Potter Professions

Testing someone for magic was the easiest thing of the world, provided you were a Potter, or a close friend of the family. Actually, the permission to use that particular family heirloom could serve as a test of whether you were really as close a friend as you thought, although this family hardly left anyone unsure about that.

In the current situation, though, the test Harry had in mind for Chloé looked almost as difficult to him as to any person without the privilege. The reason was his test device, the same which normally made it easy. More exactly, the reason was the device's very special nature.

Said device was of flesh and blood. It was a she and responded to the name Nagini - provided you spoke Parseltongue, because Nagini was a snake with a brilliant green skin. Formerly Voldemort's snake, she'd been abandoned by her old master in the Battle of Hogwarts, to be found only minutes later by Harry. Among Harry's first actions had been a reduction spell which had brought Nagini back to her original size: Voldemort had engorged her so she could provide him with the amounts of elixir he required in his bodyless state.

Still not exactly small, Nagini could be fed with acceptable quantities of food. Her first meal from her new master had been two pieces of dragon meat, from the dragons that were killed in the same battle, and since then Nagini would carry out every command from her master.

To be accurate, she would have done so in any case, because she had no choice, as she had explained to Harry during his unsuccessful attempt to figure out the scope of this mysterious mastership. But she also gave him her unwavering support, something Voldemort had never achieved because even snakes could feel exploited.

When Sandra Catherine had come into this world, the support hadn't wavered but had expanded to include the girl who, among other things, had inherited the ability to talk with Nagini. For several years already, most people considered Nagini as Sandra's property - as far as this term was appropriate for the snake. Recently, however, a neutral observer would have reported a much neglected pet of intimidating appearance and still more frightening abilities.

Nagini could distinguish between Magicals and Muggles. She also could distinguish between truth and lie, although in a somewhat scary way. She would report lies if the person just tried to be polite or express a compliment, and she would report truth without any side remark from killers and other beasts in human shape. Her ethics were totally serpentine.

Harry, experienced in filtering Nagini's comments through a sieve shaped by social concerns, would bring the snake and the test person together, and after a moment, he would ask Nagini to which category the person belonged. End of test.

For any other person, he would have chosen between the two alternatives of a visible or a hidden snake. In Chloé's case, neither of them was an option. He wasn't sure to which degree it was public knowledge that the famous Harry Potter had a snake that could recognize witches and wizards. But he wouldn't take risks in this regard, so Chloé seeing the snake, or hearing him talking with her, was out of discussion.

Unfortunately, Chloé not seeing the snake didn't work either, simply because she would not trust his statement. He could understand that - sitting down on a chair in a room, and ten seconds later the teacher going behind a curtain, a hissing sound, and then he had the result? This would look pretty much like the cheapest hoax in the history of TV entertainment, except that there was no camera hidden.

So Harry needed a halfway convincing device. Moreover, he needed it quickly, until late afternoon. And it had to be something he could operate well enough to let Chloé buy the charade.

The picture that was growing in his mind was of some Muggle technology, and some magical ingredients. Something mysterious, and medical ... which often enough was the same thing, and this thought brought the name of the old friend who would rescue him from his dilemma. Hermione.

He had about two hours before afternoon double Sports was due; his appointment with Chloé was scheduled shortly after that class. He went back into his apartment, using the walk to sort out steps and arguments in his mind. Arriving there, he had his strategy ready.

---

From his office and living room in the Cayenne building, he apparated into Carron Lough to fetch a broomstick. He took his old Steel Wing because he might be forced to leave it unguarded at a public place for a few minutes, and the Steel Wing - personally branded twenty-two years ago - would punish any attempt of unauthorized use by another person quite painfully.

With the broomstick in his hand, he apparated to the Hogwarts Express station near Hogwarts. There he mounted the Steel Wing and sped to the tower platform. From there he descended the staircases down to the Hospital Wing. Early afternoon - he was lucky. Ten minutes later, he was sitting opposite Hermione in her laboratory office.

She grinned. "I had a feeling I'd see you soon." With a glance at his discolouration, she added, "But I wasn't aware how you'd look."

"Oh, really? And what made you feel that way?"

"Two patients I had, not too long ago, pretty young both of them, and therefore not particularly good at cover stories and poker faces."

"I see. Well, I'm dramatically better at that ..."

They both had the short smile an old but nonetheless good joke deserved.

"... and that's why I'm here. Hermione, I need something that looks like a device for testing magic."

Hermione's eyes widened briefly. "Strange how that fits, after those two patients had lost their own. But why don't you use Nagini for that?"

Harry smiled, genuinely pleased by this rare moment. "Do you remember my exact question?"

"Yes of course, you asked for - " Hermione stopped, smiled herself without showing any guilt. "All right, the picture's getting clearer. So you will use her, only she can't be shown, and you need something impressive instead."

Fast as ever, Hermione lived up to her reputation, saving him a lot of explanations.

"Yes, I think I know how to handle that, it should be convincing enough in this environment and with - "

"Huh?" Harry eyed her suspiciously. "What are you talking about? My idea was to fetch something from here and - " Seeing the expression in Hermione's face at these words, he stopped. "Why not? What's wrong with that?"

"Everything, but two arguments should be enough. First, I'm not ready to lend you any equipment. No need to take offence - you know, I trust you with my life and with the fate of the world but not with my equipment, see what I mean?"

