Suspicion

Chapter 7

The horridness of the day exceeded her expectations. No nicotine, not enough caffeine, a raging headache and two classes in a row that were completely distracted by spring and their own lives… She took out her withdrawal on her students. Instead of giving a lecture, she asked questions. Lots of questions asked very quickly. She gave the poor students no time to collect their thoughts. If they weren’t ready with an answer, she savaged them in front of their peers. Those who weren't awake yet or answered incorrectly had insults poured over them. Her students cowered. It gave her a slight feeling of satisfaction to watch the usually insolent Quidditch players slouch down in their chairs, attempting to hide from her wrath.

When the bells tolled for lunch, she stalked outside to try and suck a little relief from the butts she had salvaged that morning. It helped some, but not much. Her headache wasn't getting better. She had a two-hour class in the afternoon and she was supposed to keep office hours. Screw the office hours. She needed to go into town and re-supply herself before she killed someone or, worse yet, had another meeting with Werner. She didn't think she would be able to think properly under pressure.

Tossing the last of the almost useless butts onto the snow, she went back into the castle. Lunch was almost over and knots of red-robed students clustered everywhere. She was hungry. She had eaten the other nasty sugar-laden pie between her classes and was certain that it had helped worsen her headache. She really needed something solid. Solid, if unappetizing to her, food was a specialty at the school. She trudged through the students, recognizing some of them from her last two classes. She almost smiled when she saw one of the girls pull a classmate out of Jones’ way.

Her courage faltered as she entered the room itself. The Dark Arts table was still full. Everyone, except De Rais, was still there. She watched them from the doorway. They weren't what anyone could call friendly. They interacted and there were some friendships between them, but it wasn’t the sort of group where everyone pulled together. Still, they would occasionally present a united front – like this morning when no one would talk to her. Except for De Rais’ condescending comments, not one had said anything. Not even Wronski. She was supposed to be tough by now, but she didn’t feel very tough. She felt lonely and deserted.

She heard Kessler laugh and watched as Rabe did one of his far too accurate impersonations. Horrified, she realized that she was the object of Rabe’s act. She watched as he stomped around the table, shaking a finger at Gregorov and then folded his arms over his chest and proceeded to talk at great length. She didn’t have to put much effort into guessing he was impersonating one of her lectures. She couldn’t help herself. She knew all this stuff and she wanted to share. From where she stood, it was obvious that none of them considered it sharing.

One of the castle servants walked by her, carrying out the remains of lunch. She followed him into the steamy depths of the kitchens. The kitchen staff stopped what it was doing and stared at her. "I missed lunch. Could I have some bread and cheese?" She felt like she was back in high school or in some bad Dickensian scene. An image of herself holding out a bowl and asking for more flickered past her imagination. A half loaf of bread and a grubby handful of cheese were thrust at her. She tucked the bread into her satchel and took the cheese out of the slightly damp hand. There was a door leading outside and she used it.

The door led out to a shadowed stone staircase. It felt like the dead of winter leaning against the balustrade. Drifts of snow piled against the castle walls, still fresh and white. She guessed that only the kitchen staff ever used these stairs. Shivering, she devoured the cheese. At least that was good. She grudgingly admitted that the school did itself proud in the dairy product area.

While she waited for the bells to sound, she sorted through her satchel with one hand, checking to see if she had finished grading the next class’ homework. God, what a mess. She really had to clean the thing out. She had far too much junk stuffed into it. She started sorting out the old food wrappers. Popcorn bags, candy bars, some sort of "dessert cake" that still had part of something in there. It was black and furry. Must have been in there a while. She made a small pile of trash and discovered more local money. That was a nice surprise. She counted it and realized that she could have dinner at the Internet Café. Anything to keep her out as long as possible. It would be colder in the staff room tonight than it was on these stairs and she did not feel up to it. Maybe, if she stayed out long enough, she wouldn't be around when Werner showed up again. She knew he would.

The solemn sounds of the bells tolling the hour echoed against the walls that surrounded the castle. Time to go. She stuffed her trash into one of the coat’s lining pockets and walked around to the front of the structure. There was only one way into the dungeons where all of the Dart Arts classes were held. She let herself get sucked into a flow of students heading down the stairs. It was a long way down. She felt like David in an ocean of Golliaths. Everyone seemed to tower over her. It was her lack of stature that hid her as she reached the dungeon level. Kessler and Gregorov stood chatting. She heard her name mentioned and heard Gregorov make a disgusted sound. So much for hoping to make any inroads there. He could get his own damn booze.

She stepped into her room, hardly noticing the darkness lit by candles that usually amused her. Her class dutifully stood to attention and greeted her. She waved them down and started passing out homework. The scuffing sound of someone turning on the stone floor caught her attention and she stopped midway through her class’ desks and turned to face the door. Mueller stood there. He made certain she saw him and then left. Two hours to go…

To her surprised, those hours went quickly. Her Special Projects class was her favorite. Only seventh years were allowed and only those who had chosen the Dark Arts as their academic track. This year’s students were particularly bright. She had given up on lectures in the morning and decided to continue in that vein for the afternoon. Instead of an exercise in cruelty, it became a lively debate. She found herself laughing over several particularly insightful answers. Being a "hopeless optimist" had its good points. She was almost sad when the class ended. She shouted out the reading assignment and asked for an essay covering what they had talked about, laughing at the groans. None of the students seemed to mind the amount of work she gave them. She had no ideas what they were going to do with the information she presented them, but they all seemed to have a good grasp of the subject.

She closed her satchel and stood at her door and waited. Waited until the next class started and no one was outside. Waited so she wouldn’t have to walk by Gregorov or run into Rabe who always seemed to be scurrying about the halls. When what she was certain the last straggler ran into class, she left.

