Potter Professions

Gabriel blew the last tunes of Funky Hero, his glance locked at Michel with his drums. Their eye contact was no longer necessary to finish in sync with the others, not after all their rehearsals, but it was good to support each other with these looks. And besides, looking at Michel to his right or Tomas to his left meant showing the audience his profile, which had been one of the tips from Dan.

Dan was Dan Gallagher, an Irish musician and acquaintance of Desmond. He'd given Gabriel a few tips for their concerts in Sweden. "You need to crack an audience like a nut," Dan had said, and when he'd heard the tour was in Sweden he'd given Gabriel a look. "The Swedish aren't the worst," he'd said then, "not after you've played for a Finnish audience. But to make them catch fire - well, it's a challenge."

He also had said not to waste any second between the first four songs or so - good advice fore every concert and most of all for an audience who took forever to thaw. So, after Caitlin's bowing, after her "Thank you" into the microphone, Gabriel made eye contact with Tomas and nodded, the signal to start with the first chords of Share My Music.

It was Friday evening. They were on stage in the City Hall of Joenkoeping, their first stop on a tour through five Swedish cities in as many weeks. This was the first concert; tomorrow afternoon would be the second, also in this city, which needed little more than eighty thousand citizens to rank in the top ten of Sweden. It was a town, compared to Paris or London - even Stockholm, the biggest and number four in their list, couldn't call more than eight hundred thousand people to its name.

It didn't matter; the hall was full. A solid, silent mass of faces staring up at them. Gabriel was grateful for Sandra being with them on stage: in addition to his sister singing chorus, in addition to her playing the tambourine for the music and the mother hen for Moira, Sandra sent her soul and heart and spirit in mental dashes that sprayed over all members of Dragonfly, giving encouragement in these most critical minutes of their musical career.

The song ended; Caitlin bowed again. She was their front woman, a natural choice for the lead singer, regardless of the fact that Gabriel, perhaps together with Michel, was the controlling power in the band. "Make it simple for them," Dan had said, meaning the audience. "Present yourself in well-defined roles, and keep to them." It seemed obvious now, standing here, but without Dan's experience they might have made beginner's mistakes by the dozen.

"The next song," said Caitlin at this moment, "is about the difficult task of getting started, getting in motion. Seeing you sitting there, it's my impression you know what I mean. The song's called 'Sunrise'." Caitlin clicked her fingers, and at the third time, Michel and Frédéric started playing.

In the few seconds until then, Gabriel had heard a first audible reaction from the audience as a whole, and it could only be a sign of agreement, the Swedish equivalent of what in the Great Hall of Beauxbatons would have raised a wave of laughter. Caitlin's remark hadn't been planned; in their consultation right before the concert, they'd agreed to play four songs before announcing single titles. But she'd been right, and Gabriel felt admiration for this Irish hothead who most often kept hidden behind a rich soprano.

Right now this soprano circled around Moira's alto - Sunrise was basically Moira's song, and its placement as number three in their list of twenty-four songs was intended to introduct Moira, their second singer.

The applause at the end was stronger, although Gabriel didn't know whether it was the response to Caitlin's remark or the two voices which combined to something quite remarkable by any standard, as both Dan and Desmond had assured them. From the left corner came even wild applause, but these people were a kind of fake audience, at least in Gabriel's eyes: fifty-something students from Beauxbatons and Hogwarts, sitting here only because they'd won a free ticket in Ireen's kick-off lottery. Officially these tickets were sponsored by the families of the Dragonfly members, while the simple truth was that Ireen had made sure the hall would be full and there would be some people showing a little enthusiasm.

Well, there were just fifty of them. Ireen had been ready to hire two hundred, with portkey travelling to and from the Jonkoeping City Hall, but then just a few dozen tickets were returned by the Swedish dealers, a fact that had amazed Gabriel considerably.

"Thank you! Thank you!" Caitlin smiled at the audience. "So you're awake after all - that's just in time, because our next song is 'Listen To The Teacher'."

As a joke it was rather poor, only it didn't matter; little by little they could feel the cracking-open of the audience. Moira's lyrics helped a lot - she had written about things a teenager cared about, Gabriel had put them into music, and their audience were mostly young people. Sixteen and upward, to be precise; people of Gabriel's own age and younger were expected at tomorrow's afternoon concert.

---

Their timing worked. The next two songs were quieter, more thoughtful, touching the heart. You Don't Know Me was the classical shy girl's theme, hiding in the shadows while adoring a boy from the distance. The second, Serpent Dreamer, was Gabriel's secret favourite, or perhaps not so secret because at least the Dragonfly members knew that these lyrics were his own contribution, inspired by his father's first encounters with Nagini.

After listening to a rehearsal recording of this song, Dan had said, "If I didn't know better, I'd swear this song was written after returning from an LSD trip." Then, noticing Gabriel's blank stare, he'd explained that LSD was a synthetic drug of the seventies and eighties that had made its mark in music history.

Where's That Gonna Stop came next, followed by While On The Subject, a mock version of what every teenager liked best: to be reprimanded for something new first, only to receive a longer sermon about well-known behavioural deficits then. With these two songs, Dragonfly came closer to hard rock than with anything else in their repertoire.

Ireen was determined to cut a double CD album from their program on the Sweden tour, and during the past weeks, there had been several short discussions about whether this album should be mixed in the studio or appear as a live recording. At these occasions, the discussions had almost felt like a joke to Gabriel, of the kind "Let's play adults and behave as if." But now it was reality and someone had to make a decision.

Gabriel knew one thing for sure: this concert wasn't going to be a likely candidate. Not because of the quality in their playing and singing, no, it was just - the response from the audience after each song was too thin. A live album needed tumultuous applause; otherwise there was no excuse for the lack of accuracy as offered by a studio recording.

"Thank you, thank you!" Caitlin sounded breathless and excited. "The next song's about the challenges us girls have to master every day - which make-up to use, whom to tell the deepest secret, things like that. It's called 'I'm Not That Stupid' - here we go."

