Potter Professions

Gabriel was in the middle of a complicated phrase on his flute when the door opened and someone entered the rehearsal room. The person closed the door and chose a seat near the entrance to sit down, not making any attempt to close the distance to the stage on which Gabriel stood.

Such a scene took place a dozen times in a rehearsal session of two hours. Therefore, Gabriel was taken quite by surprise when he almost blew a false note and needed a few seconds to regain perfect sync with Michel's drums.

A moment later, while his flute paused in the song, he replayed his memory of the short event, and then he knew why. Someone entering the room triggered an automatic sequence in his mind: in addition to sending a glance to the newcomer like anyone else who noticed the opening and closing of the door, Gabriel did a brief and almost unconscious mental scan. Most patterns were as unfamiliar as the faces, although recognizing a face near the entrance was difficult, while sensing the mental pattern worked the same as if the person stood next to him. But the person who just had entered did not deliver any pattern, which had caused the short irritation.

Halfways blinded by the lights, Gabriel was unable to see the person on the seat more clearly. Then, with his attention back on the band, he saw how a smile started to grow in Sandra's face. In a reflex, he tried another mental scan on the unknown person, this time with a bit more force, and when his attempt was deflected like a searchlight in a mirror, he knew who it was.

And with this knowledge, even across the distance he could recognize the large discolouration in the man's face. His father.

Feeling pleased about his visit, though not kowing why Harry kept sitting there almost incognito, Gabriel only exchanged a glance with his sister while Dragonfly finished the current song and started the next. Toward the end of this song, Gabriel saw how his father stood up and came to the stage with quick steps.

Instead of a greeting, he asked, "Can we have a bit more privacy?" A nod over his shoulder hinted at the few students who'd found their way into the rehearsal.

Gabriel took the microphone and said, "Hey folks, music's over for today. See you the next time, okay?"

Someone waved a goodbye, another one made a remark about Dragonfly being seen more often in Sweden than in Beauxbatons, where they belonged, and a minute later Harry and the Dragonfly members were alone in the room.

Harry entered the stage, hugged first Sandra and then Gabriel, and said hello to the other Dragonfly members he knew, and who knew him in return, but only with his normal face. As Gabriel could watch, the reactions were quite different. Héloise stared in fascination, Michel admiringly, Tomas looked as always, and Frédéric's eyes were growing in astonishment.

Then Harry turned to Gabriel and said, "Would you please introduce me to your new singers?"

"Yes, sure." Gabriel pointed, "Dad, please meet Caitlin McFarlane, lead singer, and" - he pointed again - "Moira Wootton, second singer and provider of most of our lyrics." He turned. "Caitlin, Moira, this is Harry Potter."

Then he watched as his father and the girls shook hands and said to each other, "Nice to meet you," which, from the girls' side, seemed not quite true.

Then Harry pointed at his forehead and said, "What you see in my face is a mask I need in my current task, of which you'll hear a bit more in a moment, and afterwards you'll know why this information isn't intended for any public."

Gabriel listened to these words with astonishment; he hadn't expected his father to reveal himself in his current shape, or anything of his task. In the seconds after Harry's announcement, Gabriel listened with some amusement to the sounds of relief that could be heard, mostly from the two girls, at realizing that the discolouration was as artificial as temporary and thus removable. But his curiosity grew by the second.

"First," said Harry when the noise had died and people were looking at him expectantly, "I have to apologize that I couldn't come to your first concert in Sweden. There's a band on the cusp of fame, two of my own children among the members, and I can't attend? I know there's a video recording, but a video is no replacement for the real thing."

It was also true the other way around, Gabriel thought. Of course the Dragonfly members had used the first opportunity to watch their own video, and in a sense it had been a totally different experience - more, it had been the most thrilling concert Gabriel had ever heard.

"I had to guard and protect a camp with children," said Harry into the expectant silence.

"Against the big bad wolf?" asked Frédéric. As much as his question sounded like a joke, there was little joking in his voice, more a kind of disbelief, and when Gabriel glanced over, he saw a watchful stare in Frédéric's face, and appreciation in that of his sister.

"No," replied Harry, "the big bad wolf was a member of the guarding team. Actually, there were three of them, and together we protected the camp against - humans, at least to the outside, and what they had in mind had little to do with kidnapping and ransom. Besides, most of the kid's parents are rather poor."

---

The chuckle after Harry's first words, raised by a remark that could easily have been misunderstood as a wisecrack countering a wisecrack, had quickly died after his next words. There was no mistaking of what he'd paraphrased.

"Well," said Harry, "we were successful. We caught a person who tried to lure a kid away under a false pretense. But the weirdest part comes now. First, I need an audio recording of your concert."

Feeling his father's look, Gabriel said, "No problem, Dad. I can give it to you on a CD."

"Very good. I'm acting as a sports teacher on a school, where I started using songs from the charts as music for warming-up. This quickly developed into a hip-hop course. I'm talking about fifth-grade girls, what I would have called first-years."

"Hey, cool." Caitlin looked admiringly at Harry.

"What I have in mind is to let the girls perform on stage, in public, and now guess where?"

"In the lion's den."

Frédéric had given the answer. His face was shining in excitement and anticipation.

Gabriel nodded involuntarily. He could follow Frédéric's thought, but then, he'd known considerably more, and much earlier too.

"Right, in the lion's den, which in this case is a chateau in a ten minutes distance from that camp." Harry met Frédéric's stare. "And since you could follow so quickly, you probably can guess why I want an audio recording from the Dragonfly concert."

"You need the audio recording because the album isn't available yet," replied Frédéric. "So far, it's obvious. You want to use it for your hip-hop course, that's not exactly a riddle either. And this, in turn ..."

When he hesitated, his eyes growing, Harry nodded encouragingly.

"... means that you want Dragonfly to perform on the same stage," finished Frédéric, sounding almost breathless.

"Correct. You're really up to your reputation, Frédéric." Harry smiled, though somewhat grimly. "And why do I want to provide Dragonfly a gig in a chateau? In this particular chateau?"

"There are two reasons that come to my mind. One of them's called Sandra" - Frédéric turned to said reason - "and the other's the bandleader, although that might not be the quality you wanted to have at hand there."

