Potter Professions

Sandra watched her brother raise his flute and start the intro to their first song. He'd waited through the short applause from the guests, raised when their host, Lucien de Mirault, had announced the band moments ago.

Serpent Dreamer was Part One in the schedule for their stage appearance here in the Chateau MiraLuc, played and sung by Dragonfly alone. Part Two would be another song, serving as the background for a warming-up of the girls and boys in the Brest Dance Formation, the name her father's troupe had received. Part Three would be the rehearsed choreography on Sunrise.

Afterwards, probably most people would expect an encore from Dragonfly - another song played and sung as the fade-out after the kids in the Brest Dance Formation had thrown their legs and spun their turns. It seemed reasonable, but it wasn't bound to happen. Harry's announcement, planned after the hip-hop dance, would push aside any thought of leisure music.

As well as any thought of any other leisure the guests might have had in mind for later in the evening.

Examining the guests, twenty-something people sitting in a semi-circle around the stage, Sandra asked herself which of them were child molesters, having followed an invitation to do just that. All of them?

Perhaps not. But the others had to know; it was impossible to be invited for the umpteenth time while having missed the signs at every single occasion before.

They were going to be interrogated - provided Sandra succeeded on what she was expected to do, the task nobody else could perform. She had to break the apparition lock that protected the Chateau MiraLuc and prevented anyone from appearing in - or disappearing from - the chateau.

According to the plan, the chateau would be open and unprotected only for seconds. The moment Sandra had broken the original lock, she was supposed to notify Ray Purcell. The old engineer was waiting outside, ready to activate another lock, of course also from Groucho Transports and Security but different in an essential aspect: it was under control of their task force. It would prevent any escape via apparition, at least escapes of the wrong people.

This was the planning. Sandra should break the lock as soon as she found an opportunity - perhaps before the warming-up, while the kids took their positions. The latest option would be after the dance and before Harry made his own announcement. It was a weak spot in their planning that they hadn't found anything in the schedule where Sandra was expected to be backstage. She had to improvise, be ready when the moment came.

Her original plan of being the High Priestess by now had failed. She hadn't been willing to conceal her intention from Aram'chee, but when she'd told the current High Priestess why she wanted the transformation, the answer had been an immediate and determined "No."

Had Sandra been the High Priestess for a while already, had she received her task as part of her role, had she found herself in this situation by accident - any of these seemingly random coincidences would have allowed her to execute her power in the course of action. But getting the power with the intention of using it for something Aram'chee considered ordinary police work was unacceptable, for it violated the ethics that went with the role.

It had made Sandra temporarily furious. What ethics could this be, forbidding a prosecution and punishment of child molesters?

"The ethics of the High Priestess," Aram'chee had replied, "who is authorized as an arbiter of wizards and witches, not a judge of human malbehaviour. And besides" - Aram'chee's voice had grown sharp - "nobody and nothing prevents you from doing whatever you think necessary, with the exception of lying through rhetorics. It's not your style anyway."

Sandra had calmed down and promised to return with her request only after the issue was settled. So she wasn't supposed to appear as Supergirl in the chateau? All right then, might her genuine power as Sandra Catherine Potter be the force against human evil.

The short moment of fury had been nothing, compared to the frustration and bitterness when learning from her father that Aram'chee and the local authorities had quite different opinions about ordinary policy work. Knowing full well that he had no legal position, nothing he could call proof, Harry had left it to Ron to alert the French equivalent of the Criminal Investigation Department. They didn't expect a platoon of gendarmerie, but they assumed that two, perhaps four detectives would be on alert, waiting outside, ready to take over the moment they were called in.

What Ron had come up with, though, was a gall-wrenching zero. Entering private property without a warrant? Property owned by the respectable citizen Monsieur de Mirault? Where was the evidence, enough to contact a judge for a warrant? And where was this so-called eyewitness? Perhaps if they stopped playing cops and robbers, perhaps if they left it to professionels to complete the investigation and do the arrests. If there was someone to arrest.

Harry had been less surprised. He'd dropped any attempt to work through Ron's EMEC channels; whatever European authorities were good for, police strike forces did not appear in this list. Instead he'd agreed with the Comtesse Marie-Claire to alert local police - once they had a confession, that was. And once they had one, the domino effect could play to their benefit.

Until then, their task force had to make do without legal support, not to mention its own totally illegal state.

---

Sandra almost missed her cue with the tambourine. She'd been sensing for the apparition lock, touching it, probing with mental fingers. She could feel its presence, cool, smooth, slippery without being greasy, an efficient device not evil nor good by its own. She couldn't break it here on stage; she needed a moment of isolation and concentration. And she needed Gabriel's help.

Her brother had gone a long way since the seconds of tension and anxiousness down in a dungeon of the Pouilly estate, chateau only by the lowest standards. Since then, Gabriel had perfected his technique, his calmness, coolness, confidence. Actually, the Pouilly estate also had changed its reputation in their perspective, thanks to Grandma Pouilly, Frédéric's grandmother. And a few days ago, the same estate had gained a new meaning for Sandra. She felt more complete than ever before. She was no High Priestess, but had anyone ever checked whether Aram'chee could break a lock from Groucho Transports and Security?

