Potter Professions

It was nighttime. In Harry's bedroom, the moonlight played shadow games on the opposite wall, creating astonishingly sharp boundaries separating light and dark. Cool air streamed in through the wide open window; a faint noise down at the beach told of waves lapping up from an otherwise quiet sea.

Harry lay awake in his bed, his open eyes staring sightlessly ahead while his sweat-stained body failed to register the balsamic touch from the nightly air. He was thinking about teachers. In his mind, a procession of well-known faces competed against a shapeless group of faceless figures that filled the halls and corridors of buildings he'd never seen. Teachers - those of his own past serving as a scale in which he could try to place the staff of a school in Brest.

The ones he could remember were a terribly small number compared to the faceless figures. Sixty teachers worked at that school in Brest, maybe eighty - Ron hadn't been sure about the exact number - but somewhere in this range, dwarfing the small number of teachers they'd had at Hogwarts.

It would make his life simpler, such a large number, if he really did it and started working there as a teacher for English and Sports. In a circle of less than ten teachers, his cover would be blown within a few weeks, if not days, while the anonymity of a large group could protect him. So this part of the idea, the pretence of being someone else, didn't bother him too much. The pretence of being a teacher was what kept him awake.

What made a teacher a good teacher?

Failing that, what made a teacher popular? If he agreed to the undercover job, his goal wasn't to become the most successful teacher Brest had ever seen. All he had to do was to confirm or deny a vague suspicion. Gain the confidence of enough students to hear some gossip, be asked a treacherous question, be told an astonishing confession ...

What made a teacher a popular teacher?

The answer to this question would have been difficult enough twenty years ago. Today's students were a different generation. Still worse, they were a different society, even another culture - Muggles and Magicals had started to merge; the old traditions had lost their values.

But then, had these traditions ever made a teacher popular?

Scanning his memory for the old teachers of his Hogwarts years, Harry suddenly became aware that he was about to follow a wrong track, to confuse popularity with something else that might be much more important in his future role: trustworthiness.

Nobody would have called Professor McGonagall popular, but he hadn't dreamed of confiding in anyone else when he was struggling with his Goblin Request, the first one, the one that had brought the Steel Wings, broomsticks which then had played a key role in the Battle of Hogwarts. The witch with her rectangular glasses had an unbending air about her; often enough this was the reason why she wasn't really popular among the commonplace students.

Of course, sometimes a teacher could offer both strictness and an easy-going style. Lupin had been such a teacher, gifted as much as cursed. And, later, Almyra - or was it Harry's prejudice in her case?

He didn't think so. He would ask both of them, but first they had to return from their holidays. In the meantime, he knew someone else to ask - not about how to become popular, more about the idea in its essence. This person was available, as far as he knew, and with this thought, Harry found sleep.

---

The following morning, he felt glad that he had rejected Ron and Janine's invitation to stay longer. With a mind as preoccupied as his, other people's company would be more of a burden than a help, and he couldn't offer good company either.

Stepping under the shower and enjoying the hot water's caress, he pondered his next steps. With every droplet that drummed on his skin, he felt more certain - about the next steps, that was, not necessarily about the project itself. Even so, while towelling himself, he experienced an energy humming through his veins that hadn't been there for quite some time.

Sitting at the breakfast table, eating a mix of British food - scrambled eggs and ham - with French ingredients - baguette and café au lait - he scanned the newspapers for anything of interest, found only the three categories of crap he had expected - funny nonsense to fill the summer void, examples of bad taste from celebrities around the globe, and mind-insulting stupidities from politicians throughout the Commonwealth.

With every waste of printer's ink he read, his mood rose still higher. He was ahead of all of them, having something within reach they apparently couldn't find. Purpose.

Gulping down his last sip of coffee, he geared up his mind for the first step, a visit to his godfather Sirius Black. Because he felt so high-spirited, he apparated right from his seat to a spot in front of the Black residence, still the same bungalow Sirius had inhabited through his years as chief of the Law Enforcement Squad.

At his retirement, Sirius had negotiated with the authorities. This house, which went with the job, wasn't needed for a successor because the Squad didn't exist any longer. On the other hand, a new owner would be confronted with the need for a major renovation. So Sirius bought the house for a song.

Local press might have found this deal scandalous, due to the low price, but the most local press was Deborah, Sirius' wife, who shared his preference for this ugly piece of administration architecture in the outskirts of London. She took the heat out of the issue by placing a short notice in the Daily Prophet that reported the fact as one of those incredibly exciting things you could find on the inside pages for local news. Ex-police chief buys ex-residence from ex-employer was the title, with the subsequent text ridiculously nostalgic.

---

Sirius opened the door only seconds after Harry had rung the bell. Harry hadn't seen his godfather in a while, and now stared into a face he somehow remembered having much deeper creases. Sirius' skin showed a surprisingly healthy complexion.

"Hello, Sirius. You look younger every day."

"Second spring," explained the former Squad chief with a mocking twist of his lips. "It's supposed to be quite typical for people my age. After they recover from the aging shock, settle for a slower pace and a healthy dose of maladies here and there, they find new spirit in the ashes. That's what the doctors say, at least."

"Oh, really?"

Sirius watched Harry's expression for a moment, then his own face split into a wide grin. "Bullshit, from start to end - which doesn't mean I invented a single word I just said. If I look better than the last time we met, it's because I feel better than the last time we met. And for good reason, because I've got myself a job - you were lucky to find me at home, in a few minutes I need to go."