Somewhere between laughter and rage, Harry just nodded.

"Second - you're such a bad actor in matters like this, and you know so little about how to play the white-coated guru, that I strongly suggest to bring the person here."

Harry sat there for about half a minute, silent and with lips pretty thin, while Hermione looked expectant but with every second more confident.

Finally, he nodded. "All right, then."

"Great." Hermione showed a smile that lacked all gloating, and a second later, Harry knew why.

"I need about twenty minutes' preparation, and I guess you need another journey to bring Nagini first, right? In that case, you better tell me right away what this is all about."

He stared at her, meeting a glance that told him not to take it for blackmailing, and to remember that proper support needed proper information, and she would figure it out anyway, so why not?

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

In fast forward, he told her how he was playing teacher at the school in Brest, and how his children fit the picture, and how he'd met a girl that had been cheated first by fate and then by a French mail order service.

Hermione had listened attentively. "This Chloé," she asked then, "does she play a special role in this game?"

"Not that I'm aware of." Harry shrugged. "I just stumbled upon her, so to speak, and it's just for my self-esteem that I want to keep a - well, it was a kind of half-promise, but you know how it is."

"Yes I know, and I also remember that you have a talent to meet certain people who suddenly become a catalyst."

"Ah well, yes, you can interpret everything as an omen." Harry stood up. "I'm going to fetch Nagini."

---

The Steel Wing was just where he'd left it. That would have been the case anywhere else as well - at the main entrance for instance - but today's students didn't know Steel Wings and would hurt themselves when trying to use it "just for a short spin." Imagining McGonagall's face at hearing about his careless use of dangerous broomsticks, Harry had some fun at the short flight to the Hogwarts Express station.

Having reached Carron Lough again, he marched straight up to the winter garden that served as Nagini's home, heated round the clock and round the seasons because the snake's idea of comfortable warmth demanded a tropical climate. It took him a moment to find her half hidden under some leaves, in this state that resembled a wake trance more than anything else.

"Hello, Nagini, long no see. How are you?"

"As always, Master, in this room that satisfies my needs so well."

"Not bored?"

"No, Master."

It was a kind of joke Harry played on himself - a joke because Nagini was unable to grasp the concept of boredom, and on himself because Nagini had much trouble with the concept of humour. Serious again, he asked, "I want to test a girl for her magical abilities, that's why I need you. It must be done at Hogwarts, and you must remain hidden. Is this okay with you?"

"Certainly, Master. I welcome the opportunity to be of service in return for the care I receive from you and my Missy."

Missy was Sandra, who hadn't shown much care for the snake recently. But then, it had been her work to implement this winter garden.

Harry took the snake and held her while Nagini curled herself around his upper torso. The animal was as heavy as he remembered. He apparated back to the Hogwarts Express station, mounted his Steel Wing once more and delivered Nagini into Hermione's care before hurrying off to reach his own school in time.

After double Sports, he barely had time to shower and change clothes before the knocking at his door announced the expected guest. "Come in," he called while trying to close the cuff buttons of his shirt.

The door opened hesitantly, and the expected head peeked in.

"Come in," he urged, "this should get as little publicity as possible." In case she wondered why, he added quickly, "Otherwise I'd drown in students asking me to do the same for them."

Chloé entered and closed the door behind her, too busy looking around to ask the obvious question - why he did it for her. He wouldn't have known what to answer.

Closing his second shoe, he came up. "Okay. There's a small change in our plan. The person who owns that device wasn't ready to lend it to me ..."

In Chloé's face fought satisfaction at hearing why she couldn't detect anything strange and scientific with this mask-like stare that signaled the attempt to cope with another untrustworthy adult.

"... which means, if the prophet doesn't come to the mountain, the mountain comes to the prophet, right?"

"Huh?"

"The device couldn't come to you, so you come to the device, that's what I wanted to say."

"And where is it?"

"That," said Harry with a face as if asked about Santa Claus, "is something I'd like to keep to myself. You know what apparating is?"

"Yes, of course."

"And summoning?"

She had heard about it, yes.

"I'm going to summon you to this place. Are you ready?"

Chloé gave no direct answer, while from her face, anyone could have read that the honest answer was No.

"Listen to me," Harry said, sitting down for another moment. "This place is another school. We'll meet a woman, an old friend of mine, and she's a kind of doctor, and the place is like an examination room in a doctor's office or in a hospital. The last half mile or so, we must walk because this place is protected against apparition."

Chloé said, "Yes, okay," and when he offered his hand, she understood at once and came closer to take it.

He apparated himself and instantly summoned her to the Hogwarts Express station. It wasn't really simultaneous, something only Gabriel had managed, but the fraction of a second difference was meaningless. From the girl's perspective, they both arrived at the platform in the same moment.

He pointed. "It's up there, a few minutes' walk."

---

In the first two minutes, Harry could see that she twice started to ask him again where they were, and stopped herself because she hadn't forgotten his remark. Then the surroundings had caught her attention, and it seemed as if she liked to play along in this mystery tale better with every step.

Walking through the Entrance Hall and toward the Hospital Wing, they passed a few students whose conversation made it clear that English was the native language here. However, Chloé was so occupied in watching the floors and walls and ceiling that Harry wasn't sure if she'd registered that.

Hermione had been waiting for them. "Hello," she said using French, and toward the girl, "You must be Chloé - come with me, your spotty friend may wait the few minutes here."