"No. The chateau is covered by an apparition lock - from Groucho, isn't this irony? And Sandra and Gabriel together can break the lock."

Gabriel exchanged the mental equivalent of a knowing look with his sister, at the same time noticing the uncomprehending stares from Caitlin and Moira. They weren't around long enough to have heard the story how he and his sister had escaped an abduction by breaking such a lock for the first time.

"My plan," explained Harry, "is to use my hip-hop course as bait for those people who were invited into the chateau at earlier occasions. With the confessions from the person we caught there, we can nail the owner of the chauteau, but no one else. If the - let's say, usual guests are invited by the owner, I'm confident to nail them, or if not or not all of them, at least to blow their public reputation to pieces. You, the band Dragonfly, are planned as the Trojan horse Frédéric just described, but don't be mistaken: you're bait too." Harry looked first at Moira, then at Caitlin. "And that's why I tell you all this. You need to know what you'll be involved into. I'm not going to trick you into a situation that bears a certain risk." Toward Caitlin, he added, "So much for cool."

"Do the girls know?" Michel had asked the question.

"A few of them, yes. Those who know wear a bracelet that's part of an alarm system. I have the receiver, and I can apparate to the spot where an alarm was raised - but only if the apparition lock is broken, and preferably without the other side knowing. Now you see why I come to you with an idea most people would just call madness."

"I still think it's cool." Caitlin swallowed. "Although, to be honest, I'd like to know how much risk we take when we go there."

"If you go there," corrected Harry. "I don't want to put pressure on anyone, neither my own nor that of the group. That's why I don't want an answer today - you need time to think it through, but please discuss it only within your own circle. The risk? These people aren't murderers and the victims of earlier cases of misuse look unhurt to the outside; these people operate more with seduction and false pretense."

Gabriel could sense a mix of emotions. Aside from hinself and his sister, there was only Frédéric who welcomed such an opportunity. Being part of a task force that included Harry and Sandra was more than he'd expected in his wildest dreams. While the girls ...

"That's it," said Harry into the silence. "If you join, everyone of you will wear such a bracelet, as well as a porty for escape, except that this escape will be open only after the lock is broken. And if you join" - he looked at the two singer girls - "you'll be more than just camouflage for Sandra and Gabriel. I need every hand I can trust - if things go awry, someone has to take care of my girl troupe so I'm free for other things."

He turned to Gabriel. "Where can I get the recording? Independently of anything else, I want to start using your music in my course."

Gabriel thought for a second. "This evening I can have a CD ready for you. In the castle?"

"Sounds good." His father grinned at him. "Castle means Carron Lough, right?"

Gabriel just nodded. Yes, he knew that there was also the Chateau Saumur, which still served as the local operation base and these days the most likely place when trying to reach their mother, but as a joke spanning two languages it was a bit prim.

Only when his father had already disappeared, after saying goodbye to everyone and to his children in particular, Gabriel became aware that his father might not have excluded a short visit of Gabriel in the hostile territory from the list of possibilities.

* * *

Sandra's gaze kept fixed on her father while he left the rehearsal room. Only then did she look up, to meet Frédéric's stare similarly fixed on herself. She smiled. "Hey, genius. I'm proud of you."

He bowed elegantly. "Any time, mademoiselle."

Caitlin looked at Gabriel, then at Sandra. "Your father's awfully cool. Comes in, scares me shitless, says, 'Think about it," and leaves. Wow!"

Into the chuckle, Moira said, "I agree with the middle part, the one about the scaring. Otherwise ..."

The laughter was more than the joke deserved, especially since Moira meant it in earnest, but she'd found the right valve to vent some of the excitement that had built up in the Dragonfly team since Harry's announcement.

Caitlin, about to ask her next question, was stopped by Gabriel's raised hand. "Listen, folks," he said, "let's go to a place where we can talk and shout without being concerned about who might listen."

Sandra had thought the same but hadn't felt inclined to take the initiative: she and her brother thought along the same lines, and Dragonfly, including rehearsals as well as their cancelling for special reasons, were his command. She knew that he meant Carron Lough, but here she was ahead of him because she'd sensed her friend waking up from her trance. And here it came.

"You're totally right," said Héloise, "and this place is our home in the Goblin quarter."

Gabriel stared at her. "You just want to let your mother in on this plot."

"She knows anyway."

"Anyway, huh? This particular twist will be new to her, and you can't await telling her the news."

Héloise made no attempt to deny. Instead, she said, "Birdy's got the cake recipe from Dobby, but of course he had to modify it to meet his standards. Isn't this reason enough?"

Birdy was the house-elf in the Weasley household of Heloise and Michel's parents, Fleur and Bill. He'd arrived there in the aftermath of the same events in which Sandra and Gabriel, helped by these two friends, had broken another apparition lock to escape a dungeon.

Moira said, "Yes, please - I mean, if it's true that Héloise's allowed to tell her mother."

Moira had opened toward Fleur from the first moment they'd met. Moira's own mother, separated from her diplomat husband as far as Sandra knew, was a topic to be avoided, but even if Moira couldn't be called motherless, Fleur's attitude - as cordial as straight - had won her the girl's heart in a blink. Taking into account Moira's anxiousness, suggesting the house in the Goblin quarter was much better a choice than Carron Lough, and Sandra wondered if Héloise had been aware of this. It wasn't unlikely; the Veela girl could play on the social scale as excellently as on her Felison harp.

"All right," said Gabriel. "Take care of your instruments, and meet me outside so I can summon you."

Sandra suppressed a smile. Her brother was a sensible boy; he'd no doubt drawn the same conclusions, but it was also a fact that he would paint his flute fire engine red, should Moira ever express any such desire.

---

A few minutes later they were sitting in the dinner room of the house Bill Weasley had earned with his undercover work for the Goblins during the war against the Dark Forces. Using the dinner room was the only choice - the kitchen, normally the room for social events of non-formal nature in this household, simply offered not enough space for all people.

Fleur was pleased to have such a collection of famous guests. Eight-year-old Ismène was excited to have all of Dragonfly in her home, after she'd last seen a much smaller crew at the Black Sea. Someone else was even more thrilled, though mainly of Sandra and the opportunity to present his newest creation to her: Birdy, who'd been freed by Sandra eight years ago.

