Potter Professions

When Esmeralda awoke, she found herself lying in a bed that wasn't hers. The room showed no similarity to her dormitory; it looked lighter, more modern, and considerably more medical.

Next instant she remembered. This room belonged to the Hospital Wing of Hogwarts. She was a fever patient who just had come out of a delirium.

The fever had been real, and heavy. Therefore it took her a few seconds to remember everything. They'd met the High Priestess ... she and Carlos, which meant her brother was somewhere close, only she wasn't supposed to know. And her magic was gone except for a weak rest, only she wasn't supposed to know either. She had to stage-manage something so that this effect from her illness was detected as soon as possible.

Her magic. Her precious little magic. For a moment, she felt like crying. She had told nobody how much it hurt to pay this price. Yes, it was only temporary, the unavoidable prerequisite to join her father in that school in France. She had enough faith in the High Priestess, who would re-establish her magic in due time. Still ...

Magic was what connected her to her older siblings. She would never come close to their power, but that was okay, because nobody did. With her magic, though, at least she was playing in the same league. Without, they had nothing in common.

She loved them with a force she wasn't ready to admit, not even to herself. It wasn't the same as with Carlos - she could easily go through a week without seeing Gabriel and Sandra, provided she knew where they were and what they did, and that she would see them again. Then Gabriel would address her with the broken Spanish she'd taught him, and Sandra would catch her with one arm and Carlos with the other, hug the one on the left and then the one on the right, as if showing affection was the easiest thing in the world.

A week of separation was something she couldn't even imagine with her brother Carlos. Probably he wasn't too far away, maybe just through the door - pity she couldn't do the tricks their older siblings did.

Although, with the magic gone, these tricks would probably have stopped working anyway.

Esmeralda lifted her head from the pillow to look around. Feeling a slight dizziness and a totally unfamiliar weakness, she sank back again. This fever had really kicked her flat.

Seconds later - or so it felt for her unreliable sense of time - the door opened, and the figure of Hermione appeared.

For Esmeralda and Carlos, Hermione was something like an aunt, except that nobody dared to call her so, not even as a joke. Here at Hogwarts, though, Hermione was Professor Krum, in charge of Potions and the laboratory duties that went with the hospital.

She looked a bit unfamiliar. Mostly it was the white coat, as Esmeralda became aware. But in addition, her face showed something new.

A moment later, she knew what it was. Hermione looked professional, and not at all like on the occasions when she came to visit in Carron Lough.

---

"Hello, young princess of the fever dream." Hermione showed a well-trained smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "So you're awake, as this sensor told me." She pointed at a piece of Muggle technology on the wall. "It looked as if you tried to reach the bathroom. Might that be?"

"Er ..." About to say no, Esmeralda felt that it could well be, and more so by the second. "Yes, but - "

"You felt too weak. Understandably so, after a few days of fever 'round the clock. But I'm going to support you, and it'll go better with every step. Come on, let's try."

Esmeralda came up again and lifted her legs from the bed. She stood up, swayed a moment while Hermione stood in front of her, arms ready to catch her whichever way she fell. But she didn't fall, she steadied, then walked to the bathroom.

Hermione was right - Esmeralda felt her body gain firmness with every step. Her bladder, in contrast, still seemed too weak to do its job because peeing took a small eternity. Or maybe there was just a lot.

Filling the toothbrush glass with water, Esmeralda heard Hermione's voice through the door, "Slowly! Sip after sip - better bring the glass out."

Wasn't that typical Hermione? Always ready with a recommendation.

After a first gulp, Esmeralda felt a light nausea rise in her throat. She stopped. With the glass in her hand, she came out and stumbled to the bed. When she was in again, her torso supported and the glass in her hand, she grinned at Hermione. "I thought you'd be overcautious again."

"Again, huh? When did I last do that?"

Rather than answering, Esmeralda giggled. The truth was, she had been quoting her parents. Yes, Hermione tended to be concerned, only Esmeralda couldn't remember a case when she'd been wrong.

The Potions witch acknowledged the implicit answer with a short smile. Then the smile faded, and she said, "I'd like to do a little test, to see if this fever has hampered your abilities."

"A test?"

"Yes. I want to test your magic. It's only been a few days, but at least something as simple as Lumos shouldn't be a problem for you, should it?"

"Of course not!"

Esmeralda played the slightly offended child for good reason - she wouldn't have known how else to hide her relief that she didn't have to invent some scene herself. Her skills as an actor taking the initiative were badly limited, while responding to a challenge from outside came almost as a genuine reflex. She watched as Hermione went to the small wardrobe and returned with her wand, that precious piece of acacia Esmeralda had quickly learned to love. She took it and called, "Lumos," in the tone of casual expectation she used toward her dog Bolo.

The tip of her wand showed a short spark, then faded to simple wood.

"That's what I thought," said Hermione, taking the wand from Esmeralda's hand, just when she - almost too late - played surprise and was about to try again.

Returning from the wardrobe where she had deposited the wand, Hermione came to a halt, put one arm as support of the other and her chin in one hand, and looked thoughtfully at Esmeralda. "When was the last time you met the High Priestess?"

---

"Aram'chee? Erm ..."

Nobody in the the Potter family was a good liar. Still worse, the question had found Esmeralda unprepared. "I think that was at the beginning of the summer break," she shaid after a moment of scanning some fake memory. "Or was it the end of last term? ... Why?"

