Potter Professions

The rain fell steady most of the time. Occasionally, a gust of wind blew the drops more horizontally; at these moments, the scene Gabriel watched through the large window front of the coffee bar looked as artificial as the rain in the movies, considerably more histrionic than what used to fall on Carron Lough at the Irish Sea.

Was this the life he'd dreamed of? Watching rain through a window pane in a foreign city? Gabriel didn't know; it was too fresh, the changes came too fast and too hard. Yesterday evening's concert, the first in Linkoeping and the third on their tour, had been great, their best so far. The afternoon concert today hadn't been quite as good, perhaps the inevitable drop in quality after the initial climax, but they'd recovered and found their way back to good performance. Besides, it was an open question whether anyone in the audience had noticed. Sometimes, not having published an album yet was an advantage; no one could compare their stage performance with a studio quality recording.

And now they were here in this café - no, a coffee bar with signs and employees and company costumes that all behaved as though a cardboard cup of coffee with a lid on it was the hottest thing since sliced bread.

It wasn't. The bar was something new only for Linkoeping, which had a university and more people and more shops and more life than Joenkoeping, except perhaps on a late Saturday afternoon when it was raining cats and dogs.

Truth be told, it wasn't really worse than what Gabriel could have had twice a week at Carron Lough. But the rain during vacation was always much harder to bear than at home, and today he got a lesson for free that the same was true on tour.

He sent a glance to his side, where Michel stood, doing pretty much the same: staring through the large glass pane into the street, thinking his thoughts, not turning his head if he'd noticed Gabriel's look.

They'd preferred the high desks at the window front over the regular seats. From here they could stare at something unfamiliar, rather than at each other. Sharing the same school, the same class, the same interests, the same band, they were together more often than anyone they knew. They understood each other, wordlessly most of the time, and were still far from the state of annoying routine, but it didn't amount to an animated conversion in a coffee bar at the second day on tour.

Dragonfly had split after the concert. The girls had decided to go shopping - all four of them, suddenly sharing a common interest. Frédéric and Tomas had disappeared, destination unknown, although Gabriel suspected Tomas of having returned home.

Why didn't he do the same? Because it would look like desertion?

Despite the rain, the number of people passing by outside was larger than Gabriel would have expected, shoppers returning from their goodshunt mixed with young people without a clear purpose or destination, which marked them as students from the local university. Swedes seemed weatherproof.

The coffee shop had been rather full when they'd entered a while ago. In the meantime it had emptied a bit; people were preparing for their evening program, and whatever it was, it wouldn't take place here.

The large glass pane created a showcase to both sides. People inside watched the passers-by - this was the purpose of the high desks close to the window, and the people outside examined the scene inside like a shop display which, by some accident, had turned alive. It was a matter of preferences whether or not to respond to the stares: lifting the focus by an inch or two was enough; there was no need to look the other way.

The girl that strolled by right now was scanning the scene inside routinely. Her glance had wandered over Michel and Gabriel without any change of expression. A second later, though, she stopped rather abruptly. Then she turned. Then she came closer to the window, and now she scrutinized first Michel's and then Gabriel's face as if they were two shop exhibits.

Without turning his head, Michel said, "We've got a fan."

He was probably right, although Gabriel didn't know why. The posters advertising the Dragonfly tour showed no such details; with them alone, a stranger wouldn't even recognize Caitlin, the main figure on the posters. Aside from that, Dragonfly wore stage costumes with mostly black for the boys and mostly white for the girls - not the harsh white of snow, more a creamy kind that responded friendlier to skin colours under spotlights. But of course they'd changed clothes after the concert and now were dressed in the same jeans and sweaters and jackets a million other teens wore.

Not a million. This was Linkoeping, not Paris; Gabriel hadn't adapted yet to a country in which hundred thousand were enough to rank a city in the top ten. And it didn't matter anyway; the girl had moved on.

Though not far. The door at the other end of the room opened, and the girl came in. Looked around once. Came straight to their desk.

---

"You're Dragonfly, aren't you?"

The girl still looked as if asking for the way to the railway station, and perhaps this was the reason why she didn't bother with rituals of courtesy, such as saying, "Hello."

Even so, Gabriel thought, one had to be grateful. After all, she could have rattled something in the local lingo. But no, she spoke plain English. So he ignored the somewhat unfocused style of asking and replied, "Yes, we are. How did you know?"

"Why, from your pictures, of course."

What else. Stupid question, as it seemed, ignoring the fact that Gabriel had no idea what pictures she was talking about.

At this moment, Michel asked, "Did you come for an autograph?"

Gabriel looked at him with some astonishment; Michel's voice had sounded gruff, at least for his standards. Was it the girl? Sure, the way she behaved could raise the suspicion she was a bit retarded, but it wasn't Michel's style. Perhaps the rotten afternoon was grating on his nerves still more than on Gabriel's.

"No," said the girl. "What should I do with your autograph?"

Michel shot her a quick glance, as if weighing a reply, then he resumed his stare out of the window.

The girl just stood there, and if Gabriel could sense any growing uneasiness, then only in his friend's mood. The situation was a bit weird, but certainly more interesting than staring into Swedish rain. Suddenly remembering his social skill, Gabriel asked, "Would you like a drink?"

"Yes, please." It wasn't enough to make her smile, which added to the unfavourable impression she gave. "A frappucino."

For an instant all three of them looked at each other, then Michel nodded curtly and went to the counter. What could have been courteousness was in fact, as Gabriel clearly sensed, an escape from the alternative: being alone with the girl.