Unable to suppress a grin, Harry watched as a giggling Chloé followed Hermione into the adjacent room.

As soon as the door was closed, he stepped to the corner of the room where, hidden from view, Nagini was lying. "Well," he said, "what is it with the girl?"

"She is no Muggle, Master," replied the snake, "but she is no witch either. She feels almost like the young woman I had to test here in these rooms, years ago."

This young woman, as Harry remembered at once, was Clara Stein, sister of Clemens Stein, the potions wizard who could be called the inventor, or discoverer, of the magic-triggering potion. The two of them had been as close as Carlos and Esmeralda, and his sister's lack of magic had been the driving force for Clemens to search for a cure until he finally succeeded, thanks to the help he found at Hogwarts.

Harry nodded to himself - this was pretty much what he'd expected. He sat down to wait for the end of the fake examination.

Ten minutes later, the door opened and Chloé came out.

"Well, how was it?"

She giggled. "I had cables everywhere, and it tickled and was cold too, and next moment it tingled." Chloé looked up expectantly, since at that moment Hermione entered the room with stripes of paper in her hands.

When Hermione's eyes met his own, Harry rubbed his nose. According to the code they had agreed upon, scratching his head would have meant "Witch" while scratching his beard would have indicated "Muggle," and any position in-between meant neither the one nor the other.

Hermione nodded and walked behind her desk to sit down and examine the papers for another moment. Then she looked up. "Okay, Chloé, from what this snake-like thing here tells me ..."

For an instant, Harry's eyes bulged from his efforts to avoid a snort, if not a laugh. He knew that this was Hermione's revenge for not initiating her into the plot from the very beginning.

"... you are something like an incomplete witch. Definitely not a Muggle, not a squib either, but as I said - for some reason, the development didn't quite finish."

"What does it mean?"

"It means something you're painfully aware of - you can't do magic. That's the diagnosis, that is the precise description of what caused your trouble. The prognosis is the realistic assumption of how it will continue. In your case, the prognosis is simple - it stays that way unless we find a treatment to complete your development as a witch."

Hermione exchanged a quick glance with Harry, then continued, "There's only one treatment I know about. It's no guarantee but it shows good results. With that - "

Chloé interrupted her. "What are good results?"

"Well ... I'd say, fifty-fifty at the least, probably better. The problem is, this treatment is incredibly expensive."

"Oh."

The hope that had started to sprout in Chloé's face faded, giving room to sad resignation and to a shimmer in her eyes that announced a losing fight for composure.

"There might be a chance," said Harry. "I've heard about people who do a kind of sponsoring for such cases. It means that they pay the treatment."

Chloé looked at him. Yes, she believed his words - since the moment they had entered these hospital rooms, she knew that his promises weren't hollow. Only she couldn't imagine anyone who would sponsor an incomplete witch from Nohanent near Clermont-Ferrand.

---

Harry stood up. "We can discuss this on your way back - high time we return to the school."

Chloé nodded obediently and followed him a moment later, apparently with her mind so full that she hardly noticed the Hogwarts students who kept staring at them with open curiosity. Outside, walking to the Hogwarts Express station, she finally found the courage to express her concern. "Monsieur le Professeur, these - "

"My students just call me Prof," said Harry by way of support.

"Er, yes, er, Prof - these people you mentioned ... uhm, why would they pay a treatment for me?"

"It's one of these groups who take care of other people in need - or animals, for that matter, but in your case it's definitely human ..."

The joke died long before reaching its target.

"... so they see no reason to pay for people who can afford such a treatment anyway. None of their clients is somehow special, and many of them are as poor as you."

Rather than looking offended, Chloé's expression lighted up. Being as blunt as that seemed to help.

"They sponsor a limited amount of people each year. It's their decision, and normally they take their time to decide whom to sponsor and whom not. For each sponsored case, there are ten others. I tell you that to make one thing clear: don't expect me day after tomorrow to come and to shout, 'I've got it, I've got it!' It's worth an attempt, the chances are limited, and it'll take some time."

Chloé nodded. "Yes, I know, Prof."

Almost having reached the destination of their walk, she said, "I don't think they'll take me. Nobody in our family has ever won any competition or quiz. So, as long as it takes to ask them, I can at least imagine."

Harry stared at this small-scale philosopher, who looked quite content despite her words. Seeing his stare, she said, "Well, it's true, isn't it? It already feels like a miracle that you ..." Her voice faltered and she quickly stared ahead, but the sudden vivid colour of her ears revealed enough of what she couldn't finish.

Back in his apartment, he let her wait for a moment to check the corridors outside. Then he signaled to her, and together they climbed down the staircase and out of the Cayenne building.

He waved goodbye at Chloé and turned the other direction. At this moment, he noticed a colleague, Agnès something, who stood not far away. Apparently she had watched him with Chloé.

He passed her, greeting her casually, "Hi, Agnès."

Only her eyes gave answer. This answer told him that she really would like to ask him what business he had with that girl in his apartment, only she couldn't find the right opening.

Just before Agnès turned away, her eyes sent another message. Watch your step, it said, because I'll watch it, too.

* * *

Gabriel was in a creative rapture. This state, which otherwise had nasty side-effects on his performance in more conventional courses like Math or History, had started a few days ago in Dublin.