Before Harry found the time to let his disappointment about this half-rebuke show, Sirius added, "But if you want to talk with me, and that's exactly how you look, you can come with me - we'll have lots of time."

"A job? What kind of job?"

"Private investigator."

Feeling a wave of disbelief, Harry was about to comment on that when he noticed the amused expectation in his godfather, who only waited to hear the disapproving remark that seemed inevitable. Just in time, Harry stopped himself and asked instead, "So what's the punch line?"

It was Sirius' turn to look disappointed. "Some people are easier to provoke than you," he muttered. "Anyway - it's for Deborah, she's my only client."

Deborah was a freelance journalist. She had left the Daily Prophet a few years ago because her preferred style of reports no longer matched the demands of a daily newspaper, and fit much better those of weekly magazines. Deborah would write about an acid-rain damaged forest - or its recovery - as readily as about an archbishop with a preference for choirboys; at any rate, she always had a lot of things to investigate.

"Researcher might be a more accurate term, but I get the distinct impression that she passes the juicier jobs over to me." Sirius laughed. "And besides - show me a cop who didn't dream of playing Philip Marlowe ... He's a literary figure, a private investigator," he added after a look at Harry's blank face.

Harry accepted a cup of tea and listened to Sirius describing his daily work. Then Sirius checked the time and said, "Look, we can continue this conversation if you come with me, but I have to go."

"What is it?"

"Pretty boring - sitting in a car and waiting, mostly. That's why I'd appreciate if you come with me. I'm sure there's time enough for the longest story anyone can imagine."

---

Harry followed his godfather outside and into a car - a BMW, as he noticed, very comfortable and with the smoothest engine sound he'd ever heard from a car. This moment of luxury passed quicker than expected, because Sirius drove to a car park next to a subway station, with large signs saying "Park'n'Ride" all over the place, where he moved the BMW onto a parking lot and killed the engine.

When he climbed out without any comment, Harry followed - to a rusty delivery car with painted signs on its sides that promised quick help in all cases of blocked sewage pipes. Climbing onto the passenger seat, he felt relieved not to find the smell that might be expected inside such a car.

The engine coming alive was another surprise. Harry wouldn't call himself an expert for Muggle cars, not at all, but even to his untrained ears this thing sounded so smooth and powerful that the contrast with the neglected-looking exterior was unmistakable.

"My observation car," grinned Sirius. "If I have to follow a car, and they spot me and try to shake me off - boy, they'll be in for a surprise when that piece of rust doesn't fade in their rearview mirror."

"Has it ever happened?"

Sirius' grin faded. "No," he admitted, "but it's only a question of time - and don't tell me this is just an old man playing with his toys, because you're probably right." The grin returned for a moment.

Harry shook his head, more to himself than to his godfather, whose attention was caught by the street traffic.

"I'm in no position to mock you. I'm looking for a job myself - there's something I could do, and it might well be that my getting results is as likely as you getting the opportunity for such a street race - "

"Just wait a minute," interrupted Sirius. "It's not far, and once I've found a parking place for the car, I can listen more attentively." He sent an apologetic glance to Harry. "You know, all this stuff's quite new to me - in a year or so, I might do it half asleep but now I still have to concentrate."

With his own situation in mind, Harry asked, "How do you learn the tricks of the trade?"

"Well ..." Sirius chuckled. "I'm not completely inexperienced, after all, I was a cop for twenty years. Only I was a pen-pusher most of the time, and a front-line soldier knows things a general has never heard of, so ... I know someone I can ask," he confessed after a moment. "A real private investigator who did errands for Deborah in the past. Nice guy that, won't tease me more often than twice per hour."

Harry couldn't laugh at the joke. Assuming Sirius didn't declare him mental when hearing what he planned to do, his next visits would be paid to real teachers, and then the situation would be just the same - nice people each of them, they wouldn't tease him more often either.

"Okay, here we go. This is my lucky day, Harry, a free slot right where I need it." Sirius steered the car to the kerbstone and stopped it, then he killed the engine and leaned back.

"All right, I'm listening."

"What are we doing here?"

"I'm listening, I said - there wasn't a word about me telling you anything, was there?" Sirius kept his gaze toward something on the other side of the street while talking. "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies, Harry - I'm not a private eye by half, but at least I can quote such lines."

"Quote lines? Who said that, Philip Marlowe?"

Sirius laughed. "No idea, Harry, honestly - and believe me, why I'm here is a pretty boring story, so just tell me what's on your mind."

"Yeah, boring, that's the keyword." Harry told his godfather how he'd felt panic at the thought of the empty weeks to come, how he'd visited the Weasleys, and how Ron's remarks had started something that might result, after the summer break, in Harry starting work as a teacher at a boarding school in Brest, France.

That was, unless Sirius put a halt to this crazy idea before it was too late.

---

Sirius had listened without ever meeting Harry's eyes. Still watching the other side of the street, he said, "This letter - do you have a copy?"

"No, I didn't expect it to be that important. Why, what about that letter?"

"Nothing in particular, for all I can see." Sirius showed a half smile for a short instant before resuming his watch of the other side. "Just a cop's habit, I guess."