Serpent Dreamer was coming to its end. The lyric part was over; only flute and drums and harp were still playing, and would so for another minute. Sandra ran a mental check first on Moira, then on Caitlin. Both girls were on alert but no more than usual on stage: the first song was sung, a short pause until their next cue, and the thought of a special plot lingered somewhere in the background of their minds. It left Sandra's full capacity free for her own business.

The last tunes from Gabriel's flute faded. At the same moment, the light faded. Any second now, the girls and boys would appear to take position for their warming-up.

This was the moment! Fully on stage, but in darkness!

Sandra sent a mental call to her brother. Then she knelt down and brought her body in a perfect balance not needing any attention. She felt Gabriel's hands on her shoulders.

"Just us, then," he whispered. "Let's go."

They'd had a discussion before this evening, about how to break the lock. Sandra would have gladly accepted the power support of the others - Frédéric, Michel, Héloise in first place. This required physical contact, but all three of them were seated behind more or less bulky instruments and needed much more time to reach her, more than they had. Backstage it might have worked, but they weren't backstage.

Gabriel had drawn the same conclusions, had summarized all pros and cons in a short remark, skipping any question and any doubt. There was no doubt, there was only his power that reached her, rising like foam in a cup of champagne. Sandra took it and pulled.

Power galore ... The tricky part was to get it between the jaws of the lock, as though trying to open the high-polished stainless steel doors of an elevator with bare hands.

Yet Sandra's hands weren't bare, and she used no hands at all. She hooked her mental grip into the parts of the lock and pulled, pulled harder, pulled stronger, denying any thought and any suspicion that the hook might slip.

She had it open - this was the most difficult moment because the slightest dwindling of impact would let her grip slide and shut the jaws tighter than before.

Sandra dropped any thought of a measured attack. Greedy as a child for food, she took Gabriel's full power on top of her own and stuffed it into the hole her mind had drilled into the lock's linking parts.

With an inaudible ping, the resistance against her attack disappeared. The lock was broken.

"Yep-di-doo." Gabriel's mouth was close to her ear. "And now ... done; Remus knows it. C'mon, let's settle back." With a last gentle push on her shoulder, Gabriel left her to resume his position at the microphone.

Sandra rose to take her tambourine. Gabriel's remark about Remus meant, he'd pressed the button on his own phony to notify Remus Lupin, who was waiting outside together with Ray Purcell. It had saved her another five seconds, for which she felt grateful. She inhaled deeply and got ready for the next song.

* * *

Remus Lupin received Gabriel's call as an alarm signal on his own porty - a short vibration and a buzzing sound, barely audible to himself. He turned to Ray Purcell, who was sitting on the box that contained their own apparition lock.

"Air's clean," he murmured. "The Potter kids just completed Step One."

At these words, the dog in front of him made a face as if next second he was going to howl at the moon that illuminated the scene with a bright but colourless light. But it didn't happen.

Remus returned the stare. "Well," he said as low-voiced as before, "I can't say whether it's been Sandra's or Gabriel's call, so I guess calling them the Potter kids is quite accurate, isn't it?"

The dog seemed to have a different opinion.

This was nothing particularly new for Remus. The dog, animagus shape of his daughter Rahewa, had a different opinion more often than not, but today Rahewa was in no position to protest loudly, a fact that filled him with satisfaction. Right now he had all the time of the world: Ray had started to work after Remus' first words, giving a damn whether it was appropriate to call Sandra and Gabriel kids.

But sooner than expected Ray's head came up. "Done," he grunted. "We can switch it off and on with a response time of about one second. The field's a bit larger; after all, we aren't in the center."

Remus turned to the dog. "Radius check. Front side of the building."

They were at the back side of the Chateau MiraLuc. Two old men, wearing the jackets of French farm hands, and a black dog looked harmless enough. The dog had the advantage of not raising much attention when being seen at the door from inside. Rahewa's task was to reach the front side under this disguise, change into human shape - provided nobody was watching - and check whether she could apparate to the back side.

Two minutes later she came back - from the other direction and in human shape. "The field covers the complete building, and the moat bridge too. You must be well past the bridge before you can apparate." This said, Rahewa changed back into a black dog.

Remus took his porty out and pressed the button for Harry. A polite voice, which he quickly scaled down in volume, said, "This number is temporarily unavailable."

Which meant, right now Harry should be found on stage.

Remus stood up, made two steps forward, and stretched his arms to both sides. It looked as if he was getting rid of a stiffness, after sitting too long. But he held his right arm in its position, until seconds later a large bird came sailing down noiselessly to land on his forearm. It was an owl.

"The locks are changed," Remus said. "I just tried to notify Harry, but his connection is disabled. So I guess he's busy with his own performance. Can you land on the windowsill and watch the scene inside? And if Harry notices you, think about a clever sign to tell him things are okay on our side of the walls."

The owl blinked once.