After he'd left the dinner room, in a hurry to get enough cake ready for so large a number of guests, Fleur bent toward Sandra and whispered, "He's going to marry soon."

"Oh, really?"

"Unless he manages to spoil it again, which I hope he can avoid because afterwards the two of them would work here. His girl's free too, but only since recently, and the prospect of being hired at once, coming out of the church, so-to-speak, has improved Birdy's chances considerably." Fleur chuckled. "He isn't exactly a women's elf, from what I've heard."

Birdy and his social life was something of a running gag, though not always funny. At the beginning of his employment by Fleur, he'd been obliged to pass his salary over to Carlos and Esmeralda, as a compensation for Birdy's involvement - no matter how involuntary - in the plot that killed their parents. But the true reason for this punishment had been Birdy's own mental health, and this was why at the end of the first year, when Sandra had signaled that Carlos and Esmeralda were sufficiently compensated, the house-elf had flatly refused to be released. So he'd paid another year, before the two children themselves could convince him that any more month with this "undeserved pocket money" would make them so unhappy that it had to stop at once.

It had taken Birdy another two years to get used to spending his income for himself, rather than more or less worthy causes like the foundation that ran the treatment center for traumatized house-elves. The breakthough had been Fleur's suggestion to "save the money and buy yourself a wife, once it's enough." Since then, three quarters of Birdy's income went into a savings account.

Sandra asked, "Where did he meet her?"

Before Fleur could answer, Héloise cut in. "Is this the most important topic to discuss now? Birdy and his marriage plans?"

Fleur shot her a glance. "Why, do you have news that can't wait to be told?"

Maybe it was planned as a reprimand, but anyone listening could only hear genuine curiosity, and eagerness to be told. So Sandra quickly nodded toward the youngest girl in the room, at this moment busy to learn everything about the two singers in the band, and said, "It has to wait, with this audience."

Héloise exploded. "Don't tell me what I can tell and when just because my little sister is present. She's as much Veela as I and won't choke on a lewd phrase." Toward her mother, she said, "Harry came to visit. He wanted a CD with our new music, to let his fifth-grade girls dance to that music. When they're ready, he wants to let them perform on stage, in front of a very special audience. And guess what: he wants to do it with live music."

While Fleur was still busy to digest this information a fact a time, Héloise stared at Sandra and said, "See, it works just fine if you know how to spell it."

At this moment, Ismène said, "I want to dance to your music too. Do you think Uncle Harry lets me join his girls?"

Héloise inhaled to give a reply but closed her mouth again as Michel quickly said, "Let me answer."

With some satisfaction, Sandra watched the short instant of non-verbal communication between sister and brother, Veela both of them. There had been some steel in Michel's voice; he knew how merciless the older sister could treat the younger one, but today he wouldn't let it happen, and while Héloise never hesitated to quarrel with her brother about a personal issue, she knew better than coming cross when he protected his precious little sister.

Michel turned to Ismène, "I guess he will, but only if you have exercised as much as these girls do. How about that?"

"Oh."

"C'mon, let's have a test of your dancing. In the music room." Michel, who had no qualms from Harry's plan, was apparently ready to open the way for the discussion his older sister had in mind.

"Not now," replied Ismène. "The cake'll be there any second now. We can do it later." Next moment, she turned around and watched with some astonishment as Frédéric lost a fight against a burst of laughter, which finally erupted. When he'd halfways managed to calm down, he looked up, but seeing Ismène's beaming face sent him into another fit.

---

Birdy's cake appearing on the table probably saved him from Héloise's accumulated fury. For a few minutes, small talk was the only alternative to chewing and swallowing; Fleur, in contrast to her first daughter, found no taste in giving any comment to Harry's idea in the presence of her second daughter. Instead, she turned to Gabriel and said, "I guess you're the best connoisseur of the original recipe for this cake. What do think of Birdy's variation?"

"Well ..."

"He Frenchised it," answered Frédéric into Gabriel's hesitation, earning a few smiles for his game of words. "Sweeter than Dobby's version, and some fruits which we better not talk about in Dobby's presence."

"Pineapple," murmured Gabriel with all signs of disbelief. "He put pineapple into this cake."

"Well, you know, it's a matter of taste," replied Fleur. "This version was a big success on a society meeting where he worked as freelancer." She turned to Sandra. "That's where he met his Salimée, to answer your question from a minute ago. A friend of mine had asked me whether she could borrow him for that occasion, and I said he's free and I wouldn't object such a chance to earn some extra money with his skill - well, in the end I did the negotiations because this friend of mine's incredibly penurious; without my intervention she'd have talked the poor thing into doing it for free."

"While on the subject of talking into," said Héloise, "Caitlin and Moira aren't the least bit enthusiastic about us having a gig in this particular place. That's one reason why we came here; if you talk with them, they might have a better idea of what it means."

"I guess I have an idea why Harry wants his girl troupe perform there," said Fleur, "but why does he need Dragonfly for that?"

"There's an apparition lock in the castle," replied Sandra. "He wants us to break it."

"And that's how he can sell your presence to - oh, okay, I see." Fleur turned to Caitlin and Moira. "That's so typical of Harry. I feel flattered to be your counselor in this matter, but frankly, I'm not really objective and probably tend to judge in his favour. He's absolutely reckless, and over the years, it has rubbed off on myself."

Moira said, "With Sandra and Gabriel, it's understandable, I mean with their power, but eleven-year-old girls?"

"I'm not going as far as to say he's got a blind spot in this regard" - Fleur sent a quick pacifying smile to Sandra while almost criticizing her father - "but for sure Harry has a different perspective than most other people. He was eleven when he had his first conscious fight with Voldemort, you should keep that in mind. He doesn't expect the same from anyone; he simply refuses to exclude children from the list of people who can be sent into a challenge."

Caitlin turned to Sandra. "This apparition lock thing - he seems absolutely sure that you and Gabriel together can break it, just so. I thought these locks were unbreakable."