"No, but let me try, though. I used to be quite good at quoting such pieces of text accurately." Harry concentrated on the memory of yesterday's scene in Ron's office, of this letter he had read three times. After a moment, he quoted hesitantly but, as far as he knew, without a mistake.

"Okay, thanks. And now? What do you expect from me?"

For the first time, Harry found this staring at an imaginary point irritating, and wished Sirius would look at him. "What do I expect? A comment, for starters."

"Nice idea. Keeps you busy."

Sirius' face came around for another instant. "You know what, I think Ron's right - you'd be a hell of a teacher. From the students' perspective, that is, not from that of the Ministry." Sirius chuckled.

"Now that puts my mind at ease," retorted Harry, not feeling the least bit pleased. "And what about this school, or what could be wrong there?"

"No comment."

"Huh? Come again."

It was a reflex, not a request to repeat something Harry had understood well already the first time. But maybe he wanted to hear it again because he wasn't sure whether he'd heard it right, a flat, expressionless tone that seemed to raise an alarm for no good reason at all.

"I said, no comment."

"Yes, I got you the first time, thank you very much. What I wanted to hear is - "

"You're planning to do an investigation, and you expect me to put your mind on some speculation that might be farther off the track than we can imagine? I can't believe it."

Harry knew the tone. Sirius was building a smoke screen of words behind which he could hide his real thoughts; there was no sense in pushing the issue now.

"Any suggestions on how I can disguise myself? Ron said I should hide the scar."

A short pause, as if Sirius himself had to readjust his mind to the new and less suspicious topic, then he said, "Hide behind the obvious, Harry; it's still the best method."

"Yes, I'll do that, naturally so, provided I can find someone who can tell me what's the obvious, but since it's the obvious, I probably have the best chance to - "

Sirius' chuckling interrupted him. "I mean hiding behind something everybody can see. In your case, it means don't even try to hide the scars. Instead, place something on your forehead and higher and maybe even at one side of your face - a discolouring, like from a fire, with lines that look like more scars, the entire thing so big that it's just impossible - "

"Okay, okay, I got the idea." Harry felt a slight embarrassment at his untidy outburst - after all, he should have remembered this technique.

"Grow a beard, Harry. A short one - if you were ten years younger, you might do it anyway. And keep your hair short, too, very short, so that the discolouring is clearly visible - like someone who says, what the hell, let everybody see it." Sirius laughed. "It might even look pretty sharp, I could imagine - the women will come swarming."

"Yeah, right, that's the true reason, isn't it? Some thin story about something odd, while all I have in mind is a longer holiday from marriage - " Harry stopped himself - the joke was bad, and parts of it were too close to the truth.

Maybe Sirius had sensed it, for his voice had sobered up completely. "Whatever you do, Harry, just remember: if you go into the kitchen, be prepared for the heat, okay?"

Again this flat voice. Harry asked, "What is it, Sirius? Why do you behave as if I'm about to storm a house full of Death Eaters? You have some idea about what could be wrong at that school, am I right?"

"Maybe so, only I won't tell you. But so what - " Sirius' voice sounded almost angry, "- the number of possibilities is somehow limited, right? And Death Eaters are not the only evil one can imagine, not by far." Sirius' face came around once more, looking concerned. "All I'm saying is, if you're going to do it, do it professionally, don't fool around, and - dammit!"

Before Harry's widening eyes, Sirius reached for something behind his seat, found it, then moved his arm forward again - his hand was holding a camera with a tele lens, a camera he now brought into position, adjusting the focus; then he pressed the button, and Harry heard the whining and clicking of a motor-driven reflex camera shooting pictures in rapid succession.

Across the street, a man had been about to pass the entrance to a building. Now he halted, turned, and looked over. Maybe he could even hear the sounds, because he froze. Next moment, the man turned and disappeared through the entrance.

"Who was that?" asked Harry.

"Never you mind that now," grinned Sirius as he put the camera away. "Wait til' Deborah's report is published. Just remember, if you ever think you have to rent your mistress an apartment, find something where people like me can't park on the other side of the street."

About to protest that he had no mistress at all, Harry closed his mouth again. Sirius had only meant to emphasize his previous remark, that if he started something, he should play it seriously, rather than fooling around.

He had heard that before, many years ago. Even so, Sirius' advice didn't sound like a statement of the obvious.

* * *

The building in front of Gabriel showed the number "21" with digits that were impossible to miss even across the flowerbed which separated the house from the street. 21 Primrose Alley was the address Mrs Vanzandt's secretary had given him, and now he stood in this street with its well-maintained houses and stared at the McFarlane family home.

Maybe it had been a mistake not to call, not to announce his coming. But then, he simply hadn't known what to say over the phone. Wanting to talk with Caitlin, yes, that was the simple part. And why? Because he'd heard her singing once, eight years ago, and now ... Better this way, taking the risk not to find anyone home.

It gave him an opportunity to check the background. This street, for example - a house with garden here in Primrose Alley indicated a certain income, matching Gabriel's information that Mr McFarlane, whom Beverly had called an engineer, held a seat in the upper ranks of the Groucho management. When trying to guess what it meant for his plan, though, Gabriel felt at a loss.

There was a way of finding out more. He reached the entrance to the building and pressed the bell button.

A woman opened the door. She looked at him questioningly without saying a word.

"Er ... Mrs McFarlane?"