"Did you meet her alone?"

"No, certainly not. Carlos was there, and of course Sandra. Why?"

"Because I experienced such a fever already, fourteen years ago. A fever that doesn't leave traces in the blood or anywhere else. It was caused by the High Priestess, only that then it was much more dangerous than yours ... And that of Carlos, because your brother suffered almost exactly the same, and he's only a room away. But the funny thing is" - Hermione's scrutinising stare, more than her rising voice, stopped Esmeralda's attempt to climb out of the bed and storm into this other room - "Carlos remembers a meeting with the High Priestess that was about two weeks ago."

"Really? Then maybe I was wrong, or I can remember as badly as I can do spells."

Inwardly, Esmeralda sighed of relief. Had Hermione confronted her with this discrepancy at the beginning of her explanation, she might have scored better, might have caused a stammering and a blushing face while now -

"Yeah, maybe. But even stranger is this: you don't get upset at realizing that your magic is gone - you don't even ask. You don't get in a frenzy at hearing that Carlos had this fever too, and he remains completely calm and composed at hearing that you had the same fever he had."

Uh-oh. They'd botched it.

Hermione grinned. "You're up to no good. I knew it the moment I heard about the Potter twins being feverish at the same time ..."

Esmeralda couldn't suppress a beaming smile. Potter twins, Hermione had said. For that, Hermione might call her a liar and a thief and a dogkicker, and Esmeralda would still forgive her.

"... problem is that I don't know what you have in mind, and I don't think someone's going to tell me soon. You should be thankful, though, that I was the one to take over your treatment, especially now that you're awake again. And you know why?"

Esmeralda had a fair idea, but asked nevertheless. "Why?"

"Because you're such bad liars, Poppy would have gotten suspicious at once."

Was this a compliment or a censure? "But you too got suspicious at once, you said so yourself. Then why's it better that you get suspicious?"

"Because" - Hermione's grin turned broader and more malicious - "I'm ready to play along and not to blow your thin cover, that's why. But of course it has its price."

"Huh?" For a moment Esmeralda was at a loss to follow. The only thing she felt sure about - Hermione didn't mean money. She was so rich from her Potions royalties paid by Groucho Biochemicals, it would have taken a full-time spending job to use all that money.

"When it's over, you owe me a tale."

Esmeralda looked innocent. "When what is over?"

"Stop playing the clueless country bumpkin! I guess your father's involved, and I wouldn't even be surprised to learn that our Headmistress's involved too. Harry could always twist her round his little finger, just the way you can twist him round your little finger."

Esmeralda couldn't suppress another smile. It certainly would have given her away, had there been something left.

"So, do we have a deal, young lady?"

She nodded, her grin getting broader all the time.

"In this case, just wait until I'm back with - " Hermione interrupted herself. "No - there's a simpler way. You can find Carlos in the next room to the right. I'll be back with a potion and your breakfast in a minute - for both of you and in the other room, all right?"

Esmeralda was already out of the bed, which seemed answer enough for the smiling Potions witch.

* * *

Cho went through the short moment words couldn't describe, then she appeared at the destination of her apparition jump. She hadn't seen it for quite a while, hadn't missed it either. Now she stood in the arrival station of the Hogwarts Express, closest point to Hogwarts still outside the field that disabled portkeys and apparition. She was here to fetch her children, who no longer were able to benefit from the services of Hogwarts.

No longer. Ha! Cho suppressed the thought - boiling in rage on her way up to the school buildings was pretty useless. And besides, hadn't she volunteered for the job?

Harry, taking pains to keep her informed about the progress, had called her to report that the fever was over and their two youngest were as good as new - well, except for that little flaw of their magic being gone. Cho, in return, had offered to fetch them and to enrol them at the school in Brest.

Harry had agreed, not showing overly much surprise in his voice. He knew that she hadn't changed her mind about this project, but he probably also knew why she had offered her help. Staying away wouldn't change anything, it would only deepen the rift between herself and her children - and besides, there were several people who would have come to help otherwise, since Harry could hardly do it by himself. One of them would have been Rahewa, his goddaughter and Cho's protegé from her days as the Groucho CEO. Or Laila, should Rahewa look too young. Or Sirius, or Deborah, Sirius' wife. None of them would hesitate to commit any crime Harry might ask for, so Cho saw reason to commit this particular crime herself.

She reached the staircase that led up to the Entrance Hall. Climbing the stairs, passing the door and looking around, she couldn't help feeling that somehow in her memory everything had been larger and a bit more impressive. Maybe she should ask her old friend Almyra how the school looked in the eyes of people who passed these halls every day. But then, maybe she couldn't care less.

She reached the Hospital Wing.

Madam Pomfrey, the doctor witch, didn't recognize her at first but then, after Cho had mentioned the two children, exclaimed, "Yes, of course - Cho Chang! The only time you were ever here was after your concussion from hitting a tree, right?"

Cho nodded, smiled, and swore inwardly, asking herself why old teachers couldn't treat you as the adult you were today. And Poppy Pomfrey wasn't even a teacher. But Hermione had to finish a double Potions class, as Cho was told, leaving only the doctor witch, who escorted her to the one room with her children.

One room?

