Potter Professions

Sandra sent a last glance that took in the entire room. Then she stepped out of the half-circle formed by her family plus Frédéric, and walked forward until she stood right in front of the current High Priestess.

Aram'chee gave her a brief, encouraging smile, then she grew serious again.

"Sandra Catherine Potter, daughter of Harry Potter and Cho Chang, you've been elected to become the next High Priestess and my successor in this authority. Do you agree to this choice?"

"Yes, I do."

"Sandra Catherine, are you ready to take over the duty now and relieve me from this burden?"

"Yes, I am."

Aram'chee took both of her hands in her own. "Then, Sandra, I appoint you High Priestess of the Magical World and declare myself free of this role. May your ruling be guided by mercy and justice, kindness and courage, no matter how long."

With another smile, Aram'chee added, "Or short." She hugged Sandra, took her head in her own hands, and gave her a kiss on the forehead. "That's it, my little one. Now you're the High Priestess, and I'm free."

Listening into herself, Sandra couldn't feel any difference. Doubtfully glancing at Aram'chee, she said, "I thought I would feel something, but I'm the same as before."

"Not quite. Now you have the power of authority inside you, but as long as there isn't anything to judge, it won't bother you." Aram'chee laughed. "This isn't like a crown you have to wear until your head aches. But you can give it a try, then you know how it feels."

Sandra turned around and looked at the others, facing stares in response, different by their degrees of smile and seriousness: her father, her mother, Gabriel, Carlos and Esmeralda, and Frédéric.

Seeing the shining eyes of the two youngest, Sandra suddenly knew what Aram'chee had meant by "giving it a try." She took position where Aram'chee had stood a moment ago and said, "Carlos, Esmeralda, please come to me."

The look from her young sister told her that this was exactly what Esmeralda had expected. Carlos showed surprise for an instant, yet by the time both of them were standing in front of her, he seemed to know what was coming because he beamed in anticipation.

"Carlos, Esmeralda, you two sacrificed your magical power in favour of a plot to uncover a bunch of perverts. Now that the task is completed, the time has come to reinstate your true nature. Do you want your magic back?"

"Yes." The answer came almost in unison.

"Then ..."

Sandra faltered because a new thought had crossed her mind. She sent a quick glance to Aram'chee, knowing at the same time that she couldn't ask, or if she asked, Aram'chee wouldn't answer: Sandra was the High Priestess now; whatever she did in this role was her own decision, her own responsibility.

But in this case, if what she had in mind felt justified to her, wasn't it okay? She would feel it, Aram'chee had said. Listening again, Sandra heard no inner voice telling her right from wrong. Testing her idea again, tasting it with the best sense of ethics she could muster, she still found it justified.

"... perhaps your magical power should be, erm, somewhat improved so you can better cope with your siblings? What do you think?"

In the corner of her eye, Sandra could see a grin spreading on Aram'chee's face. Maybe it was nepotism what she did; but if so, she seemed not the first High Priestess falling for this minor sin.

Esmeralda was quickest. "You mean, more powerful so we're closer to you and Gabriel? No, it's enough if you two are the super wizard and witch. But if you could give us something so Carlos and I could talk to each other without words, like you and Gabriel do all the time, that'd be great."

Carlos nodded in agreement. "Yes, please."

"Let's see." Sandra simply didn't know, but wasn't the own family just right for first failures? And first successes too, come to think of it.

She took Carlos' left hand and Esmeralda's right hand between her own. "Little brother, little sister, your magic shall be as strong and vivid as it has been before. Your spirits shall shine in harmony and mutual understanding."

She let go of the hands, which had folded almost by their own. "Did it work? Please tell me; you know, I'm fairly new in the job."

Esmeralda looked at her brother. "What am I thinking right now?"

"You ..." Rather than completing his answer, Carlos turned to Sandra. "Yes, she's right, there are a few more people who wait for their magical power. Esmeralda's roommates, and Roland, who's been promised by Dad, and maybe Serge and Mathieu too, although I wonder what this bonehead of Serge will do with his magic."

Sandra exhaled. "Seems as if your non-verbal communication works better than before. That's what I had in mind, so perhaps it's really my doing. But otherwise - I'll convert them pretty soon, but today it's just family, okay?"

Esmeralda nodded, and Carlos seemed fully absorbed by his first tentative steps in sending and receiving mental impulses.

Sandra hugged her father and her mother. With Gabriel, she already had exchanged the mental equivalent in the moments before. She was on her way to Frédéric when her father asked, "How long will you keep it, Sandy?"

Before she could answer, her mother said, "Sorry to interrupt, but I just was asking myself who's going to do the conversions in the MABEL seminars, now that Aram'chee is out of business."

"Oh."

Sandra hadn't thought of that before, and it seemed nobody else had either, and the question had all qualities to spoil the day. As much as she supported her mother's work in general and the idea behind MABEL in particular, she wasn't ready to spend her next years as a secret MABEL employee.

Aram'chee said, "I have to explain something."

All heads were turning in her direction.

"When I described what will happen from Sandra's takeover of the role and duty, I wasn't completely clear, or maybe I should say I wasn't completely honest. To make it simple and short - well, I'm not necessarily out of the business forever."

"What?"

"It's ... you can compare it with a soldier returning from the war but not delivering all his weaponry. He is no longer a soldier, the reasons for going to war no longer exist, but he's still there and his sword is still sharp, so to speak."