This was just the first out of several songs concentrating on girlish topics. Always Second Choice would come next, and the last two songs before the break would be If I Were A Boy and He Must Be An Alien. What Caitlin had omitted to announce, and fully on purpose, was a temporary change of the lead singer role from her to Moira. During the rehearsals, they'd found out that such an announcement wasn't suited to improve Moira's performance, regardless of Sandra's support. And besides, as Dan had made clear, such remarks were just good to confuse the audience.

Now Gabriel listened to Moira's staccato in the verses of the song before she reached the chorus that said, "I'm not that stupid, well, not anymore," and in which Caitlin could score again with her soprano. It took Moira the first verse before getting steady; without Caitlin's contribution in the chorus, it would have been much worse.

After this first song with herself in the lead, Moira had to be the one who bowed, simply because anything else would have looked strange. She did, and she was the one who announced the next song, and - miracle - she'd gotten the kick from this exposure to the full public: her performance rose to the level they knew.

If I Were A Boy was a duet in which Moira had the male voice. Then Caitlin took over again, and when the applause after He Must Be An Alien had faded, she announced the break.

---

Coming into the backstage room as the last of the Dragonfly members, Gabriel was welcomed by Ireen with a hug and the words, "I wish we had the album already cut."

"Why?"

"Because we could sell hundreds of them in the foyer. People ask us for albums, and all we can offer is an announcement and the address of our home page."

Gabriel just nodded. Right now, he couldn't care less - the break had come too late, or maybe it felt that way because this was their first big concert, and he needed to recover before they continued. Yes, Ireen was right, but there had barely been time for getting ready, and none for studio sessions. The two CDs from the times when Dragonfly had performed without singers - and without keyboard and tambourine - had been banned unanimously by the whole crew.

Matthew appeared out of nowhere, a bottle in his hand. "Have a seat, Gabriel. Take that, and drink."

Gabriel nodded, then obeyed. The bottle contained water - just tap water, because Gabriel wouldn't risk any other drink during performances, least of all sugared soda. But it was Irish tap water; they'd been warned of the water in Sweden as something that couldn't take the soap from the skin.

His glance idly following Matthew, Gabriel saw that the boy said something to Rebecca, who nodded and briefly looked in Gabriel's direction before putting her attention on the next issue. No doubt, Rebecca the backstage manager was running in high gear, and her boyfriend Matthew, enlisted as roadie on the Dragonfly payroll, had been hired as assistant manager.

The setup for the concert had started in the early afternoon. Originally they'd planned to use two portable portkey gates, one at each end of the transport route from the storage room in the basement of Beauxbatons to the City Hall of Jonkoeping. Then Matthew and Tobin had reported problems with bulkier equipment, which seemed too voluminous for the thin portkey zone of the portable gates. In the end, Gabriel and Sandra had summoned everything larger than what a single person could carry.

Sandra came over. Being short of a seat for herself, she simply crouched down and put her arms on his knee for stabilization. "How do you feel?"

"Why, is my guard up? I wasn't aware."

Under normal circumstances, Gabriel and Sandra didn't need to ask each other how they felt, because they could sense it more accurately than any remark could describe. That was, unless they'd activated their mental lock, which only happened when they had one of their rare quarrels.

Sandra smiled. "No, not quite, but you aren't entirely open either, and besides, sometimes a simple question is the best choice."

"I'm in stasis, that's why. I don't dare to relax - in a few minutes the break's over, and we're on stage again."

"No need to worry, though. It's going great, just great."

Seeing - and sensing - Gabriel's unspoken question, Sandra added, "It's true. Despite my triple role, I have less to do than anyone else on stage, so I can find the time and check around on all channels ..."

It was their private code for spying out people at mental level.

"... and what I feel is a growing level of appreciation."

"Growing, yeah, it's unbelievable how much room they've left for that." Gabriel grimaced. "It took them forever to get going."

"But they're steady. The attention doesn't waver - and remember, they were on time. This isn't France, it's as simple as that."

About to get upright, Sandra leaned closer and whispered, "And now I have to look for my object of despair." Before Gabriel found the time to look concerned, she corrected herself. "Only joking - at least it's a joke now. I guess you could hear it when she came round the bend."

Gabriel nodded, remembering well the moment when Moira's singing started to sound like something someone would buy a ticket for.

Rebecca's voice broke through the level of noise. "Five minutes till we resume. Anyone not being stage performer - out with you."

Gabriel closed his eyes and started a mental scan through the songs they were going to play now. Twelve played, twelve to go - eleven and an encore. When Rebecca's hand touched his shoulder because it was time, he felt ready and almost stormed onto the stage.

---

The Girl Over There came first after the break, followed by Outdoor Love - both songs very ambitious musically as well as in their lyrics. Altogether, the concert's second part was an inverse of the first: gentle where the other was loud, demanding where the other was straight-forward, complex rather than simple.

This didn't mean low-key music all the time. Detention and Horror Movie Number Three, the next two songs, were anything but quiet, especially in the third chorus, when Caitlin and Sandra issued a scream in the best Scary Movie tradition.

The next three songs were Moira's second turn as lead singer. Someone So Tidy was a teaser about a classmate always being orderly and obedient. Birthday, Bloody Birthday expressed the deep feelings of disgust a teenager could develop at the prospect of her own birthday, just because it caught her in the wrong mood. No Need To Shout At Me completed the sequence of angry songs in which Moira excelled.

By now, the applause after each song was a steady and solid matter - not overboarding, not too long, revealing expectancy of the next song to come. And Sandra had been right - the audience was fully awake, savouring the long program without tiring.

Dealing Food, Dealing Cards was a song about a waitress moonlighting as croupier in a casino, comparing her clientele of the day with that of the night. By Midnight I'll Be Ready might have been song number two about the same person, but in fact it was a love song for a ghost. Then came Mine Is The Blame, Yours The Glory, a slightly fatalistic contemplation of fate striking in everybody's life, before they started the last song of their regular program: There's No Room Under The Horizon, which was about looking for a goal in life and had the advantage of a chorus that could be extended into a fifth and sixth and seventh repetition before Michel's steel drum sticks fell for the last time onto his tubular drums, creating a sound that was still ringing in the air when the final, tumultuous applause rose, to last longer than expected before it turned to the well-known chanting rhythm which demanded an encore.