"Normally yes, but we aren't normal," replied Sandra nonchalantly. Then she told Caitlin and Moira the story of how she and Gabriel had mastered their first lock-breaking with the help of Héloise and Michel, who'd been held prisoners in the same dungeon. Her own tale was complemented by comments from Gabriel and Héloise; only Michel had little to add because he still tried to coax his younger sister out of the dinner room.

When the team had finished with their story, Caitlin asked, "How do you know you aren't out of practice? That's been eight years ago, right?"

Sandra exchanged a glance with her brother, then said, "Since then, Gabriel has trained his summoning to perfection, because this would have simplified the escape considerably. I'm not quite as studious as he in such regards, but guess what I have practiced over the years?"

"Breaking apparition locks." Moira looked admiring.

Sandra grinned at her. "How did you know?"

It wasn't a lie, not the real truth either. Yes, Sandra had practiced focussing her full force on such targets from time to time, but she was by no means as fluent as Gabriel with his synchronized apparating and chain-summoning. In that castle, though, she would be ready. She was going to join her father in this combat, and she had made up her mind: Dragonfly would be there; she was going to make sure of that - together with her brother, as far as she could sense Gabriel's own vote in the matter.

She would practice in the days to come, and in addition, she had an idea how she could multiply her own power - provided it was possible and no violation of rules she was only dimly aware of, but knew they existed and had to be kept. Killing several birds with the same stone, there was nothing wrong in that.

* * *

After he'd received the double CD with the Dragonfly music from his son, Harry instantly returned to the school in Brest. As much as he would have liked to stay, perhaps for a longer conversation with his older children, perhaps also for a night with his wife, he just had no time - not now, when the steps to take were so obvious, and the sooner he took them the better.

His joyless two-room suite in the Cayenne building offered none of the equipment he needed to get prepared for his next sports classes. A player on which he could quickly skip forward or backward was only found in the gymnasium, where he practiced with his hip-hop troupe. This place was just fine: listening to and selecting from the music on the CD was only the first step; creating a choreography came next.

Normally he would have apparated into the gymnasium from where he stood, this way saving the efforts of opening the locked doors and locking them again. But he saw reason to play as openly as possible, which included letting the lights from the gymnasium tell everyone that he was busy there so late in the evening, and letting the doors unlocked so anyone interested might enter.

After all, he'd been told, he should appear as inviting as possible to the people he was hunting.

So he walked, used conventional keys, and busied himself by sitting at his control center and listen through earphones, as if in consideration of the noise in the night. To any intruder, he would appear unaware, even vulnerable.

He wasn't. A small portion of his mental capacity kept on guard to any change his senses would notice. The rest listened with pleasure and admiration to what his children and their friends hat achieved in the past weeks.

He was in the fourth song, Listen to the teacher, and smiled at the lyrics when he became aware that he just hadn't time enough for the complete concert. Two hours - it would be past midnight before he'd even found the song of his choice. So he took to playing only the first half minute of each song before he skipped to the next, writing the titles of the good candidates on a notepad.

Thirty minutes later he was through with the double album and knew that his candidate would be in the part before the break. The songs afterwards were wonderful and he was looking forward to hearing them in full length, but they were too complex for what he needed.

After a second round in which he re-played short pieces, his list had shrunk down to two candidates, Sunrise and I'm Not That Stupid. Both had the rhythm and the beat he'd been looking for, both offered lyrics that could be accentuated or illustrated with gestures by eleven-year-olds - Harry already saw some of these movements before his inner eye.

By the time he'd heard both songs in full length, he knew that it had to be Sunrise. The singers were the reason. Sunrise, quite in contrast to the other song, in which almost only the darker voice could be heard, offered both voices in an interesting anthem that would splendidly support his choreography.

He only had to find one. Fast.

In the past weeks, Harry had learned a lot about choreography, of course only within the very limited scope of hip-hop. He'd bought the one for the song his troupe had trained until now, and just by bringing to life a step sequence an expert had created, he'd learned enough about the key elements to be able to create another one for Sunrise.

He hadn't started at zero. His aikido provided a good basis, although a choreography for two aikido fighters had to emphasize quite different elements than a choreography for two dozen girls all making the same steps.

All the same? What if the new program broke this habit at once, and his troupe split into the two forces that were clashing in this song, early birds vs. late risers?

That'd be it! Of course he would copy elements of the already known choreography, if only to save time in the practising, but with the two antagonistic roles expressed by the girls in the two groups, the music and the lyrics alone were almost writing the choreography by themselves.

Harry grabbed the remote control and walked to the middle of the hall. Playing the song back and forth, he tried out step combinations - for the active half, the early risers; they would approach their counterparts who would be lying on the floor, faking sleep, during the first beats.

Well, he had to be careful with his space consumption. The gymnasium offered enough room, but a performance in the building he had in mind would -

Someone had entered the gymnasium. This someone came closer now, either very hesitantly or very carefully; Harry couldn't decipher more at mental level.

He forced himself to keep his back to the entrance for the next seconds, and to continue his try-and-error work while the intruder was making his own tentative steps.

---

The unknown person came to a halt, in a position of which Harry was sure he could be watched from. When nothing else happened, when he knew the person was standing there and just kept watching him, he turned around.

It was Agnès. She said something Harry couldn't hear.

He took his earphones off. "Hello, Agnès. What did you say?"

"I said, good evening, Thierry. What are you doing here so late in the evening? Is this school work or private?"

"Somewhere in the middle. I've got a new song for my hip-hop course, and this time it's me who has to find the proper steps."

"What's the name of that song? Can I hear it?"

True to her reputation, Agnès was curious as a cat and would duplicate her list of questions with each asking back. Harry already regretted having left the door open, but now it was too late; after her key role in the previous stages of Harry's investigation, Agnès deserved courtesy at the minimum.

Rather than answering, Harry pressed the button on his remote that switched the speakers on, then let Sunrise start again. When the music played, he repeated the step sequence he'd found so far, now under Agnès' eyes.

He ran out of steps after a minute or so, but for the sake of Agnès' listening, he played the full four minutes twelve seconds the song lasted; then he stopped the music.

"What band is this?" Agnès looked wondering. "I've never heard that song before."