Carlos' room, nominally. A second bed had been moved in, although the beds were little more than a precaution and a simple method to keep the children separated from the other first-years. They were bound to leave the school anyway, so why not using the fever as the natural cut?

When Cho entered the room, two faces looked up as if controlled by one mind.

"Mummy!" A shout simultaneously coming from two mouths. Next moment, two figures in pyjamas came hurrying.

She dropped her bag to have both arms free. "Hello, my two bunnies ..." The hugs she received told her that any weakness from the fever was gone. It also told her that coming herself had been her best idea in a while.

After a moment, Esmeralda sobered up and asked, "Why did you come here?"

Cho made big eyes. "To fetch you, what else? You've lost your magic, so you cannot stay here, and I'm going to take you to your new school. Isn't that obvious?"

Apparently not, since the girl eyed her suspiciously. "Which one?"

"The one you've heard about, if you know what I mean," replied Cho conspiratorially.

She felt Carlos' thoughtful glance. After a few seconds, he said, "I thought ... The last time we talked about it, you didn't want us to go there."

"Well ..." Cho wrinkled her nose. "I'd be lying if I said that I like it any better than before. But you're determined, and your father too, and now that you've lost your magic I thought it would be just stupid to keep away and scowl."

It earned her another hug, however also another thoughtful glance from Carlos. The boy, Hufflepuff to the bone, was fully aware of the tension between his parents, and now wanted to check whether Cho's cooperation had any meaning in this regard.

To be honest, she'd like to know that herself.

While the children dressed and went packing, Cho had a word with Hermione and another with the Headmistress. Both women knew her - or remembered her - well enough to read from her face and to avoid stupid remarks about elaborate plots as a Potter tradition. She also tried to see Almyra, unsuccessfully so because her friend was in classes and wouldn't come out for a while.

Returning into the Entrance Hall, she found a group that had grown by two pets. She had missed the reunion of girl and dog, but Bolo's excitement was still high and jumped up again when she reached them. She had to kneel down and caress him, otherwise he wouldn't stop whimpering.

"Do you know," asked Esmeralda, "what's the rule about pets in that other school?"

That's the first thing you think about, isn't it? You were so busy throwing yourself into this adventure that you didn't think about your poor dog and the role he'll have to play.

Thoughts like that quickly crossed Cho's mind before they were pushed aside in favour of a more sensible answer - and, as she had to admit with gritted teeth, a very satisfying one. "Actually, yes. They're not allowed in classes and during the meals but otherwise there aren't any fixed rules. It means that if you can get along with your roommates, there's nothing that forbids Bolo sleeping in your dormitory."

"I'll get along with them."

Yeah, probably, using bribes or sheer force as she would see fit. The fierce stare of determination in Esmeralda's face left little doubt, once this crazy story was over, the girl wouldn't accept a school that offered less. Cho sighed inwardly.

---

Her sigh was considerably more audible when walking together to the Hogwarts Express station. While Bolo found it just great, Cho had only one name for the Hogwarts officials who still refused to open the protection field. She could have said it aloud, there wasn't much love lost between her children and Hogwarts, but trained parental reflexes prevented her from doing so. The slight amusement in her son's face told her that he knew anyway.

They reached the station. Had she been a witch of the same power as her husband or her older children, she could have summoned them. But she wasn't. Maybe some day she would stop feeling inferior for that, and in the meantime she apparated, after her children had used their porties. A moment later, they were at Carron Lough.

The castle was just an intermediate stop on their way to the school in Brest. Harry had asked Ron to prepare a smooth transit, but as it turned out, these were the days when students arrived at the school from all directions - after having concluded beyond any reasonable doubt that they were handicapped in the magical sense. Therefore it was a simple task to enrol new children; arriving there was almost all they had to do.

Still, at least they could have a decent meal at their home. Sitting at the round table in the dining room, Esmeralda asked between bites, "Who are we, there? We won't be Potter children, will we?"

"No, certainly not. We'll use the most obvious choice."

"Oh, I know," exclaimed Carlos. "We are the Garcia children, and our parents are dead, and we were sent to relatives, but they aren't too keen to have us, and when it became clear that we have trouble with our magic, they sent us to that school. So we aren't exactly orphans, but as good as."

Cho stared at him. He had given a perfect description of their cover story. At the same time, his words had pointed out with cruel clarity how these two eleven-year-olds were set up - like two goats tied in a circle to attract a tiger ... And her husband was the hunter, and she was the one who had guided the goats into that circle. She felt like screaming.

Carlos had watched her play of emotions, misinterpreting it. "I'm sorry," he said in a subdued voice, "I shouldn't have said that. It isn't true, it's totally different ..."

Cho managed a smile. "It's okay. I know that it's different, I mean I know that you think so - it's just that it sounds so scary, if you remember what ... You must be careful when you're there, and report everything that doesn't look right. Hear me?"

"We will." Carlos nodded with emphasis. "Daddy said the same."

By way of consolation, Esmeralda said, "Mummy, you shouldn't worry. When things get hairy, it's never us who are in danger. It's always our parents."

Next moment, she became aware what she had implied, and added quickly, "But Daddy knows what to do, and besides, over there he isn't our daddy at all, so ..." She fell silent, apparently registering the weakness of her own argument.

