a normal limousine with a sawn-off top and a lot of rust, the typical style here on the island. At her next step, the figure in the driver's seat first jerked his head and then turned around as much as possible in this position, and gasped, "Whoa - where did you come from?"

It was Zack, and the black face that spun around at this moment on the passenger seat could only belong to Neil.

"Never mind that now," replied Sandra. She had reached the car, put her left hand on the upper edge of the rear door, and swung herself in a single fluid movement into the back seat.

Sometimes, she thought, shorter legs paid off - especially in combination with the half-forgotten skill from some exercises with her father, when he still had a taste for aikido.

Héloise made it simpler. She just stood there, had to wait only a second or two until Neil stepped out of the car to open the rear door on the other side for her. "Thank you," she said with a blinding smile before climbing inside.

"Ready?" asked Zack. "Let's go." He started the engine and drove off.

* * *

Cho watched as the waiter filled her dish with this and that from the large plate of hors d'oeuvres. She saw salads, seafood, and other things of which she could only guess the nature or taste. The mix was unknown to her, so she let him select for her without ordering any preferred food.

Looking up, she noticed that for once during the past minutes Reuben's attention wasn't fixed on her. He too watched the waiter, although not quite as idly and relaxed as she'd done a second ago.

The waiter came around and put the dish down in front of her. "Very well, madam, please enjoy your meal."

"Thank you."

A moment later, when the Resort Manager's attention was back on her, she asked, "So, did he pass the exam?"

"You are the guest!" replied Reuben Timball as if in protest. "You are the one who should answer this question."

"Yes, I'm the guest."

Cho took her glass and showed her best smile. "But otherwise, my dear Reuben, you know bloody well that it's not true because your answer is most likely different, and while on this particular subject" - she raised the glass like for a toast - "we'll get along much better if you either answer my questions or tell me that's none of my business ... Cheers."

The man opposite responded to her toast, then put his glass down. "He did okay, in particular with me sitting at the table watching. By the time the seminar is over, he'll do excellently."

Cho hadn't seen any clumsiness, any trembling fingers. "What was missing? What could he have done better?"

"Oh, the way he filled your dish was flawless," conceded Reuben. "But he could have talked to you more - asking you for your preferences, or recommending something, or maybe just asking you whether you'd allow him to select for you ... Anyway, he's young, this is the part he still has to work on."

"Maybe he was taught to do his job as silently as he could." Cho didn't care much about their waiter this way or the other; she was only interested in the Resort Manager's responses. "Especially at a table like ours."

What she meant was a table with a man and a women, a table with two candles while the lights above were dimmed. Currently, their table looked even more noticeable because they were the only guests.

"Yes, I know." Reuben sighed. "This might be the worst crime in hotel and restaurant schools - to teach the students they should behave like well-oiled machines. They aren't, and they couldn't do worse - " The manager stopped himself and showed a rueful smile. "Sorry - you just pressed the button for the standard monologue. But at least I caught myself in time, and in a few weeks, the Vancouver Resort crew will know that they should behave as humans with a service task. As simple as that."

They ate silently for a while, then Cho said, "You shouldn't have worried about a monologue on your part, except that it might not do justice to this excellent food. Since I have to fill you in on MABEL and this seminar, there's a high risk of me getting into monologues. I'll try to avoid them, but if not, well, at least they won't be boring."

"Maybe if I ask questions - "

"Yes, absolutely, you should do that - " Cho smiled apologetically, "but even answering simple questions in this context might trigger a monologue."

The man in the opposite seat made a face like a boy anticipating a new fairytale. "But then, maybe I won't object at all listening to your monologues."

"Let's see." Cho put down her fork on the now-empty dish. "What's your first question?"

Her dinner partner made a gesture toward the candles on the table. "Since this is a more private atmosphere, rather than an office meeting, I hope you will agree to the questions being a bit more private too, so please tell me ..."

That had to be seen, thought Cho while Reuben made a short pause during which he looked as if he were contemplating the most urgent of all his questions, although she had no doubt that he hesitated only to give her time for a protest that didn't come.