"Small wonder; it's not even available as album. The band's called Dragonfly, and the recording I got is a pre-pressing."

"Dragonfly? What a strange name for a band. But the music is strange too, somehow. Although - these two voices in the song, they've got a future waiting for them. Where did you meet them?"

"I know their sound engineer; like myself he comes from the great kingdom across the small water." Harry looked at his wristwatch. "Can we continue this conversation another time, Agnès? I have to find the steps till tomorrow."

"What's the hurry?"

He could see it in her face: this stubbornness bordering on impertinence was fed by suspicion. Unfortunately, she was totally right. The only way out - for sure the fastest way out - was the unvarnished truth.

"Tomorrow my hip-hop course is due, and I want to get them ready to appear in public, actually in a special kind of public, even though the invitation hasn't arrived yet. But I'm confident it will, and in time - an invitation to perform during a festivity at the Chateau MiraLuc."

Agnès stared at him. "Somehow I'm not the least bit surprised. I had - as if I'd known, as if a voice had called me to pass the gymnasium at this time of the day. You're mad, did you know that? Besides, what makes you think you'll get an invitation?"

"Because I'll make sure of it."

"Ah, of course."

"It shouldn't be a problem. The prospect of twenty-something little girls throwing their legs, perhaps in tight suits? It'll be that event in the chateau, only in more ways than they might expect." Harry grinned thinly.

"You're crazy. Someone has to stop you, and it looks as if I'm this someone. A word from me, and this goat-for-the-tiger play's over before it ever happened."

Harry made a step toward Agnès. "Would you?"

She looked anxious but stood her ground. "Are you trying to frighten me? Tell me what you have in mind! That's the only way to keep my mouth shut."

Harry made another step. Now he stood right in front of Agnès. His smile was stronger than before, for her as for anyone else not knowing him better an extremely misleading sign.

"There's a woman in far-off Canada," he said. "She's got a hotel suite for the next weeks, the ultimate luxury, everything she wants, perhaps except the company and the homeground she's missing. And you know why? To make sure she doesn't raise an alarm signal, be it on purpose or by accident. Do you want to keep her company?"

"A woman from the chateau?"

Harry lost patience with this damned question for an answer game. "Agnès, I trust your word, so please trust mine: either you promise me now and here not to spoil the plot, or you'll learn to know a very deserted spot of Canada."

"You ..." She examined his face. "Yes, you would. Why? Why can't you tell me more? Why do you have to threaten me?"

"Because I don't have the time. Because you didn't strike me as the fearless fighter earlier in our acquaintance. Because I want to hammer it into this nosy head of yours: Agnès, I'm serious. I mean it."

He hadn't raised his voice, was even calmer when he asked for her choice. "So?"

She still hesitated, maybe just from not being used to find herself stonewalled like that. "You would? Right now?"

"It's late afternoon in Canada. Want to see it? It's beautiful."

She raised her both hands in surrender. "No! No thanks, not now. Yes, I believe you. I promise, I won't tell."

"Very good." Harry's smile grew warmer. "As a reward, I have an invitation for you. Next Friday evening, to Sweden."

"Sweden?" For an instant, she looked as if she'd liked to test his mental health. "What's so much better in Sweden than in Canada?"

"There's a Dragonfly concert there."

"Ah, yes, the band I always wanted to hear. Well, why not? Does this have anything to do with your plot?"

"Of course." He grinned. "It's their music to which the girls will dance."

"How stupid of me, not to have thought of that." Agnès had sufficiently recovered to give him a glare. "What's so special about them? And if you don't want to tell, please have the courtesy not to feed me with speech bubbles."

He grinned broader. "You didn't listen. I said, it's their music to which the girls will dance." Seeing the understanding grow in Agnès' widening eyes, Harry added, "Actually, they're very young. The chateau people will be delighted."

"And you didn't answer. What's so special about them?"

"They can do more than play music." Harry's grin had faded. "They're my ticket to survival in this plot."

---

Next morning, Harry hadn't come anywhere close to finishing his choreography, but what he'd found was enough for a head start. He used the regular Sports course to announce that he had new music, that an appearance on stage was within reach if they learned the new steps quickly enough, and they should think about a costume for this occasion. Then, smiling into faces that were gasping or just speechless, he said, "We'll start right here. What we've learned so far was a warming-up and our encore if it comes to that. Now listen!"

He started Sunrise and let the music play to the end, time enough for the excited moods to calm down. Then he said, "At the beginning, one half of your lot is lying asleep on the floor, at least it'll look like that, them the other half comes storming to get you up and moving. Now: those who want to lie asleep walk to the right, and those who want to come storming to the left. Take your choice!"

He was too fast for them. "What group is this?" someone asked.

"A new teenie band. You'll meet them, if everything works as planned. They call themselves Dragonfly."

"What? Who's that? Never heard of that." Most girls looked either uncomprehending or didn't care much - with one exception. A group to Harry's left, initially consisting of just one girl but quickly growing to four of them, seemed thrilled to their hairpins from this prospect.

Harry sent a glance to this one girl, his daughter Esmeralda. For an instant, he put his index finger over his lips. For anyone else, it looked as though he was sorting his thoughts before starting the exercises. But it was enough: Esmeralda nodded, and apparently told her roommates that they had to wait until they were alone before she could spill more news.

---

Coming to lunch, Harry lost no time. With his food tray in hand, he steered toward the table with Laurent Clerc and Gilles Picabault. Their faces weren't exactly welcoming, but it didn't matter. Wouldn't matter.

He put his tray on the table, then sat down. "Salut. I've got news. My girl troupe's ready to perform, or they will three weeks from now. So what about the places where a girls formation dancing hip-hop would be appreciated?"

Gilles stared at him, a forgotten forkful of mashed potatoes stuck halfways between plate and mouth. But Gilles was just an accessory part.

Laurent groaned. "Your timing's incredible. Really, it couldn't be worse."

"What do you mean, timing? It took them a while, but now they've got the motion, and I've got it too, if you know what I mean."

"You don't understand. The channels are clogged, communication's stuck at the moment - if you know what I mean," Laurent added with and undertone as though talking with someone slow of mind.

"No, I don't know. If you have any contacts, it can't be so difficult to ask whether my formation is welcome, can it?"