Cho inhaled deeply. "This particular daddy is a survivor. He's been predicted dead so often, it nearly counts as a joke. So if I deliver you there and leave in a hurry, it's just to look after my own safety, right?"

Her own joke was awfully thin. Even so the children joined it gladly to escape the trap hole in their conversation. Cho had the small satisfaction that at least they had stopped anticipating that this bloody school would be a summer camp in which they could recover from the bad treatment in Hogwarts.

"And there's Bolo," said Esmeralda.

Cho nodded. "Right, and that's a lot of protection."

It was true - hearing that nobody objected a German shepherd as pet had calmed her a bit. But the dog would protect Esmeralda while not Carlos, simply because they would be in different buildings, and the suicides had been boys.

She reminded herself of the positive aspect in this fact, namely that there was no danger of the children being killed by someone else. With this comforting thought, she finished the meal and prepared for the second part of the journey.

One hour later, she delivered the children to a Madame Clément, teacher in charge of schedules and also of new enrolments. To reach the school after arriving in Brest, she had used the most expensive car money could lease, chauffeur included, and had made quite a scene when the gates wouldn't open to let this car in, so she had to walk the few steps.

Driving back, she smiled at the memory of this scene. It had been a relief to shout and stamp her feet, to curse the school that swallowed her children. But she had used Mandarin, so nobody could understand a word.

* * *

Harry's whistle ended the volleyball game that had been running between the two halves of his last class for the day - girls, sixth-years in Hogwarts terminology. Here in Brest, they were called eleventh-graders, but in his mind Harry hadn't stopped using the system he'd been familiar with since his own childhood.

The girls marched in the general direction of the locker room while Harry, ball in hand, marched toward his own small room. Calling the danse macabre he'd seen a game was something like an euphemism, and he already had some ideas how to change that, but today his mind was preoccupied with something else. In the early afternoon of the same day, the number of students in the class under construction had grown by two he knew well - Carlos and Esmeralda.

Reaching his room, he sat down and fetched his phony. The first button he pressed was that for Carlos' phony. A second later, a calm voice informed him that this subscriber was currently unreachable.

So Carlos had switched off his phony. This was somewhat irritating, but just when Harry pressed the button for Esmeralda, the memory hit him like a kick in the stomach - he couldn't call them and say, "Hi, Daddy's here, how are you?" Carlos had probably been aware of that and, careful as ever, had switched off the device to figure out first how things worked.

Harry swore inwardly at himself. He nearly had blown the cover with a few thoughtless words. Involving his own children in this plot was madness, and his only excuse was that it hadn't been his own decision in first place.

"Yes?"

Esmeralda's voice - a bit vibrant of expectation because the display of her phony had of course identified the caller, but at the same time sounding careful and well controlled.

"Hello, Miss Garcia, this is Mr Letterbottom, calling in the name of Mrs Chang. She would like to know whether everything is fine and to your satisfaction."

"Er - yes."

Esmeralda's voice was slightly questioning. She didn't know what he had in mind.

"She also wanted me to ask you if the dog could be put in your room."

"Oh, yes, that works fine, I think. We're four girls in a dorm here, and when they saw Bolo, they agreed at once. We all feel a bit, er, away from home, and that - er, yes, you can tell her that this is okay."

"Splendid, Miss Garcia. Could you please tell me your exact address?"

"My address? But you - oh, okay, yes, of course, it's the building St.-Nazaire, second floor, room two hundred-and-seventeen."

"Thank you, Miss Garcia. I tried to reach your brother but unsuccessfully so. Do you, by any chance, know his address?"

"It's the building Toulon and also the second floor but I don't know his room number."

"Well, this might not be necessary. Please tell him that I, Mr Letterbottom, will call him as soon as he can be reached again."

"Yes, I'll do that, but I won't see him until later in the evening."

"There's no hurry. Thank you again, Miss Garcia, and goodbye."

"Bye, Mr Leatherbottle."

This name had been a deliberate joke from Esmeralda's side, to tell him that she was fine. Harry thought that the girl's performance in this first phone conversation between father spy and daughter spy had been quite remarkable. He stood up to examine the map at the wall that showed the school estate with all buildings.

---

St.-Nazaire was one of three buildings along a cul-de-sac, all three of them named after harbours with saints in their names - St.-Malo first, St.-Nazaire in the middle, and St.-Raphael at the dead end. All three of them hosted girls, this way giving room for bad jokes about their saintliness, as Harry had had the opportunity to hear from colleagues.

Toulon was one of two buildings along a short street that connected the two main streets in the school estate. The other building was called Dieppe, giving proof that the exact geography hadn't been a criterion when dubbing the buildings. Otherwise, the building should have been called Nice or Marseille, but these buildings were found somewhere else in the school.

Harry decided to inspect the locations now, a few minutes before supper time. Once he knew where they were and how they looked, he could apparate, or maybe find an opportunity to summon his children into his own office for a short talk. They had to establish a method for a regular exchange - once a day, if possible. A minute should be enough.

He took a light canvas bag and put three volleyballs inside. Totally meaningless by itself, this bulky bag over his shoulder made him look busy, official, harmless, and altogether ignorable. Coming out of his room, he felt glad to find the gymnasium empty save for himself - the girls in his last class might have asked questions about what he had in mind with these balls.