Caitlin was ready. "Ladies and gentlemen," she said, "our encore has a special meaning for some of us because it marks the time when Dragonfly met with the cast it has now. For you, the song might be called special because these are the only lyrics not being our own. We used an old Gaelic song for that, but the music's Dragonfly's own, oldest and finest - 'Seagulls in the Wind'!"

From the corner with the guests from Beauxbatons came shouts and catcalls. Héloise had the presence of mind to wait until silence had settled again, then she began to play her Felison - and Gabriel felt like in a déjà-vu when Caitlin let her play for more than a minute before she started singing.

In this song, she was the only singer, always would be. Héloise's harp wasn't the only instrument, but the others contributed only for brief passages, as if paying a visit, to leave soon: Tomas, playing his guitar while the harp paused, Frédéric, playing his keyboard while Caitlin paused, Gabriel, playing his flute together with harp and voice, and only Michel's regular drums were allowed to accentuate the song to the end.

When the last chord of the Felison had faded, it took the audience a moment to register that it was over, to wake from their trance and give their acclaim. For Gabriel, these few seconds of silence were the memory he would keep of this concert, their first that mattered.

* * *

Harry met Paul Sillitoe in the same Indian restaurant where they'd met the last time. Today, Harry's timing was the nutrient notch better that allowed him to order a Bombay plate for himself too. For a while they kept eating silently - not counting Harry's gasps when he became fully aware of what the host considered medium spicy und acceptable for westerners.

When his thinking no longer was run over by a burning palate, Harry asked, "Did you find something?"

"Well, this and that. Nothing to shout bingo, but there are a few things I want to tell you. And you? Any discovery?"

"Cameras."

"Recording what?"

"Little girls while changing dresses." Harry told Paul what he'd found, and done, in the Chateau MiraLuc. His report ended with the cancellation of the visiting tours, leaving out the events of the following night.

Paul said, "The picture's getting contours. From what you told me, I'd say they just cover their own demand, meaning for themselves and perhaps some special guests at special occasions."

"So?" Harry didn't like the 'just' in Paul's remark, as if such a restriction made these crimes somehow marginal, hardly worth prosecution. But he knew that Paul could have drowned him in statistics, so he avoided remarks that would let him look as ignorant as self-righteous shortly afterwards.

Paul's half smile made it clear that he had a fair guess of what was going on in Harry's mind, a result of their friendship as much as Paul's unforgotten skill in interviews.

"So we can exclude a child porn factory," he said then. "It doesn't matter much for our case, although I can tell you, it's a different level of brutality. People doing it for their own desires, no matter how sickening and twisted they appear to us, are usually considerably more merciful. The better they're organized, the less reason they have to exert more cruelty than necessary - of course always with two notable exceptions. Fear of exposure is the first, actually the reason for most killings with a sexual background."

"And the other?"

"True sadism. It's extremely rare in paedophiles, mostly because the raping alone - or let's say the sexual act, because it can be wrapped in many ways - is already an implicit act of sadism. From what you told me, we can exclude physical violence because that would have left marks. But there were no conspicuous marks on the suicide victims."

"So let's come to mental violence."

Paul arched his eyebrows. "Why so narrow-minded? And why so angry?"

"Because ..." Harry exhaled deeply. "Maybe I'm too much personally involved. Maybe I'm too close to the potential victims. Maybe I can't muster the clinical perspective, and talk about it matter-of-factly. And maybe it's just my attitude. But what - "

"Your attitude?" interrupted Paul, an event so rare for him that it had to be on purpose. "Are you the Bearer of the Holy Triangle in the Order of the Jeremiahs? I must have missed your nomination."

He responded to Harry's shocked silence with a thin smile. "You should have read a few of the reports I came across during my research. It was about victims too, except they weren't potential, they were real. So please stop your fucking attitude, okay?"

Harry swallowed. "Okay."

"You wanted to ask what I meant by calling you narrow-minded, am I right?" Paul's smile broadened again. "You only mentioned violence. Why exclude persuasion, seduction, misleading, and other kinds of mental influence?"

"Because ..." Harry smiled ruefully. "It was supposed to be a figure of speech. It was an effect of my attitude, so just forget it. Go ahead, please."

Paul leaned back, apparently in a similar need of relaxing as Harry. After a moment, he asked, "What do you know about hypnotism?"

"Little. It's an exogenic kind of trance, and my own experience - why are you laughing?" Harry stared at Paul in astonishment.

"About your choice of words. Exogenic, no less, huh? Someone with a less clinical perspective simply would have said, 'A trance induced by someone else'."

Harry watched Paul's amusement for another second, then said, "You know about my experiences, at least you know the facts. And as much as it's true that they provided me with invaluable information at that time, and laid the basic of my friendship with Nagini, I can't say that I miss them. Not the least bit."

"Well, other people have less dramatic experiences. They don't travel through a void to meet a talking serpent - erm, sorry, yes, I know, all serpents can talk - but coming back to my point, other people simply sit in a chair in their psychoanalyst's office and have a good time. Some of them, at least. And what do you know about post-hypnotic commands?"

"Nothing." Harry eyed Paul suspiciously. "Truth be told, I don't believe in them. I think it's bullshit."

"Well, not quite, and under certain conditions - " Paul interrupted himself and looked around. "I'd prefer another environment to go into the details. Your castle would be just right, but first I'd like to have a longer walk - along the Thames, perhaps? I like looking at water."

"Then why not the sea shore near the castle? The Irish Sea has considerably more water than the Thames."

Paul's snort indicated that he'd totally forgotton about this alternative. A few minutes later, they were walking on the strip of sand near the shore line where walking was easy because the ground was hard but dry enough for normal street shoes.

"Before coming back to hypnotism and post-hypnotic tricks," began Paul, "let me remind you of a certain aspect of the Obliviatus spell. We say the Obliviatus erases a certain memory and replaces it by something else, right?

"Right," replied Harry, "except that your question already tells me it's wrong."

"Right." Paul acknowledged the play of words with a brief twisting of his lips. "There's no spell on earth that can erase a memory - of a living person, I mean. What really happens is that the replacement memory is offered as a bypass, and the effect from the Obliviatus is that the bypass is installed even though the original memory might be quite pleasant. The mechanism altogether isn't extraordinary in any regard; we all encapsulate memories in bypasses, sometimes on purpose, sometimes inadvertently, and for many traumatic experiences this is the only method of survival, of getting along without seeing suicide as the only escape."