"Yes?"

"Er - good afternoon, my name is Gabriel. I'd like to talk to Caitlin, if she's at home."

Early in his life, Gabriel had found out that his family name raised an attention he didn't always welcome. More recently, he'd found out that his first name could easily be mistaken for a family name. Since then, he used this form of introduction whenever he saw reason to play the boy next door, at least for a while. In the family of a Groucho employee, the impulse to explain himself before revealing his parents' identity was still stronger.

"Please come inside."

Mrs McFarlane, who didn't know about all this, motioned him to follow her through a hall and a living room to another door leading to a patio. A table surrounded by chairs occupied half of the patio. Two girls sat there, books in front of them. The scene might have looked perfectly ordinary a few weeks ago, when end-of-class exams were due everywhere while now, during the holidays, this picture seemed a bit misplaced.

But Gabriel had a more urgent problem, he didn't know which of the two was Caitlin. They didn't look like sisters, despite the fact that both of them wore a T-shirt over a bikini, an appropriate dress for the location, weather, and time of day.

Mrs McFarlane said, "Caitlin, there's a visitor for you."

Watching her glance and how the two girls responded was enough to tell Gabriel that the girl with the slightly darker hair - light brown rather than dark blonde - was the one he had met eight years ago. With this knowledge, suddenly he could see certain similarities between mother and daughter, while his memory refused to provide a picture of the younger Caitlin.

"His name is Gabriel," reported Mrs McFarlane. "That's all I know." This said, she stepped inside.

Gabriel had a short instant to sense her amusement together with a kind of patient curiosity. Politeness had tempered this curiosity, and probably the certain expectation to learn more later. Then he found himself examined by the two girls, who stared at him with a curiosity not tempered by anything.

"Hi," he said. "Er - Gabriel, that's my first name. My full name is Gabriel Potter."

The girl who was Caitlin had showed a short moment of surprise; now she looked as though trying to remember something. The other girl, the one with the curly hair of lighter colour, said, "You wouldn't be related to the Groucho people, would you?"

Her voice was friendly, casual, marking her question as the kind of small talk a girl of seventeen might consider appropriate to a boy of fourteen.

"I'm afraid so," Gabriel answered. "The Groucho people you mean, that's my mother, although she has given up her job as the boss."

"Oh!" The girl put a hand over her mouth, maybe afraid of what might have come out next. She glanced over to Caitlin with an expression of guilt and embarrassment.

Following her glance, Gabriel saw something like recognition grow in Caitlin's face, and a grin about her friend's faux pas. To him, she said, "We met before, didn't we?"

"Yes we did. It was Beverly who had to take care of us one evening, both of us, and - "

"Yes, right, and she put us together, and afterwards I asked her who that was, and she said that's the son of my mother's boss, but it would be okay because ..." Caitlin smiled at the memory. "I don't exactly remember why, but I asked Beverly if you were one of these spoiled brats - rich parents' kid, you know?"

Before Gabriel could comment on that, Caitlin turned to her friend. "Now relax, he wasn't a spoiled brat then and it doesn't look as if he's become one."

"Yes, er - I mean, no, uhm ..."

Gabriel wouldn't classify himself as particularly shy or clumsy in the presence of other people, no matter which gender. However, telling a good-looking girl three years his senior to stop feeling embarrassed was a difficult task by any means, still more so in this situation, especially since nobody bothered to tell him her name.

Caitlin saved him by asking, "So what brought you over to our house, after all these years?"

"Well ..." The rescue had a short half life; a second later, he felt his tongue stuck again.

The other girl now really looked alarmed. "Want to have a private conversation with Caitlin?" She tried to rise from her chair.

Caitlin answered first. "No, what nonsense - "

"No, it's okay - er ..." hurried Gabriel to assure.

"... sit down - arrggh, I totally forgot - " Caitlin raised two hands in an imploring gesture. "Okay, folks, let's try again ... Hello, Gabriel, welcome - this girl with the nicely coloured cheeks is Reb, full name Rebecca, and if you call her Becky, you might find your own cheeks nicely coloured ..."

Gabriel giggled, found an echo almost simultaneously by Reb, full name Rebecca.

"... and I hope iced tea is fine, because that's what I can offer."

Gabriel nodded his agreement while Caitlin rose to walk inside for drinks. Then he turned to the other girl and said, "Hi, Reb, nice to meet you."

"Hi, Gabriel. You sure it's okay with me sitting here and - "

"Yes, of course, it's not that - er, private, and you'd hear it next minute anyway - I mean if you two are friends - "

Rebecca giggled. "How does it look?"

"It sure looks that way, only when I saw you sitting there, with books, - well, it looked as if you were doing your homework, and you know, sometimes you do homework with people you wouldn't tell everything, but it's holidays, so ..."

Gabriel's voice trailed off - for a reason unknown to him, Rebecca started blushing again, just when Caitlin returned with a tray, balancing three glasses of iced tea. He could watch a very short and totally wordless conversation between the two girls, then his view was blocked by a hand with a glass.

He took it and said, "Thank you."

Caitlin sat down, not completely relaxed herself, apparently for the same reason that had made Rebecca blush. She said, "Okay, then, Gabriel, what's the matter?"

"I got your address from Beverly's mother," he began. "I had to ask Beverly first, because I hardly remembered your first name ..."