After a few seconds waiting, Remus's head jerked up as if stung by a bee. "Oh - sorry, Al, I'm just not used to it." Then he threw the owl into the air, this way giving the bird enough space to unfold the large wings and gain more height.

Knowing his own family - Almyra the owl and Rahewa the dog - in good condition, and knowing someone else worrying, Remus pressed another button on his porty.

"Hi Cho, it's me. Your children just turned one of your products to something that's subject to warranty negotiations. But we had a replacement ready."

After listening for a few moments, he said, "Without our permit, the only exit from the building is out of the door and over the moat bridge. But anyone coming through the door is exposed to our cross-fire. Sip a brandy for me, too. Over."

Cho and Marie-Claire were sitting in the Chateau Saumur, officially running a MABEL seminar while in truth biting their nails, one of them ready to call the resources and staff of Groucho, and the other to call the local police.

Coming to think of it, Remus wondered if Marie-Claire's contact wasn't Sûreté. He'd had the impression she was using a contact that once had been close, if not to say intimate, and Marie-Claire never aimed low.

* * *

Carlos laid on the floor, faking sleep.

It was quite difficult, actually more difficult than the dance steps. This had to do with the warming-up they'd just finished. For the other group, for the early birds, the warming-up was exactly what they needed because they had to storm the scene with the fake-sleeping late risers. For them, though, breathing hard was the show-killer, the no-do thing.

He was the leader of the late pack: twelve girls grouped around him, faking sleep and fighting short breath alike. He was the center of the heap, the hub of the wheel, the core of a twelve-pointed star which more resembled a spiral-shaped galaxy, with the girls lying in angles.

They'd done the warming-up already wearing the costumes for their hip-hop performance. It was a breach of stage rules, in Carlos' eyes, a violation of theatre ethics. But the entire warming-up was a weird element - as if their performance hardly mattered at all, was something to ease their own minds, while the key element was them being there, visible, examinable, exhibition pieces more than actors in a little play-acting hip-hop style.

The guest hall in the Chateau MiraLuc wasn't the gymnasium. The stage, too small for their performance anyway, was occupied by Dragonfly. The warming-up and the subsequent hip-hop act took place on the floor between stage and the surrounding tables with the guests. It brought them close to some guests, to smiles and looks Carlos didn't like.

His own costume was black. He wore a T-shirt with sleeves that covered half of his upper arm, and soft trousers - dancer's trousers - that were skin-tight at his thighs and wide at his feet. The girls in his pack also wore black, but their T-shirts were sleeveless and their pants quite short, just long enough to have the beginning of legs. Boy shorts was the proper term, as Carlos had learned, which was funny because the two boys were the only ones in the troupe not wearing shorts.

The early birds had the same costumes, except theirs were white. Not snowy white, more cream-coloured, reflecting the colours of the Dragonfly costumes and creating the impression that the Brest Hip-Hop Formation and Dragonfly belonged to each other.

They did, of course. Officially Dragonfly had sponsored the costumes, which explained the colours. During their dress rehearsal, when Carlos' father had told them that the late risers had to wear black underwear and the early birds white or skin-coloured, Carlos had felt a bit breathless, suddenly remembering Snoopy prints and carefully avoiding Chloé's eyes. This evening, on which he felt exposed to an audience with the wrong kind of smile on their faces, spoiled the effect.

---

The music was playing. The early birds arrived, tiptoeing first, then firmer in their steps, surrounding the sleepers and challenging them to get up. The sleepers rose, stretched once, stretched again, and then, in a kind of surprise attack, chased the early birds off. This done, they dropped down again, apparently to continue their sleep.

Moments later the early birds came back, forming a circle that pulsed - forward in a kind of wake-up attack, back as if jumping out of reach, and forward again, and back. The sleepers rose once more and, as if finally surrendering to the forces of the light, adapted the pulsing, each black figure picking a white one and vice versa, until the song ended with twelve plus one black-and-white couples, rotating in two rings until, in the last moment, the white ones fell to the floor.

They stood up again under the applause from the audience, to join their black partners and bow with them together. Then, couples holding hands with their partners, a procession with Carlos and Roland in front, drew a last half-circle and finally disappeared through the door next to the stage.

* * *

Gabriel watched the girls and boys disappear. According to what they'd agreed with their host, this was the end of the official program. Nominally, Dragonfly now was supposed to take their instruments and get lost. But Gabriel didn't think it would happen that way.

The host, seated at the first table to the left of the stage, stood up. It was the signal for the other guests to fall silent.

"My dear friends," he said, "I hadn't been sure in advance what to expect from today's young artists. They come from the school in Brest with which MiraLuc has such a close relationship, and all signs were quite promising, but this has been a premiere in every regard. So I hope you'll agree with me when I say, today's performance with musicians and singers and dancers had all ingredients for a splendid future."

Applause rose, and Gabriel felt obliged to deliver two more bows.

"There's one man to whom we owe today's event with such a fresh collection of pretty young faces, as well as the contact to this promising musical group Dragonfly ..."

Another short applause, another bow, quickly cut short by Lucien de Mirault's next words.