"I wasn't aware." After a moment of thinking about Paul's explanation, Harry asked, "Does the mentioning of suicide right now have a special meaning?"

"I'm not sure myself," replied Paul. "Let me put the other facts on the table we'll have between us in a while, and then we can come back to the question. So, in summary, the Obliviatus is a cheap trick and a misuse of the mind's own weaponry, while only the replacement memory is a true outside element. Now, coming back to the topic of post-hypnotic commands, you were right in the normal sense of the term: any attempt of implanting a command during a hypnosis and let it be carried out afterwards fails miserably. It doesn't even matter whether the effect from following such an order would be agreeable, unpleasant, or just meaningless."

"But," said Harry.

"Yes, but, and you'll be amazed at the extent of this but. The misleading element is the term. Post-hypnotic is simply wrong; if instead you place a command that works from one hypnosis to another, you'll be quite successful. The effect altogether is that the sequence of hypnotic sessions establishes something like a second layer of existence." Paul grinned. "It's almost like having an affair that takes place in hotel rooms. Escapes from reality with their own codex of behaviour."

Harry walked silently; he had to digest what he'd heard, in particular since Paul's body language told him that there was more.

"But as everybody knows, hypnotism is used to peek into pots we keep closed in our wake world, and for good reason. Psychoanalysts use this technique to uncover hidden memories, or to check whether a certain memory is ready to be faced in wake state. From there it's just a small step to the idea to bypass the bypass of an Obliviate during a hypnotic session, right?"

This time Harry's silence was expectant.

"A few people made a research study. First they trained their patients to respond to certain triggers - it's basically the Pawlow reflex, and nothing new even in hypnotism." Paul's voice turned artificially pompous. "And when I snap my fingers, you'll awake from your trance at once, all right?" In his normal voice, he added, "The response to triggering events is a very strong reflex, virtually uncontrollable - as long as you're hypnotized, that is. And now, if you look at such conditioning to triggering events, suddenly your post-hypnotic command has a totally different quality, right?"

"Yes, indeed."

Paul glanced over to Harry walking at his side. "Now comes the stuff I didn't want to mention in the restaurant. When the patients were trained well enough, the scientists first implanted an Obliviatus and then ordered the patients in hypnotic session A to respond to a trigger by peeking into the hidden memory, and this trigger occurred in hypnotic session B."

"And what happened?"

"They obeyed, and they could describe the real memory in all details."

"Did they remember after the hypnosis?"

Paul nodded in appreciation of Harry having found the essential question. "It depended on what they were ordered in sessin B, after having found out what really happened to them. But don't forget - these memories were reasonably normal, nothing of extreme nature."

"Hm."

"The same scientists then gathered a few patients with buried traumatic memories. Being buried means the memory is encapsulated as well but there is no bypass, as if a road is completely blocked. These patients were trained and prepared the same way, until finally they received the order in session A to look into their own abyss in session B."

"And the results?"

"The results were such that this line of research was cancelled at once. The protocols were closed away - they couldn't be published, but being what they are, the scientists couldn't overcome themselves and throw the results away, and that's why I found out. Harry, they ran three patients through the mill before they came to their senses. The first tried to climb the walls, screaming, the second went catatonic, and the third tried to commit suicide without even bothering to scream first."

Calmer, Paul added, "The conclusion was that only the patient himself should be the one trying to look into the dark pit - during a single session and with a chance of refusal. And if he refuses, obviously it's too early."

After a short silence, Harry said, "My understanding of this story is that you can send someone into suicide with a very traumatic experience and a very nasty kind of mental traphole. Would you agree?"

"Yes. Provided there's a motive."

"About motive ..." Harry stopped walking. "Let me summon you into the library, and offer a glass of brandy, and tell you a story about a father with a son who disappeared and a daughter who committed suicide, all within two or three weeks."

Paul stared at him. "Incest?"

Sounds like that, doesn't it?" Harry grinned humourlessly. "Question is, who with whom?"

Although, if this past was the reason for a present in which children were first abused and then sent into suicide, suddenly the question seemed to answer itself, as well as the speculation about motives.

* * *

Sandra blinked into the sunlight. She needed a second to adapt her eyes, after the semi-darkness of the backstage rooms inside. When she could discern the details within her view, she stepped down the short staircase.

It was Saturday afternoon; the second Dragonfly concert, also in Joenkoeping, had ended a few minutes ago. Sandra had finished the concert together with the other band members, but then she'd used a short moment of being unwatched to escape. From the mob that was howling inside.

Well, okay, a very nice mob, as she had to admit - kids of any age between five and fifteen, plus a few grown-ups of whom Sandra could only guess if they were older audience, older siblings, or parents of the youngest. But there'd been a moment in which she felt truly fed up, done her duty for the weekend, and anyway, the kids were swarming around Caitlin and Moira and Gabriel and Michel in first place, so Sandra had decided to be on her own for a little while.

She would meet the rest of the band later in the day; there was no way of avoiding each other for a longer period in this small city. That was okay; all she needed was a time-out from Dragonfly.

The evening before, they'd seen little of the city. Now, walking along a street which softly sloped downward, Sandra noticed that Joenkoeping looked nice. Coming around a corner farther down, for an instant she stared in disbelief: in front of her was a sandy beach, literally in the middle of the city, and for an instant it felt as though a mediterranean city had somehow been repainted in a more Scandinavian style. Then she was back in reality; the panorama could still catch her breath, but the sandy beach belonged to the Lake Vaettern, a millionaire's yacht was nowhere in sight, and it was too late in the year to go swimming.

At the same moment, Sandra knew how she could spend the next two hours in a perfect alternative to friends and family in Dragonfly. Still more, showing this totally unexpected touristic attraction to the person she had in mind would be fun, because this person was the truest member of mediterranean culture Sandra could imagine: Aram'chee, the High Priestess.

She apparated to the old Crusader castle near the Lake Tiberias in Israel, where the High Priestess kept herself in a lifetime-preserving stasis. She had to wait a few minutes - her presence was enough; she didn't need to call - then Aram'chee stood before her.