Aram'chee turned to Cho. "Using the power that's left in me for my own, egotistical reasons would make me a criminal of the worst kind, and I'm pretty sure it would destroy me soon. But converting Muggles to Magicals, in this world ruled by the others ... I have to find something to make a living, and this is indeed a tiny egotistical motive, but I believe I can justify it. So if MABEL would offer me the role, I would gladly agree."

"You bet." Cho grinned. "And call it a job, not a role, otherwise people won't know what you're talking about."

"I will have to learn more than that, but I'm looking forward to it," replied Aram'chee. "I feel like a little girl discovering the world, almost like Esmeralda."

Sandra saw a few differences, one in particular which had to do with a male partner. But she knew better than to express her thought in this circle.

"So, Sandy, you're totally free in your decision," said her father. "Any idea what you'll do, or when?"

"I don't think my - er, term will last more than a few weeks. But it's absolutely new to me, and maybe there's something to do which we didn't think of yet; I mean, the step is not reversible, regardless of what power'll be left. And besides, even if there isn't any official job left to do, in a sense I've been waiting for this role most of my life - now I want to find out how it feels. Doing normal things as the High Priestess, something like that."

At these words, she looked at Frédéric, and what he saw in her eyes made him almost blush.

* * *

When he heard Jeannette announce the visitor in the intercom, Harry stood up from behind the pompous desk and walked to the door. Just before he'd reached it, the door was opened from outside.

"Hello, Ron," Harry said, smiling broader than the situation deserved, "please come in. This ridiculous arrangement with the desk between us isn't my choice, but it's the place where everyone can find me, so ..."

"Never mind," said Ron. He sat down in the visitor's chair and examined the desk. "That's where he's been found?"

"Yes, and at least he had the decency not to leave blood spots on this magnificent carpet. Not like Mirault."

"Not his own merit," replied Ron with arched eyebrows. "After all, he didn't do it himself."

"No, not in the technical sense."

"He had it coming, you mean? Yes, probably so. Any suspects?"

"If the police has suspects, they don't discuss them with me," said Harry with an expressionless face. "And I have other things to do than mourn any of the teachers who were released from their duty this way or the other. Ron, the school's no longer in operation."

"Tell me something new." Ron sighed. "The scandal's so big, I don't think the EMEC has left any choice other than closing the school forever."

"What'll happen to the students?"

"Sent home, sent back, sent to other schools - I don't know." Ron made a gesture that hinted at the building or the school altogether. "This place here's stigmatized, but of course we need a replacement, a new school for magically handicapped students."

"And when will it be available?"

Ron stared at him incredulously. "You aren't serious, are you? We're talking about a European school authority, still in shock from the worst scandal in their history. You know the old saying, 'It's hard to predict, especially if it's the future.' In this case, though, it's easier: they'll need two years at the minimum."

"Too late for our students."

"This is a local problem." Seeing Harry's stare, Ron said, "Don't look at me that way. I know I sent you here, and you solved the mystery. You did a great job, Harry, but only from the perspective of a normal citizen. Administration-wise, it's a desaster. It would have been wiser to replace a few teachers as quietly as possible, because then we still had a school in operation."

"Thanks a lot," Harry growled.

Ron showed something of his own, boyish grin. "You're welcome. I mean, you never expected me to sugarcoat things, so I'm not going to start the habit now. Let me tell you so much, Harry - I personally feel admiration and satisfaction and want to dance on Fresnel's grave and shake your hand until it aches ..."

Harry grinned back. Yes, that's what he'd wanted to hear.

"... while on a more business-oriented level, I'd really appreciate if you held the fort until the proceedings are completed."

"Arrghh - that's just what I was afraid you'd say. I'm the worst administrator you can imagine - "

"No, you're not."

"Okay, yes, I know what you mean, but administration is the last thing I had in mind. Anyway, you're right, I get along with the students, and the teachers either want to shake my hand as you just said or they're scared out of their minds. So, okay, I'll hold your fort."

"Thank you. You're a true friend."

"Am I, huh? In contrast to someone else I know." Harry grinned despite his words.

"Listen, wiseass, you came to me in search of a job to fill the hours. Now you've got it, and now you complain. But that's okay, there's nothing as hard as man's ingratitude." Ron stood up. "And this on such a soft carpet."

Harry continued with his paperwork until he felt like screaming. Then he apparated home - to Carron Lough; the times of the joyless Apartment 27 in the Cayenne building were over. Arriving in the dinner room, he was greeted by his wife.

"Where's the rest of the family?" he asked.

"Mostly with friends, plural or singular as the situation deserves. The same goes for the gender." Cho laughed. "This scene is so much the cliché of an ordinary family, it's incredible: husband coming home, wife expecting him, kids anywhere but close."

"Is it? I wouldn't know. But maybe I have to get used to it." Harry told Cho what he'd promised Ron to do, and what it meant in practical terms.

"Well," she said, "you asked for a job, and now you've got it."

"That's what Ron said, too."

Cho examined his expression. "How does it feel, this job?"

"Being with the students is great. Teaching the teachers the fear of god, more exactly getting a few boneheads in line of something that dimly resembles teaching, is a very satisfying task. The rest - I wasn't born for paperwork, and I never knew it as clearly as today."

"So if you had a Chief of Administration, you would be in your element?"

"That'd be like a dream. This estate is just great, and never mind its shattered repu - " Harry stopped himself and stared at his wife. "What are you talking about? The Brest school is past; the scandal took care of that."

"The Brest school in the incredibly competent hands of the EMEC is past, yes," replied Cho. "So they'll sell the estate, and that'll be that."

"Exactly. So what are we talking about?"