"... what brought you to MABEL?"

It took her only a second to come to a decision on how to answer, and how far to go in revealing private issues. Then she replied, "Nothing - I invented it."

"Yes, I had that feeling. What - "

Cho interrupted him. "What I said is a tiny bit exaggerated, but only in the sense that I wasn't the only person involved. But of all people who founded MABEL, I was probably the most determined one."

"So why did you invent MABEL?"

"Isn't it obvious? There aren't enough wizards and witches for all the tasks that result from almost every child on earth showing magical powers now. We need more Magicals, and MABEL is an institution to provide them. But it's also a profit-oriented company, and that's why each seminar is a mix of paying and non-paying members. The number of people worldwide who desperately want to be magical is growing every day, and - well, if they're rich enough to pay the fee, they are welcome to our seminars. The demand is growing faster than we can build resorts and - "

Cho stopped in mid-sentence. For a monologue, her explanation had been pretty short so far; however, the Resort Manager's face told her that she was indeed telling him the obvious.

She said, "I guess I didn't answer your question, did I?"

Reuben Timball waited with his reply while the waiter removed the empty dishes. Then he said, "You explained how it ended. You didn't say a word about how it started."

For an instant she thought he was referring to what - among insiders - was known as the Great Plot, the reason for all children worldwide suddently showing magic. While she knew everything about it, she would not tell a single word.

"What was your personal starting point?"

"Oh, that ..." Cho showed a smile that covered her short moment of confusion and, simultaneously, won her time to decide again if she really wanted to tell him such private details.

"It all started with a sabbatical," she said eventually.

---

It all started much earlier, only she didn't intend to uncover her complete life in front of this Reuben Timball. Voldemort, her husband's great enemy, could be blamed for everything. The Muggles detecting the magical world was the result of his work. The growing tension between the two worlds led to the Great Plot, and its effect, the millions of magical children, led to the demand for something like the MABEL program.

At a more personal level, the development had motivated an old Death Eater to kill Ramon and Marie-Christine, the parents of Carlos and Esmeralda. The adoption of these two children had led to Cho taking her sabbatical.

"Before that, I was the CEO of a manufacturing company," she continued. "But during that break, I realized that I could see trends and developments much better from the outside. Being in an office all the time creates a certain kind of corporate blindness. Watching from the outside gives you a much clearer view for strategic decisions ... On the other hand, strategic decisions aren't made twice a week. If there's someone else for the daily business, you have a lot of time left for other things."

The waiter arrived with the main course - several kinds of fish, grilled, on white rice mixed with a generous amount of black rice, the local specialty.

While the young man prepared the dishes for herself and Reuben, Cho surveyed in her mind the years after her sabbatical, selecting things to tell and other things to keep silent about - like the two new branches in her Groucho imperium, in which Chrissy Vanzandt, her former assistant, now held the position of the CEO. Both branches were results of her unfiltered perspective from outside. The first, Groucho Technomagic, manufactured machines and devices that had a mix of magic and Muggle technology in common. This was also true for the spectors from Groucho Spectors and the phonies from Groucho Communications, but the new daughter company manufactured a large array of traditional household and entertainment devices. A toaster that could toast a slice of bread crisp and dark while not black no matter how thick the slice, no matter which kind of bread - such devices with a three year warranty had a large market despite their high prices.

The new daughter company reached break-even at a breathtaking speed. However, it was the following branch that made the term "money" almost meaningless in the Groucho Industries, thanks to incredible profits - Groucho Power Cells. Monocells, batteries, accumulators, any size the market needed, with magically increased capacity. A Groucho-powered laptop computer could run full-scale operations for more than twenty-four hours. The monopoly had lasted for fifteen months - enough to dominate this market for years to come.

Richer than ever, Cho had looked for a new challenge - and had found it in the MABEL program.

The food on her dish wouldn't take well to her chatting about all these events. Moreover, picking like a bird, a bit here and there, wasn't her style of nourishment anyway. So, for the next minutes, she decimated fish and rice in equal shares.