"How is she?" interrupted Caitlin into his short moment of hesitation.

"Fine, I'd say." He smiled at the memory. "She's in Spain, holidays at the Mediterranean - in a group of a dozen people or so, and she's with a guy named Cameron. They're funny, her friends."

---

His mentioning Cameron had wiped the last traces of embarrassment from the girls' faces and now brought knowing grins in return.

"By the way, do you remember the details of that evening with Beverly?"

"No, why?" Wondering appeared in Caitlin's face. "Is it important?" There was a hidden impatience in her voice, telling him he might finally reveal his agenda or else get lost.

"Er - yes. That evening, Beverly had me confessing that I had started playing the flute, and then you said, you'd sing instead, and then you sang a song, or maybe two."

"Well, could be - it's not particularly difficult to make me sing." In a kind of politeness over barely tempered impatience, she asked, "And you? How did your playing the flute go?"

"Pretty well," he grinned, extracted the flute from its special pocket at his jeans, just opposite of his wand. "Here it is ... And you still sing, you said?"

"Yes, but - why can't you just tell me why you came here?"

"Please - give me a few more minutes, I promise that I'm not fooling around." Seeing her reluctant agreement, he asked, "So you don't mind singing in the presence of people, right?"

"No, why should I?"

Gabriel might have known a reason, the one that prevented him from singing in the presence of other people. Aloud, he said, "Would you mind singing a song now? Here?"

"You sure that's nec- " Caitlin stopped herself, seeing his face. "Okay, then. What shall it be?"

"Ummm ... What about Scarborough Fair?"

His suggestion wasn't quite as random as it sounded. Yes, this song was a traditional, everybody knew it, but in addition, it could be sung in a range between fair and extraordinary, and it offered room for interpretation. He could list five different singers, who had created five very different versions of this song.

"Sure, why not?"

Caitlin opened her mouth, about to start singing when she saw what he meant, that he would accompany her on his flute. So she nodded, waiting expectantly.

He rose - nobody could play the flute while sitting in a garden terrace chair with massive wooden armrests. In contrast, sitting on one of these armrests worked much better. He played a short introduction, told her with a glance and his raised eyebrows to stand ready, and nodded just when it was time for her first tune.

She sang.

It took her until the end of the first verse to get used to the accompanying flute, to synchronize her pace with his own. At that point, she already had changed from her initial flat style to more expression in every line.

He felt her eyes on him while he played little more than a filled pause in this song without a refrain, then she was there for the second verse - a clear, vibrant voice that wouldn't hesitate to jump an octave up or down but seemed to shy off a bit from sharper accents and more dramatic expression.

He elongated the next pause, filled it with a bit of noodling around, showing her how to alter the standard tune to something with sharper edges. In the third verse, she was still sitting on her chair but just barely, using only the foremost edge in order to find room for her torso to swing with the tune.

The fourth verse went just one line, then Caitlin was out of lyrics. She continued humming while he raised his flute's volume from an accompanying instrument to leading level, growing, growing until her humming drowned in the whistles of his flute. Then, ebbing down, he returned to the initial level to support her while she finished in the fifth and last verse, which repeated the lyrics from the first.

Gabriel and Caitlin beamed at each other as the applause rose - from Rebecca in her seat, and from someone behind Gabriel. Turning, he saw it was Mrs McFarlane.

"Hey, great, that was cool!" called Rebecca. "Add a guitar, and you can go on stage."

"That would be Tomas."

"Huh?"

"Tomas," repeated Gabriel. "He's the guitar player in our band, and yes, that's why I'm here, we need a singer for our band, Michel's the drummer, and then there's Héloise with her Goblin harp, but we have no singer, and then I remembered that evening and ... Here I am." His glance rested on Caitlin. "So, what about singing for us?"

She only stared at him.

"On stage, huh?" asked Rebecca.

"Yes. We give concerts in schools, so far. But Ireen, that's our manager, she says it's only a matter of time until we can try larger halls. At any rate, these schools are located in different countries, and for autumn, Ireen plans a tour - "

"Just a second!"

---

Gabriel turned around to the one who had interrupted his suada: Caitlin's mother.

"Singing with a band on stage, did I get that right?"

"Yes, Mrs McFarlane."

"And when would that be?"

"Well, in the coming year it would be about one concert every four weeks or so. And rehearsing, of course, and right now we are rehearsing in - " A raised hand stopped his explanation.

"I'm awfully sorry to cut into this negotiation," said Mrs McFarlane slowly, emphasizing every single word, "but this young lady - actually, these two young ladies - have got a grace period of four weeks to pass a school exam. On which it depends whether or not they stay back a year. I can remember a few occasions in the past year when I said something like, 'they'll be sorry because it'll hit them at the worst moment,' but ..." She met Gabriel's stare. "I didn't really expect to be that right. Sorry, but no way."

Turning around, he saw two hanging heads, partly obscuring flushed faces. And now it was clear what these books meant.

He might have grinned, if not for the presence of Caitlin's mother, and also for his own goal at stake. He asked, "What is it?"

Mrs McFarlane answered the question. "French."

"French?" An almost hysteric giggle escaped his throat.

"Not your problem, huh?" Caitlin looked up, anger and frustration in her face. "I happen to know that you attend a French school, so I guess if you're close to the edge then it's something other than French."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I wasn't laughing at you - it's just, well, you could call most of the band members French, one way or another."