"About the events of the day, just like other couples, except you aren't used to it." Before he could protest because somehow it had sounded differently, Cho asked, "What about your discolouration?"

"Well, I guess I'm going to keep it for a few more days. The students are troubled so much from the events and the changes, I don't want to lose one of the few fixpoints they've kept."

"That fits well," said Cho with a dreamy voice, "because, you know, I have this fantasy, a sexual fantasy actually, about a lumberjack, a bit rough at the edges, and his face shows the traces of some kind of explosion, and he - well, it isn't rape, simply because I fully agree with what he's going to do with me - "

"And when is this chap going to do with you?"

"What about now?" Cho took his hands to pull him upright.

"What about food? What about this mythical end of an ordinary working day?"

"Well, you can drive any comparison too far, and as for food - you won't believe how good the food will taste. Afterwards, I mean."

Harry would. Yes, he could remember a proverb claiming the other order as the preferred choice, but what he'd promised Ron would take still a few more days. Time enough to try all variations, and find out what worked best.

* * *

Carlos was strolling through the park of the Brest school. The air felt a bit fresh on his skin; here at the corner between the Channel and the Atlantic Ocean, autumn was not to be ignored any longer when dressing for a walk. At first, Dona Gata had been snugly tucked into the bag Carlos wore on his back, with only the cat's head visible to the outside. But soon Dona Gata had lost interest in such a passive role and had jumped out to stroll her own path at her own speed, probably looking for chance encounters with mice.

Carlos' speed was dictated mostly by the leisurely walk of the girl at his side. He and Chloé had things to discuss, of a nature that didn't fit into the canteen or any other place close to other students - or adults, for that matter. Carlos would have liked to discuss the issue in Carron Lough, but -

"To tell you the truth," said Chloé at this moment, "I'd hoped you were going to invite me to your home in Ireland for this occasion. I have that button on my porty, but ... you know I never would use it on my own, don't you?"

"Yes, I know - funny that you mention it just when I was trying ... I wish we could jump there right on the spot" - Carlos held his step for a moment to look at Chloé and show her how serious he was - "but there's something we have to talk about first."

"Maybe you're afraid I can't behave because my people are poor and yours are rich, is it that?"

Rather than answering, Carlos had to fight a fit of the giggles, enough to tell Chloé this wasn't the reason. "If it's about being poor," he finally managed, "you've got no chance against Esmeralda. But - "

"Huh?"

"I mean her real parents, before she was adopted. They were Mexicans, immigrants, and compared to illegal Mexican immigrants, people in the Massif Central are almost wealthy."

Chloé stopped, stared at him. "You sound as if quoting a book. What book did you read?"

Carlos' fist pushed empty air, a sign of impatience and frustration with himself, because his remark had sounded rehearsed even in his own ears. "I didn't read any book, but you're right, I repeated the words of someone I asked. Can we - "

"Who told you?"

Carlos blew air through his nose. "My mother."

"Oh."

"And she too asked me when I was going to invite you to our home in Ireland, so much for that." With satisfaction, he noticed the slight flush that had crept into Chloé's face at his mock quotation of her own words. "But there's something - yes, it has to do with your people, and my people, and a book's involved too, although I didn't read it, and once this is settled - maybe it doesn't take long at all ..."

It took a few seconds after Carlos' voice had faded before Chloé said, "I haven't got any idea what you're talking about. You've lost me."

"It's ..." Carlos cleared his throat. "What are you going to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're a witch. No matter what's going to happen with this school, there's no place for you here. So what are you going to do? Go back to - er, Nohanent?"

"Who said there's no place for me here? And besides, you're a wizard too, or you'll be as soon as you've got the counter cure or whatever it's called. So what are you going to do?"

Carlos, briefly feeling guilt because he hadn't told Chloé about the completed cure, was experienced enough in negotiations with girls his age to know that the slightly accusing tone was purely self-defense, and the counter question a play for time. But he didn't object answering first.

"I asked my father. He ... he said there are people who'd like to continue with this school, but of course under different conditions and so, you know what I mean. And he said, it's important to have only students with failed magic. He said - he said, it's different from a situation where a student with an amputated leg or something like that is put together with healthy students, because that leg might be amputated forever, while the failing magic can be cured. But what's more, a single witch or wizard under all the failing students wouldn't make any sense. That's what he said. So I have to pick another school."

"Pick another?" Chloé looked confused. "Can you choose?"

"Well, sort of ..." Carlos made a wry face. "Yes, I can choose whatever I want, and my choice is a school Esmeralda and I can attend together, and that limits my choice considerably - "

"... because she's made up her mind already," finished Chloé the sentence for him, with a smile that faded already at her last words.

Carlos' grin was steadier. "You don't know half of what you think you know. Yes, she's made up her mind enough to know that she wants to stay together with her friends - the other girls with the bracelets, but even so there are two options. There are two schools, one in France and one in England, but by some magic they're just a staircase apart, and so far the girls couldn't figure out whether all of them go for the French side, or all for the English, or each at her side because there are those houses anyway, and - "

"But they don't know a single word of English!"

It wasn't indignation what Carlos could hear in Chloé's voice, not incredulousness either. It was anxiety, proof enough for him to know that his and Chloé's mind were already running in parallel tracks.

"They should have learned a few by now, but anyway, that's something you can change in just a week. As long as they can't decide what they want, maybe someone coming along and telling them might have a chance, and - erm, I'd thought, if you and I could pick the same school ... but if you want to go back to Nohanent ..."