Tuesday evening, Dragonfly had found a second singer, although a very reluctant one. The next day, Gabriel visited Beauxbatons again at lunch time. He found Moira in the canteen and managed to introduce her to Sandra and vice versa. Of course Moira knew Sandra as the school champion in magical contests, and of course Sandra remembered Moira from the Dragonfly concert, but Gabriel saw reason to double-nail every social step with this girl.

After this introduction, he sat with Moira in the same cafeteria but some tables away from Sandra and Frédéric, and raised the issue he had mulled over since the previous evening.

"The last time we sat here, it was because you had lyrics for our songs. Okay - today it's the other way around, I'm here because of songs for your lyrics."

"Huh? Isn't this just the same?"

"No, I mean the lyrics you wrote without a song in mind. Yesterday you said you had some, and I'd like to give it a try." Seeing Moira's reaction, he added quickly, "I mean finding the tune for one of them - you know, I never before tried something like that, staring at words and searching for a melody."

"So you're the composer in the band?"

"Oh, not me alone - I come with an idea, and Tomas listens to it and finds something to play on the guitar, and Michel listens to it and looks where to accentuate with his drums and so, but ... yes, the first idea is usually mine."

Moira nodded. "I could give you something. Until some days ago, I looked at them as poems, but when a poem is sung, it's a song, right?"

"Yes, exactly. But ... Uhm, you know, I had the idea to scan through and start with the one that catches my attention most."

"Oh my God!"

After a moment of confusion, a blushing Moira confessed that the idea of him scanning through her most intimate literary works was enormously scaring, while the idea to be tranced just in order to pass these spiral notepads over to him seemed even worse.

"Hmm ..." Gabriel felt momentarily at a loss.

"The problem is that you're a boy," explained Moira. "It's not ... It's nothing ... I mean, don't take it personal ..."

Gabriel was reminded of scenes at the Black Sea, when trance-teaching two girls French. Next moment, he had an idea. "Would it be possible that you and Caitlin together go through these notepads?"

Yes, that shouldn't be a problem.

"And would it work with me sitting somewhere close, and you and Caitlin together decide whether to present the first verse to me? You read it, or Caitlin reads it, something like that?"

Moira's eyes lighted up. "That sounds wonderful. You know, presenting them to someone else is quite a thrilling picture, and sometimes I could scream at myself for tensing up that much, but - "

Gabriel laughed. "Yeah, I know that feeling well."

"You?"

"Sure. With the flute I feel free, but otherwise ... Anyway, if that's okay with you, I'll make an appointment with Caitlin. What about their house in Dublin? That's far away from Beauxbatons and all the students here."

The idea had great appeal for Moira.

It had even more appeal for Caitlin, who couldn't wait for the moment when she would sing the first truly original Dragonfly song with a tune not published before and lyrics not stolen from somewhere else.

---

And so they sat in the dining room of the McFarlane home, the two girls at one side of the table, Gabriel at the other - after having confirmed beyond doubt that he couldn't read handwriting in headfirst position. The girls turned page after page, giggling every now and then, and occasionally Caitlin asked, "That one?" toward Moira, to earn a nod and then to declaim a few lines for Gabriel.

After the third verse, he told them to put a marker in this page. After some more scanning, Moira lost a bit of her reluctancy, although some minutes later she squeaked, quickly turned the page and said, "Sorry, that wasn't intended for public."

Little by little and page by page, they found a few candidates to which Gabriel could imagine himself breeding a melody. Then suddenly there were noises from the entrance hall, and Mrs McFarlane appeared. When Caitlin introduced the new guest, she said, "So you're the one who wrote a song my daughter can't sing? When can I hear it?" as if this was the most natural thing and just a matter of time and schedules matching.

It seemed to help, or Mrs McFarlane had a way to make it simple - she sat with them for a few minutes, her daughter read the first lines of the two main candidates for her, Mrs McFarlane looked at Gabriel and said she'd favour the first but she was no composer, and shortly afterwards Mr McFarlane came home and of course Moira and Gabriel had to stay for dinner.

During dinner, Moira found herself as the topic of a round in which six people, including Mr McFarlane and Caitlin's younger sister Grania, discussed tight vocal cords, jelly legs, and a panicked brain as though it was a recipe for plum pudding that needed still some refinement. They all agreed that it was pretty normal while not worse than blocked French, that the first concert was the only serious barrier because afterwards the problem would be gone, and that Gabriel should get his sister Sandra as a nerves nurse - after all, he was the one who'd started this business.

Gabriel returned from this remarkable afternoon with three sets of lyrics and immediately started to work. He found it quite difficult - he was no professional composer, he constantly tended to make it too complicated by far, he knew that the singer should be in the center but he didn't know to to handle it. So he listened to other people's songs, suddenly with a new attention and with two different ears, one for the melody and one for the accompaniment.

Some days later, Dragonfly had its next rehearsal. When Gabriel summoned Caitlin, making a mental note to get some porties, Mrs McFarlane reminded him that it was his job to make the other girl sing. He did his job - Moira had found lyrics for an older Dragonfly song which she felt sure could be sung by Caitlin, and in order to hear it first from Moira, the girl had to be tranced again.

The result was better than expected - or worse, depending on the perspective. Caitlin listened to the recording twice, already humming along in the second repetition, and then presented her own version.

When the song ended, they beamed at each other - until Héloise, accurate and merciless as ever, said, "You know what - I really would like to hear it sung from both of you ... Together, of course."