"... and certainly the same man will make sure that we haven't seen the last of these appealing young bodies in black and white. I'm talking about the Sports teacher of the Brest school, who is the spirit behind the bodies, Monsieur Thierry Pri'chard."

The applause which started with Harry's first steps into the hall, coming from backstage, faltered for a moment when the audience noticed his prominent discolouration. Next instant, it steadied again and grew stronger.

Gabriel wondered if his father's clothes had anything to do with it. Harry wore his Sports teacher dress in light grey, making it obvious to everyone that there was no risk of him joining the crowd with their expensive evening dresses.

"Monsieur Pri'chard, you deserve our respect and our gratitude for your efforts in such a short time, and rest assured that we won't forget to prove our generosity. What we saw was so wonderful - would it be possible to see it again? This evening? Maybe in a little while?"

Gabriel, son of the major stock holder of Groucho Enterprises, wasn't unfamiliar with the friendly pleas of the rich and mighty, those who took it for granted that nobody could deny a request so obviously padded with rewards. Yet he still was amazed at the skill with which their host had bundled demand and award, so well polished on the surface of his words that any decline could only be perceived as an éclat.

Knowing about the still hidden agenda, Gabriel waited for his father's reply with considerable more expectation than the host and his guests.

"We hadn't planned to leave already," Harry said with a knowing smile that grew stronger when the circle of guests chuckled about this apparent joke. "We really appreciate the opportunity to perform here in this chateau, after we took pains to receive the invitation for this particular audience. I dare say that this is the most illustrious collection of connaisseurs you can find in France."

At these words, Gabriel saw mostly pleased and satisfied expressions among the guests. Only two or three people, including their host, looked bewildered.

"Unfortunately, other people wouldn't use the term connaisseur," Harry continued with a note in his voice sounding like regret, while in fact, as Gabriel could sense, it was simple relief that the play-acting was over. "They'd talk about what you really are: pederasts, rapists, and child molesters."

---

For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Not even the gasping could be heard that might be expected after such an announcement. The guests were simply speechless - too unexpected came the accusation, from the corner they'd expected it last.

Only their host wasn't frozen in shock. To Gabriel's growing worry, he'd taken his mobile and spoke into it.

"For any specific guest in your circle, I could be wrong," Harry said into the silence, "but I doubt it. Your particulars will be recorded, you'll be interrogated, and altogether it'll be a night as long as you might have expected, only for a different reason."

Harry stopped because the noise level grew rapidly, incredulous shouts of protest in his direction mixed with similar shouts toward the host, asking him to make an end to this dishonourable spectacle.

Lucien de Mirault turned to Harry. "Your accusations are outrageous. Do you have any authority to behave the way you do in my own house and toward my own guests?"

"And never mind the question of evidence that holds in front of a court, huh?" Harry smiled thinly. "I'm not police, if that's what you mean. But don't you worry; we can have police here any time we want."

"I don't worry, and I don't think I need any more proof of what you really are."

The host clicked his fingers, actually the same gesture Gabriel knew so well from French crime movies, when the police commandant in charge sent his crowd of detectives and uniformed flics into the suspect's territory. In this case, though, there were just two men who'd entered the hall from an entrance opposite the stage. They stepped forward as if pulled by the same rope and took position in front of Harry but a few steps apart, right hands in their jackets.

It looked so much like a cheap action movie, Gabriel had to fight a wave of unreality. But what he sensed was real, and what these two men were hiding under their jackets, ready to pull, weren't wands. So it could only be guns.

"I took precautions after a few incidents not too long ago," said Lucien de Mirault, more to his guests than to Harry. "Another teacher who used to hold contact with MiraLuc had a weird accident, and Madame Vasseur, my assistant for these matters, disappeared in the middle of the night - my dear guests, I didn't want to bother you with such details, but as you can see, I was prepared for an event like that. Since there isn't any good reason for you to be exposed to this unworthy business any second longer, I suggest to cancel our feast and leave now, and please take my apologies for what you had to witness here."

Harry said, "That won't do, I'm afraid."

"You're in no position to give any orders, and if you want to keep your jawbones unbroken, you better keep your mouth shut as long as you aren't asked." The streamlined entrepreneur and aristrocat was falling off from Lucien de Mirault with every additional remark. "But let me ask you, so you have your line in this dismal one-act play: what should prevent my guests from returning home?"

"The guards surrounding this building. Anyone coming out of the entrance door will be stupefied."

"Ah, yes. That's about what I expected. Will it disappoint you much to hear that your guards won't find a single target?" Mirault turned to his guests and called, "Please don't leave the building through the door; the chateau's environment is temporarily not recommendable. Join my assistants in the lobby, they'll help you to synchronize with our protection when leaving through the portkey gate."

Harry called, "We'll take any attempt to leave as a confession of guilt."

For an instant, Gabriel held his breath - at his father's words, the host's face had distorted to a hateful grimace, while the two men never did so much as turning their heads to see whether he'd give the command for a beating-up. They were competent professionals, confident any such command would be heard loud and clear.