"I don't know," replied Chloé hesitantly. "It would be nice to have my old classmates around, but somehow they're much farther away than a few weeks ago. And I know for a fact that I want to keep in touch with - er, with you and your sister and her dog and your cat and ... you know, the whole bunch."

"The two schools are Beauxbatons at the French side ..."

Chloé nodded. She'd heard that name before.

"... and Hogwarts at the English side. We could - "

"Say that name again."

Carlos knew what was coming; moreover, he'd anticipated it. "Hogwarts."

"Spell that name."

"H-o-g-w-a-r-t-s."

"That's the school where - " Chloé's face lighted up. "Now I know what book you meant a minute ago - the one I read long ago, because Hogwarts, that's where this Henri Portère went to school. Imagine! We'd sit in the same rooms where - oh, that'd be ... too good to be true," she finished as if chiding herself for a digression. "It isn't going to work."

"Why not?"

"I can't speak English. We don't have the money. It's too far away. It's ..." Apparently bare of any other argument that could be put into words, Chloé shook her head as the only way to express her disbelief.

"You've been attending a boarding school all the time," Carlos started carefully. "This one. Here."

"Yes, but it was paid by the state, because I'm handi - because I couldn't do magic. That's no longer true, so they aren't going to pay any longer."

"What I mean is, one boarding school is as good or bad as another - for being away from home, I mean. And with your porty, your parents are just a button press away ... after you've got that target programmed onto another button."

"Oh." Chloé's eyes grew big in astonishment. "I hadn't thought of that."

"About the cost, er, Hogwarts offers scholarships for special cases. Your part in - in what happened here should be enough to get you very high on that list. I know someone there."

"Do you?" Chloé gave him a scrutinizing stare. "And why should this someone vote for me? And what does all this have to do with the question why we have to walk through the cold instead of sitting in the warmth? Or maybe it's cold and wet where you live, eh?"

"Only to the outside." Carlos' grin faded. "Uhm, I didn't tell you the full truth."

"Really? Now, that takes me so much by surprise, I hardly can tell you how - " Chloé stopped in the middle of her outburst and stared at him suspiciously. "The whole story with those schools a stairway apart is a fake, right? And there's no way to - "

"Wait!"

Carlos' imploringly raised hands silenced Chloé better than his shout. Calmer, he continued.

"About the schools, and Esmeralda and her friends and you and me, every single word I said is true. All you have to say is 'Yes,' then we can start at Hogwarts tomorrow - or maybe Beauxbatons, although I really hope Esmeralda and her friends vote for the English side; it's much nicer there for a dog and a cat." He inhaled deeply. "Maybe we should just apparate to Ireland now, maybe it's simpler there - it's just that I didn't want to invite you under a false pretense, that's all."

"False pretense?" Chloé frowned at him. "Is this a joke? You haven't pretended anything so far."

"Er, yes, that's correct, and that's exactly what I mean - "

Chloé started to pull her porty out. "Let's go, because you're hopeless." She stopped in mid-motion and looked up. "Each time I think there's something admirable in you, you make a fuss about something that should be told in a sentence or two, it's almost unbelievable." By now she had the porty out and examined the control surface with anger in her face. "What button do I have to press?"

"Potter."

"What? There's no such button."

"You said, 'Two sentences,' but I can do it shorter. Potter."

Chloé looked up; his tone of lost patience had caught her attention. "And what does it mean?"

"That's his real name. Potter. Your hero, the one who's called Henri Portère in that book. Portère is the French version; his real name is Harry Potter."

"Okay. So?"

"My real name is Carlos Garcia Potter. Chang, that's my mother's maiden name. Her full name is Cho Chang-Potter."

Chloé stared at him with more confusion than disbelief. "I know what you're trying to say, only I don't believe you. And it doesn't fit - in that book, he had two children, but they must be much older than you and Esmeralda by now - "

"They are, and you saw them actually." Carlos couldn't suppress a short giggle. "Remember the band in the castle? Dragonfly? The flutist, that was his son, and the girl with the tambourine, that was his daughter. These were Gabriel and Sandra."

The way he spoke the two names drilled a hole into the wall of disbelief in Chloé's face, but she closed it quickly. "The children of that wizard? Playing in a band? You must be dreaming. Next second you're going to tell me he himself was around too, right?"

Carlos sighed. "You're right in just one thing - it's hopeless, and I shouldn't even have started. Let me show you which buttons to press."

In Chloé's eyes was a look that said, right now she considered him badly ill, a questionable companion, but anyway harmless and still a possible source of warmth and a piece of cake.

He explained in which sequence the target and the confirmation button had to be pressed. "You'll come out in a dining room. See you in a second." He pressed his own buttons.

Standing in the large round dinner room, destination of all in-house apparitions, he had to wait fifteen seconds, and it felt like an eternity. Then, with Chloé standing there and looking lost, he could hear steps coming nearer. Next moment, his mother came through the door.

"Mum! How did you know that we just arrived?"

His mother smiled triumphantly. "A small piece of Muggle technology is all you need for that, and I had it installed because I wanted to know who's coming into my house, and when, and never mind apparition." She returned his hug with a kiss and turned to the girl. "You must be Chloé."

"Yes, madam."

"Did Carlos tell you where we are here?"

"Erm ..."

Carlos came to help. "I tried, Mum. I told her - uhm, no, I tried to tell her who we really are, and about Gabriel and Sandy, but - er, it didn't work, and so I thought it best to just come over."

His mother nodded. "You were right. Here she can watch and take her time and draw her own conclusions." She turned to the girl. "Carlos told me about a certain hero you worship, but maybe we should just start with something to eat, right? What would you like to drink?"