He reached the Toulon building first. Stepping inside, he found a small foyer and a large staircase. Without hesitation, he started to climb the stairs. What might have looked suspicious two hours later was now, in full daylight, something nobody would remember the next day: A teacher, more exactly a sports teacher, went through the building.

He reached the second floor and walked along the corridor, which had another staircase at the other end. He couldn't find any similarity whatsoever between this building and his old Gryffindor Tower at Hogwarts - light-flooded and boring the one, dark and mysterious the other. Well, this had been a building to host navy cadets, which was reason enough for a totally different architecture.

Sensing around, Harry felt quite sure he'd identified his son's dormitory. Two hundred-and-fourteen was his guess; one of the entities inside showed a very familiar mental pattern. For an instant, he pondered the idea of opening the door and closing it after a second or two with an excuse. But he dropped it next moment with respect to Carlos' untrained state as a spy.

Approaching the St.-Nazaire building, he saw four girls come out, a German shepherd between them. Without noticing him, girls and dog turned the other direction - apparently toward the corral that served for pet dogs during meals or classes, large enough so the animals didn't feel like in prison and could maintain their own social contacts.

Harry halted his step, exhaling in relief when the group had disappeared. After all, dogs didn't play by spy rules, and Bolo's reaction at registering Harry would have looked very strange in the eyes of the other girls.

An hour from now, the building would be guarded by a concierge. Currently, however, Harry could enter unnoticed to climb these stairs as well and to reach room two hundred-and-seventeen at the second floor.

Should he have a look inside?

Putting his senses to full height, Harry could feel that at least this floor was deserted. He took the door handle and pressed it down, only to learn that the door was locked.

Unlocking doors with mental power, and locking them again, once had been a virtue Harry could master easily. Today, however, he didn't trust his fluency to do it here where someone else might arrive any moment. And besides, the dormitory wasn't the best place for apparating and summoning.

The washing room served this purpose much better, provided Esmeralda managed to enter it alone and call him to be summoned from there. Harry went down the corridor to inspect this room so he would be able to reach it via apparition. Peeking inside, he felt more embarrassment than nervousness at the thought of being caught. It would have been difficult to explain what he was looking for.

---

Walking down the second staircase, his senses still at full alert from the inspection a moment ago, he sensed a presence, somewhere below, that felt very much like a crying girl. While this alone might hardly be extraordinary at such a day and in this building, there was something that caught his attention: When reaching the ground floor, he still could swear that the girl was somewhere below him - but she seemed to have stopped crying, suddenly felt like on alert herself.

The staircase led further down into the basement. Gripped by curiosity, Harry stepped down, listening with all his senses. What he felt was a presence in growing alarm.

Coming round the last turn, he knew why. At the bottom of the stairs sat a girl, Esmeralda's age, looking at him with anxiousness, actually like a cornered rabbit. And cornered she was - the entrance door to the basement solidly locked, and the only other escape - up the stairs - had been blocked by himself, coming down.

"Hello," he said. "I thought I'd heard someone crying, that's why I came looking."

She just stared at him. Despite her tear-streaked face, she nearly shook her head, and her eyes told him that she didn't believe his explanation.

He smiled. "I didn't say I heard you crying. But there was such a heart-breaking misery that it was impossible for me to miss it. You must know, I can sense such misery."

"Oh ... Are you a wizard?"

"Yes, sure - all teachers are wizards, or witches."

For some reason, this information seemed enough to send her into another sobbing attack.

He sat down, a few steps away. "Is it so bad to be here?"

Yes it was. After a short wave of fresh tears, the girl told him a story he could have heard a hundred times these days. Her name was Chloé, Chloé Broussard. Chloé had expected to learn charms with her friends, had learned instead that she couldn't do magic, and had been separated from them. There were two aspects in this story that made Harry ask further.

The first was Chloé's origin. She came from Nohanent, a small town near Clermont-Ferrand. There had been magical drop-outs already before, a fact that didn't surprise Harry at all. The worldwide outbreak of magic was the result of a worldwide distribution of certain potions in many different forms, however all of them dependent on some kind of consumer activity. A very small town in the mountains, here the Massif Central, was a likely candidate to show gaps in the supply network.

Even this fact provided just an explanation while no reason to do something. Harry's motivation to become active was fed by a much more specific bitterness that rose when he asked about her wand.

"It's elder," Chloé replied. "Nine inches, with a core of fairy cake."

"Fairy cake?" He'd never heard of such a matter, not to mention its usage as wand core.

"Er, yes. It's ... Dragon heartstrings weren't possible, or any of the other materials in that range ..." Chloé's voice faded, misery shortly pushed aside by deep embarrassment.

Harry decided to ban at least this demon. "Too expensive, I assume?"

"Yes. With unemployment and so ..."

"Do you have it here?"

Yes she had, presented it to him with a gesture so hopeless, so far away from the pride he associated with first wands, that he had to mentally remind himself not to jeopardize this plot in favour of a girl he hadn't seen ever before in his life. But when he examined the wand, his rage grew by the second.

It looked as cheap as it probably had been, or worse. Holding it in his hand, there was hardly a feeling of solid wood, more of something like naturally grown cardboard. The core seemed to fall out crumb by crumb, and when he inspected one of these crumbs more closely, Harry had the distinct impression that the so-called fairy cake showed a strong resemblance to fairy shit.