Next moment, Mirault relaxed with some effort. Gabriel wondered for a second why the command hadn't been given, then he knew: as long as there were guests around watching, his father was comparably safe from any punishment. At the same instant, he became aware that his father had used this constellation fully on purpose.

---

"The only confession of guilt I can see here is yours," Mirault said to Harry. "You didn't deny being involved in what happened to Deray and Madeleine. Am I right?"

"Yes, sure."

"What happened to Madeleine?"

"Guess what, asshole. She met me, that's what happened to her."

Mirault sent a quick glance to the other end of the guest hall, where a bulk of guests was crowding, trying to pass through the door. As always with people in panic, it took them twice the space and threefold the time to leave a room through a normal-sized door, but Gabriel suspected that the traffic jam was mostly caused by the problems at the head of the line, where portkey apparition refused to work.

"Wait till we're alone." Mirault showed an almost desperate longing for - what? The cruelty of Harry's punishment? Probably.

"Is she dead?"

"No." Harry grimaced back. "She's alive and kicking, and full of stories not suited well for any public."

"That - er, comes unexpected, I have to admit. But we'll - " Mirault stopped because his mobile buzzed, a porty, as Gabriel could see from his position.

"Yes?"

After listening for a moment, Mirault looked up and stared at Harry. "Our portkey doesn't work. Do you have any explanation?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Stop playing wiseass, Pri'chard. We have the students of your formation, and these Dragonfly kids, in addition to you. Maybe I can't teach you manners with a few gun barrels hitting your face, but for sure I can make you behave with an audio transmission from the room your troupe is in. I ask you for the last time: what's going on?"

"Your apparition lock has been hijacked and now listens to a different drummer."

While Mirault still was trying to figure out whether this could possibly be true, Harry said, "There's a Pied Piper. In a few seconds, he'll lure Dragonfly backstage - at once."

"What? What nonsense ..."

Gabriel no longer listened. It had taken him an instant to understand his father's last remark as a command meant for himself. He should get the Dragonfly members out of this combat zone, into the same room where the girls and boys were waiting. And at once meant, using a chain summoning synchronized with the briefly interrupted pulse from Ray's apparition lock outside.

He took his porty, pressed a button, and said, "Gabriel. I need a pulse skip for one second. Now."

"Coming." Remus' voice counted, "Three - two - one ..."

The counting was helpful yet not accurate enough. Gabriel put his concentration on the state he could sense and of which he knew it was the apparition lock. He wasn't his sister, he had no chance to investigate it more closely, but that wasn't necessary anyway: he only had to notice the fraction of a second when the barrier fell open, and to use it.

Michel - Héloise - Tomas - Frédéric - Caitlin - Moira - Sandra. He had to summon them synchronously without physical contact hand to hand, a task at the limit of his skill.

In the very last instant, an impulse from Sandra told him to leave her in this room. Gabriel had no time to protest and no urge to argue; one person less made his task more manageable.

"... now!" The barrier fell.

Gabriel apparated into the backstage room, taking the other six Dragonfly members with him. Still in the immeasurable moment of the transit, he knew that it had worked, and that only the intimacy they'd developed in long rehearsals had made it possible.

He came out in a room full of girls and boys in black and white - and a man in a blue suit, proving considerably less taste in clothes than the two bodyguards Gabriel just had left.

Still before the students had found the time to gasp at the sudden arrival of seven Dragonfly members, Gabriel's spell knocked the man down.

* * *

When the popping sounds caused by the disappearing Dragonfly members reached his ear, when he saw Mirault's eyes widen to a stare of disbelief, Harry decided he could turn around and have a look himself.

It might also have been a good moment to disarm the two muscle men in front of him; for a fraction of a second, even their attention had wavered. But as long as Mirault believed he was in control of the scene here in the hall, Harry wanted to keep the status quo: he was craving for information, for confessions, for details from Mirault as much as their host was craving for Harry's face beaten to pulp, making his discolouration bloody real.

Maybe he was stressing his luck. What he could sense from the two men told him about their excellent training, experience in the job, their ability to switch off their memory when necessary, and a non-existent sympathy with victims.

Turning around, he saw not quite what he'd expected to see. Yes, the stage had emptied from people who'd left their instruments behind, but with one exception. His daughter Sandra stood there.

Now she sat down, legs crossed, arms folded and resting on her knees.

The view made Harry relax a bit. What looked like a girl playing the coolest broad under the sun was in fact Sandra taking position - and aim - to shoot a spell any time. The arms with the folded hands formed the arrowhead which more than compensated for the wand she couldn't reach without the two men reacting.

Mirault turned back to Harry. "Where did the others go? How did they do it?"

"To a safer place, I guess. I told you that your apparition lock is under our control."

"Bullshit, you can't have it under control. Probably you've got your own ... But then, how could they apparate when our - anyway." Mirault, showing first signs of a deteriorating grip on reality, turned to Sandra. "And you? Why are you still here?"

"To help my father. One false move from these two and you're dead."

"Your father?" Mirault was too preoccupied to show any reaction to Sandra's threat. He pointed at Harry. "Is this your father?"