"Gabriel - " Mrs McFarlane interrupted herself by asking, "may I call you Gabriel?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, Gabriel, you are not trying to hint that Caitlin would learn more French per hour when singing with your band rather than sitting here cramming, are you?

He grinned at her - this slightly menacing tone, this slowly increasing rhythm in a rhetoric question wasn't unknown to him.

"I didn't mean to hint anything, Mrs McFarlane, it's just that - " He stopped, his grin fading, returning an instant later. "But what if it was true?"

The menace was no longer hidden in Mrs McFarlane's voice. "Stop it, Gabriel. Now."

"I beg your pardon, Mrs McFarlane - what if it was true?" He too could put some steel in his voice.

For a few seconds, in which his eyes didn't move off of hers, it looked pretty much as if his visit would come to an unfriendly end soon. Then Caitlin's mother said, "Ryan, that's my husband, has a few stories in stock, about meetings with your mother." She sat down and grinned. "Somehow, suddenly I can understand some of these stories much better."

Gabriel didn't grin back. Nobody was going to make jokes at his mother's expense, not in his presence.

"Ryan says she never broke a promise," said Mrs McFarlane. "The hard part was getting it from her. So, Gabriel, as far as I'm concerned, I'm ready to put the same trust in you. What do you suggest?"

He exhaled. "I have no suggestion yet. But these people - Michel's mother is French, he's a classmate of mine. And Tomas, he's a gypsy from Spain but at the same school, and Héloise is Michel's sister ..."

He took a second to regain his composure. "Given that she passes the exam with our help, do you agree that Caitlin will be the singer?"

---

Mrs McFarlane took her time, stared at him silently. He could read from her face what she thought, that he was his mother's son in negotiations, only that wasn't new to him while the answer to his question -

"Did anyone ask me whether I'll agree?"

Gabriel turned to Caitlin and giggled. "Sorry, it went all so fast that - "

"My condition is that Reb and I get the same treatment to improve our French, whatever that is. As for the band - well, I'm not sure yet - "

Rebecca looked almost panicky. "Don't try to put me on stage - I can't sing, and I can't play. While for the French, I really would appreciate any help."

"Yes, sure," replied Gabriel. "I didn't mean to drive a wedge between you two, and since the other band members have known each other for a while already, it would be good anyway to have an old friend nearby for her." He turned back to Caitlin's mother. "Of course, in the long run, she'll be perfect, because normally we talk to each other in French, simply because - " He stopped because Mrs McFarlane had started to laugh.

After a moment, she grew serious again. "I guess we'll get along, Gabriel, after all, the McFarlane's don't break promises either" - she sent a quick glance to her daughter - "once they give them. So let me ask more precisely, what do you have in mind to support the learning process?"

"A crash course, sort of - bombarding them with French from morning till evening, with the exception of one or two hours rehearsal per day. I have to talk with Hermione and Viktor first, because it's their holiday house we use, but - "

"Wait, wait!" Mrs McFarlane bent forward. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, of course - sorry." Gabriel grinned. "Our rehearsals take place in Durmstrang, the wizarding school of Bulgaria. And our holiday house is at the Black Sea, and us, that's a lot of kids, and three adults - "

At this moment, he had the best idea of the last minutes. "Our hosts are Mr and Mrs Krum, both of them teachers at Hogwarts. Of course I have to ask them first, although I know that there's still room for more guests in that holiday house. In the meantime, Mrs McFarlane, I could imagine you'd like to talk with our manager, that's Ireen - er, Mrs Chee. She and her daughter Tanitha are also staying there."

Caitlin's mother found this an excellent idea. She had heard the name Krum before - small wonder, Hermione was a star of Groucho Biochemicals, and Mrs McFarlane's only concern seemed to be whether she could accept an invitation for free, just so.

Gabriel told her anything else would be totally unrealistic with a native Bulgarian like Viktor, who felt pride of every guest for whom he could play the host, an argument to which Mrs McFarlane could agree. Then he asked her whether she could take over the task of talking with Rebecca's parents about this unplanned crash course for French in bucolic Bulgaria, and was glad to hear that Mrs McFarlane would cover that part of the negotiations.

At this moment Caitlin asked, "What am I going to sing?"

"Huh?"

"If I'm going to be the singer in your band, what lyrics do I sing? What kind of songs do you play?"

"Erm ... Good question, actually."

Gabriel suppressed a nervous chuckle. Dragonfly already had filled two CD albums and was building up the stock for another, but nobody could offer a single line of lyrics.

"That's something we have to think about," he said. "But let's put your French straight first, because otherwise we don't have to worry about lyrics at all. Maybe we should start with 'Sur le pont d'Avignon'."

Without any preparation, Caitlin started to sing this old French song. Noticing the glance from her mother, she stopped, said, "It's French, isn't it?" and resumed her singing.

When he saw the twisting of Mrs McFarlane's mouth, Gabriel reached for his flute and put it at his lips. Even with such simple songs, accompanying a singer seemed very addictive.

* * *

Cho put her key card into the slot below the doorknob. When she heard the faint click, she pulled the door open and stepped into what looked like a very small and seemingly useless chamber. Closing the outer door, she moved forward to reach the inner door - this pseudo chamber was a double door system in which only one door could be opened at a time.