Laurent put his fork down, anger in his face which he tried to control, perhaps with respect to Harry's reputation of having a loose pair of fists.

"Listen. Old Jacques was the channel from our side; I would have come to him first with your request. Now that Jacques is gone under dubious circumstances, people tried to rearrange and were almost done, but then guess what? The channel from the other side disappeared, which is maybe even weirder than what happened to Jacques. And if a line's broken, you have to splice it first before you can talk business again. Even you should be able to understand that."

At the mentioning of a disappeared channel from the other side, Harry had put his moment of surprise into something that could go as indignant wondering. Now, showing a mix of disappointment and contempt, he said, "That's what you call contacts? Knowing someone who knows someone who knows where the wind goes when he falls asleep? Let me tell you what contacts you have. There's a close contact to a lot of hot air, and that's your mouth, with the hot air inside you but in your head, rather than at the other end - if you know what I mean."

Laurent had paled. "You bloody Brit," he hissed, "you're too stupid to drop a stone on your own foot! Why don't you shut up, asshole? You haven't got the least idea of what you're talking about."

Harry rose from his seat in a gracious movement, his left hand lifting his food tray. "Looks as if I'm unwelcome," he said, almost nonchalantly, "so I'll leave you alone. But I clearly remember having warned you before that I don't take well to aggressive remarks, so I guess I should emphasize my point."

At his last word, his left hand had started to accelerate the food tray, and to turn it. When it reached Laurent's face, it was flat, hitting the man's forehead not particularly hard, but the mashed potatoes with gravy were driven all over his face, his hair, and into his collar.

Harry let the empty tray drop on the table and walked away from the scene.

He didn't even need his special senses to know what was going on in his back, and to set his timing right. Laurent's outcry at being hit by the hot smear was followed by a brief pause, then the sound of a chair dropping to the floor reached Harry's ear, and an instant later the almost inaudible hiss of a shoe.

Harry bent down, folding himself as close to the ground as he could manage without losing his balance, at the same time making a hundred-and-eighty degree turn. From this position, Laurent - Laurent's legs - were prominently in his vision while the man was already falling over him, moving too fast to stop or sidestep.

Harry grabbed one ankle in each hand and came up in a single push, almost like a weight-lifter, this way converting and accelerating Lauren't free fall into a toppling-over.

The man was still sliding over the floor when Harry reached him. He grabbed a fistful of Laurent's hair, pulled his head slightly upward, and pushed it full-force down. The short thud from the impact ended in a crunching sound, too hard to be attributed to the spilled food.

"You need to wash your face," Harry said. Then he walked out, through an audience frozen in horrified silence, staring at him but looking the other way when he passed them.

---

He didn't have to wait long. The call to "appear in front of Monsieur le Directeur Fresnel," routed through by a Jeannette sounding as sniffy as gloating, reached him still before his first afternoon course.

After all, Harry thought while calmly walking the distance from the Cayenne to the Brest building, there was something to be said for the endless lunch breaks at French schools. You could eat, shit, beat up your fellow teacher, and get your punishment all between two courses.

The door to the school secretary's office was ajar as always. Harry stepped in and found Jeannette sitting behind her desk as always, except that the look in her eyes told him that he had it coming, and today it was finally due.

"Hi Jeannette. You probably got a first-hand description of the events from Gilles, isn't it?"

Surprise. Guilt, replaced by an almost pleased look, and suddenly something like - well, admiration was too strong a word for Jeannette's quickly changing expression.

Being in high mental gear anyway, in preparation for his encounter with Fresnel, Harry couldn't help thinking that Laurent had it even longer coming - seen from Jeannette's perspective. Maybe less for his attitude toward the children he should protect, and more for his bullying of Gilles.

It didn't matter. Harry knocked at the door and entered without waiting for the call.

Fresnel sat behind his desk, looking expectant, which was the first element out of the ordinary since Harry had crossed the entrance of the administration building.

He sat down in front of Fresnel's desk. "You had me called, Monsieur le Directeur?"

"Yes indeed, Monsieur Pri'chard. Would you, by any chance, have an inkling why?"

"I would."

"Of course, and perhaps you also have an idea what's about to happen now. But if not: you've been a teacher at this school for the longest time. That's the short version. The long - "

"Let's stick to the short one for a moment, if you don't mind. To make it even shorter: I don't think so."

"You will call me by my title, Pri'chard!"

"You will call me by mine, Fresnel!" Calmer, Harry added, "That is, if you want to fuss with titles; I don't really care, actually."

"Monsieur Pri'chard, I have hundred-and-something eyewitnesses who can attest that you attacked your colleague Monsieur Clerc. Poor Laurent has a broken nose and a concussion of the head; he's in medical care right now. That should be enough, no matter what you think."

"Monsieur le Directeur Fresnel, you should leave interrogations of eyewitnesses to people who know how to handle them. Isn't there anyone who really told you what happened? Laurent attacked me - from behind, not to forget. It was purely self-defense."

"Self-defense?" For an instant, Fresnel's voice was at the verge of tilting. "You took him by the hair when he was lying on the floor and knocked his head down!"

"So?" Harry gave Fresnel a humourless grin. "Self-defense, my dear Monsieur le Directeur, is a bit more than side-stepping an uppercut, let me tell you from my vast experience. It also means making sure that the attack is over. His nose was the smallest bone I could break."

"How extraordinary considerate of you. Did it play the tiniest role in your calculations that it's also the most painful?"

"Ahhh!" Harry beamed at Fresnel. "After all, you know a bit more about brawls than you let show. Yes, that might be an integral part of my reflexes, while I can honestly claim not to have consciously chosen this bone or another."

"Self-defense, Monsieur Pri'chard, should be a defense in first place, wouldn't you agree? But my witnesses report that it started with you throwing your lunch into Laurent's face."

"Correct at the end, Monsieur le Directeur, while not at the beginning."

"What? Speak comprehensibly, Pri'chard - and call me Sylvain, for god's sake, we won't ever confuse it for a sign of friendship, will we?"

A crack in the headmaster's armour! Harry hadn't ever taken him as stupid enough to really depend on being properly addressed by his title; still, it came somewhat unexpected.