"Hello, little one," the High Priestess said, addressing Sandra the way she'd done at their first encounter fourteen years ago, "your visit is a pleasant surprise."

"Visit doesn't quite fit," replied Sandra, totally unaware that she smiled at hearing a salutation which, used by anyone else, would have launched a lesson in naming her properly, "because I want to take you with me to a place I just found. When you see it, you'll know why." Then she inspected Aram'chee's clothes from the viewpoint of a Scandinavian climate and said, "You want to wear a tiny bit more where we're heading, and I'm not sure if the local shops meet our taste."

Aram'chee laughed. "Is there really a place in modern civilization where women can't find the clothes they want?" But she disappeared and was back shortly afterwards with a cardigan in her hand.

Sandra apparated to the spot in Joenkoeping from where she'd arrived, knowing that the High Priestess would follow via pursuit. She could have summoned her, yet somehow this would have felt wrong, as if trying to help a healthy woman of medium age cross a street. Although, Gabriel had no such concerns; he'd summoned Aram'chee before, but perhaps it had to do with his unique ability of apparating and summoning in perfect synchronization. The difference was a fraction of a second, but it weighed an eternity.

In practical terms, the effect was the same this way or the other. They appeared in the city with the sandy beach below them, and Sandra turned to Aram'chee, happy as a child for the riddle to be solved. "Guess where we are."

Aram'chee examined the scene with the beach, then her attention was caught by the architecture of the buildings in sight. "It's not the mediterranean," she said, "that's for sure. The way the houses are built tells me, cold weather isn't uncommon here." She looked at Sandra. "I'm not half the world traveller you've been with your father, but I remember a time when the mediterranean was the centre of the world, with visitors from everywhere."

Glancing down at the water and the sailing boats near the shoreline, she said, "These modern tourist boats all look the same, but still I think we are in the homeland of the people I know as Vikings."

"Vikings? I should have paid more attention in History," Sandra replied without showing any trace of embarrassment, "but I guess you're right on track. This is Sweden, the middle of Scandinavia, and the water down there is the Lake Vaettern."

"It's beautiful. How did you find it?"

Sandra smiled archly. "The same way I found you."

"The same ..." Aram'chee's eyes lighted up. "Music! So if it was Music that brought you here, then - yes, it can only be your brother's band, Dragonfly. Why, do they have a concert here?"

Sandra half-faked a pout. "Asking you riddles is no fun; you're just too clever. But otherwise you're a little behind. My brother's band, huh? It's my band too, now. I sing and play the tambourine and take the stage fright from another girl - I've got so many jobs there, next time they'll send me emptying the trash can on my way out and come back with an armload of drinks."

Aram'chee put an arm on her shoulder and started to walk toward the beach. "A drink, that's the right word at the right time. Let's find a nice place to sit" - she lifted the cardigan - "which can be outside, thanks to your foresight, and then you'll tell me what happened recently, and why you are in the band, rather than in the theatre group, and why you're so upset."

---

They found seats at a table in front of a beach café. They ordered drinks and, in case of Aram'chee, a small selection of the sweets that were offered here. Sandra didn't want any of them; in the short time Dragonfly had been here she'd found out that the Swedes had strange opinions about where to put salt and where to put sugar into their pastries.

While Aram'chee ate, and occasionally was looking with astonishment at her cakes, Sandra brought her up-to-date on the developments since the last time they'd met, which had been quite a while ago. Having reached the previous day in her report, she started to go into more detail and spent several minutes in describing their Friday evening concert.

"Today we had our second concert here," she finished. "The afternoon concerts are intended for a younger audience. And when we were done and the kids stormed the stage and were backstage and everywhere, I stole away. Then I called you, and here we are."

Aram'chee had finished eating. She used her napkin and then, as if trying to complete the picture Sandra had drawn, asked, "How was it yesterday after the concert? What happened then?"

"Oh, we went to our hotel to shower and change clothes - it's incredible how sticky you feel after two hours on stage and under these spotlights. In the meantime, Ireen filled up the local press at the bar. When we gathered in the lobby, there was a short interview. The press guy held a recorder into the middle of our group and asked a question, and someone answered, mostly Gabriel or Caitlin as the lead singer. Then we went to a restaurant - we hadn't eaten yet, because you can't do that right before a concert." Sandra grinned. "Ireen invited the press guy for lunch today, which meant he should get lost then, and so we were to ourselves."

"And then?"

"Then we ate. Mostly fish, which they can handle better than cakes." Sandra nodded toward the empty plate in front of Aram'chee.

"And then?"

"Then most of us were at risk of falling asleep in our seats, so we called it a day."

"And today?"

Sandra stared at the older woman. "What do you mean, today? We slept late, had breakfast, had a short walk through the shopping mile in the city, and started getting prepared for the concert. Does it answer your question?"

"No, it doesn't, as you know perfectly well." Aram'chee smiled. "You should be with your friends, rather than with me, and - "

"I will," interrupted Sandra somewhat irritably, "later in the evening, or maybe they find us here. But I had the urge of talking with you. About ..."

After Sandra had fallen silent, Aram'chee waited a moment, then said, "About your career as a Dragonfly member?"

"Yes, that too."

"About the options how to spend an evening, or maybe a night, in a hotel in a city far away from home?"

"Maybe. I mean - yes, I think about it quite a lot, and did so before we arrived here." Sandra shrugged helplessly. "I just couldn't decide whether I want to talk with you about it."

"I'm second choice anyway." Seeing Sandra's look, Aram'chee laughed. "I better not ask what you just thought. What I meant was, there's a perfect candidate with whom you could talk about this topic, and his name is Frédéric."

"He's biased, to say the least." Sandra could laugh by herself.

"There is no such thing as an objective advisor in matters of love and passion," replied Aram'chee. "Let me tell you that much, don't make it more complicated than it is, because it's complicated enough anyway ..."

Sandra nodded with a heavy sigh.

"... while on the other hand don't let yourself be forced into something just because there's the place and the time and the expectation."

"Yeah, that's about what I've been telling myself," admitted Sandra. "Either ... you know, there'll be four more weekends like this one, and if I don't make it clear today what to expect on these weekends, the tension will grow infinitely, and that's still worse."