He tested the wand. Somewhat to his surprise, he yielded a result, but so weak that he wished he could, here and now, strangle the salesperson who was responsible for this purchase.

"I don't get anything out of it," confessed Chloé, who had watched his attempts.

"Then why did - " Harry stopped himself in mid-sentence, remembering Mr Ollivander's words about state-of-the-art techniques. "How did you get it?"

"From Let-a-Prix."

Let-a-Prix, the largest mail order enterprise in France, sold everything from books and music over electronic equipment to magical tools. They went any pace and any price, from a few cents to thousands of euros. And, come to think of it, probably Galleons too, provided you revealed yourself as Magical.

"Have you ever been tested? Medically, I mean?"

"Uhm ..." Chloé wasn't sure what he meant, felt embarrassed again, and the tiny bit of trust she had developed in the course of this conversation seemed at risk once more.

"Waving a wand with some success isn't really a test," explained Harry. "If it works, it's proof that you're a witch, okay, but if not it doesn't tell us why, or why not. There are ways to check certain symptoms that can play a role. After all, you're not the first and not the - "

"Which ones?"

With a jolt, Harry realized that he was about to expose himself and his special knowledge beyond reasonable measure, and that this Chloé might be miserable and magicless though not morone. He never should have climbed down these stairs. But now it was too late.

"I'm no expert. I have to check around myself, but I know someone who's a bit more familiar with these issues than I. Where can I find you, once I know what to test, and how?"

Here in this building, she replied in a tone suddenly indifferent. Room two hundred-and-twelve, second floor, as the number indicated.

Astonished from this change, Harry tried to read her face, a task that wasn't made easier from the girl looking down.

Before he found the time to ask or guess, her head came around and she looked him squarely in the eyes. "There isn't a test, right? You asked for my room number to be polite."

"I didn't lie to you about this test, Chloé, and I won't. I don't promise anything - except that I'll come back and tell you if there's a test and what it is and whether we can give it a try with you. I will come back and tell you - even if the answer is no, I'll come and tell you."

Another stare from these eyes, then an almost imperceptible smile, gone before she opened her mouth. "Yes, okay ... Thank you."

Harry was already outside when he became aware that the girl hadn't asked for his name, and he hadn't offered it. But a moment later, he calmed down again and continued his way, relieved at realizing the explanation.

There was no need. Chloé would identify him any time and out of any crowd, thanks to his large discolouration.

* * *

Gabriel looked around. The practise room Dragonfly had been granted by Madame Maxime, Headmistress of Beauxbatons, was quite spacious. They weren't the only ones to play here, but Dragonfly was the sole user of a small storage room next door, which made the setting-up and dismounting at the start and end of a rehearsal short and easy.

No doubt, Beauxbatons did their bit to make Dragonfly feel perfectly at home in the school. Well-minded and generous as it looked, Gabriel didn't fail to notice the subjective motivation behind. While it was certainly correct to call Dragonfly a student band, assigning them to a specific school could be done in more than one way. He and Michel, the founders of Dragonfly, were students at the Goblins' Ecole d'amitié, only that school lacked the space required to offer such commodities, and besides, the Beauxbatons students in the band wouldn't object to a title like Dragonfly, the famous band from Beauxbatons.

The Goblins wouldn't object to such a title either, as Gabriel knew for sure - at least not aloud, not in public. They just had a different perspective, and maybe he was the only one who felt this egotistic element behind Madame Maxime's support.

But then, sponsoring was a mutual business, wasn't it? Gabriel had experience with sponsors - Miyikura for instruments, Groucho for equipment, now Beauxbatons for locations ...

Anyway - they were here, it was a great room for practising, with excellent acoustics, and today they planned to run a first test with Moira's lyrics. Everyone was here for this - Gabriel, Michel, Héloise, Tomas, and Caitlin. The managers Ireen and Rebecca were absent, as was Desmond. Rebecca would have liked to join her friend Caitlin for the occasion, but Gabriel had convinced her that the new source of lyrics still had to be considered evasive, to say the least, and needed time to settle in an environment with so many people.

Right now, this source of lyrics was walking toward Caitlin. They had scanned through the list of Dragonfly pieces, and Moira had flipped through an exercise book or two, and together they had decided to try Summer Sunset first. As far as the players were concerned, this song was as good as any other, but it seemed as if Moira's confidence in these lyrics was better than in any other.

Moira reached Caitlin and passed her a letter-sized spiral notepad. While Caitlin started reading, Moira hurried back to her place, almost in a corner, and it seemed as if they should be glad that she didn't disappear completely.

Caitlin looked up, a smile in her face. "Hey, that sounds cool. I like it - kinda love at first sight, you could say ..."

If Moira's pride heard these words, it seemed not motivated to make her swell.

"... sure our audience will like them too. And all that's missing now - please tell me, how do I sing them?"

"What?"

"I want to know how I have to sing them." Caitlin pointed at the notepad in her other hand. "These are the words, okay, great. And what about the tune?"

"But ..." Moira looked utterly baffled. "The song is the tune - Summer Sunrise."

For a short instant, Caitlin's face looked as if she was going to give an answer one might expect from an Irish temper. Then, probably thanks to Gabriel's careful coaching in preparation for this occasion, she just walked to the CD player, put in the album on which this song was the second track, and pressed the play button.