"Where have you seen pictures good enough to recognize us?" he asked.

"In Paris, just where you come from. I was there, on a visit to a friend of mine, and she took me to your concert. There were pictures of you - not in the newspaper, but on the homepage of your school and they were close-ups."

"And here?"

"Yes, of course, I've seen your concert, the one this afternoon. I've seen the one last Saturday too, in Joenkoeping."

It was hardly more than a fifty miles drive from Linkoeping to Joenkoeping. Still, meeting such a hardcore fan on their first tour came - well, unexpected.

Michel returned with the cup for the girl. She took it and said, "Thank you very much. You're Michel, right?"

"Yes. And you? Who are you?"

"I'm Mirja. That's Finnish for Mary. But I'm not Finnish myself. It brings bad fortune to be Finnish, you know."

Gabriel almost laughed out loud. Had this girl stolen away from a residence where they used padded walls?

"Awfully important to know that." Michel almost growled. "But what do you want from us? Why did you come in?"

"Oh." Suddenly the girl smiled. "I want to be your groupie. I guess you haven't one yet, so I'm the first."

Definitely insane. Michel's brief laughter expressed what Gabriel suspected. "Groupie? You?"

The girl had to be about their own age. The figure under her rain coat was hard to guess; she was slender, if not thin. Now that the hood was pulled back, her hair was visible - a blond bordering on colourless, shoulder long. Together with the colour of her eyes, an extremely light blue, she gave the impression of having avoided the albino fate just barely.

"Sure. I'm a Veela."

Michel's head tilted up to stare at her. "No, you aren't. I don't know what you are, except that - well, never mind, but for sure you aren't a Veela. I'm a Veela, so I know for certain, and if you want to be our groupie, you should know at least that much. Forget it!"

He looked at Gabriel. "I'm done here. See you later?"

Gabriel just nodded. His curiosity had come awake, and if claiming to be a Veela was an insult, then not to him. He watched Michel leave, then turned to the girl. "What's that supposed to mean, saying I'm a Veela?"

"It was meant as a joke. I know I'm no Veela, although sometimes I dream of being one, because ... I'm not even magical, but with my looks I could daydream being Veela. I'm - I'm pretty much of nothing. I guess that's what made me say I'm your groupie. It would make me the first of something, after all." She glanced up. "You're Gabriel. You are something. Want me to be your groupie?"

"I don't know. It's all fairly new to me."

He quickly revised his first guess, no matter how much it had been his attempt of a failed joke in this encounter. She wasn't insane, while he wouldn't deny an abysmal depth opening inside her.

"You're a wizard, right?"

He nodded.

"Can you do a spell for me?"

It took him a second to realize that she meant a simple demonstration of magic, rather than a conversion of the type he could have provided easily. Furthermore, from the girl not being magical he had a better guess of her age: the Great Plot had started fourteen years ago, so she was fifteen at the least.

"A spell, huh? Anything special?"

"No, just so I can say Ah and Oh." Another quick smile, her second, and for the fraction of a second a look in her eyes that revealed intelligence way above what he'd first thought.

"Can you put down your cup for a moment?"

"Yes, why?"

Because he wanted to summon her to a nicer place, away from this dismally stylish coffee shop, and with the cup in her hand, the risk of spilling it from surprise was too high. The only reasonable choice that came to his mind was his home. Rather than answering, he apparated and summoned her simultaneously.

They stood in the dinner room of Carron Lough. He waited expectantly for her reaction.

She looked around. "That's a good spell. It looks much nicer than before, and the other people are gone."

"No, we are gone. I brought us to my home."

"Really? Why?"

"I didn't want to cause attention there with any spell. And as you said, it's much nicer here" - he glanced through the window - "maybe not the weather, but at least inside. And I could do with a piece of cake. What about you?"

"I'm not hungry." She examined the room again, while he walked to the sideboard on which he knew the porty with the shortcut to the house-elves. He saw how she watched him ordering a piece of cake for himself. When he'd put down the porty and walked back to his seat, she asked, "Who did you talk with? It didn't sound as if you talked with your mother."

He laughed. "No. I spoke with Dobby, our house-elf. My parents aren't here."

"Is there anyone here?"

"Aside from the house-elves? No, why?"

She eyed him, a new look in her eyes. "Perhaps you wanted to get a head start on the groupie stuff."

Before he could find an answer, his cake appeared. Feeling grateful for the short diversion, still more for her fascinated look, telling him she'd been brought off track for the moment, he sat down.

"The only head start I had in mind was on this cake here. You sure you don't want some for yourself?"

She came a step closer and examined the dark-brown chunk, then bent down and sniffed. "No, but I'd like to try. It smells good."

He broke a piece, forked it, and offered it to her.

Rather than taking it with her hand, she opened her mouth, waiting for him to feed her with the piece, quite obviously unafraid of sharing the fork with him.

He asked, "Are you Swedish?"

"Yes, sure. Why?"

"Well, your English is so fluent, it could have been your parents are from England or the States. But - er, somehow you didn't strike me as American. Actually, not as British either."

She gulped the cake down. "English is quite common in Sweden. Where are we, by the way?"

"This is Carron Lough, an old - "

Gabriel had interrupted himself because he could feel it before it really happened: someone apparating into the room. Then the air popped, and his sister Sandra was standing there, a shopping bag in her hand.

He smiled. "Want to store your prey?"

"Yes, something like that." Which meant, Sandra had returned for a totally different reason, except she didn't want to tell him, or maybe not in the same room with a total stranger, at whom she was staring right now.