"Erm, café au lait, please."

Carlos watched as his mother took out her phony and called Dobby and Winky, the house-elves, to ask them for drinks and a few pieces of cake. It took him a few seconds to realize that, for Chloé, the conversation suddenly had changed into something unintelligible, because his mother had talked with her in French but with the house-elves in English.

Cho turned to the girl. "The drinks and the cake will appear in a second. Would you like to sit down?"

Rather than following the suggestion, Chloé stared at her. "Did ... did you just talk with someone who's called Dobby?"

"Yes, he's the husband of our house-elf couple. Would you like to meet him? But I should tell you, he's a bit afraid of visitors, while Winky, his wife, is more open-minded."

Chloé sat down like kicked by an invisible force. "Dobby."

Cho turned to Carlos, an unspoken question on her face.

"I guess the book she read mentioned Dobby," he explained. "I told her his real name is Harry Potter - in that book, he was called Henri Portère, but as I said, we - "

"Yes, Dobby was the house-elf in that story." Chloé's confirmation came in a flat voice. "And ... but there wasn't anything about two more children, and Carlos ... and Esmeralda - " Chloé's stammering ended in a gasp, because at that moment the cups had appeared on the large table.

Cho said, "It's a long story, and it's a sad story because some people died, but it's also good story because it's true and brought us together. I think we should have our café and tea and our cake, and you, Chloé, can decide who should tell you the story - Carlos, or I, or Harry, who is my husband and Carlos and Esmeralda's adopted father. But for now, dug in."

"Yes, madam."

As Carlos could watch, at least Chloé's survival habits had mastered the situation, and made her bite and chew and swallow and sip. Otherwise - her mind hadn't completely arrived yet, perhaps also from the apparition jump, and she looked as if the mystery could only be solved if she took the right choice of the one to tell her the story.

He had little doubt: she would choose his father, with or without the mark that made him look like Monsieur le Professeur Thierry Pri'chard. The thought that he, Carlos, would sit and listen to a tale he knew by heart, and watch a girl he knew for a little while, started spreading in him like a warmth he hadn't ever felt before.

* * *

Cho sat in the dinner room of the Vancouver Resort, at the same table as on several occasions before. The man sitting opposite her also was the same as on these occasions. Still, something was different, and without having touched the topic with a single word, they were both aware of it: this would be their last dinner and lunch in the Vancouver Resort - lunch for Reuben, running on local time, dinner for Cho, eight hours ahead on European time.

During the meal, they had talked about the events in Brest, although not going into much detail, and about the state of things here on the Vancouver Island, where the MABEL seminar and its resort had reached the state any engineer dreamed of, that of a well-oiled machine running almost noiselessly.

"Isn't it boring?" asked Cho.

Reuben smiled. "Compared to the stories you can tell for sure."

"No, that's not ..." Seeing his smile change to the boyish grin he showed each time he could trick her with his attitude of a professional host, Cho dropped the explanation she had planned. "You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do, and no, it's not boring. Actually, in a way your question is the best compliment a hotel manager can get, because the challenge is to make it look that simple, easy, and boring." He chuckled. "It's a new challenge every day, trust my word."

"It certainly is. I know it, you know that I know, and your attempt to make me look as if I didn't know is just your second defense line, so I don't even take offence - "

"Lucky me."

Cho grinned at him. "I'm not going to be put off track, so stop it. From a real manager, your answer would be okay, but then, if you were a real manager, I wouldn't have asked."

"Oh, I'm not?" Reuben managed an astonishment that was sufficiently unconvincing to tell her that he'd understood. "Wouldn't this be the right time for me to take offence?"

She smiled more warmly than before. "No, because you're more of a constructor, or designer, who gets satisfaction from putting something together until it runs as smoothly as this resort, which you persist calling a hotel."

"Maybe so. But you can't do construction work all the time, and for a change it's nice to lean back and watch the wheels clicking along, and since the thrill will fade into routine quite by itself, there's no need of provoking that feeling prematurely."

Cho nodded as though his reaction had allowed her to check off the next item on a hidden agenda. "Maybe if I had a hotel chain to offer ..."

After a second in which Cho didn't continue, Reuben asked, "What makes you think I would accept it?"

Cho's bafflement looked genuine. "Didn't you dream of a hotel chain - "

"Yes I did, but only of a very specific one - my own."

"You wouldn't accept it as a present, would you?"

"No, I wouldn't."

As lightly as their conversation sounded, there was no question that Reuben's answer was based on a fundamental belief.

"So you're oldfashioned."

"Yes, I am."

"Afraid people would consider it as a payment for something we never managed, not even once."

Reuben's answer was silence, just what she had expected after her provocative remark. Any reply would have steered dangerously close to bad taste.

Cho nodded. "Yeah, that's pretty much what I'd expected. So instead, would you accept me showing you the way to the starter kit for a hotel chain?"

"The starter kit?"

She had Reuben's full attention. The light ironic smile, which had played on his face still a moment ago, was wiped off - he knew that she was a businesswoman in the upper ranks, and he had heard the message in her question.

"Well, maybe this term fits badly to what I have in mind, but then, maybe it's not exactly a hotel chain I have in mind, but again, it's mostly a matter of terminology, common terms applied to an unusual - "

"It's not MABEL, is it?"

His impolite interruption told her that he had a fair guess of the idea that had formed not too long ago in her own mind, and that the chance of making his ambitions come true was rupturing his composure. But that was okay; she could well remember the first days of the Groucho empire.