"So that's why you escaped," said Aram'chee. When Sandra nodded, she added, "But that's not the reason for your edginess, is it?"

"A little bit, perhaps. No, you're right, what bothers me more, or on a more fundamental level, is the recent development." Sandra snorted. "The pressure from the rehearsals was so high, there was no chance to work in the theatre group as well. And now that the first two concerts are over, the first city checked off with success, I don't feel any impulse to go back to them. It's a kind of laziness, which makes me angry at myself, and next moment I'm angry because I'm angry. I'm looking forward to the next weekend, and I know I'll enjoy every day of the week at the thought of performing again, next Friday in Linkoeping, but somehow it's ... the thought of me singing and playing the tambourine doesn't give me a kick, so that can't be it. Working together is part of it, yes, but there's - I don't know how to pinpoint it."

"So you aren't a stage artist in first place?"

"No, definitely not, and I guess that's also the reason why I can't bring myself to join the theatre group again. Being on stage is great, but somehow it's different for me. I wouldn't want to have Hély's skill, or Caitlin's voice, or Gabriel's musical passion."

"Ask yourself, my little one." Aram'chee's hands moved through the air as though following an imaginary timeline. "At which point during yesterday evening's concert did you feel the most satisfaction?"

"That's simple," replied Sandra without even thinking. "It was the moment when Moira had found her voice."

"There's your answer - and mine too, because that's what I felt fourteen years ago, except that it would be hubris to pretend I was as certain as I can be now." The High Priestess' eyes were sparkling. "You made her perform. You put things right. You were in control."

"Me in control? I'm not the power behind the curtain, I don't have any ambition to become the spiritual leader. That's Gabriel."

"So you aren't power hungry?"

"Why should I?" Sandra shrugged once more. "I know I'm powerful, isn't that enough?"

"Certainly, and it perfectly describes the role that's waiting for you, even if it's just for the act of ending this role once and forever."

Aram'chee grabbed Sandra's hands. "My dear, you just gave an example of the difference between the ruling power - which is Gabriel - and the controlling power, which is you. I have to admit that confusing these two roles is not a specialty of today's society, mankind liked to mix them up for eons. But these are two different roles, and a High Priestess who wants to become a ruling power is the worst nightmare I can imagine. You gave me the last proof that you won't fall for greed. So as far as I'm concerned, we can perform the transit any time."

Sandra stared at her. "Just so, huh? In a beachside café in the middle of nowhere."

The current High Priestess smiled. "You won't grow a gloriole, so why not? But of course, we can do perform a small ceremony, I might even know a musical group who'd accompany us."

"And I know a keyboard player who'd not," snapped Sandra. Then she giggled nervously. "No, not now. I feel ready myself too, yes, but I'd like to have a few days to think it through. Knowing that I could ... any time I want, that's something new."

She inched a bit closer to the older woman. "And besides, I swore to myself that I'm not going to become High Priestess while still being a virgin." She grinned. "I'm not saying it'll happen tonight, but what you just said for sure was a great help in making up my mind."

"Excellent. Then we're done here?"

When Sandra nodded, the High Priestess stood up. Then, after another smile and a gentle touch on Sandra's nose, she disappeared.

* * *

Cho guided the woman into the lobby of the Vancouver Resort. Inside, she steered toward a group of chairs and stopped there.

"Wait here. I'm going to talk to the manager. He'll give you a suite. When you're settled there, you'll find me at the bar. Then we'll have dinner and the opportunity to discuss a few details, and then you'll be on your own."

The woman sat down.

Cho marched in the direction of Reuben's office, asking herself how she would have reacted to such an unfriendly dispatching. She didn't know, because she couldn't imagine being in the woman's situation, but for sure she'd have made more of a ruckus than this silent obeying. It didn't matter; in a little while her task was done and she was no longer in charge. Afterwards, the woman could flush herself down the toilet or down the Queen Charlotte Strait, with the latter needing a short walk through the wilderness first.

Reuben had been notified of her coming only minutes ago. He stood up from behind his desk to come around and greet her in French style, with kisses on both cheeks. "My dear Cho, I'm extremely pleased to see you again - much earlier than planned, isn't it? You look as upset as you sounded on the phone. It isn't because of Harry, by any chance?"

It was a bit of a joke, as if, in this case, they'd catch up on what they'd missed - or failed - to do together at the last occasion. They would not, but at least Reuben's question fulfilled its purpose: Cho had a laugh.

"Actually it is, except that it's not what he did himself but what he left to me. Reuben, there's a woman that came with me; right now she's in the lobby. Her name's Madeleine Vasseur, and she needs a suite for a while."

"A French woman?"

"A French piece of shit!" Cho snorted, already feeling better. "But otherwise, the answer is yes."

"This place is about as far away from the French-speaking part of Canada as you can manage without leaving the country. Does she speak English?"

"I guess so, but frankly, I just don't care, and even if not and if there wasn't anyone here who'd be able to speak French with her, this resort is the only option we have. She's in a kind of custody."

"Hiding from what? Police? Mob? Lover? Family?"

"Her former employer. He sent her for fresh supply from the children's camp, around midnight and under the pretense of a phone call from home. Harry and his guarding crew tried to stop her without revealing too much, but it didn't work; she wouldn't listen. So he summoned her to the Chateau Saumur, our operation base during the camp weekend. There she had a kind of breakdown, and since then we have an eyewitness who needs something similar to the witness-protection programme."

"A fascinating story, and I'm dying to learn more about it. Let me take care of the lady first, then perhaps we have a few more minutes."

This was exactly what Cho had had in mind herself. She felt grateful for a host who took care of his guests in first place, no matter if saint, sadist, or satyr, leaving the bad manners to her. But the short talk with Reuben had eased her mind sufficiently to muster the decency and escort him into the lobby where she introduced the woman to her host for the days to come, maybe weeks.

Then she went to the bar. Kenny, the bartender, welcomed her with a smile and had her first drink ready when she arrived at the barstool.

"Thank you, Kenny. You're the well in the desert for me." She knocked back the first half at once, taking a bit more time for the second half.