Gabriel pointed by way of introduction. "Sandy, this is Mirja, who should have recognized you because she seems to know all Dragonfly people. Mirja is - erm, we met in a coffee bar in Linkoeping, but they offered no cake, so that's why we're here."

Mirja laughed, quite a genuine sound, all considering. Apparently she had taken Gabriel's explanation for a joke. She laughed once more when Sandra, after saying hello, asked how came the only cake within sight was the one in front of Gabriel. Before he could answer, she said, "He offered me some, and besides, he invited me already to a coffee over there, and all this while I told him a bunch of lies."

"Oh, really?" Sandra, about to leave and mind her own business, stopped. "What lies?"

"First I said I'm a Veela, but the other boy, er, Michel, called it a lie at once. Then I said I'm a groupie, but it's not true either because you can be a groupie only if you've had sex with anyone in the group, right?"

"I guess so," replied Sandra, her eyes a bit bigger and rounder than an instant before.

"I mean, I wouldn't mind sex, but - you know, I just wanted to be something, and trying to be something with your band seemed a good idea to me."

"She's a Muggle," explained Gabriel.

Concerning Muggle teens, Sandra's thoughts followed almost the same patterns as her brother's, because she asked, "How old are you, Mirja?"

"Sixteen - not quite, but almost. Isn't this old enough to be something?"

"I'm the wrong person to answer this question, because - erm, the answer from me wouldn't fit anyone else." Sandra's smile was a bit tense at these words. "But you've found the right one for any such discussion; Gabriel knew what he wanted to be when he was a little boy. And - erm, whatever it'll develop into, this seems the right place for it. Now, if you'll pardon me ..." She left it to the surrounding air to pop into the space she'd occupied an instant earlier.

Mirja turned to Gabriel. "Will you ever tell me where we are?"

"Ireland." Gabriel hadn't known before how unpleasant it could be to eat a large piece of cake while someone else in the room asked all kinds of questions because he - she - hadn't any for herself.

"You all live in an old castle? Why?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Lopphs of choom." He gulped. "Sandra has a complete suite of her own. You won't believe how much space she can occupy."

"And you have just a room?"

"Yes, although the larger instruments are in a separate room."

Mirja glanced at Gabriels plate, now emptied. "You're done. Would you show me your room?"

"I'm not sure."

"What?" Apparently at a loss for a moment, Mirja stared at him. Then, probably from something in his face, she seemed to get an idea. "If I promise not to have sex with you, will you show me then?"

When he nodded hesitantly, she smiled at him, suddenly looking ten years younger. "And, please, let's go like your sister did. I love it to be beamed up."

Gabriel wasn't sure if he really understood what she was talking about, but in his slightly embarrassed state, he wasn't in the mood of asking. So he just stood up and, almost in a reflex trained with other six-year-olds, took her hand before apparating both of them into his room.

She looked around, not letting go of his hand. "It's comfy here," she said. "Just the right place."

"What for?" he asked back, alarm in his voice.

"For - I want to show you a spell of my own. I'm a - a Muggle, as you said, but there's one spell I know."

Then, letting go of his hand, she turned around to stand in front of him, this way giving proof that she was almost exactly the same height. She took his head in her hand and kissed him. "That's what I can give you in return."

For an instant, he'd closed his eyes. Now he opened them again to look into her eyes, which seemed a bit darker than earlier on.

"It's a good spell. Erm - maybe there's something else it has in common with other spells?"

"What?"

"Spells must be practised - normally, that is. With Sandy and me, most often it wasn't true, but, well, this is a Muggle spell, as you said, So I guess we - "

He stopped his own suada, born from an unfamiliar nervousness, just in time before Mirja's mouth had reached his own.

* * *

Sandra deposited her shoppings in her room. They weren't the reason for her appariting home, but now that she was here, it would have been stupid not to use the opportunity. And if the others asked her where she'd left her bags, she could say, "I put them on my bed - at home, of course." It would make her look casual, cool, crafty. Witchcrafty.

Witchcrafty she was no doubt. Could have apparated onto the toilet seat in her hotel room in Linkoeping, only there wouldn't have been anyone around to look impressed.

That girl downstairs ... A girl of fifteen, lacking magic, lacking an orientation in life, had put her off balance. Worse, it had spoiled her plan - the reason why she really had come here, something she would tell no one, now that it had failed. Not even the one she had planned to summon - of course only after telling him what was due, ha ha.

Her plan had been to lose something that developed into a burden with every month passing. She'd apparated home to check if the air was clean, because - well, the hotel room in Linkoeping lacked all romanticism. Being away from home bore no adventure for her; what she had in mind was adventure enough, thank you very much.

In her rooms she could do what she wanted. But the knowledge of the two of them downstairs was enough to shatter her peace of mind, actually a non-entity right now. A groupie! As clueless as the girl had looked otherwise, concerning a central aspect of the groupie profession she hadn't shown any uncertainty. Not an exorbitant eagerness either, and perhaps this indifference had unsettled Sandra more than anything else.

Would they? Would Gabriel? If so, he'd do it in his own room, where else, and this thought ... Sandra would have liked to have another look at this Mirja, fake Veela, faultlessly pretty if you fancied this type. What type did Gabriel fancy? And why didn't she mind her own business?

Because the thought of being outrun by her younger brother in a memorable step of growing up had all ingredients for something Sandra only knew from hearsay. It was called panic.

She apparated back to Linkoeping, right into the lobby of their hotel, to a spot next to the entrance but out of the way walking guests would use. Walking toward the reception, she heard music from the direction of the hotel bar. Piano music, just the kind you would expect in a bar, but somehow quite familiar.