Under different circumstances, they might have tried it the same evening. But their time frame in the small hall was over; they had to clear out before the next people arrived. These were the members of the Beauxbatons Theatre Group, and Gabriel decided to just wait here for his sister and talk with her about the role Dragonfly would like to offer. Or ask for, which was more to the point.

He had forgotten Caitlin - someone had to take her back to Dublin. He summoned her, couldn't return immediately because Mrs McFarlane was there, and by the time he arrived at the entrance to the practising room, there were only three minutes left before the next rehearsal would start.

When he reached Sandra to fix a meeting, she said, "Why don't you stay until we're done here? Today I could do with some moral support."

Gabriel nodded in devotion. Watching a theatre rehearsal was the last thing he'd needed with all his own problems, but when Sandra asked for support ... Even without the request he had in mind, he would have known just one answer.

---

The group seemed complete, except for their leader and director. This man arrived some minutes later, and when he stepped forward onto the stage, Gabriel had the opportunity to learn two facts formerly unknown - the man's first name was Hayden, overheard in greetings from some group members; and the man had very little in mind with females of any kind, probably with the exception of actors on stage.

The man's searching look fell on Gabriel. "A new face in our circle? No, alas not! The deadly enemy's face stares at me and hides his evil mind in youthful innocence!"

Gabriel stared, yes, that much he felt ready to agree. While otherwise ...

Hayden beamed at him. "Excuse my dramatic gesture, young friend, but of course I recognized the flutist and musical brain from Dragonfly, and any band is competition for sure, especially if they play rock, still more so if they have a singer, and most of all if this singer is a girl!"

His overarticulated falsetto raised giggles and laughter in the circle. Even Gabriel had to smile. He had little experience with gays, but this man's light-footed self-mockery had style for sure.

Then Sandra came to help by telling Hayden that her brother was only there to hold her sweaty hands, and over the next few minutes, Gabriel realized that he would see no performance this evening; the group was still in the process of formation, discussing roles and approaches and who'd do what and who couldn't imagine himself and things like that. It was quite instructive: he could watch various people go on stage and talk to the audience, and he could register how his own uneasiness grew when the speech they'd prepared didn't work, for whatever reason.

It was about an Antigone, a name Gabriel had heard before. Other names were new to him - a Creon, a Haimon ... He felt baffled for a few seconds when they started talking about an Ismène, before the discussion revealed that this Ismène was Antigone's sister, rather than that of Héloise.

Then Sandra stood up, walked to the stage, and said, "I want to play an Antigone who is a family girl. She's the younger sister of two dead brothers. Her own younger sister is still alive, but otherwise her family is in shatters and tatters. This is her motivation, and that's what I want to present in her character."

Sandra had fallen silent, after the shortest presentation so far. She stood there, apparently waiting for reactions.

Watching, Gabriel could see that Hayden kept waiting himself. Neither to the outside nor in his mind did he reveal his own perception of Sandra's model how to play this character.

After a moment, someone said, "But isn't that obvious? Of course it's a family matter, the entire Oedipus story is a family matter ..."

The tiny pause raised a bit of laughter, and Gabriel, though not terribly familiar with Oedipus and his family bonds, caught a hearty dislike of the speaker.

"... sounds a bit as if someone said, 'I play Antigone as Antigone.' Sorry to be so blunt, but that's what I understood." An elaborate gesture emphasized the difficult journey from Sandra's mouth to the young man's brain.

Sensing his sister's growing rage, sensing also an unfamiliar uncertainty in her, Gabriel sent a soothing wave and some encouragement, mentally pleading to keep cool and relaxed.

Sandra said, "I still have to figure it out in full detail for myself, that's one reason why I can't draw any more than just an outline today. But then, and without going into detail on anyone's capacity in understanding outlines ..."

Her own tiny pause earned her a few smiles, in Gabriel's opinion a much better score than open laughter.

"... this particular outline is, if not more, at least very sharp. My Antigone will not be a fighter for freedom, she does not consider Creon a tyrant ... Maybe she has to balance between him as a possible father-in-law and him as an outsider in the closer sense of her own scandalous family, that's one of the details I haven't made up my mind about yet." Sandra smiled broadly. "But as soon as I have my own understanding, I'll offer it to all of you ... Thank you."

Escorted by scattered applause, she marched back to her place at Gabriel's side. He grabbed her hand below the table and squeezed it, after a moment's hesitation feeling her response.

Hayden stood up, walked to the stage, and said, "Restraining yourself and your own play is usually the last hurdle an actor has to take ... All right, who's next?"

From that moment on, Gabriel paid little attention to the words and details. For a while, he dwelt on the question of whether it was only his prejudiced mind that had heard high approval in Hayden's remark. For another while, he watched styles of stage presence before he daydreamed himself away into some lyrics that were waiting to be sung. After all, the lesson he could take from here was limited - his own stage performance depended on a flute, not on words and gestures, while Caitlin had time to learn and other challenges to master before she would start to improve her style of movement on stage. Not to mention Moira and her performance.

A gentle push from his sister brought him awake. The rehearsal was over.

---

In the cafeteria, with a beer for Sandra and a coke for himself, he revealed his request, quoting all suggestions from the band members as well as Mrs McFarlane's remark. He ended, "I'm not sure yet how to handle it in detail, but the idea with the tambourine has some appeal. Anyway, in the worst case you could keep behind the curtain and trance Moira from there."