"Well, in this sabbatical," she finally continued, "I found out that I didn't really want to return in my old office. In the beginning, there were still lots of activities with that company, expansions into new markets, but after a while, it really had settled and I looked for something new. That was when the idea of MABEL started to form." She told him an edited version of the first seminar - how an interview with a celebrity in a magazine had given her the idea, and how the initial plan had been enhanced by the scholarship idea, and how the first seminars were held in rented rooms, only to discover that these celebrities attracted too much media people, whether involuntarily or on purpose.

"So we decided to build our own resorts, and to make sure they aren't under siege by the newspeople," she finished. "In the course of expanding, we bought this place and built Vancouver Resort, and now it's your turn to tell me what brought you into MABEL."

Reuben laughed. "Is it? ... I got an answer to my question, yes, even a lengthy one, only you did a hell of a job not to reveal a trace of your true motivation. I'm sure every single word is true, but ... That company, for example - you weren't a hired hand, am I right?"

Feeling very pleased, Cho just smiled, however in a way that was answer enough.

"And it wasn't - or isn't - particularly small, so much for sure. So in other words, at a time when other women would have finally found their way into the pool with the charity sharks ..."

Cho laughed out loud in appreciation of this expression.

"... you have nothing better to do than found a complex organization, do a lot of travelling, and run some scheme that turns Muggles into Magicals. It works - that's all I believe."

"We'll come to that," she said, dismissing his attempt to skip his own confession. "And if you think I told a lot while missing the point the whole time, then why don't you do better in your own story?"

Reuben stared at her for a moment, apparently pondering the challenge. Then he said, "That's fairly simple. Young, promising hotel manager ... meets the hotel king ... meets his daughter ... finds himself in a paradise with a pre-defined career ... every step already outlined until he's sixty-five ... young manager and king's daughter look at each other, wonder if their feelings for each other are real or just something to please daddy ... young manager leaves this paradise, drops quite a number of levels on the scale, and is driven by the ambition to run a hotel and to prove that he can manage not only without daddy's support but even against daddy's fatherly wrath." Reuben shrugged. "And he's not quite as young as he was when the story started."

"And the king's daughter?"

Reuben smiled. "Oh, we parted as friends. Which didn't change anything - she wasn't curious enough to find out how rough the world can be without daddy's cushioning, and I missed her a bit more than I'd thought, but not enough to come back, so ..."

After a moment, in which the man didn't bother to finish his sentence, Cho said, "Granted, you made it short and you revealed your true motives, only you presented them like the headlines in a story that misses the details."

She was rewarded with another of these boyish grins. "That's true," he said.

"Well, step by step, it looks as if we both prefer the same policy here. Our next step has to do with some details about the seminar organization - and about the way these Muggles get their magic. Interested?"

"Very much so."

"Then ..." Cho saw the waiter approaching their table again. "Let's do it at a less public place. If this place can offer room service for coffee and a brandy, I can offer a suite."

Telling him about the High Priestess as the real source of magic surely was a task that needed more privacy than could be found in this restaurant. So far, inviting him into her suite was simple business. Even so, it crossed her mind how quickly the topic could change in such an environment.

* * *

The engine's low rumble told Sandra that there had to be a bit more to the car than met the eye. However, Zack kept a decent style of driving, in this regard showing better manners than most European boys of comparable age. Within less than ten minutes, they reached a car park next to a large building with an old-fashioned neon sign that said, "Starlight Palace."

This time, Sandra waited until Zack opened the door on her own side, thanked him with a smile which she hoped might pass for beaming, because for her own standards it was.

It seemed good enough though not blinding - Zack gave her an admiring look and said, "You look great."

Sandra wished she had a reply that was charming, brilliant, and cool, all at once. What she came up with was, "Thank you."

Walking toward the building, she thought for an instant the disco hadn't opened yet, despite the hour and despite the number of cars around - the quietness had fooled her. Only when coming closer, she could hear the sound, almost completely muffled.

Inside, having passed the door guard who waved them through with an appreciative "Yeaaaah," she saw the typical architecture of a movie theatre, with floors outside the center hall, and this was also the reason for the astonishing quietness on the street. Opening the door to the disco hall, the familiar cacophony hit her ears.