Seconds later, when the first sounds came through the speakers, Caitlin stood there, notepad in hand, moving to the rhythm of the music. She kept that stance for about a minute, then stepped to the CD player again and stopped it.

Coming up, she looked at Moira. "Sorry. Either there are too many possibilities how to sing it, or just one but I'm too stupid to see it, or hear, or feel. Whatever. So please, show me."

"And how?"

"That's - " Caitlin swallowed another reply. "Sing it."

"Sing ..." Moira's face flushed at a speed that seemed unnatural. "Oh no, no, I can't sing it. Not with you sitting there, and watching, and listening to me singing. No, that's totally - "

Caitlin interrupted her, apparently no longer able to resist a tiny bit of sarcasm. "Am I allowed to listen? I can do it standing up, if that's a help."

To everybody's surprise, Moira giggled.

After a moment of amusement around the circle, enough to relax the scene a bit, Moira said, "I'm sorry, I know I sound bloody stupid and stuff, but ..."

Michel, thanks to his sister an expert in handling extravagant girls, said, "I guess I know what to do. She's right, in a way - playing the CD doesn't work. Come on, folks, let's play."

Moira looked partly relieved. The other part, though, looked as if robbed of the last defense, and no way to escape.

Caitlin watched her. Next moment, she asked, "Do you know French?"

"Huh?"

"French - the language that's spoken here around. Some weeks ago, my friend Reb and I, we had trouble properly learning this stuff, and the solution was that this guy over there" - Caitlin's head nodded toward Gabriel - "and his sister tranced us. From that moment on it worked."

---

Had Gabriel suggested this idea, most likely Moira would have fled in panic. But it was Caitlin - the same girl who had been standing on stage, fearlessly singing into a microphone in front of several hundred people, this dreadnought had needed a trance to learn something as simple as French. Suddenly, Moira was no longer alone with her excessive anxiousness.

She looked at Gabriel. "What do you think? Would it work?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. I guess we just give it a try, then we know more."

A snorting sound came from the place where Héloise sat. Before she could say more, most likely a sentence like, You bet your sweet ass that it'll work, Gabriel sent her a quick glance and an even quicker mental note.

Unfortunately, Moira had heard the snorting as clearly as anyone else. "Did you want to say something?" she asked.

Héloise won Gabriel's admiration with her quick reflexes.

"Well, not really, it's just - you know, it's like in a crime play here, like will it work, or will they catch them ... Or maybe like in a romance, will the two of them manage, if you know - "

"Okay, okay," interrupted Gabriel with a sideward glance to a blushing Moira, although his own cheeks also felt a bit hot. "Let's stop telling each other how extraordinarily thrilling this is, and play a little music."

He stepped over to the girl. It would have been enough to just take Moira's head between his hands, except that suddenly he felt a barrier - face to face, in front of all the others? No way. So he made her sit down, stepped behind her, put his hands on her shoulders and close to her throat, keeping this position while the others got ready to play.

Feeling confident that he had calmed the girl sufficiently, he walked to his own place to be ready with his flute.

After the intro from Héloise and her harp, after Gabriel's flute had played the cries of birds at an early morning just before sunrise, when Tomas' guitar took over and Michel's percussion gave a decent support, Moira started to sing.

• "Hey, Sun, old fool, why can't you wait
  to start the day? I'm running late
  because your stupid face
  appears at such a pace.
  'You sleep to long,' they say to me
  and point at you. 'Look! Can't you see?
  The sun is up for ages.
  Now go and earn your wages.'

  You bloody star, go hang yourself
  up in the air,
  what do I care?
  your sunrise isn't mine.
  Go find a singularity
  and shove your sphere
  down that hole where
  the sun will never shine."

The latter verse seemed to be the refrain, if there was something like a refrain. Gabriel nearly missed his next entry because he'd been musing about a sun that was swallowed by a black hole. He also had been listening to Moira's voice.

She was no Caitlin. She didn't have this melodious glow in her vocal cords. Instead, her voice sounded angry, barking like a street dog that was kicked time and again and still didn't surrender ... Only toward the end of the song, when the singer had stopped cursing the sun and could find some pleasure in its rays, the barking gave way to a husky purring, a dog turning into a cat.

With some efforts concentrating on the musical aspects, Gabriel noticed that she could hold pitch without any trouble, in this regard on a par with Caitlin.

As if this would be of any importance, he reminded himself. Moira sang there only for demonstration purposes, and only because he'd treated her with a calming spell. In a few moments, the song would have finished, and then they'd start over again, this time with Caitlin as the singer.

---

The song ended. Moira stood there, listlessly, as if stunned.

Caitlin, who had been sitting through the performance, stood up and walked to Moira. Reaching the girl, she took her hand and pulled her forward to the chair she'd left a moment ago. Moira followed like a puppet and obediently sat down when Caitlin gently pushed her shoulder.

This done, Caitlin turned toward the others. "Folks, I've got some news for you. Maybe it's bad news, or maybe not. But - well, I don't know how to say it, so ... I can't sing that song."

They just stared at her. Moira stared too.

"My voice is - well, it's beautiful, just right to sing beautiful songs. But the problem is, it has to be a beautiful song. I hope you know what I mean. The song I just heard - it's great, it's incredible, but it isn't beautiful. That's why I can't sing it. Maybe it's a protest song, or a special kind of rap, or maybe there's no name yet for this style we just - "

"It's Moira music."