"The end was 'throwing my lunch into Laurent's face,' and this is correct, I have to admit. The beginning was, 'It started with," and this is not correct."

"So how did it start?"

"He called me a bloody Brit. And an asshole."

Fresnel was fighting to keep his expression serious. "Harsh words, indeed. But you aren't going to tell me this is how it started, Pri - Thierry."

"No, Sylvain, it was only the start of the rougher part. I had joined these two - er, I mean Laurent and Gilles, because Laurent had told me a while ago that he has contacts in case my hip-hop girls are ever ready to appear in public, and that he can help me get a little extra to cover my expenses. Well, they're close to that point, so I sat down there to get the thing going."

No doubt, Harry had Fresnel's full attention.

"So I asked him, but all I got was some bullshit about clogged communication channels - on both ends, whatever that means. When I insisted, he said that normally he would have taken my request to Jacques, but Jacques isn't available now. That was when I finally realized that I'd listened to a blithering idiot, which can happen to the best of us, right? And - well, I told him so. That's been the moment when we started to develop our disagreement."

"Disagreement, eh?" But Fresnel had somehow lost his outrage about poor Laurent's fate. "Your girls, as you said ..."

"The fifth-graders, yes. A formation of two dozen girls."

"And you really think they could perform before the eyes of an audience?"

"Definitely, eh, Sylvain. And what's more, they're dancing to a song from a teenie group, kids barely older - okay, fourteen to sixteen, but kids no doubt, and my idea was to get a gig for both of them together, music group and girls group."

"You should have come to me first with this idea, Thierry. Laurent is a - well, let's say he was correct in the sense that he hasn't really first-rate contacts. But there are more channels, and at least one isn't clogged the least bit."

"Really? That'd be great, Monsieur le - Sylvain, I mean."

"Let me have a look. A bit more practising won't hurt, right? But I'm quite confident to know a place, actually well suited for a first appearance, but not the last, right?"

"And where, if I may ask?"

"It's - well, my first idea is obvious: our generous sponsor, who's famous for the festivities on his chateau. MiraLuc, I mean. I'm telling you now because you should keep your expectations within bounds - after all, this, er, company donates a lot to our school, so maybe they consider it as a simple payback."

Harry tried to look disappointed, which was the hardest task in quite a while.

"Hmm - but there's still this music group, and for them the situation's different. They're in an early stage of their career, so-to-speak, but they won't come for free."

"Let me have a talk with our sponsor, Thierry, then I'll tell you what's within reach, and then you can filter the news through to that group in the proper form." Fresnel showed a knowing smile. "How does someone like you get in touch with a music group? And such a young one?"

"Their sound engineer's a friend of mine, an old buddy. When we were sitting together, it turned out I have girls to dance to music, and he has girls and boys to make the music. The age - I don't know what else he works for, but that's the band he suggested. Dragonfly, they call themselves. A crazy name, but they can play."

"This sound engineer ..."

Harry grinned, rejoicing inwardly that Fresnel showed the amount of insistence which made the plotting realistic, and his announcement trustworthy.

"He isn't French, if that's what you wanted to know, but he works in Paris, and the kids are students on French schools, as he said."

"Is he a fellow countryman of you, then?"

"A bloody Brit?" Harry laughed. "He's an Irishman, that's where you can find drinking buddies and sound experts."

Harry stood up to indicate that the conversation was over, or if not, that at least he'd given all information he thought necessary.

As if in an afterthought, he turned once more to Fresnel. "His name is Desmond, and if anyone ever called him British, the proverbial matter would hit the fan much harder than what happened today, Sylvain. Trust my word."

* * *

Carlos listened to the twitter between the girls. It had taken him a moment to get a grasp on what they were talking about, and now that he knew he didn't like it at all. Maybe it was simple jealousy, maybe he just felt as the odd one out, but he didn't think so.

They were in the park behind the school buildings, not quite sitting in the grass, as close to the Atlantic as here in Brest it was too late in the year for that, but still relishing the warm sun rays of a late afternoon, with Bolo and Dona Gata enjoying the presence of what the two pets considered the complete pack: Esmeralda and her roommates, Chloé, and Carlos himself.

But even though the persons were the same, something was uncommon in their gathering. What formerly had been two and four today appeared as one and five - one Carlos listening to five girls chatting animatedly about dancing.

Hip-hop. In public.

Worse, in the Chateau MiraLuc. Yes, Carlos knew that it was just a plot to have an easy entry into the chateau at a time when all suspects were invited. Yes, he knew that Dragonfly would play their music live on stage, which meant his older siblings would be present - actually a fact known to just two out of the six people here on the grass. So he could have stopped worrying; with Sandra and Gabriel around, they could feel safe.

But he should be the only one excluded?

He watched the girls doing dance steps on the grass. Now Dominique laid down, faking sleep, and Esmeralda took position as if next moment she were going to run to the spot where Dominique was lying and pull her awake or whatever, but Bolo used the opportunity to wash Dominique's face with his tongue, and the scene broke into fragments with a shrieking girl here, a jumping dog there, and Esmeralda trying to calm down both of them.

Odile turned to Carlos. "Do something useful. Hold that dog while we practise."

Something clicked in Carlos' mind. Odile's snappish command had sealed his decision.

"I can't," he said. "I need to practise myself."

"What?"

The girls stared at him. Meeting Esmeralda's look, Carlos saw that at least his sister knew what he meant. There was compassion in her eyes, but disbelief also.

He stood up. "I'm going to join you."

"Yeah, sure." Odile examined him. "You look so incredibly girlish, that's why."

"You think you know everything, huh? I'm going to join you just as I am."

"A boy? But the others are all girls!" Natalie, obviously trying to understand his idea, couldn't follow.

"So I'll be the only boy. Maybe there's something where a boy fits in, or I'm just the one who's different in the group, but I'll come with you. I'll ask him - Monsieur Pri'chard, I mean."

"You can as well call him - " Just in time, Odile interrupted herself, to look guilty and check around with a hand on her mouth.

"Maybe she doesn't know everything, but for sure she knows more than what's good for her," said Dominique.