Sandra grinned. "High boots and hot pants, huh? Maybe I should do it, it would help me gain confidence on stage the hard way."

"Fine with me." Gabriel smiled. "Showing not so hidden qualities together with the hidden ones, that sounds right."

"This trancing - we'll manage somehow, while the details can be left open for a while. But in return, I want your help for my own performance."

"This Antigone? What does it mean? A family girl, that didn't tell me much."

Sandra gave a short summary of the Oedipus saga as the basis and of the plot in the Antigone drama, which was basically the same in Sophocles' and Anouilh's version.

Gabriel said, "So that's what's meant with the Oedipus complex, then? But somehow it's hard to imagine - I can see it as a dilemma that's worth a drama, okay, but not as a real-world situation."

"That's just the background," replied Sandra, "Antigone's story starts when her two brothers are already dead. Although - don't forget that this is the antiquity and a Mediterranean country, so if Iokasta married young the first time and gave birth to an Oedipus early, she might be just sixteen years older than her son. So if he's eighteen, she's thirty-four. That's not out of proportion, is it?"

With slightly coloured cheeks, Gabriel replied, "You may ask me again when I'm eighteen."

Sandra nodded. "But about the family business, I want to ask you now. What do you think about my approach?"

"Did you hear Hayden after you left the stage? About the last hurdle? To me, this sounds like high praise, especially from someone like him."

"You mean, to a girl?" Sandra's smile faded. "Don't be confused by his behaviour, he's a hundred percent pro in matters of performance. Yes, sure, he said this track is promising, provided I know where to set the accents. But where do I place them?"

Gabriel thought for a moment. "So this Antigone had two older brothers, right? And they killed each other fighting for the vacant throne. Okay ... so imagine you and me, except you're Carlos, and we kill each other. Then there's Esmeralda left, and Carlos is you, except the name's Antigone, and Esmeralda's name is Ismène. Right so far?"

Sandra's eyes had widened. "I'd never have dreamed of mapping it to our own family that way."

"Well, I just did it to get an idea how things might have looked in that family." Gabriel grinned. "Our father didn't marry his mother for sure, because she was killed long ago, and our mother is only one year older." He grew serious again. "But this grouping pattern is the same - older siblings, and I could imagine that Antigone looked up at her brothers like Esmeralda is doing toward us."

"Toward you." Sandra's smile had not a trace of jealousy.

"If you think it's only toward me, you must be blind. Anyway, try to imagine your Antigone like Esmeralda - I mean, killed parents she had enough for sure, how would she respond to someone saying, 'Your brother's corpse must rot in the sun'?"

"She would ignore it, think it was a mistake, a misunderstanding. She would take measures to put it straight."

Gabriel nodded. "Yeah, right. It's like what Esmeralda did at Hogwarts, isn't it? I mean, Dad came to help there, but if he weren't there, she would have done things herself. If Antigone is Esmeralda at Hogwarts, then Creon is the Sorting Hat. That's how I figure it."

Sandra beamed. "Creon is the Sorting Hat, yes. I just have to keep that in mind."

* * *

Cho was sitting in the Vancouver Resort at her breakfast table when the call reached her. She seized her porty and looked at the display. The caller was Clara, which told Cho that the call could have to do with MABEL as well as with the more general business of Groucho.

Clara Stein, sister of Clemens Stein, had followed her brother to join Groucho Biochemicals three years ago. Showing administrative talent, Clara had been assigned the management tasks her brother, genius Potions wizard but otherwise a bit clumsy, failed time and again to perform satisfyingly. Since then, everybody was happy - brother and sister working hand in hand and everyone else getting first rate results. The additional salary, which wasn't small by any standard, paid off tenfold.

Reuben Timball, sitting opposite Cho, rose. "It was time for me anyway," he said with an apologetic smile before leaving her alone.

As the manager in charge, Reuben had been up for hours already; he had kept her company for a cup of coffee and for reasons of affection. She returned the smile, then put the phony to her ear.

"Hello, Clara, your timing's perfect - I'm sitting here with my second cup of breakfast tea. What's up?"

"Hello, Cho, that's good to hear because - well, the issue is a bit, erm, embarrassing. But even so, there was no question what to do ... It's about the booster."

The booster meant the 'Magic Booster,' a potion manufactured and sold by Groucho Biochemicals, successor of the drink which, fourteen years ago, had turned Clara from Muggle woman to witch. Due to its very special nature, there was a permanent order to contact Cho whenever the booster was involved. This order bypassed any administrative hierarchy in the enterprise, which somehow was typical for Cho and her Chinese origins, but even in the Western business culture, orders from the majority stock holder had a very convincing nature.

"What about it?" asked Cho.

"Someone asked for it," replied Clara.

Usually Clara didn't need three invitations to name the issue, so her reluctancy gave Cho a kind of premonition. "Who?"

"Harry."

A grim smile played around Cho's lips, and maybe also in her voice when she said, "Clara, you're the most reliable angel I know. Are you in your office?"

"Yes."

"Give me five minutes."

"I'm going to meet him here at - in twenty minutes, half past five local time."

"In this case - give me ten minutes, and we'll wait for him together, if that's fine with you."

"Er - yes, sure."