Faces turned toward Tomas, the one who had said these words. He shrugged, as if to indicate that he just had given words to the obvious. Then the faces turned back toward Caitlin.

"Yes, I guess that about expresses it. So what I'm trying to say - I know what I can, and I know what I cannot, that's why I have no problem confessing that this song's beyond my range, and if that ends my short career as your singer, then - I hope not, but anyway, at least I know who can sing that song."

Caitlin turned and, with a theatrical gesture, pointed at Moira. "Ladies and gentlemen, here's your singer of Summer Sunset, it's - "

"Ha ha. Very funny." Sitting calmly, Moira looked at Caitlin without moving a muscle in her face.

"Funny, is it? Then let me show you something that's a real joke, except that I can't laugh about it." Caitlin marched to the recorder that had ben running all the time, stopped it, let it reel back, and pressed the replay button. She had stopped somewhere in the middle of the song, and the speakers presented Moira's singing again.

When the recorded song had ended after a minute or so, Caitlin said, "To my untrained ear, this sounded pretty much as if it might as well have been the material for an album recording ... And me sitting there and listening and realizing that I can't sing it like that - you won't believe how funny that is. I could roll over from laughing."

She marched to the table where Moira was sitting, sat down herself, tense jaws resting on two fists. A quick glance to the other girl, then she looked again straight ahead, ostensibly trying not to lose composure.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean ..." Moira became a bit more agitated. "Look, maybe we should sit together and go through my lyrics. There are others where a voice as yours fits better. And besides, I can't sing, so it's no question - "

"Stop telling me you can't sing!" Caitlin's snarl was testimony of her vocal range which, audibly for everyone, extended far beyond the scope one would call beautiful. "Otherwise I'm going to take this recorder and hit you - "

"Okay, sorry, what I meant was, I can't sing in front of an audience. If not for this trance from Gabriel, I wouldn't have sung here either. So maybe it's the trance that should be blamed."

Moira looked a bit confused when the others - Michel, Héloise, and Tomas - let out a short burst of laughter.

Even Caitlin showed a grim smile. "Yeah, sure. It's probably the wrong time to point this out, but that doesn't make it less true - most of the Dragonfly pieces aren't well suited for songs with lyrics. In a normal song for a normal singer, the music is much less artful and more cut in units of verses. That's what I'm used to, and that's what I expected when joining the band."

"We know that," said Tomas. "We knew it since the day you arrived in Gabriel's trail." Seeing Caitlin's face at these words, he said quickly, "Listen, you will sing for Dragonfly, there's no question about that, not after the concert in Beauxbatons - "

Michel cut him short to address Caitlin. "You should watch the recording of that evening, then you would stop worrying about your role here."

Caitlin's face grew pink. "I did. I watched it."

Héloise chuckled, however in a sympathetic way that lacked her usual teasing.

---

Moira asked, "Why can't we just sit together and go through my lyrics, and see what suits best, and then - "

"Fine with me," interrupted Caitlin. "And for each song, I'll sit and listen, and the band will play, and you will sing, right?"

"Oh."

Héloise turned toward Moira. "Do you have more stuff? Poems you wrote just so, without a particular music in mind?"

It was Moira's turn to flush. "Might be, yes."

"Then maybe we should look through them, and see whether our composers can find music that fits and provides the basis for a normal song, like those you find in the charts, one week after another. But in the meantime you should stop fooling yourself ... If these cowards don't find the courage, then I have to be the one to tell you - we won't let you go, and we won't rest until you sing your special songs for an audience."

"I'm ready to sing chorus any time," added Caitlin. It was hard to tell whether her voice resonated in anticipation or maliciousness.

"I'd rather die," said Moira.

"Not before the end of the first concert," replied Héloise with her usual cheer, which was softened by Michel, who added, "But at that time, there'll be no longer a reason, you know."

Into the laughter, Moira said, with a slight trace of desperation, "But I'm serious! I'm not trying to - to cheat you. It just doesn't work. When I'm supposed to present an essay in classes, my throat goes so tight, it feels like choking."

"No problem. Gabe will trance you."

Feeling the glances rest on him, Gabriel said, "Or Sandy."

"Huh?"

"Sandra, my sister. Her trance is as good as mine. But she's free - I mean, she isn't busy with the flute or the harmonica or whatever. Maybe she could sing chorus with Caitlin - after all, isn't a chorus supposed to be more than one?"

"I can sing a lot of chorus," said Caitlin, earning another laughter.

"She could be the tambourine girl," said Héloise, "provided there's still room for a tambourine in that song." Seeing Tomas' sour face, she grinned. "If bad comes to worse, she still can be a go-go-girl."

"Yeah," called Michel, "with high boots and tight pants." He was also rewarded with heartful laughter, only his sister looked a bit surprised at her younger brother.

"In this case," said Tomas, "there's just one little question left."

"Which is?" asked Gabriel, realizing after some seconds of silence that Tomas had one of his rare moments when he put dramatic effect in his speech.

"Which is, who's going to hang the bell round the cat's neck? In this case, who's going to tell Sandra? She's just the most powerful witch around, that's all."

Faces turned toward Héloise like cannons toward a target.

The Veela girl responded with an innocent face. "Why? Who said she wouldn't fancy high boots and tight pants?"