"Do I?" Odile looked challenged. "And for sure I know more than what's good for Carlos, and that's called hip-hop. We've practised for weeks and weeks, and still have to work hard to get it done in time." She looked at Carlos. "How do you want to join? Even if your - even if the teacher wants to agree, he can't because you don't know what to dance. If you join us, then only as a flagpole, but you're too short for that."

She stood there, arms akimbo, perhaps waiting for the macho attack one had to expect from such a hot-headed Spaniard after calling him too short for playing a flagpole.

But Carlos just said, "Of course I have to practise, day and night if necessary. And I need help from you, because I don't know the steps, but before I ask - er, him, I must be ready. I know what he's going to say first, and then I must be able to say, 'No, I know the steps.' So who's going to help me?"

Chloé made a step forward. "I will."

Several heads turned to Esmeralda, apparently wondering why she hadn't been first.

Before the moment of silence could grow unpleasant, she said, "I knew that Chloé would say that, and she can remember the steps better than I, can't she? But I'm going to help him too. They need a place for practising, and the music. I know a place, and I can get the music."

"Where?"

Carlos hadn't come that far in his planning; a few moments ago, his decision still had been wishful thinking. A place - Carron Lough would have come to his mind first, naturally so, with a porty that carried him back and forth in a second, except that it might have raised a conflict with a few truths that were still confidential. So he looked at Esmeralda as expectant as Chloé, who had asked the question.

"In the Chateau Saumur. It's where the people who guarded the camp were staying, I mean besides him. It's what they call operation base, and now it'll be Carlos' operation base." She sent Carlos a quick glance, then turned back to Chloé. "There's a real comtesse there."

It didn't look as if this information raised the spirit in the girl from Nohanent near Clermont-Ferrand, more the opposite.

Esmeralda smiled at her. "She's okay."

Then she asked both Carlos and Chloé for their porties, said, "See you in a while; take care of Bolo," and disappeared by pressing a button on her own porty - after having made a few steps away from Bolo.

And suddenly, while Carlos still caressed the German shepherd, who hadn't liked his mistress' disappearing even at a few steps distance, the remaining four girls were eager to introduce Carlos to what they'd learned so far. The grass wasn't ideal ground for that, but they showed him the steps of the first song, assuring him all the time it wasn't difficult at all - well, not any particular step, that was.

Then Carlos tried a few steps by himself. It was more difficult than expected, for example because Bolo instantly joined him in this jumping game. Yet all considered, Carlos knew that this part of the task would be manageable. Getting his father to accept his part in the formation would be more difficult.

It took more than an hour, and not all the time spent on practising, until Esmeralda was back.

She went to Chloé first. "That's yours - here, that's the button." Then she came to Carlos, gave him his porty back and pointed at the button. "This one takes you to the Chateau Saumur. The comtesse knows about your coming." She lowered her voice. "And don't be surprised if you meet someone else there."

"Hey, what are you whispering to your brother?" Odile had found back to her normal tone, after the conciliatory attack she'd suffered the past forty minutes. "And where did you get the two porties programmed so quickly?"

"Don't you know already more than what's good for you?" Esmeralda gave Odile a malicious grin, then nodded toward Chloé and Carlos. "Go ahead. The music will arrive there, although maybe you'll have to do without in your first session."

Carlos and Chloé looked at each other, then pressed the new buttons in unison.

After the short moment of disorientation, Carlos stood in a hall that could have been the entrance hall of a hotel. Looking around, he saw Chloé next to him, with the nonplussed look in her eyes that was the trademark of unexperienced portkey travellers.

He made a step and took her hand. "Let's find the comtesse."

They had reached the reception desk when a woman came through the door to the inner part of the building. She said, "You two are Carlos and Chloé, right? I'm Marie-Claire, nice to meet you. If you follow me, I'll show you where you can practise any dance you want, and a music player too."

When they followed the woman through a corridor and up a staircase, Chloé asked, somewhat anxiously, "Will we meet the comtesse?"

The woman laughed. "Guess what? You did already. That's me; my full name is Marie-Claire Comtesse de Varanier." And yours?"

"Er, Chloé Broussard."

"As I said, Chloé, nice to meet you, and if you find it too hard to call me Marie-Claire, a simple 'Madame' will be all right."

Having reached the upstairs landing, the woman pointed. "There's the room with the dance floor, this door leads to a room where girls can change dresses, and over there's the room for you, Carlos. Maybe you want to have a look now, so you're familiar with the location."

They nodded and headed toward different doors.

Entering the room the comtesse had indicated and closing the door behind him, Carlos saw the one he'd halfways expected, after Esmeralda's warning and Marie-Claire's pointed look at him: his mother.

She came to him and hugged him. "Funny how we meet again, isn't it?"

"Erm ..." Carlos was ready to smile, any time, certainly, but only after he'd found out what his mother thought about his idea. So far, she hadn't welcomed comparable attempts. But, strangely enough, this time she seemed to support him full-heartedly, from the way she looked.

"You expected me to be worried as hell, am I right?"

When he nodded, she ruffled his hair playfully. "Of course, and for good reason. But this time it's different, and you know why?"

No, he didn't.

"History repeats itself. More than twenty years ago, your father came to Aunt Fleur, at that time still Fleur Delacour, to learn dancing. And today you and your girl come for a similar reason - I take it as an omen, sweetie. It'll turn out okay."

He smiled back in relief.

"Ho do you want to play it? Do you want me to meet your girl? Incognito, I mean - this is a MABEL resort, after all, and I'm the MABEL chairwoman, Chloé should be the last not to believe this story, after she's been converted to a witch herself."

"Yes, Mum, but it's too risky."

She looked at him. "Who's the one you don't trust with a wrong word at the wrong time? Me or yourself?"

He shook his head. "That's not the reason. But Chloé has read this story about Dad, remember how I told you? And in this story there's a girl, she's Chinese and pretty and small, so ..."

His mother sighed. "Well, then. Maybe it's far-fetched, and maybe you're right; at any rate, we'll manage these few days as well. But I really wait for the day when this hide-and-seek is over."

Carlos nodded. "Me, too, Mum. But now I have to go and learn dancing, before Chloé starts wondering where I got lost."