Passing the entrance to the bar, she knew why. Frédéric was the one playing.

The bar filled the most attractive room in this hotel. It had to do with the amount of money Swedes spent on alcohol - considerably more than on hotel rooms with a romantic touch, as it seemed. Perhaps the piano had been little more than a showpiece, but it played, wasn't even out of tune, as far as Sandra could judge, which was less than other people she knew.

People who right now were alone with a girl in a romantic castle at the Irish Sea ...

She admonished herself not to freak out and steer toward the planned goal with the determination of a true Potter. Unfortunately, this thought almost sent her into a fit of hysteric giggles, because suddenly she remembered the tales, no matter how much lacking detail, she'd heard about her parents in a comparable situation. Needless to say, it had been Aunt Fleur's task to tell.

Frédéric had gathered a small audience. People were sitting here and there, at the bar or at tables, but their attention was undeniably focused on the piano player. The clandestine operation Sandra had in mind seemed to grow more difficult by the minute.

She went to the bar and climbed one of the empty stools there. Not ready to believe in omens, even less ready to abandon the possibility altogether, she ordered what came closest to the drinks she'd drunk during the vacation on Jamaica. She got a mix of passion fruit juice with champagne, plus a dash of angostura bitters to balance the sweetness.

Taking sips of her drink, she watched Frédéric. He seemed lost in his music. She had chosen a place at the bar where he could see her only when looking sideways, which he didn't.

Feeling assured that he was the one, and this was the day - if not the place - she ordered a pastis. Frédéric liked pastis, while the idea of confronting him with what was sold here as champagne seemed too risky. Then she walked over to the piano, put the pastis down, gave him a quick smile when he looked up, and walked back to her stool.

A judgment of fate: how long would he play still, knowing her at the bar?

First he brought his current improvisation to an end. Then he sipped from his pastis. Then he played a potpourri of the Dragonfly songs, and was already in the second take when Sandra became aware that it was a special potpourri: he talked with her through music.

The first snippet had been Share My Music, number two in their concert program. Then came While On The Subject, followed by The Girl Over There, Where's That Gonna Stop, and By Midnight I'll Be Ready. At the last take, he looked over to her, quite alive and not ghostlike at all.

Of course, this way he'd bypassed the judgment, a move as clever as you had to expect from him.

He finished with a musical exclamation mark. Then he stood up, and when the audience didn't hesitate to honour his performance with the due applause, he bowed to both sides. Then he took his drink and came to the bar to climb the stool next to her, and give her a smile.

"Done with shopping?"

"Yes. It's a nice town, but it could be much nicer with a bit of sunshine."

"Where are the others?"

"I don't know, and what's more, I don't care. This city is full of nice places with young people; I guess that's the effect if you have a university in a small-population city, totally different from Paris. So I guess sweet little Moira won't get lost or suffer a fate worse than death."

"Most unlikely. I take it there's a world-class wizard somewhere close to her.

"Actually, no, because Gabriel's the only one of which I know for sure where he is, and that's not close to her." Sandra's voice was more upset than amused when she added, "Which doesn't mean there isn't a girl next to him, sweet little fifteen or so."

Frédéric chuckled. "A groupie, no doubt."

"Right, how did you know? You didn't meet her, by any chance? Name's Mirja, the lightest blonde you can imagine, looking for her purpose in life and her place in society."

"Nope, I saw no such girl. But then, I pay little attention to blondes," answered Frédéric casually. "Where did you get your detailed knowledge about her pursuit? Normally groupies have less complex demands - or so I've been told," he added quickly after a look at Sandra.

"I met them. At home."

"At Carron Lough?" Frédéric issued a soft whistle. "There's a boy who knows a bit or two about the right environment, eh?" Next moment, his amused grin made room for a watchful stare at Sandra. "And what business, If I may ask, brought you to Carron Lough not quite in the middle of this wonderful day?"

"Maybe ... maybe I know the same two bits about the right environment?" Her voice was more flat than usual. "Maybe I looked at my hotel room and found it less inviting than I'd hoped? And so I looked whether air's clean at home, but it wasn't - don't ask me what the two of them have decided, but they have the castle for themselves, as far as I'm concerned."

Frédéric moved his finger over his glass. "I don't. Right now I'm very busy to listen and not to ask any question."

"That's, uhm, clever of you. I want - I want the two of us to go and find a place where we get something to eat, with no one else around we know. Then I want the two of us to go and find a place with no one else around at all. If" - she swallowed, then continued - "if that sounds like a to-do list, then I'm sorry, but I want to be honest and tell you now - er, this term isn't entirely wrong."

"If there ain't no complaint, don't apologize." Frédéric stood up. "Let's go find place number one."

"Here in Linkoeping?"

"Just here, yes. I'll tell you why, on the road."

Five minutes later, they were walking along the street in the direction of where supposedly the best restaurants were found, seen from the perspective of young people. Frédéric carried an umbrella, and Sandra had linked arms with him.

"See," he said, "that's one of the reasons why it had to be here. I always wanted to walk down a street, arm in arm with you and an umbrella above us."

She sent him a quick glance. "Is this the always wanted day?"

"Could well be. On the other hand, my second reason is more or less the opposite of always wanted. It has to do with Dragonfly and our concert tour. We're here, and I think we should acknowledge to ourselves that we're here until tomorrow morning. It's a kind of honesty toward Dragonfly, or toward yourself. You've started the thing, and now that you're in the middle of it, you damn well stop looking for cheap escapes."