Seeing Sandra's reaction, probably a nod, Mirault turned back to Harry. "Who are you? And what business do you have sneaking into my chateau and humiliating me in front of my guests?"

"I'm a father," Harry said. "But in contrast to you, I still have my children. My daughter didn't commit suicide, my son disappeared from your view but not from mine. They help me investigating a few more suicides - boys who were students of the school in Brest. And the track ends here. Lucien de Mirault, you're guilty of having sent these boys to their death, after whatever was done to them here in your chateau."

"Oh, really? And what are you going to do about that?"

"Taking the right one, and leaving the left man to my daughter."

"Huh? What nonsense - "

But the two bodyguards had followed the conversation with a better understanding of what Harry meant. The two arms that were halfways hidden in the jackets moved as if driven by the same mind, then started to come out.

Not being sure whether he stood in the way for Sandra's shot, Harry fell down to a position with one leg stretched, the other kneeling. In his downward movement, he formed the arrowhead with his own arms and sent the fastest spell he knew.

The green flash disappeared in the man's head.

The man's hand, holding a short-barreled gun, fell down first. The gun hit the floor with a gonk that was instantly followed by the heavy thud with which the man's body reached the ground.

Only then, in retrospect and with some consternation, Harry became aware that the other man had also been hit by a green flash.

He found no time to exchange a look with his daughter because Mirault made a jump forward and bent down where Sandra's victim had fallen to the floor. There he reached for the weapon.

"Mirault!" Harry called sharply. "Drop the gun!"

After a second's hesitation, the man looked up, not making any attempt to raise the weapon. "You think I wanted to complete what these two tried so unsuccessfully? Certainly not. No, what I have in mind is much simpler - after having sent my daughter into suicide, after having sent a few boys into suicide without any of them serving as surrogate for the one I had in mind, which is my son Patrice, I'm left with the only decent choice: doing the same to myself. Are you going to let me do it?"

When Harry hesitated, Mirault said, "You don't really think I'm going to appear in court, do you? You have no case at all, not legally. A lawyer would cut you to pieces in public."

"Maybe I didn't plan to go to court."

"Then why don't you give me these few seconds I need for a last act of self-determination? If that's the right term; to me it doesn't feel as if I've had much of self-determination before in my life." Mirault looked at Sandra, then back at Harry. "You have my guests, have fun with them. A rotten bunch of perverts, one worse than the other."

And you? Harry felt tempted to scream. Instead, he asked, "How did you send the boys into suicide?"

"How? Ask Madeleine." Mirault showed a horrible smile. "The method was a bit more intricate than this here."

The gun was in his hands. Long before Harry had found the time to send a disarming or stupefying spell, long before he knew whether he really objected, Mirault lifted the barrel to his own forehead and pulled the trigger.

* * *

Sandra sent a glance to the bloody mess their former host had made of the back of his own head. For a few seconds, she thought she was going to throw up. Then her father reached her, hugged her, and sent her a calming mental wave.

Her head was still buried at his chest when he asked her, "How are you?"

"Better, now. If I don't have to look again at his head ..."

"I was thinking more of the other man."

"Oh, that." Sandra felt good, but was glad she didn't have to look into her father's eyes. "He was ready to shoot you, or me, and I found not the smallest spark of pity inside him. And besides - the Killing Curse's the fastest by far."

"Yes, it's true." Her father hugged her. "Our first serious fight side by side. Hopefully it's the last. Now let's put the situation under control as quickly as we can."

While her father secured the entrance to the hall, Sandra first sent her brother Gabriel a mental message that she was coming and then entered the backstage room, noticing how crowded the room was, and hot from all the bodies, and a bit smelly too - the smell of fear, adrenaline and sweat.

"It's over," she said. "Well, almost, we still have the guests to register and interrogate." She looked at Frédéric. "It'll be a long night."

Esmeralda stared at her. "There's been a shot."

Sandra wondered for a moment how her younger sister could be so sure. Shots in the movies sounded totally different from real shots, and the Potter household was no place to learn more. Then she remembered - Esmeralda's parents had died in a shooting during an attempt of illegal immigration at the Mexican border to the USA, and most likely the girl had been inside a car like she'd been inside this room now.

Sandra said, "Yes. Monsieur Mirault shot himself. We didn't stop him."

Her audience took it with a mix of satisfaction and worry, but mostly silent agreement.

"He's left a real mess," Sandra added. "That's nothing you ought to see; even I almost had to puke." She turned to Gabriel. "Can you take them away from here? We need to get the guests under control."

"Where? The school?"

"Erm - "

"The Chateau Saumur," called Carlos. "There's enough room, and Marie-Claire knows some of us already." He was beaming of pride, while his fellow dancer, Roland, lapped up every gran of information he could get.

Gabriel took his phony to talk with Remus about a synchronized skip in the lock pulse. At this moment, Moira asked, "What about those two men?"

"They won't bother us any longer."

"What happened to them?"