For an accidental passer-by, it would have looked totally inconspicuous. When asked later, such a person probably would report that someone from the hotel staff had passed through - a girl, or young woman, maybe Korean, or perhaps a Native American, at any rate not Caucasian but definitely pretty.

This description would have been very accurate because Cho had done what she could to give this impression. A while ago, after the official opening ceremony for the Vancouver Resort was over, she had changed from business costume to T-shirt and jeans, from high heels to sneakers, from loosely falling hair to a kind of ponytail. The only thing she couldn't hide as efficiently as her rank was her beauty, but a pretty face wasn't unlikely for a chambermaid.

The opening ceremony itself had been mercifully short. Cho as the MABEL representative said a few words - less than three minutes, after which she passed over to Reuben. Reuben went through the ceremonial sentences like a priest at a wedding ceremony, no more but no less, before passing over to Chantal McGovern, the Canadian Minister of Culture and Education. This woman didn't waste much time with cutting a red and white ribbon - the Canadian colours - because the next topic on the agenda offered first a glass of champagne, maybe two, before it was time to sit down for lunch.

Of course, Cho had been sitting at the same table with Reuben and the Minister. The lady turned out to be quite entertaining and not nearly as dull as expected; her laughter was as addictive as loud, not ladylike at all.

Even so, Cho had managed not to eat more than planned, and not to drink more than she could afford. The afternoon was already part of the four-week seminar, one of the most interesting parts actually and also the reason for her entering the room behind the double door system in semi-disguise.

Inside the dimly lit room, a woman was sitting at a table with a large monitor and a keyboard. When Cho closed the inner door, the woman's head came up and around despite the large headphones covering her ears. Recognizing Cho's face, the woman's alarmed look calmed down to make room for a smile.

Cho smiled back, a circular movement of her hands close to her ears suggesting to put down the headphones for a moment.

The woman obeyed. When the headphones were hanging around her neck, she said, "Hello, Cho - more or less, I've been expecting you."

"Yes, of course. Hello, Mandy."

Amanda Bloom, an old hand from the Recording Division of Groucho Spectors, had gladly followed the call from MABEL, a call sent by Cho herself. This desk was something like a video cutter workstation, and Mandy's job was to enhance the recording by tab stops whenever the scene changed. With these tab stops in place, moderators and other people - Cho, for instance - could quickly browse through hours of spector recording, or select scenes from a table of contents.

A spector recording was comparable to a video recording, except that a spector was a sphere in which the recorded scenes appeared truly three-dimensional. In this case, one scene meant one member of the MABEL seminar. Today's program was the introduction of all members, a self-introduction with a special twang. Cho hardly ever missed these introductions, provided she had a chance to participate - hidden, of course.

To a Mandy who had already turned back to watch the monitor, Cho said, "You were totally right, and I'll be here for quite a while. So, if you want to do something else, I can guarantee one hour at the very least."

Her offer meant an official taking over of Mandy's job for this period of time, with tabbing, entering titles for scenes, and all. While the room was just large enough to provide room for both of them, it would not be convenient, in particular with only one monitor and only one set of headphones.

Without turning, Mandy said, "If you can make it two hours, it gives me enough time for some shopping in Vancouver. I haven't seen a bookstore from inside in a while."

Cho's initial offer of one hour didn't imply that she would stop afterwards, it only meant that after this time Mandy had to be on stand-by somewhere close. But Mandy knew her well enough: Cho would most likely sit here until the end of the introduction session, and Mandy had no problem whatsoever asking her own boss for such a favour.

Cho grinned. "It's a deal. Now get out."

They switched positions. Cho put the headphones on her head and over her ears, scanned first the keyboard with its special extension and then the small auxiliary display for the spector recording state. She nodded and raised her hand to signal that the takeover was complete.

An instant later, Mandy was gone.

---

Cho just had time to get in sync with the recorded scene, then the man whose figure filled the monitor picture said, "... thank you for your attention," and left the lectern to disappear from the camera view.

Cho pressed a function key, then another and then held a cursor key down while the camera changed from close-up to half total. A camera doing this noiselessly had been one of the milestones in the MABEL development because since then, the recording could be done unnoticed.

The seminar members knew they were recorded - by a simple video camera at the other side of the room, constantly set to a viewing angle like that of someone sitting there. People could watch themselves afterwards, and if there was a discussion about who had said what, the video cassette could be reeled back to check what really had happened.

The seminar members had no idea that a second, hidden recording equipment delivered spector movies that could be zoomed up until you were able to count the freckles on someone's nose. These recordings were used in discussions about which members to grant magic, discussions that involved the High Priestess, Cho, the moderators, and sometimes other people but never the candidates themselves.

Tyler, one of the moderators, came into view. He walked to the lectern, turned, and said, "Thank you, Mortimer, for introducing yourself. Okay, folks, who's next?"

Tyler Meredith was the black male among the four moderators that belonged to a seminar. Wherever possible, moderator teams included two males and two females, two whites and two blacks, mapping these roles to four people of which only two were present in any particular session. The co-moderator in the introduction session was Rachel Lippman, the white female. However, the other two, Ralph Crowninshield and Sheryl Breekes, were also sitting in the room to memorize the names and faces of their clients.

Tyler nodded to someone, no doubt the next candidate for the "introduction with a personal touch," as the task for each member had been announced. The moderator stepped forward to make room for the next member.