Sandra was still thinking about what he'd said and why, when they came around a corner and saw the lights of a pizza restaurant at the other side of a small plaza. Coming closer, not seeing any of the much-dreaded fast food chain logos, they looked at each other, said, "Why not?" and hopped inside.

The other guests were obviously students from the local university. It was loud, it smelled wonderfully of pizza, and the faces around them were unfamiliar but animated by the thought, expectation, or savouring of food.

They found seats at a table on which another couple was already sitting. They gave them a short glance, a polite nod, then continued their own conversation, their sounds almost like white noise because it was Swedish.

When they had ordered, Sandra leaned forward. "What you said outside, about sticking to the schedule - yes, I know you didn't use these words, but a sentence earlier you said something about the opposite of what you always wanted. Is it painful for you to play the keyboard in these concerts?"

"No. Not painful." Frédéric thought for a few seconds. "It's a kind of, 'What am I doing here?' It wasn't my goal in life to be the Dragonfly keyboarder. I do it, I do it well by now, but ..." He shrugged. "There are rewards. They come from totally unexpected corners."

Sandra wasn't entirely sure what he meant, and temporarily at a loss to ask.

He noticed, smiled. "I don't mean us here, today. One reward is a musical one. Our songs forced me to play a music I used to avoid, and sometimes detested. But I had to practise it and, well, it has its own characteristics, and it opens your eyes for new things. Maybe new moods. Me playing the piano in a bar - it might have been possible, but two months ago I would have been playing Chopin, at the same time watching which of the people there listening could appreciate my music."

Frédéric laughed briefly. "All of them can, that's what I've learned. The guy at the next table might never have heard about études, but he knows if the drink's to his taste and he also knows if the music's to his taste."

"But today you didn't play Chopin."

"No, I played stuff I wouldn't have dared a while ago, least of all in public. That's something I owe Dragonfly." He looked up. "Gabriel, to be precise. He's a tricky composer; his music catches you unaware if you don't pay attention. And of course he's the one who lured me into it."

"I'm glad he did."

"I'm glad, too.

They were silent for a few seconds. Before either of them found the words to continue, the waiter brought their orders, all of them at once - what he'd been late in serving drinks he'd compensated in serving the pizza plates awfully quick.

They ate in silence for a while. Then Sandra asked, "Is there another reward? Not counting today, I mean."

"I hope there is." Frédéric looked determined. "Yes, I'm pretty sure there is. The stunt with your father and his girls in that castle. Being in one team with him and you and your brother, that's something - I know that you three play in a different league, but it doesn't matter."

"No, it doesn't matter," agreed Sandra. "Besides, I wonder if the three of us will be in the same league."

Frédéric stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"I'm going to meet Aram'chee first, and do the takeover."

Seeing Frédéric's face turn expressionless, Sandra quickly continued. "I met her last week. We were sitting at this beach in the middle of Joenkoeping, and she said I'm ready, and I thought the same - erm, with one exception, and that's why I'm pushing matters a bit now, I hope you don't mind."

"If there are matters that need to be pushed, they're your own." Frédéric laughed, perhaps not quite as lightly as he probably had intended.

"I'm ... I'll finish the role soon and end my duty after it has hardly begun. Aram'chee and I agree that this is the only reasonable solution, now that the entire world is magical. But only after this stunt my father has in mind, because there's a lot at stake. If Aram'chee agrees, that is, if it isn't a violation of some rules."

Frédéric looked at her. "It'll change you. Even if your regency may take no more than five minutes, it'll have changed you."

"You're probably right. And that's another reason for today, for the, uhm, pushed matters. I wanted to be myself when - when I'm with you."

"Pity." He grinned. "Originally I'd planned to bring you beyond yourself, If you gave me a chance, but under these circumstances - "

"Please! I'm nervous enough."

"Like the proverbial - " He interrupted himself. "Sorry. I'm not calmness personally myself; in such a mood I tend to stupid jokes. But there's another proverb about how to digest food best, and before we start drowning in our own small talk, maybe we should get going, what do you think?"

"Where?"

"I know a place where we're on our own. It's a chateau too, and you've seen it from upstairs and downstairs - "

"Your grandma's!"

"Yes, just the one where you and Gabriel were stuck. Isn't this an omen? We don't believe in them, but aside from that, it's the perfect omen, right?"

"How do we get there?"

Frédéric looked almost embarrassed. "I apparate, and then I summon you."

"You can summon?" Sandra stared at him in bafflement.

"Actually, yes."

"That's cool, especially now. But why didn't you say a word about it?"

Frédéric looked elfish. "I play the piano, as you know, but it doesn't mean I feel tempted to do so in the presence of, say, Glenn Gould or Pollini or Jarrett. Similarly, I can summon, as you know now, but it doesn't mean I feel tempted in the presence - got the picture?"

She smiled. "That was a nice compliment."

"Just warming up. Let's go."

Sandra had been careful not to drink too much alcohol. She felt tipsy anyway. She felt wonderfully free when she was summoned into the building in which she and Gabriel had broken their first apparition lock, to meet Frédéric's grandmother there afterwards. She followed Frédéric tiptoeing upstairs, although there wasn't anyone around except a house-elf somewhere downstairs. She followed him into a bedroom with a large four-poster. Then she followed his guidance into passion and moments beyond herself, and felt wonderfully languished afterwards.

"I love you," Frédéric said, and added, "Don't answer now."

"Why not?"

He kissed her. "Don't play stupid, don't lie to me, and don't tell me something I know anyway."