"No, it's not MABEL."

"But it's about hosting a bunch of people, and the term hotel is as inappropriate as here in the Vancouver Resort ..."

Her smile, simultaneously encouraging and expectant, told him to continue.

"... so it's something other people might have called boarding school, and the starter kit is found somewhere in that school in Brest ... whatever that means," Reuben finished with a dash of confusion in his satisfaction about having solved the mystery.

"Exactly. But calling it a boarding school would also be inaccurate, because what I have in mind - no, what we have in mind includes something like a guest wing, although a wing that's large enough to pass for a hotel anywhere else."

"We? Why don't you just tell me what you have in mind? You alone, or you two, or - "

"Okay. I didn't plan to torture you. I said we and meant Harry and myself, but this we isn't coordinated yet, and the ideas are still vague. The planning has developed as far as that: Harry restarts the school in Brest, for exactly the purpose it had all the time, except without - well, let me just state that the conditions will be totally different, and the ruling authority will be such that no teacher not worth his title will have a chance to hibernate there until his pension is due."

"The ruling authority will be you."

Cho shook her head. "Definitely not. Harry and I have found out earlier in our life that we're a bad team in leadership of the same enterprise. We are both unable to keep our fingers off the handles of power and our mouths shut at the wrong moment - or the right, whatever. Besides, the EMEC, the European Magical Education Authority, will remain the controlling element in matters of education, but not in administration, and that's the point."

"And Harry?"

"His part is the education business, the big scheme, the vision, but not dirty laundry and tomorrow's breakfast. Harry can move the world, but he can't move a cubic foot of concrete, if you know what I'm trying to express."

"Where are the boundaries? Where does one saying stop, and another start? We both know that he can well move cubic feet of solid rock, if the need arises - he did so for his own training hall, as I was told, and - "

"Yes, okay, but I'm still right in a general sense." Cho's placatory gesture made Reuben relax a bit. "Harry would welcome a working infrastructure for sure. Let me give you an example. If boys of fourteen, at ten o'clock in the evening, are found on a floor that contains only girls' dormitories, it's an educational issue. Whether they had to climb a single flight of stairs or break a hole into concrete to reach their destination, that's an administration issue."

Reuben had to smile. "I wonder what he would decide in such a case."

"Me too. Probably send them to a seminar where they learn how to do it without being caught."

Her reply earned no laughter, perhaps also because her prediction was more truth than joke. Quickly growing serious again, Reuben asked, "What about the starter kit you mentioned?"

"The school must be a private enterprise, so that it's possible to fire someone if the need arises, be it a teacher or a janitor. Someone has to buy the estate from the current owner, and let me tell you, just recently the price dropped to the bottomless - well, considering the address and location. If I buy it, I clash with Harry. If Harry buys it, he loses his focus on what really interests him. So I think the best solution is to find an interested buyer - and to support him with a loan or two, if necessary."

"And then?"

"The teaching is only part of the story, and maybe not even the most important one. If teaching is your main interest, one school is the natural limit, or just one class in such a school. But Harry's goal is the same as that of MABEL, only on a different level and in a different way. He wants to make these children fully qualified wizards and witches, and for that he needs more schools of that kind."

"And preferably with the same administration partner."

"Right." Cho leaned back, looking expectant.

"There are a million open issues, but only two that need a better outline than this pie in the sky you've drawn in the last minutes." Reuben's shining eyes told her: he was ready to fly. "The first is the exact relationship between the administration layer and the educational layer. I mean, who'll be contractor for whom?"

"Figure it out and offer a solution."

"Yeah, that can be done. But this was the minor issue anyway. The more important thing is the financing. Even though that girl, Chloé, and her parents aren't the norm, the question remains where to get the money that's necessary to run such an etablishment. Top level luxury like here isn't a must for me, but the hotel chain in my dreams always kept a minimum standard."

Cho smiled. "You're pushing open doors with this demand. There are various sources of money, and sponsoring is a major issue here. The idea is to expand this sponsoring to a public level, preferably to the rich and famous. Imagine, you offer sponsorships for specific students, and the hotel wing in the school is the place where the sponsor can reside while visiting his or her student of choice, or come to pick one - "

Reuben grimaced. "After your stories, a millionaire of fifty coming to pick a girl of twelve for sponsorship has just the wrong connotation."

Cho grinned. "Let me expand my example from a moment ago. Should, instead of a boy of fourteen, this millionaire be found on the same floor and at the same time, you'd be in deep shit. This said, making sure it won't happen and making sure the connotation sounds right are the challenges to master, and they're as constant as the one here."

Reuben nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. "Sounds good. Let me think it over for a few days, to get a feeling how it could work in reality."

Cho made a face. "I'd hoped to get an answer today."

Reuben laughed. "I can answer you that I feel thrilled to the hairtips. I can answer you that the idea of working together with Harry - and occasionally fighting with him about some authority or other - tickles me a lot. For anything else, I need a little time, a notepad and a sharp pencil."

"Hm."

"As you said, it's two-layer business. If you want decisions at the spur of the moment, for things that change the face of the world, ask Harry. If you want a working infrastructure, ask me next week."

Cho didn't bother to hide her slight disappointment. But she shouldn't have worried, because a moment later, Reuben looked up.

"What the heck," he said, "I guess it's a done thing. I'll need most of the time just to find a successor for the job here."

* * *

Gabriel listened to the chatter of the Dragonfly crew, content to sit, eat his lunch, and laugh about the remarks from the others. His own contribution, not audible nor visible to the outside, was a mind impulse every now and then, exchanged with Sandra. Since she was High Priestess, their non-verbal communication had gained detail and depth.