She was in the middle of her second drink when Reuben returned to the bar. He took the stool next to her and nodded as Kenny pointed at the soda fountain. "She didn't have much of baggage," he said. "Is it okay if she wants to go shopping in the city?"

In the city meant Vancouver, to which the resort had a permanent portkey connection. But Reuben's question implied more, and Cho responded to it.

"You're not supposed to be her guardian - well, let's say no more than checking whether she's seen around once a day or so. You can offer her all luxury, selections from all shops brought to her suite, so she can pick what she wants. But if she wants to go shopping by herself, let her."

"What about visitors?"

"There won't be any. She's out of the game, and it's fresh, so a few days rest in the middle of nowhere is pretty much what she wanted. And if the next seminar starts, she'll have people to watch or talk to, whatever. All we ask from you in addition to your normal services is a phone call if something unexpected happens."

"Is she suicidal?"

"No. She's ready to give testimony, if this story ever goes to trial, which I doubt, knowing my husband and his methods, and afterwards she'll be looking for a new start and a new life, at least that was my impression."

Reuben's expression left no doubt that he would have liked to know a bit more about what they'd found out by interrogating the woman, more exactly by listening while she talked and talked. But he had too much tactfulness to ask her now, in the few minutes until Madeleine Vasseur would come downstairs. Instead, he asked, "If she's an eyewitness, what else does Harry need?"

"He wants to catch the others who were customers to a supply line of fresh, young meat whenever the guy in the centre felt like throwing another party. This woman can nail her employer, but about the others it'd be hearsay from her." Cho shook her head. "It doesn't matter legally; she told us enough to know what was going on and to put Harry in a position where he can strike."

"How?"

"He'll use our children, what else?"

Seeing Reuben's careful look, after her tone had failed to identify the remark as bitter sarcasm, Cho grinned. "The older ones, Sandra and Gabriel. If they use their full power - Reuben, believe me, the people in that castle will ask themselves how the sky could crash down so suddenly."

"So this time Harry has your consent?"

"Well, I can't say I like it, and as their mother I can't stop worrying, although it's nonsense, the magical power they can muster could scare the bejesus out of you, as the word goes where we lived before coming to Ireland."

Reuben stood up, rather suddenly. "See you later," he said and walked off.

---

Cho hadn't heard anything. Seconds later, when she saw Madeleine Vasseur coming from the elevators, she knew that there had to be a signaling system somewhere in Reuben's view that told him about people's movements, or at least the up and down of the elevators. She would have liked to look around, but the woman had reached her; Cho would die curious before craning her neck in all directions while being watched by that woman.

She made a half-hearted attempt to look friendly. "Shall we sit down for dinner?"

Madeleine Vasseur nodded and stood waiting while Cho climbed from her barstool to march ahead.

After a few steps, Reuben appeared again and guided his two guests to a dinner table. They were early due to the time difference, and the Vancouver Resort was going through the quiet phase between seminars, to the effect that their table was the only one set for dinner.

If the woman wondered about this kind of exclusivity, she kept it to herself. There was no question she asked, not even a wondering in her face.

Reuben took their orders for drinks and disappeared.

"All right," began Cho, "let's settle a few details, then we're done with the business part - "

A single snort from the woman, or perhaps a dry laugh, choked immediately, made her stop. "What's so funny?"

"What else is there besides the business part? You could have told me at the bar. Why do we sit here for dinner? You can't stand me."

"I took over the job to take you here to the place where you'll stay for the next days, or maybe weeks. Yes, you're right, I don't deny it, and I don't see reason to apologize," replied Cho with more embarrassment than she'd thought possible toward the Vasseur woman, "but I also want something to eat - the food here's too good to be missed, and sitting at another table would have been a bit more ridiculous than I was ready to accept."

"I'm past such concerns." Madeleine Vasseur shrugged. "But I don't blame you. You're a mother, you have children, you must wish me killed slowly and painfully. That's understandable."

"Is it? Then why - "

The woman continued, cutting Cho short as though she hadn't heard the attempt of a reply. "I have no children of my own. But once I had some, although even then they weren't my own. Not quite, that is."

Cho stared at her. "The Mirault children?"

"Zoé and Patrice, yes. Patrice was the older one, I should have named him first, but I couldn't then and I can't now. Zoé was always my darling." The woman had a laugh as brief as bitter. "Though not mine alone, and if I could drive Patrice crazy with me favouring Zoé, I didn't fare any better, I had to pay with the same coin. One was more jealous than the other in that house."

A waiter arrived with their drinks. Madeleine Vasseur had ordered red wine, "Just vin de table," apparently not inclined to change her dinner habits only because she could get whatever she wanted. She emptied the glass the waiter had filled half, then refilled it while speaking.

"With one exception, of course, and I guess that's where the disaster started. Madame Mirault - la grande dame, busy to make her appearance in the society. She bore the two children with two years in-between, and with that she'd done her duty. She spent most of her time in Paris - she has an apartment there, although she always complained it were too small for the afternoon and evening parties she wanted to give. Anyway."

Madeleine Vasseur drank again. She didn't sip; her gulps were deep and greedy.

"So the children grew up with a very limited amount of affection. It glued them still closer together as they already were, which was incredibly close. Then Monsieur Mirault became aware that his wife had stopped contributing any measurable amount to their education, so he hired a - a surrogate mother, it's the only term fitting. That was me."

Cho hadn't interrupted the flow of words before. Now, while the woman seemed lost in memories for a few moments, she simply waited, noticing by herself that she seemed unable to do the same with people she liked better.

Just when the Vasseur woman came awake from her reverie, the waiter appeared with their hors d'oeuvres, so it took another few seconds before the story continued.

"Perhaps it was too late - Patrice was ten when I came into the chateau, Zoé eight. Or it was just that I was the wrong person. I fell in love with the girl instantly. I liked Patrice too, but the difference was obvious, and this conflict between receiving attention and affection from outside, while the same person was driving wedges between him and his sister, drove him crazy."

"These wedges." Cho couldn't suppress her question. "Were they real or imagined?"

"More real than otherwise, which doesn't mean I did it on purpose." The woman somehow managed to eat between the sentences. "Zoé responded to the love I gave her like the petals of a flower. She loved her brother, but she couldn't resist the spoiling, no more than I could resist her charme ... Maybe if I'd been the only one." Madeleine Vasseur grimaced. "But I wasn't."