It was full. Following Zack, Sandra wondered if they would find seats at all, a risk she could live with because she was used to French discos, which offered considerably more space for standing around or dancing than for sitting. Then she saw Zack wave to some boys who had occupied two tables and now gathered around one of them, offering the other table to the newcomers.

Under different circumstances, she would have asked Zack what made these boys so obedient to defend seats in such a crowded place. But, as in any disco she knew, conversation was difficult, short, and across a few inches from mouth to ear. Non-verbal communication worked better.

Pointing toward the list of beverages, raising his eyebrows in an unspoken question, Zack asked her which drink she wanted.

She took the laminated sheet and scanned the list for her preferred drink, which was known as Haiti Punch or French Flip, both names meaning very much the same - juice from various fruits, soda, and a bit of champagne. It was the lightest alcoholic drink she knew, the best also, and it bore pieces of fruit.

Table service was unknown here. Zack shouted her choice in Neil's ear, and Neil went to the bar, after being told by Héloise what she wanted, no doubt containing a bit more alcohol.

Glancing around, Sandra found little that would have been out of place in a disco somewhere in Paris. More black faces perhaps, although certain quarters in Paris could offer even more. The music would be nearly the same; international charts showed little difference between France and the Caribbean.

Neil returned from the bar, expertly balancing four glasses. Sandra took hers, mouthed a "Thanks" to him, mouthed a "Cheers" to Zack, and drank. Then, remembering her promise to the old lady, she unclipped the trident from its holder to spear a piece of fruit and to shove it into her mouth.

Of course, the small disk didn't change colour. For a short moment, Sandra felt embarrassment from this ridiculous manoeuver, then Zack brought his mouth close to her ear and shouted, "Clever trick!"

She nodded, grinning in relief. Looking up, her eyes met Héloise's. Her friend wasn't fooled - Héloise might not guess the exact purpose of this thing but she didn't take it for a ladylike tool only.

There was no sense in waiting for a break. The DJ did what he could to splice the songs together, his remarks were erratic at best, not bothering much with announcements, and only an expert could have distinguished one song from another. So, after sitting there for another five minutes during which she got used to the atmosphere, Sandra sent a questioning look to Zack, effectively asking what he thought about dancing.

Yes, he thought it was worth a try.

Rising from her seat, Sandra watched how Héloise took this as a signal - to grab Neil's arm without even asking and follow them toward the dance floor.

In dancing, Sandra felt on a par with Héloise - and second to no one. Fleur, Héloise's mother and also her father's dance teacher long ago, had made sure that both girls could handle the classical dances like waltz, slow waltz, or foxtrot. Following the same approach toward more personal goals, the two girls had mastered the more contemporary challenges of disco fox, hip hop, and techno, to name only the mainstream versions.

So Sandra felt totally at ease when she started moving to the pulsing rhythm of the music. Glancing over, she saw that this was also true for her friend and for Héloise's partner, Neil, who moved expertly and very much as expected from a black brother.

Her own partner, in contrast, looked a bit stiff. Well - scoring second after Héloise seemed her fate when it came to boys. At least Zack kept in sync with the rhythm, Sandra told herself by way of consolation - after all, she had seen much worse. And maybe he would improve a bit in the course of the action.

A bit, yes. For compensation, Zack wanted to sit down much sooner than Sandra herself. She followed - being invited meant she had to show consideration for her partner's preferences, and besides, they had been on the dance floor for at least twenty minutes.

Back at her place, she emptied what was left of her drink, only now remembering what Grandma Benedict had said - that each time her drink was lost out of view would count like a new one. Suppressing a sigh, she unclipped the trident again, moved it through the last drops in the glass, picked a piece of fruit.

No discolouration. Of course not.

"Another one?" The question came from Zack, in the noise around understandable from context and intonation while not the words themselves.

She nodded.

---

When Zack returned with her new French Flip, he asked what she had to do with France.