"I might learn it. What do I know? I've been preoccupied all my life, maybe I never took the time to examine you a bit more closely."

Frédéric laughed. "Go ahead."

She snuggled closer. "Give me a few more minutes; I'm in no hurry. But I'm serious, and while I know what I'm not supposed to answer, I can tell you one thing: there isn't anyone else."

"Hey - that's exactly what your brother said when he convinced me to join his band, and we weren't talking about keyboard players in that moment."

"That's interesting. He never told me."

"Strange, isn't it?" After a moment of silence, Frédéric giggled. "There's an old movie tale, about a man who lives the same day again and again, and the day is as grey and dirty as the one in Linkoeping, only snow instead of rain. Then the man starts to learn things - there's a woman of course, he's fallen in love, but he's too arrogant, she detests him - "

"I don't detest you! Quite - "

"No, but listen. He learns playing the piano, and the woman finds him playing piano in a bar or something, and that's his breakthrough. She buys him on a joke auction and, well, that's it. He wakes up, and it's really another day."

"And I found you playing in a bar."

"Exactly. Isn't this an omen? We don't believe in them, but aside from that, it's the perfect omen, right?"

Yes, perhaps it was. She didn't believe in them any more than he did, but he was right, there were times when it was best not to ask and not to answer, not with words, that was, and instead use a non-verbal communication. Maybe her body was wiser, or just less scrupulous, she didn't know, and for the time being had no intention to investigate. There was another body to explore, and so she did.

* * *

Carlos practised. Not quite day and night, although it felt like that: his mind circled through his personal plot all the time, and whenever he could, he let his mind recount the step sequences.

Marie-Claire became his secret sponsor, or perhaps advisor was the better term. She'd been the one who told him about the recounting. She'd explained to him that dancers and figure skaters used this mental exercise to learn the step sequence by heart and soul and spirit. True, it didn't teach you graciousness, which could only be learned the hard way on the dance floor, but for sure it made you more fluent; not having to think about what came next was a great help.

In retrospect, Carlos knew that without Marie-Claire he'd have been chanceless. Chloé showed him the steps and practised with him, but Chloé was no teacher and had a more intuitive understanding of their dance. It was the comtesse who told him about the few key facts in dancing, hip-hop or otherwise.

Weight. Weight was the key factor number one. Putting a foot down, forward, sideways was no step yet. Putting the weight on that foot, so the other leg became the free one, was the essential part. Once Carlos had understood what it meant, he made progress.

Beat was the other, the one he had no trouble with from the very first moment. "Stop counting," Marie-Claire had said, "as soon as you can, and let the rhythm guide you." He did, still more so as the music to which he danced had something in which Carlos meant to recognize his brother. Maybe it was imagination, but it worked.

Esmeralda had come to visit twice, a sign of solidarity as much as simple curiosity. But she hadn't stayed long; by common understanding Chloé was supposed to be his teacher and training partner.

Someone else also contributed his special support, as Carlos told Chloé with satisfaction: Serge. Knowing from the start that it was impossible to hide his activities from his roommates, Carlos had driven his former approach a step further. Serge was his official confidant and guardian of his secret; paid with sweets, he had to make sure nobody got wind of Carlos' plan, and generally cover his back, whatever that meant.

It meant nothing specific, actually, but the agreement sealed their relationship as something like knight and knave.

To make Serge's life a bit easier, Carlos had also informed Roland, who could keep his mouth shut, but only if he knew the background. Only poor Mathieu was left out - another proof of the old wisdom that you had to be very clever or very stupid, leaving it to the average to suffer.

The secret part of his project lasted from the beginning of the week to Saturday, the day on which the official troupe had their next major practising. Carlos knew that he had to convince his father as early in the schedule as possible; after all, he assumed that he wasn't going to dance "just another girl," that instead his part would be somewhat different, and that his father needed to know about this change before having proceeded too far in his training program.

Saturday's practising session would start ten o'clock in the gymnasium, as the girls had told Carlos. He called his father fifteen minutes beforehand, a schedule that should allow him to join the session right after their talk. When his father agreed to meet him, provided he made it short, Carlos said they should meet in the gymnasium.

"In the gymnasium?" After a few seconds, his father said, "All right, Carlos. Come over."

Walking to the Lorient building, Carlos thought about this short pause before his father's answer. It had sounded as if in these few seconds his father had gotten a hunch of what Carlos was going to say. Unfortunately, he hadn't shown any enthusiasm in his answer.

Or was this imagination just like hearing Gabriel in Sunrise?

Arriving in the gymnasium, finding his father at the control desk for the music and the speakers, looking into his eyes, Carlos knew it had been no imagination. Nonetheless, he had to get it out.

"Hello, Prof. I - erm, I wanted to ask you if I can join the girls for the dancing."

His father stared at him.

"I know all the steps. Chloé practised with me - in the Chateau Saumur, and Marie-Claire told me how to do it right, with weight and so. I can show you. Now?"

"No, Carlos. Not now, not afterwards. You can't join."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't work. I have a choreography in which there is no role for a boy. You being the only one would raise so many questions - we can't afford that. We can't risk that. No." Harry shook his head.

"But then I'm the only one who can't partici - "

Carlos didn't come further because his father had moved very quickly to put his finger on Carlos' mouth. The touch was as gentle as determined.

"I know what you mean, but no more word. Not now. Meet me again after this practising, then we can discuss it in more detail."

Which meant, his father would tell him - in as many words as Carlos was ready to listen - the same message he'd given right now: that he should forget it.