Looking around, Sandra could see the same question in all Dragonfly faces, perhaps with the exception of her brother. The girls and boys of her father's hip-hop formation hadn't seen anything of the two men, but no doubt there had been time enough to exchange information.

"Something very final happened to them," Sandra said. "And now get lost; we've got work to do."

---

She apparated to Carron Lough, using the same pulse skip in which Gabriel summoned the students out of the one chateau and into the other. In their own castle, she went upstairs to fetch her old pet, the serpent.

"Hi, Nagini," she said. "We've got a few perverts to interrogate. Will you help us?"

"Naturally, Missus. I'm glad to serve a purpose every once in a while."

"That'll pile up your account. Let's go."

Arriving at the Chateau MiraLuc, Sandra learned that the chateau was already unter their own control. Using a megaphone, Remus had announced that they - leaving it open who they were - would now come inside, and anyone not lying flat on the ground, belly to the floor and hands folded in their necks, would deeply regret not having chosen this position. Then he'd opened, sending in two dogs first, who sniffed at every body lying on the ground, scaring most people shitless. Their perverted taste aside, these were society animals, not fighters.

In negotiations of any kind - interrogations, for example - they felt more at home and seemed ready to fight toe and nail for details as elementary as their real name and address. Nagini could tell a lie from the truth, but she couldn't extract the truth from an uncooperating mind.

Someone else could: Remus, helped by his daughter Rahewa, in cooperation with Harry, Nagini, and Frédéric. Their team worked well, and grew very fluent on the cleaning spells they had to issue for almost every couple of guests:

Frédéric guided the next couple into the guest hall, the same they'd left in such a hurry earlier the same evening. They were offered seats, facing two dead men and the bloody mass of their former host in front of them and two apathetic looking figures to their sides - an older man and a younger woman, with just one disquieting fact in common: they were playing with short-barreled guns, opening them, closing them, pulling a trigger on an obviously empty magazine, and suddenly starting to insert cartridges.

Around this time, inevitably one of the couple threw up. It was the signal for the other to follow.

They were asked for their name and address. If the responses weren't true, as Nagini confirmed, they were asked if they wanted to roll in their own puke. Usually this was enough to extract the real names.

Hearing how Frédéric, member of the Pouilly family, could locate most names in the French hierarchy of important names and families, seemed to have an extremely unnerving effect. If this wasn't enough, hearing how Remus announced that the chateau would burn to the ground later that night and only a signed confession qualified for a ticket out of the building had an extraordinary unnerving effect. Watching Almyra's magical quill spin over the parchment they used for the confessions broke the last resistance.

The confessions where short. 'I, so-and-so, confess having participated in festivities in the Chateau MiraLuc in the course of which students from the Ecole des Etudiants Magiques Gênés in Brest were sexually misused. My own contribution to these child molestations included - ' and the terms appearing here ranked from 'watching pornographic scenes' over 'accepting sexual ministrations' to the term as short and cruel, 'rape.'

Twelve couples, then they were done and could send them home.

When the last guests had disappeared through the portkey gate in the lobby, Sandra turned to her father. "Why didn't you call in the police Marie-Claire had ready?"

"Because they wouldn't be in any position to help us, more the opposite. One look at the scene here, and their first impulse would have been to arrest us."

Sandra had to agree, although she couldn't feel guilt. She knew that she had to expect a phase in which she would feel miserable for having killed a life, and she was ready to suffer through this phase - if it came, that was; women were much more pitiless than men, so it was still an open question. Something else bothered her more.

"What are these confessions worth? Will any of them hold in court?"

"Most unlikely." Her father smiled. "But they aren't intended to be used in court. They might go to the press - to independent press, that is, and Paul Sillitoe would have to tell us which newspapers and magazines to use. No matter how much the culprits deny, at the very least they had to explain how such a confession could appear in first place. And don't forget - they can't afford any kind of lie detector."

Sandra almost laughed; nobody else had a lie detector like Nagini, but something as simple as Veritaserum was very efficient if you knew which questions to ask.

"Then what exactly are these confessions worth?"

"At the very least, they confirm that we've done our job here, and that a rotten nest of pederasts has been smoked out." Harry grinned. "Which doesn't mean we should burn it to the ground."

Sandra didn't feel satisfied with this answer, and apparently it showed in her face, because her father took her shoulders to pull her closer and to hug her before explaining a bit more.

"I'm not sure yet, Sandy. I'm tired, sick to death, and the puke we had to clean every five minutes was the smallest problem. Maybe blackmailing them is the best we can do - if they donate so-and-so much for child welfare within the next five years, they'll get their written confessions. Maybe this method but only for the minor cases, while the rapist cases are made public. I have to ask other people what's best for the children, and then we'll sit together and decide. You've got a vote, your brother, your mother - "

"Frédéric too."

"Okay, Frédéric too."

Sandra could feel a short mental impulse of curiosity. When she didn't respond, more from her own exhaustion and feeling sick than for any other reason, her father continued.

"We can't stop the habit of child abuse in our society. We can't even be sure the people we just sent home will abandon the habit; to be honest, I don't think so. But we've made a school in Brest a safe place, and for this I'm proud of you and my other children and myself."