While doing another trident ceremony, with the same result as before, she told him that they went to school there, and that Héloise's parents had a residence pretty close to that school, while her own home was in Ireland. It was all true but she felt like lying because she didn't tell him that she returned home each afternoon, or evening after visiting the Weasleys first.

Telling this would have meant revealing her witch nature. She felt reluctant to do it, in particular since this would imply the revelation of Héloise's nature too, and who knew what her friend thought about this matter? On the other hand, all exchanges here were short sentences, shouted in a close ear, so being scarce in details wasn't the worst crime.

In return, she learned that Zack would start at Harvard this autumn, which told her that he was one year older. She wondered whether Neil would also start at Harvard, wondered if asking this question was a good idea, and decided it wasn't. And besides, wasn't it time for another dancing round?

Zack's enthusiasm seemed limited. Anyway, he followed.

On the dance floor, he steered an energy-saving course in his movements. Interestingly enough, this method made him look better than the full-scale movements before. Sandra sent him a grin and drowned herself in dancing.

When she came awake, she was alone - not literally, of course, the floor was full with people, only her partner was gone. Next moment, she saw him - leaning at a pillar just outside the dancing area, watching her.

She crossed the distance. "Did I dance too long?"

"It's okay." A fleeting smile. "You know, I'm not the keenest dancer - unlike Neil."

She suppressed the question of why the hell he had invited them to a disco if he didn't want to dance? After all, there were few alternatives, and his friend had a different view of things, and it wasn't totally unknown to her that one could be in a disco even without twisting and shaking in rhythm.

They returned to their places, where Héloise and Neil were also taking a break. Héloise looked hot, with a flushed face, but maybe this had to do with their infight; the two of them had stopped at the arrival of Zack and Sandra.

The trident showed nothing different from before. Zack looked as if he would like a bit of infight for themselves, in particular since the other two had resumed their smooching.

Sandra's enthusiasm was limited. She emptied her glass, this way gaining time because Zack went for another round, this time also for Neil and his obedient prey.

When Zack returned with four glasses, Sandra took hers and sipped a bit, indecisive how to proceed. She knew - the moment she put down the glass, Zack would close in on her.

So it took her another moment and another sip to realize that this drink tasted differently. Sweeter, stronger ... Tasting again, she felt pretty sure that this wasn't a French Flip as it should be. Using the trident, picking a piece of fruit, she could at least exclude one possibility - the small disc kept its colour.

Tasting the fruit and its sharp odour, she knew what was wrong. This wasn't a light alcoholic drink but a booze bomb.

She put it down, pointed to it. "This is the wrong drink."

"What's wrong with it?" Zack examined the glass, took it, sniffed at it. "Looks exactly like the previous one."

"But it's full of liquor."

"Really?" Zack chuckled. "Then maybe I should drink it, and get you another one." He stood up. "Just a minute."

"No - wait!" Sandra made a quick movement to grab him. "Just a large soda this time, please."

A shrug, a nod, then Zack disappeared in the crowd.

The few sips from this glass certainly had given her as much alcohol as a complete drink of her own choice, so pausing with a plain soda was a good idea anyway. Waiting for Zack's return, Sandra pondered another question: had he really been surprised?

She just didn't know. Not having paid attention to his emotions at the critical moment, she found herself reduced to judgement by visual appearance like any other girl. And the sound of his voice ... As if anyone could register a false note in this acoustic inferno.

Because if it hadn't been a surprise to him, then he had ordered the drink that way. This wasn't the bartender's mistake - by rough estimation, Sandra guessed this drink five times more expensive than a French Flip; liquor didn't come cheap on this island.

Glancing over, Sandra felt an impulse to test Héloise's drink with her little trident. But why? Nobody needed a drug to find his way into her panties ... Well, okay, Sandra corrected herself, nobody was the wrong term for sure, but Héloise had sent very clear signals all the time, so -

Zack appeared in her view, a large glass in his hand.

A lemonade rather than a soda, for what she could see. The difference was negligible for sure, only in this situation, Sandra didn't like the tiniest departure from her expectation. She took the glass, nodded her thanks, unclipped the trident once more and stirred through the lemonade.