---

He wouldn't. He had to swallow hard while turning and walking out of the building into the fresh air, several girls in sight who were approaching the gymnasium, one of them Chloé. He met her in the middle, in some distance from the other girls.

Seeing his face, she asked, "What did he say?"

"He said, 'No'."

"But why?"

"For the same reasons - " Carlos had to swallow again. "I'll meet him afterwards to talk a bit more. Maybe ... I'm going to visit some other people until then, and see whether they can help me. Please don't tell the others, not as long as I haven't tried my last chance."

Chloé just stared at him, pity in her face. She didn't wish him luck, less for the fact that she didn't know whom he was asking for help, more because Monsieur Pri'chard wasn't famous for changing his mind, once it was set.

"Don't wait for me," said Carlos. Then he took his porty and pressed the first button that crossed his mind, the one for the Chateau Saumur.

Standing in the lobby, he saw more people than all the time before. Apparently, the next MABEL seminar was about to start, so Marie-Claire would be busy. Watching the guests arrive, excitement and expectation in their faces, Carlos felt closer to tears than in a long while.

"Hey, my little chevalier, what's wrong with you?" Marie-Claire stood before him, her hand at his chin turning his face upward. "You look like a dog kicked all through town. How come?"

"He - he said no."

"Oh-la-la. That's bad."

Marie-Claire was the second woman this morning who didn't waste time on something like, "He'll change his mind," a remark Carlos wouldn't believe but wouldn't object hearing, if only as a short-lived solace. Instead, she guided him into the dinner hall, at this time of the day serving as breakfast hall, and let him sit down.

"Have a seat, my dear, and have a second breakfast. I'll be back soon." She left, after notifying a waitress that there was a guest to serve.

When the girl came over, Carlos ordered a hot chocolate and a croissant. He'd taken his first sip and munched half of the delicious pastry when his mother stood beside him.

"Hi, Mum. Did Marie-Claire call you?"

"Yes, sweetie. But she didn't have to call far; I was around anyway because of the new seminar. So he said no, huh?"

"He said I can't be the only boy because it's too suspicious, and there's no role for me in his, er, choreography."

Carlos mother sat down and ordered tea for herself. Then she took a few gulps. Then she told him a story about his father - the story wasn't exactly new, but appeared in a totally different light in this situation: how his father had been excluded from a Flying Squad on broomsticks and how he'd started fighting for his return.

"I was the real reason," said Carlos' mother, "because I was in the Squad and he wasn't. That's when he and the Goblins became friends, because he turned to them, asking for help. And as you know, since then they're soooo close."

His mother's thumb and forefinger, pressed together, illustrated the relationship between his father and the Goblins.

"You two meet again after the practising, right?" His mother thought for a moment. "Well, I can't imagine your equivalent to the Goblins, not at such a short notice, but you can tell him that there's a parallel and that you'll spend twenty-four hours a day to find your own ally in this plot. That's the only chance I see, sunny. Remind him of his own story. I don't know if it's enough, but it's more promising than me trying to talk you into his troupe."

Carlos nodded. "Thanks, Mum. I guess you're right, I mean, I know that you didn't look for an easy way out." He hugged his mother, then excused himself - he needed time to prepare his appeal, and perhaps to find his own ally.

---

Back in the school in Brest, Carlos found himself a spot in the underbrush close to the gymnasium. He wasn't exactly hidden, not prominently visible either, just the right place for his old game of not being noticed. A larger piece of wood served as his seat; the season for sitting on the ground was over. The entrance to the gymnasium in his view, not expecting anyone coming out for the next forty-five minutes, Carlos sat there and tried to find something to which he could map the story his mother had told him.

Allies ... The Goblins had rescued his father, and he might have talked with them about his situation if he'd been Gabriel or Michel, both of them calling Goblin godfathers their own. Carlos had no friends of this kind. The only relationship crossing his mind was the one with Birdy, who'd paid him and his sister Esmeralda pocket money for a while. But how should Birdy help him now?

Perhaps by discolouring him just like Dobby and Winky had done with his father. Changing him until he looked like a girl? The idea was absurd.

No, when trying to think of allies, all that came to Carlos' mind were his siblings. Gabriel and Sandra - if he could persuade them to ally with him, his father had no choice other than to accept him. Question was, would Gabriel or Sandra be ready to blackmail their father that way? It would be Sunday afternoon before Carlos could find out; right now the two of them were somewhere in Sweden and out of reach for Carlos and his porty.

Someone was walking the path from the administration building to the gymnasium. A few seconds later, Carlos recognized Monsieur le Directeur Fresnel - a person with which he didn't try his luck in the game of not being noticed. Ever so slowly, Carlos retreated a few inches until he was truly out of sight from the path, then quickly retreated further into the underbrush.

Fresnel climbed the few steps and went into the building.

Carlos spent the next minutes trying to find a reason for the man's visit. It could have been a perfectly ordinary check - the headmaster having a look at the dance formation of his school shortly before a public appearance - if not for Fresnel's reputation. Carlos didn't like him and knew for a fact that his mother didn't like him either, but he didn't know enough to estimate him better, or his visit.

About ten minutes later, the door to the gymnasium opened again and Fresnel came out. He looked neither pleased nor disappointed, as far as Carlos could judge from his hiding spot, before the man turned to walk back to the Brest building.

Shortly afterwards, the door flew open to make room for a horde of girls storming out. Carlos saw his sister and her friends, and a moment later Chloé. She looked around, apparently in search for him. He didn't move; the conversation he had in mind was something between him and his father.