"And Mum."

Her father didn't agree, at least not in words; but then, what Sandra could feel told her that her remark hadn't been wrong either. She briefly wondered what it meant, and if there was a fact still hidden from her, but she was tired enough not to investigate further.

* * *

Cho sat down in front of the oversized desk, noticing with satisfaction that the old visitor's chair had been replaced by something better. Perhaps only for this particular visit, but it was enough: this would be the last visit in the office.

"Good morning, Madame Chang. How can I help you?"

"Good morning, Monsieur le Directeur Fresnel. Did you hear what happened yesterday evening in the Chateau MiraLuc?"

"Yes indeed - a ghastly story. But I can tell you for a fact, Madame Chang, that none of our students was involved, and that they were backstage when - when the horrible incident with Monsieur de Mirault happened. So your own children - "

"I know," Cho cut him short. "I have eyewitness reports, probably better than your own. That's not why I'm here."

"No?"

For a moment, Fresnel looked absent-minded. Probably he was trying to figure out what her remark about eyewitness reports meant, and how to respond to a frontier he hadn't been aware of.

"I had a conversation. With a woman. From the Chateau MiraLuc. Madeleine Vasseur. She told me. About you."

Cho had held her tone lightly, as if exchanging gossip over a cup of tea. Still, her purposefully short sentences had left traces in Fresnel's face, and only with some effort he'd avoided to twist under her words like under the lashes of a whip.

"You knew what was going on. Not only did you let it happen, you encouraged it and took your own profit."

"That's what she said? This is an infamous allegation." Fresnel recovered with remarkable speed. "Whatever this lady was talking about, I deny any personal involvement, and I strictly refuse to be pulled into a scandal which is suited to cause severe damage on our school's reputation."

"Stop it."

Cho, not even in the mood for a few insults aside, leaned back in her chair while she held her bag in her lap.

"Remember my last visit? Rememeber what I said about Chinese Triads? Do you still have the dagger I sent you afterwards?"

Fresnel didn't answer, not even nod. But the watchful stare with which he was waiting for her next words was answer enough.

"I know. You know. That's enough. I won't even try to find any proof for what you did, how deep you were involved, the dirt on your hands and on your soul. I have a much simpler solution."

"Really?"

"You've got time until today evening. If, by then, there is a written and signed confession sent to the school authorities, you'll live. This confession - I'll accept 'active support of child abuse in my function as headmaster,' no less. So if this letter is sent, you won't hear from me again. If not - "

"Madame Chang - "

"If not," she interrupted his interruption with the voice she had honed in many Groucho meetings, "you'll get a last greeting from me. It'll be brought by a member of said Triads, and I personally just don't care whether they use a dagger or a half-rotten fish to stuff it into your throath. But I guess you would prefer a dagger."

"Madame Chang, your suggestions are completely unacceptable. I'm not going to write any such confession, not today and never - "

"That's what I thought," said Cho. "You're not the man to stand to your crimes."

"I'm certainly not the man to wait for your messengers either. You know, I take you seriously, you made sure of that with your frightening present." Fresnel tried to smile, but failed. "It scared me, enough to take my own precautions, and this comes in just handy now." He opened a drawer and grabbed something. When his hand came up again, it held a gun.

He quickly stood up so he could move more freely. He showed her the gun, although without aiming at her, more in the style of lawyer in front of a judge, showing Exhibit Number One.

Cho pulled her bag closer. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm going to disappear," replied Fresnel, "and I need your assistance for that. You'll accompany me, until I'm sure my head start is enough to let me reach an unknown destination before you can raise any alarm." He waved the gun. "I'm a desperate man, Madame Chang, and you can only blame yourself for that. So think about how we can get some money for my escape without raising alarm either, because any such alarm would put you at risk for your own life. I'm no expert in such matters of physical force, but I can assure you, if I have to go, you'll go first, you bloody bitch."

He stared at her, all smiles gone. "And don't try anything clever with your wand."

"I'm not particularly good with my wand." Cho replied. Then she pulled the trigger of the gun she'd held in her bag for the last five minutes. The popping sound was astonishingly quiet; the silencer on the gun had taken most of the noise, and the expensively soft leather bag the rest.

Fresnel looked very suprised. He staggered, then sat heavily down in his own luxurious chair. Only now, a spot on his chest slowly turned red. "Wha - what did you do?"

Cho stood up and made a step to Fresnel's desk. She pulled her hand with the gun out of the bag.

"Here - that's what I did. As I said, I'm not very good with a wand, but a gun with a silencer does the job any time."

At close range, she pulled the trigger twice more. At least one of the two shots had been lethal: the mean sparkling in Fresnel's eyes faded to a sightless stare.

Cho let the gun drop on the desk, but kept her gloves on, exactly as her old friend Laila had told her. Nobody would be able to backtrack the weapon; Laila's sources were waterproof.

Walking out of the Brest building, Cho met no one. The meeting which currently took place, about the scandal, in the same building but a few walls away, held everyone in its own spell.