The newcomer was a young man, also black. He reached the lectern, turned, and started to speak without the small gestures of embarrassment most people would express in this situation.

"Hi," he said, "my name's Eddie Cochrane, but Eddie's just fine. I'm a musician, play the bass guitar in a rock band, and I'm quite happy that - "

"Which one?" asked someone in the audience.

"Well ..." The man who called himself Eddie grinned. "Let's keep that a secret for a little while, okay?" His suggestion was rewarded with some laughter.

The man had introduced himself under his real name, which was not unusal but not a condition at all. For the introduction and also in the days to come, the seminar members were asked to play any role, assume any name they wanted to present. The only rule was, they had to assign a name to themselves by which they could be called - and if someone else claimed the same name, the two had to find a distinctive addendum. If two men in the same seminar introduced themselves with the words, "My name is Nobody," then most likely they had to go through the weeks to come as Mr Nobody Senior and Mr Nobody Junior, or something like that.

Eddie Cochrane, as Cho knew from her own data sheets, used a very clever disguise. He was a DJ in a British TV music channel, where he appeared under the names "Simply Black" or "Simpson". Eddie was a paying customer, had selected the Vancouver seminar as the earliest one and also because he hoped that nobody would recognize him.

Guessing from his job, he wouldn't be caught in some mistake that blew his assumed identity. Cho felt pretty sure that he had held a bass guitar in his hands before. Eddie's style of talking was of course fluent, no "ah"s and "erm"s - two minutes and thirty seconds later, Eddie made a slight bow before clearing the lectern for the next one.

In this short time, he had said more words than two other candidates together and had earned several laughs - plus a smile on Cho's face of which he had no idea.

The time limit for each member was five minutes. After this time, a moderator would cut the sermon without mercy. If every member had used the full time frame, the speaking time alone in the introduction session would last two and a half hours. However, there were many members who just said two or three lines, revealing their true identity, something invented, or a name known from literature or from a movie.

---

A woman appeared in the camera focus. After a moment of adjusting the camera angle, Cho recognized her - Sarah Furley, a street worker from San Francisco for whom magic was the only thing that would save her from capitulation to the gangs of witch and wizard kids. Of course Sarah was a scholarship member.

The woman leaned on the lectern, looked around with obvious amusement. "Hello, my name is Sarah. I'm a murderer."

The announcement was rewarded with murmur. Nobody laughed; Sarah didn't look at all like one of those figures in a sitcom.

"My score so far consists of three husbands who had different opinions about how to raise our children. Then two teachers, actually for the same reason, more or less."

For what Cho could hear, Sarah had the breathless attention of the full audience. There was a menacing serenity in her appearance.

"Oh yes, and two policemen who tried to give me a ticket for driving too fast. I don't like to list them because I'm afraid I was a bit prejudiced there. Anyway - "

A first, tentative laugh, dying quickly when Sarah shot a sharp glance.

"I came here because in my profession, magic is helpful for sure. And maybe also to look for new - er, targets; recently it was pretty quiet at the job front." Sarah's face split into a beaming smile. "I guess I found a candidate or two, but of course this has to be delayed - after all, we have more important things to do ... Thank you." Suddenly looking like a scared animal, Sarah tripped off.

Into the silence, Rachel, the white female moderator, came forward. Looking small in general, still smaller at Tyler's side, Rachel didn't even know how to look scared. She said, "Thank you, Sarah, for this impressive confession. Let me also confirm your sense of priorities; if you're here to develop your magic, there's no way of reducing the number of our round."

Outside the camera angle, Sarah's voice said, "Yeah, okay, that's understood."

Rachel suggested a break, apparently with the intention to engage Sarah in enough conversations to spread the news that this mass murderer was better than her fame implied. The audience gladly agreed.

Idly watching the room with the camera on wide angle, Cho thought about a world in which people with the acting power of Sarah were street workers, and about street workers who - without magic - had the chances of a snowball in hell. Street gangs with kids of thirteen, fourteen, magical without exception and harassing Muggles who couldn't defend against spells, were a problem worldwide. In the light of these developments, granting people like Sarah a MABEL scholarship was less than the proverbial drop on a hot stone.

After fifteen minutes, the session continued with a manufacturer of outdoor fashion, a paying client, who introduced himself as "Asphalt Cowboy." Next came a real actress who hid behind expertly painted make-up and a false name. She was followed by a billionaire who said his name was Dagobert Duck, and his profession too.

As one member after another appeared at the lectern, Cho had fun guessing their motives by comparing their real names and titles with the claimed ones. However, the seminar group still seemed a bit subdued. Sarah's performance had been too successful.

Well - it wasn't Cho's problem, and maybe not a problem at all. A MABEL seminar was no animation holiday club; a bit of pressure from a member performing too well or too badly was a good method for judging the others.

The evening program listed a casual dinner, followed by a sitting-together - something like a party without the name. Cho had still some time to decide under which name and title she wanted to participate - as a small secretary or as the big boss. One way or another, it would be interesting to have a longer conversation with Sarah.

And afterwards, she would try to find a place at the bar. Maybe Reuben would play the bartender again. Or maybe she'd find him outside on a barstool. Maybe even at her side.

The prospect filled her mind with joy. Her initial plan, to travel home after the opening, was forgotten.