It wasn't fine with her at all, naturally so, but at least Clara had a clear perspective of her priorities, which had made her call Cho when Cho's husband came and tried to get a booster through an unofficial channel. Somehow it was a very Teutonic style from Clara's perspective, but Cho felt grateful for it.

---

She called the moderators of the running MABEL seminar to tell them that she couldn't join them this morning, and would be off until further notice. Then she examined her dress carefully - was it suited to meet her husband in what looked to become a very interesting discussion?

Probably so. She apparated to the Groucho Headquarters in Dublin.

Reaching Clara's office and saying hello to the woman who was four years her junior, Cho had only a few minutes left before Harry was expected. As it turned out, the story could be told in a few sentences.

Looking for a booster while avoiding the official channels, Harry had first contacted Rahewa, his goddaughter and also Clemens' wife. Of course - Rahewa would kill for Harry, or be killed. In this case, however, she had passed the request to her own husband. Clemens, who disliked connection business as much as he disliked administrative duties, had passed it further to his sister Clara. Clara had made an appointment with Harry, and then had called Cho, as simple as that.

"Very good," said Cho with a smile. "For once there's someone who isn't going to freeze in awe just because Harry wants something."

Clara didn't look pleased. Actually, she looked quite unhappy.

The Magic Booster was the highly concentrated version of the stuff Groucho Biochemicals had used in the last fourteen years to poison the world to a magic life. Provided a person had a magical condition, the Magic Booster was the potion to turn this person into a wizard or witch. It could not be used for the members of the MABEL seminars because they were pure Muggles, but there were enough would-be wizards and witches, and still more people who believed they were.

Groucho Biochemicals kept the potion under tight control and asked a fortune for it. A cure - normally one drink, seldom two or three - was about half as expensive as a MABEL seminar, meaning fifty grand. This pricing policy had been the topic of a long and bitter dispute between Cho and Harry, so much so that it could be rated as one of the wedges that separated them. Cho's argument was that Groucho had spent billions and billions in achieving a historical goal, and still did, so it was only justified to make a buck where you could find it - after all, they hadn't committed themselves to turn all adult Muggles into Magicals, at least not for free.

Harry's argument was that a promise didn't end only because the letters in a contract stopped. He also said that the few customers didn't make Groucho Biochemicals rich, while distributing the potion more generously wouldn't make them poor.

"If it's that important, ask your Goblin friends to buy these drinks," Cho had hissed at the last and worst discussion they'd had about this topic.

Harry had paled. "I won't do that," he'd said and left.

Cho knew that she had overshot the mark by far. If Groucho spent billions, the Goblins spent trillions, and happily so after Harry had used his Goblin Request to launch the Great Plot. The memory of this conversation went through her mind while she sat there, waiting and trying to calm down her nerves.

---

There was a knock at the door.

Clara cleared her throat. "Come in."

The door opened, and a smiling Harry entered the room. He came as far as saying, "Hello, Clara, how - " Then he saw Cho and froze.

Clara's embarrassment was put aside by consternation. "What happened to you?"

Harry should have been twice as consternated as Clara, and probably he was. But on the outside, he showed an almost genuine grin for Clara.

"It's a mask, Dobby and Winky did it." Then he turned and said, "Hello, Cho. Nice to meet you."

"Hello, Harry, long time no see."

Clara said, "When I heard about your request, Harry, I notified Cho because there's a permanent order to alert her for any business concerning the booster. Sorry if that's not what you had in mind ..." Her voice trailed off.

Harry made a slight bow, one of the tricks he'd learned in Japan and honed through years with the Goblins. "It's my mistake, Clara." Next moment, he chuckled. "You must have felt torn between a rock and a hard place, huh?"

Clara giggled in return and said something, and Cho watched how her husband turned an unhappy-feeling, miserable-looking creature into a beaming, attractive woman of thirty-four. It was admirable, if you felt like admiring.

She didn't. "I'd like to know a bit more about this request, though not necessarily here in this office."

Harry turned to her. "Yes, probably so." Toward Clara, he said, "See you," and next instant, Cho was sucked through nowhere to come out in the dining room of Carron Lough, the standard destination for apparitions and summons right into their home.

She exhaled deeply. Using her porty, she ordered tea from the house-elves, then sat down at the round dinner table, large but, without the ring-shaped extension, still the smaller of the two versions they owned. For two people, it looked as big as a Quidditch pitch. "Well then," she said, "tell me."

"And then?"

"Then I can tell you whether you'll get it or not."

"Hmm ... I could just buy it."

Cho grinned diabolically. "We both know that this isn't true! I don't even have to tell you that these drinks are numbered and that I could prevent you from ever receiving a delivery, because we both know what would happen with the bill, don't we?"

With gloating in her soul, she watched how her husband blushed deeply. She'd scored a first-rate hit, and he could blame it on his friends, the Goblins, who simply refused to charge Harry's account with any bill that came in. In exchange, Harry's sense of honour forbade any unmotivated or exaggerated spending, while the same sense prevented him from simply opening another account at a Muggle bank.

The tea had arrived. Cho took a gulp, then leaned back. "I'm listening."

Harry sighed deeply. "All right then. There's a girl. She's a would-be witch, as I know for sure after a test with Nagini. I'd like to make her a real witch, so I called Rahewa."

"A girl, is it? What's your concern with her? Is she good-looking?"

An almost-smile curled Harry's lips, and for a fleeting instant Cho expected him to say, 'Last question first or in the order of asking?' - a teasing joke she hadn't heard in a long time.