---

Inching forward again so he could see the path until the first bend, he waited until no one was left in sight, then he stood up and quickly crossed the few steps to the entrance. He felt sure to find his father still inside; he hadn't heard any key turning in the lock.

Yes, his father was there, sitting at his control desk almost like a few hours earlier. He seemed to have awaited Carlos. His expression hinted at something Carlos couldn't properly categorize: the grimace luring behind his father's self-control was no amusement for sure, no anger either - anticipation perhaps? Did he know about Carlos' talk with his mother, and her story?

"Hi Da - erm, Prof, I mean."

"Hello, Son. We can talk openly; it's safe here in the gymnasium."

"That's good, Dad, because, uhm, I talked with Mum, and she told me a story how you were excluded from the Squad, and that there's a parallel, but I couldn't find any ally for myself to help me join the Squad - er, I mean the formation."

This wasn't what Carlos had planned to say, not at all. Somehow, the moment his father had put aside the fake teacher-student relationship, Carlos' carefully phrased speech had faded to nothing.

His father stared at him. Then, slowly, he shook his head. Then he laughed, pretty humourless, as it seemed.

"Son, do you know the old saying that goes, 'Who's got such friends doesn't need enemies'?"

"Er, yes, I think I've heard it before. But doesn't it mean that your friends treat you badly?"

"Right." Seeing Carlos' uncomprehending look, his father said, "No, I wasn't referring to the Goblins or any other friends. It's more the other way around."

"Huh?"

If Carlos had been confused a moment earlier, now he was completely nonplussed. What was the other way around of friends behaving as enemies, except that the existing friends didn't?

"Who's got such enemies, doesn't need friends - at least none to ease your way into the group. The headmaster was here a few minutes ago; he's the one who made the contact to the chateau people - "

"Yes, I saw him - but he didn't see mee," Carlos added quickly at the sight of his father's concerned look.

"Now guess what he said."

It had to be something to the desired effect - desired by Carlos, that was. Quickly dismissing all answers that were downright unrealistic, Carlos came up with the only one he could imagine.

"He said they want a boy in the formation."

"Very close - I'm quite pleased about your clear mind in moments of pressure, son."

Giving a damn for such praise right now, Carlos called, "Then what did he say?"

"He used plural, not singular. They want boys too in the formation. Any idea where to get them?"

"Boys? How many?"

"He wasn't specific. He mentioned a few, whatever that means in practice."

"I know one who'd be able to manage in time. Roland, a roommate of mine. The other two are hopeless, but Roland is quick in any way you can think of."

"Two ..." Carlos' father inhaled deeply. "It's the smallest plural possible, but it meets the request. Son, can you go and fetch him?"

Faster than ever before, Carlos raced to the Toulon building, panting when he reached the second floor, where he found Roland busy getting prepared for the walk to the canteen. Luckily, Serge and Mathieu were already gone to lunch.

"I've got a job for you," said Carlos. "You're the only one who can do it."

With these words, he had his roommate hooked.

On their way downstairs, Roland learned that Carlos hadn't been accepted yet. On their way toward the Lorient building, he learned that Carlos had a good chance. With the gymnasium in sight, he learned that he was supposed to dance, with him and Carlos as the only boys.

Roland didn't turn around to flee, didn't even falter in his step, for which Carlos felt grateful. He walked the rest of their way in thoughtful silence.

They met Carlos' father, now Monsieur Pri'chard again, right on the floor. Carlos said, "I've told him. He knows what this is about."

"No," said Roland, "I only know what I'm supposed to do, and I know it's somehow fishy from start to end. But I really would like to know what this is about."

"If I tell you," said Monsieur Pri'chard, "will you do it?"

"I'm not sure, Monsieur. But I'm sure that I'm not going to do it without knowing what's going on."

Carlos' father eyed him. "Can you dance? Like you, I'm not going to buy a pig in a poke."

For an answer, Roland produced a short tap dance, just a few steps, but enough to show that yes, he could move.

"All right, Roland, as far as I'm concerned, you're hired for the job. So what's your price?"

"It's - Monsieur, if my conclusions are right, you know ways how to make someone a real wizard. Is it true?"

After a very brief moment of widening eyes, Monsieur Pri'chard nodded, and smiled. "Yes, it's true; Chloé Broussard can testify for me. If you join us and manage to learn your steps in the short time left, Roland, I'll make sure you become a wizard."

Roland's eyes started to shine. "Not to worry, Monsieur. I'm a quick learner."

"Yes, quite obviously so." Monsieur Pri'chard laughed, moments later joined by the two boys.

---

Two hours later, after a lunch not quite as voluminous as it was their habit on Saturdays, Carlos and Roland again stood in the gymnasium - at one side, facing two dozen girls opposite.

"Girls," said Carlos' father, "I talked with Monsieur le Director Fresnel, who's the one holding contact to our hosts. They wanted a few boys in the troupe, and what you see here are the ones I could find in so short a time. We have to change a little bit: these two will be the leaders of the packs, one for the sleepers and one for the early risers."

Murmurs rose, half-suppressed shouts, and what Carlos could hear sounded like protest more than astonisment or even approval.

His father interrupted the uproar. "Yes, I know it's machismo and traditional role-playing and an insult for every girlie and this is a man's world, but am I still right in that you want to perform? Okay, in this case, remember that our host was the one who insisted, and now let's get moving."

Carlos' eyes met Chloé's, then those of his sister and her friends. He didn't care much which pack he was going to lead in the first steps; by the end of their song, all girls and boys would have found together, dancing the same steps.