"The concert where I knew my father in the audience was the worst," Moira said at this moment. "Since then I feel like an old pro, cool to the heart."

Her remark earned the expected laughter, plus a few appreciating glances. It was true; since the Friday concert in Stockholm Moira had lost most of her nervousness, and the idea of performing without Sandra and without Sandra's calming effect no longer was a nightmare for her. As Gabriel knew for a fact, it had a lot to do with Sandra, somewhat tired of her mother hen function, using her Priestess power to make her calming impulse a bit more permanent, but blaming the passed exam of a father in the audience was just the natural explanation they needed.

Since then, Moira was - well, normal might be the proper term. No longer a panicking bundle, showing an almost different personality. She could laugh, joke, be genuinely excited like any girl her age. She could laugh and joke with Michel better than ever before, as Gabriel had noticed.

Sandra hat noticed too, to send a questioning impulse upon which Gabriel had shrugged mentally. Another side-effect from Moira's new behaviour was that his protection instincts toward her had cooled down. At least this was his own explanation; he was fairly sure it had started before Michel moved into the focus of Moira's attention. Or was it the other way around?

And what role, if you please, played a girl with almost colourless hair in this reasoning?

They were sitting in the lunch room of the Three Crowns hotel in Uppsala, having an early lunch so their afternoon concert would not conflict with their digestion. It was Saturday noon. The concert three hours from now would be their last on this tour through Sweden.

Uppsala, the northernmost point they would reach, still was deep south when compared to a map of the entire Swedish country. All five cities of their tour were so close together, you could cover them with a single thumb on a book-sized map. But apparently they weren't close enough for some other people; a week ago in Stockholm, Gabriel hadn't seen a trace of Mirja.

"My own family didn't make me nervous," said Caitlin. "I don't know why, but somehow the afternoon concerts are less thrilling in a pleasurable way."

The McFarlanes had attended the afternoon concert in Stockholm, probably with respect to Caitlin's younger sister Grania. They'd been excited from the occasion and rapt by Caitlin's performance, telling Gabriel afterwards what an extraordinary luck it had been, him and Caitlin sharing a babysitter long ago. He'd nodded and smiled and thought that family was misplaced backstage, no matter how nice.

Caitlin turned to Gabriel. "What about you? More nervous than usual?"

Héloise answered first. "If he's nervous, then not because of his parents in the audience." She sent him the friendly, sympathetic, merciless smile he had to expect from this Veela. Still looking at her, Gabriel saw how Héloise opened her mouth once more, apparently for another remark, but then almost gasped before closing it again.

He sent her his own smile, sympathetic and knowing. Sandra had told her friend to shut up - Gabriel hadn't felt anything of this impulse, but he knew.

"I'm not nervous," he said. "A bit worried, perhaps, but not because of the concert, or anyone sitting there, or anyone not sitting there ..."

The quick glance he sent to Héloise at these words was rewarded with a smile, this time really compassionate.

"... it's more about what will be afterwards. There's an album recording we have to manage, and there's the question what two of us will decide. They've promised to complete the tour with us, and before this day's over, their promise will be fulfilled."

Some faces turned to stare at the two Gabriel had talked about : Sandra and Frédéric.

"I'm torn apart," said Sandra. "It's great to be with you, but honestly, a tambourine and a bit of chorus isn't the challenge of my life. The studio sessions for the album recording are okay, I mean, I feel tickled like anyone else to read my name on a CD. But then? I don't know yet."

"Then we might ask the other," said Héloise. "Could be it makes Sandy's decision a bit simpler?"

"Hardly," said Frédéric into the chuckle, "because it's just the other way around. As long as Sandra is a crew member, I'll be, too. The moment she resigns, I'm off." He stared at Héloise. "You can call it fickle, if you want."

With limited amusement, Gabriel watched as Héloise kept her silence, slightly flush-faced and with thin lips. Héloise's relationship with Benoît deserved the term fickle considerably more than Frédéric's affection for Sandra, which was unwavering and open to everyone's inspection. Frédéric had simply shut up Héloise, very elegantly and in full public.

Sandra said, "We don't need to hurry. The next tour isn't within sight, is it?"

Ireen shook her head. "No, but it doesn't mean much. There'll be offers plenty; it'll be more difficult to choose the right time and the right area."

Sandra turned to Rebecca. "Didn't you ever want to play the tambourine?"

"Me?" Rebecca almost jumped out of her seat. "I am backstage, I'll be backstage, and may no one ever tempt me to forget."

"Amen," said Michel, earning a chuckle from Moira.

"I know someone for the tambourine," said Tomas, raising astonishment in some faces because he hardly ever spoke at such occasions. "The keyboard is a different matter, though, and a complicated too because Frédéric has set standards."

"Thank you." Frédéric bowed to the gypsy. "And who's the one for the tambourine? Someone black-haired, with flamenco robe and dark-glowing eyes?"

"Sounds like Tomas' sister," said Caitlin.

"Not mine, but otherwise pretty close." Tomas grinned toward Gabriel. "Yours."

Gabriel opened and closed his mouth, then he exchanged a look and a thought with Sandra. Tomas was right; Esmeralda would be perfect for this role.

"I wonder what your parents will have to say about this idea," said Moira. "Mine would have a stroke at the thought of an eleven-year-old on stage, but I couldn't help thinking yours have a different perspective."