"Her name's Chloé. She's as old as Esmeralda while not as pretty, but maybe I'm prejudiced. I need the business with her as much as I need a third eye on the tip of my nose, but I stumbled upon her and - well, you know how it goes."

"No, I don't know. Tell me."

He looked at her, and once more Cho had a wrong premonition, by expecting to hear the words, 'You forgot to say the magic word.' Rather than this old line, she heard a story about a staircase and a sobbing girl and a wand so cheap that it hurt the eyes when looking at it.

---

Somehow, it was a typical Harry story. Under different circumstances, she would have loved him for that. In a better future, maybe she would make up for it. As things were currently, and perhaps also to gain time, she asked, "And how's your progress otherwise? Got some clues?"

"Mixed. I'm the talk of the school, with my methods of warming up in Sports. I let the students dance to the music from floating speakers. Two colleagues suggested performing in public and pocketing the money without telling the kids. It's a bad climate there, but nothing that explains why a boy of twelve would commit suicide. I see our children each day, and they report to me. So far, it's been the usual stuff ..."

Cho felt some relief. There was no doubt that Harry held guard over Carlos and Esmeralda with all his powers, and no sign of negligence because things looked so quiet.

"... and how's your own progress?"

The question hit her at the wrong moment, found her somewhat unprepared. "In which regard?"

Only his eyes told her how cheap an attempt at escape this had been. Aloud, he said, "Met some lumberjacks recently?"

For a terrible fraction of a second, Cho thought he'd visited Vancouver Resort again, without his facial mark and in a still better disguise. Then she realized that this question was just his way of approaching a topic in the middle of a minefield, and her initial startling changed into the forerunner of a full-grown fury.

"None I'd recognize. Why?"

"Met some men in better dresses?"

"None I hadn't met before," she snapped. "And to save you the next question, and maybe quite in contrast to some expectation, I didn't meet a third category either."

The very short widening of his eyes told her that he knew what she meant. But Harry wasn't the man to leave it at guesswork, and he wasn't the man to deny her a punch line, so he asked, "Which is?"

"The one that's missing in your list - some men that weren't dressed at all."

He exhaled. "Indeed."

She knew that this remark expressed no doubt, only surprise. Her dramatic little wisecrack had given him time to swallow the news, but she wasn't interested in scoring rhetorically, and besides, she wasn't finished yet. "Although I have to admit that I ran several attempts. Two, actually."

"But toward the same man, I suppose?"

Her grin was more teeth than humour. "How right you are! The first time it didn't work because suddenly I remembered my own rule in such matters ..."

Essentially, her rule said that sex with another partner wasn't entirely out of the question but she had to be asked first, so to speak. Literally following this rule had resulted in a few threesomes.

"... and felt restrained because - well, I didn't want to be the first to break it, which wasn't a proof of morale but of pride. I didn't exactly plan to ask you for permission, had planned more something like an announcement, but I never came that far. You were so sure to know what had happened that you didn't let me finish my sentence before you disappeared ..."

That had been at their discussion about how to proceed with Carlos and Esmeralda. Cho knew that her argument was pretty weak, but Harry was so much looking forward to hear about the second failure that he didn't bother undermining her position.

"... I was so mad that I went back at the spot to do what I'd been accused of anyway." Cho snorted. "First it was the time difference that saved me - if saving's the right term. There was some mayhem in the Vancouver Resort, and it took Reuben hours before business was again running as usual. I had calmed down but I hadn't changed my mind, except that when there was the opportunity Reuben said I only wanted to punish you with him, and that he wasn't ready to play this role. If I could honestly claim that this motive no longer was predominant, he'd gladly agree - "

"Gladly agree, huh?" Harry seemed to have some trouble not laughing out loud.

"Well, to make a long story short and to stress another cliché, we ended up as good friends but not in bed. What about you?" she asked without giving him time for a reply to her own story.

"Me? I had other concerns, recently. There isn't anyone among the staff that caught my attention, but this may have to do with my preoccupation at that school. Of course - " Harry grinned, "there are enough girls in the older classes who obviously wouldn't refuse a private encounter with the new Sports teacher, but that's entirely meaningless."

Was it? For him it was, would have been even if it had been legal and in another context - young girls weren't his taste, as she knew. But for herself it was anything but meaningless, and in addition, she desperately wanted to wipe the arrogant grin from his face, and she knew already how, killing two birds with one stone.

"You can have the booster."

He was on full alert; he knew her too well. "Under what condition?"

"Fuck me."

"What?"

"You heard me all right. There's a marital right, or duty, remember? I just told you how I've been left high and dry recently, and well - you want something, and who am I to prevent a poor French girl from becoming the witch she was planned to be - but only after we've made love."

Yes, the grin was gone from his face. A moment later, though, a smile appeared, totally different. "And what if we need a second booster?"

"Guess what?"

His face showed that the answer didn't need any guessing. A second later, he asked, "Now?"

"That's what I had in mind, yes. With these time zones, it's difficult enough to meet anyway."

Following him up the staircase toward their bedroom, she knew that the time zone wasn't the real barrier, and that this forced marital duty didn't solve all their problems. But maybe it was a start, and for sure it would solve one problem.

Forced or not - she knew that, quoting a famous Muggle in the movie business by the name of Woody Allen, "there was no such thing as a bad orgasm."