The small disc turned as red as her blouse.

---

Sandra stared at the device in her hand, for an instant totally baffled. She held it up, almost like in trance. "There's a drug in this drink."

She hadn't been particularly loud at saying these words. Strangely enough, the young man in front of her apparently had understood every syllable, for his eyes widened in astonishment.

Not about the fact itself, as her alarmed senses told her. Only about her ability to discover it.

Suddenly very quiet, she clipped the ornament on, then looked at Zack.

"You stupid piece of shit, why didn't you try something as simple as charm and seduction? You could have been successful, after all. Was it too much hard work for you?"

It was impossible to tell how much he'd understood of her words; at any rate, he got the bottom line all right, as his burning cheeks revealed.

She stood up, made a step in Neil's direction, and tapped his shoulder, which prevented her from reaching her friend. When he looked up, she said, "Stop it! The party's over, your friend made sure of that."

Here again, it was an open question how much Neil had understood. What he said before turning back to the girl in his arms was, "Do me a favour - get laid or get lost."

She almost giggled - in a few words, Neil had summarized the large difference in opinions between herself and Zack. Sobering again, she was about to tap the black boy harder when another hand grabbed her own shoulder and tried to put her back on her seat with the words, "Don't be such a prissy prat!"

He was much stronger than she was for sure. Also, she was no expert in weaponless combat as her father once had been, aside from the fact that here, in this tight space, it would have been difficult to send a kick or blow. But her father had taught her how to defend in situations like this one, situations in which an attacker was very close to her.

She wheeled around and made a half-step toward Zack, then put her hands under his chin with the thumbs together - the pointing triangle that could replace a wand any time.

"VANDEGRAFFO!"

With an inarticulate sound, Zack twisted back and fell on a chair. His right hand went to his throat, rubbing, while he groaned and his mouth distorted in a grimace of terror and pain.

Turning, Sandra saw that her spell, which caused about the same effect as an electric eel or the stun guns of riot cops, had won her Neil's attention as well. He stared at his friend, then at her.

"What's wrong with you?"

She pointed with her thumb. "Ask him." Toward Héloise, she said, "Get up! Time to go."

Neil held his hand up in a pacifying gesture. "Wait a second ... You're witches, right?"

"Yes," replied Sandra. "So what?"

"Did he try to dope you with a drink?"

Héloise had heard this question and sobered up a bit. She stared at Sandra. "Did he?"

"Yes."

"That stupid asshole!" In Neil's voice was anger, weariness - and frustration to see a promising start being jeopardized that way. He looked at Sandra. "I'm sorry - really sorry, believe me, this isn't at all what I expected from this evening - "

"You may tell him that he's lucky not to suffer more, and - " Sandra stopped herself - this place was badly suited to exchange longer sentences, and for all she could see, Neil knew all he needed to know. She turned toward her friend. "Ready?"

Héloise came up, whispered something in Neil's ear, gave him a last kiss, and reached Sandra. "Ready."

Outside, Sandra asked, "Is it okay if we walk for a few minutes? I'm so angry, I need fresh air."

"Then why didn't you let it out on him? He's the one to blame - he spoiled such a great evening, I could walk back and finish what you started."

"I don't know," said Sandra truthfully. "It was so - all the time I thought, Grandma Benedict and her stupid promise, and then it really comes true ... It was so cheap, somehow I didn't feel like taking revenge."

Héloise pointed. "Over there is his car - your last chance to hit him where it hurts."

Sandra could already laugh. "If I wanted to hit him where it hurts, I knew something else. Damaging the car would hurt Neil too, wouldn't it?"

Héloise joined her chuckle. "Now, that's generous of you."

After a few more steps, Sandra asked, "What did you whisper in his ears before we left?"

"How to get in touch with me - I mean, he didn't play foul, and if there's some dope running in my veins, it's my own." Héloise sighed longingly. "Although you could blame him on that for sure."

Sandra took her friend's hand in preparation for summoning her. Walking down this bloody street helped neither of them, and at least Héloise still might have a chance for a successfully completed evening.