People from the neighbour tables were staring at them with amusement or indignation as the Dragonfly table was almost rolling over from laughing.

"We can find out soon," said Gabriel.

Their parents had booked for the evening before and for this afternoon, after promising to make it for at least one of the two concerts. Both of them were drowning in work and, as far as Gabriel could judge, even in the same project - something with that school in Brest but MABEL never far away. They hadn't attended the Friday concert at the evening before, so this afternoon was their last chance in a while.

After lunch, Gabriel suggested a walk through the city. He found agreement only with Michel and the two singer girls, while Sandra and Frédéric had different plans. The same was true for Héloise and Tomas, a combination that struck Gabriel as no coincidence, in particular since the roadies - including Benoît - hadn't joined their lunch table. Not his problem.

Uppsala, like Linkoeping, had a university but lacked the homeliness they'd found there; it was too large and too much tourist attraction. There were churches and castles aplenty, not attracting anyone in their group of four. They'd had their share of castles, thank you very much.

Sauntering through shopping streets, Gabriel noticed with astonishment how the initial coupling - he and Caitlin, Michel and Moira - suddenly changed rather quickly and significantly. Glancing to Moira at his side, he knew that it hadn't been by accident.

"I wanted to talk with you," she said. "Alone."

"And so you sent Michel off, and Caitlin too."

"Er, yes."

"You sure we have to talk? I mean, I have eyes to see."

"It's not that simple," Moira replied. "Yes, you're right, Michel and I, that's ... But you know, I like you too, only with you it's different, more - "

"Like a brother," completed Gabriel dryly.

It earned him a sharp glance from Moira, reminding him that she was the source of lyrics that could only originate from an attentive observer.

"I owe you so much, Gabriel - and your sister too; I know she did something with me and since then I know I can be myself in the presence of other people, but I owe you still more, and the last thing I want is to hurt you. But isn't it funny? Only since this change I'm in a position to talk with you the way I do, and I don't want to hide my feelings. I dearly hope we can be friends, but with Michel it's something else. He - he said you'd met a girl and were quite fascinated by her, and he couldn't understand" - Moira showed a quick grin - "and if that's true, I'd be truly happy because then I could stop feeling guilty, and, well, that's it."

After a moment of silence, he said, "You ask me things I've been asking myself. I thought I - I had a crush on you, but then you changed, and I thought it's been just someone to protect, like a little sister. And you and Michel - it doesn't hurt watching you; it's just something ... I guess it's a bit jealousy, you being better off than I, that's all."

"And that girl?"

"Mirja? I don't know, she's - er, don't take me wrong, but when I met you I thought there's a truly weird girl ..."

Moira laughed joyfully.

"... but compared to her you're boringly normal. I wonder if it isn't just another case of coddling up a bird with a broken wing, if you'll pardon the expression."

"I will," said Moira, regally waving her hand.

"But it's not your problem. I'm single-minded enough to wish you so much luck with Michel that we can harvest a few new lyrics from it."

Moira eyed him again. "Even if it's a broken wing - go and cuddle her, I mean, coddle her up." With these words, she accelerated her step to reach the other couple, fifty yards ahead of them.

Returning to the hotel, Moira's words still ringing in his ears, Gabriel found his father in the lobby. Alone.

"Hello son, here I am, and that's the good news. Your mother's awfully sorry, and she asked me to tell you, her only excuse is that she's working for the benefit of all students at the Brest school. I know it's a weak consolation for you, but at least it's true. There's a good chance we're back in our own operation within a few weeks."

Gabriel nodded, not revealing that right now a totally different issue was predominant in his mind. "Did you come with someone else, Dad?"

"No. Cho tried till the last minute, so I didn't ask anyone."

Before his inner eye, Gabriel saw an empty seat in an otherwise sould-out auditiorium. This impulse was all he needed to take out his porty and enter a number he knew by heart without having stored it on a shortcut yet.

"Yes?"

"Mirja? Gabriel here. Where are you?"

"At home. Why are you calling? Doesn't your concert start in a few minutes?"

"Have you got time? Two hours?"

"Yes, why?"

"Come to the window."

Gabriel apparated to Jonkoeping, where Mirja lived, as he knew since he'd taken her home from Carron Lough. Seeing her at the window, he apparated into her room, took her hand, and summoned her back into the hotel lobby. With Mirja still at his hand, he walked back to the corner where his father was waiting.

"Dad, this is Mirja. Mirja, this is my father; he's got a spare ticket, actually for a first-class seat."

Mirja eyed Gabriel's father, not hiding how she examined the large discolouration. "Good afternoon, sir, nice to meet you."

"Hello, Mirja. I'm pleased my son could find such a pretty concert partner for me. People will stare at us - the beauty and the beast."

Mirja laughed, totally unembarrassed.

Seeing his father's questioning look, Gabriel said, "Mirja is a Dragonfly fan; we met when she was looking for a purpose in her life. She can tell you the rest, because for me it's time to get ready."

With a nod to the unlikely couple, Gabriel turned to reach his suite, where he would fetch his clothes before crossing the street and enter the Uppland Concert Hall backstage. He could hear how his father said, "Purpose in your life? I'm an expert in that, because I just found mine, so maybe - "

The rest drowned in the noise from the hotel lobby, but Gabriel had no doubt of these two getting along. After all, one of them was weirder than the other, measured by any common standard.

In his suite, while changing into his stage costume, Gabrie wondered if he would be able to see them against the spot lights, sitting side by side in the first row. Then the concert ahead and his own purpose as the Dragonfly piper pushed other thoughts aside.