She ate a few spoonfuls. "It was a steeplechase into disaster. A morbid competition of who could offer more affection, or raise more jealousy. I should have seen it coming, and maybe I did, but I couldn't stop."

For a moment the woman seemed close to tears. Then she took another gulp, looked up. "I know pretty well what's my share of the blame. I'm not alone, not by far, but I did my part to drive my girl into suicide. In the light of that, what do you think I cared about what I did afterwards? Not the black under the nails. I was caught in a trance, then in a shock, and it lasted until a few days ago when I was brought to that castle and your husband asked me what the hell was going on. I welcome the loneliness here. Maybe I'll come to my senses a bit. And don't you worry; I won't try to disappear. There's no reason for me."

---

There was another question Cho couldn't suppress any longer. "Could you be a bit more specific about what was coming?"

"Specific?" Madeleine Vasseur looked uncomprehending. "What do you want? Quotes, who said what to whom?"

"No, what ... " Cho inhaled. "The picture you draw smells of sex. But with whom exactly did Zoé have sex?"

"I thought I had made it clear." The woman looked apologetic. "With all three of us, that was the fiasco. I never found out if Patrice disappeared because he became aware what he was doing with his sister, or because he found out that he wasn't the only one, actually only third in line."

"And Zoé?"

"Retreated into herself. She hadn't realized beforehand how much she'd hurt her brother. Then came the letter - we only found the envelope, but not what he'd written. It was stamped in Paris."

"And then?"

"Then? Nothing ... for a while, the world stopped to exist for me. I turned mad, literally. I broke into pieces. Part of me was sitting there and thinking about what might have been written in that letter - as if only the letter was to blame for Zoé killing herself. Part of me walked around, ate, slept, and waited for being fired, because there weren't any more children to be surrogate-mothered. Part of me waited to be accused, punished, beaten ... It never took place. Another part waited to receive new orders from Monsieur Mirault, orders that would be more on the adult side."

Madeleine Vasseur took this point in her tale to shovel a few spoonfuls of food into her mouth, in a way that suggested simple hunger, rather than another reverie or even an attempt on increased suspense.

Nonetheless, it had just this effect on Cho. Despite herself, she asked, "And? Did these orders ever arrive?"

Madeleine Vasseur shook her head; she had to swallow before she could give a more detailed answer. "No. He'd gone crazy too, but in contrast to me, he never returned. He'd passed the point of no return, although it took me quite a while to notice. Well, it took me a while to notice anything outside myself, but even then - he functioned well to the outside, MiraLuc was thriving; at the beginning the signs were almost hidden."

The woman shook her head again, this time in wondering, apparently about herself.

"How stupid can one be? Little by little, I was again lured into a traphole, didn't realize what was going on, until your husband really stopped me cold." Her head came around to stare at Cho in an abrupt movement. "Don't get me wrong - I'm not looking for any excuse. It's just ... you asked me, and that's the way it was."

"What were the first signs you called hidden?"

"It started with him telling me that he had no intention whatsoever to dismiss me. At first I thought I was planned to serve as a convenient sperm management facility. When these advances didn't come, I started to wonder. He created an aura as though the children weren't gone, or just temporarily abroad. Then he intensified his contacts to the school in Brest, and I got tasks to do in these matters. At the beginning, I thought it was a way of balancing out, getting back a grip on reality, especially since it was so perfectly wrapped into his MiraLuc business. Then he started to invite children. And since these invitations often fell together with invitations of other people, and because he quickly perfected his technique and invited complete teams of roommates, these visits looked harmless."

Madeleine Vasseur sent a quick glance to Cho, looked away, took her glass. "To the outside, that was. Not to me." Then she emptied the glass and grabbed the bottle to for a refill, and perhaps for something that justified looking elsewhere.

"Wasn't there anyone in the school who found it strange? Did no one get suspicious?"

"No, why? Monsieur le Directeur Fresnel took care to find an explanation for whatever looked strange."

Cho leaned forward. "How much does he know?"

Madeleine Vasseur shrugged. "Ask him. Monsieur Mirault provided him with an entry into the society, expenses paid, including bills from a tailor, as I know for a given because these things were part of my new job profile. For someone like Fresnel - no money, no family, no charm, no spirit, and no doubt a bad fuck too ..."

Cho had to keep to herself not to nod and grin.

"... it was an offer he couldn't resist, not with his ambitions, his craving for being someone important. And he hasn't the excuse of being stupid." Almost thoughtful, the woman added, "Actually, the same goes for me."

Cho wondered to which degree the woman really had arrived in reality. All through her story, her former employer had been 'Monsieur Mirault,' and probably would keep this title in her mind no matter what happened. Wasn't this a sign that the calamitous connection was still as strong as on the evening she'd been sent into the camp?

As if sensing Cho's thoughts, Madeleine Vasseur said, "Not that it means anything. My brain's just good to watch; if I were back in the Chateau MiraLuc, I guess I'd resume my work exactly where it stopped. So even if it might not look that way, I'm grateful that your husband pulled me out of this maelstrom."

Cho said, "So don't disappoint him by getting lost or making the wrong phone call to the wrong person, that's about the shortest formula of what I have to tell you about the rules for your stay here."

The woman eyed her thoughtfully. "Or else? You'd be the one to punish me, right?"

"Yes."

"That'd be a new experience. Not that I have any reason to talk with any of them, but considering the prospect ..."

It took a few seconds until Cho became aware of what was going on, then she almost gasped of surprise. "Listen," she said, "if you're looking for someone to make a move, look elsewhere. I'm not avaible."

The woman shrugged almost imperceptibly. "I wouldn't be competition."

Cho had to fight a wave of disbelief. Eventually she said, "You gave me information about my special friend Fresnel, and for that I owe you good manners, if nothing else. So let me tell you, I'm not shocked, and not disgusted, at least not because of this offer, and most of all it isn't anything new for me, so - no thanks."

The woman's reply still was resounding in Cho's mind when she had arrived home, fifteen minutes later.

"I didn't think it was anything new to you," Madeleine Vasseur had said. "Otherwise I would have kept silent."