She stopped at her quarters only long enough to change coats. She didn’t care what she looked like. She just wanted out. The place was deserted. Out of habit, she checked the staff room. No one was there. The only signs that anyone had ever been there were the mugs and glasses liberally scattered over every flat surface. She turned to go and smelled that odd smell. It wasn’t as ghastly as she had remembered from the first time, but it was there. It seemed to come from around De Rais’ doorway but it might be from Gregorov’s or Wronski’s rooms. She’d been in Wronski’s quarters before. He was almost compulsively cluttered, but everything was clean. It only smelled when he was brewing something or other. Gregorov was a known slob. She’d never been further than the door to his office, but there were piles of stuff everywhere. Could be from Gregorov’s rooms. She walked over to the area and sniffed again. There was definitely something there. Smelled raw. She changed forms and sniffed again. Smelled good to the badger. Like food. She returned to her form and stared at the doors. She needed to go. Still, it bothered her that she couldn’t pinpoint it. First things first: cigarettes.

She went through the annoying almost-ritual of bribing the guards and hesitating in front of the curtains. It was a relief to walk out onto the village’s streets. She knew the score here. No one wanted her there, but she could leave her money.

She stopped at the cigarette queue. At that hour, there was hardly anyone ahead of her and there was a new clerk who simply took her money and sold her a carton. At last! Seating herself in a sunny spot, she proceeded to deal with the itchy need. She tried to take her time, but dragged down the first two. The headache started to recede. She enjoyed the third one and relaxed in the sun.

Deciding that today was a hooky day, she wandered through various shops, looking at clothes, paging through books she couldn’t read, looking at magazine photos since she couldn’t understand the text and treating herself to a strong cup of coffee with a piece of torte added to sweeten her mood. The luxury of killing time felt wonderful. She lied to herself and pretended she was back home, but it was a difficult illusion to hold onto. She settled for buying a bag of pens and some markers before drifting off to find her Internet Café.

The place was packed when she got there. It was impossible to find a seat so she asked when would be a good time to come back. The nice young man suggested she return in an hour or two. She signed up for computer time and left.

Killing the next hour was much harder. Darkness had fallen and most of the stores had closed. She found herself walking the grid of streets in an effort to do something. She kept circling back to the tiny restaurant, checking for a place to sit. As the man had predicted, in an hour or so the place was nearly empty.

She ordered one of the large combination plates, a nostalgic Cola over ice and settled down to wait. The clerk turned on a small television and she found herself sucked in. TV was something she had almost forgotten about. She had never been much of a fan but, like the computer, it was something that was no longer a part of her life so it was riveting. She moved to the counter and watched the moving images. They showed two American shows in a row. She laughed through "The Simpsons" and was disgusted when the next show turned out to be "Bay Watch". But she watched it. She understood what they were saying and was proud that she had just enough German to explain some of the jokes to the clerk. Around 2130, he turned her loose on the machine and reminded her that he closed at 2200, but she could stay connected until he locked up.

She checked to see if her subscription to the listserv had been approved. Instead of the automatically generated welcome letter, she got a personal email. It was flattering. No one seemed to care about her past here – except for Werner which was unsettling – but she had created quite a career for herself back home. She luxuriated in the recognition from the moderator and then painfully pecked out a reply. The familiar "qwerty" keyboard was not what she had in front of her and it took her a long time to complete her email.

Unsure of what to do next, she decided to play around on the search engines to kill time. Starting with herself, she keyed in the names of all of the Dark Arts staff. Most of the names provided no hits or funny-to-her hits. She enjoyed seeing what her common name came up with and then was annoyed when most of the other names resulted in nothing at all. Except for de Rais. There were several sites that had quite a lot of information on a "Gilles de Rais" unfortunately they were in French. She tried one of the translation programs and got confusing results. What she got looked like what she heard from her translation spells. The clerk said she could print some of them off if she wanted to. She understood that the meaning was she could give him some money and then print things off.

Printing out the first three articles, she said her good nights and went back to the tavern. Midweek, the place was almost empty. The same sullen barflies glowered at her, but no one said anything or moved from their spot. She retraced her path through the toilet and down the narrow corridor to the mildew-smelling room and then to the cold stone walls of Durmstrang, making her way back through the grounds without incident.

The light from the staff room illuminated the hall. She could hear the soft sounds of conversation and the scrape of chairs. She moved as silently to her door as she could manage and whispered her word to enter the wards. Closing the door behind her, she almost felt safe. Her wards glowed behind her. She threw the carton and her printouts on the desk. Her own personal prison. She looked back at her door, checking the color and pulse of the wards. She squinted and regarded them. They looked ok but…

Digging through her school coat, she found her little knife, one of her favorite tools. Then, she rummaged through her desk drawers until she found a spoon. Dirty. Damn. Well, it would do. She rubbed it shiny on her sweater and laid it down on the desk. Hardly something one of her craft teachers would have approved but she didn't have a silver chalice or bowl handy. The spoon would do. She cleared her mind and loosened the muscles in her shoulders and neck. Spells like these needed complete concentration and a calm mind. Years of study and practice helped her reach the state she needed quickly. It was only an add-on spell to help buttress what she already had in place. Chanting the incantation that she had used to place the wards initially, she used the knife to make a small incision. She had done this spell many, many times. The scar was broad and white, a road map. Blood welled in the cut and she carefully measured out enough to remark the symbols around her door. She paused, about to stop the flow and then added more. Best to do the window, too and perhaps remark the wooden partitions that divided the stables into separate rooms. She was paranoid for good reasons. She knew very few witches or wizards much older than she was who practiced the Dark Arts for money. The mortality rate was high in her profession.

The large spoonful of blood quivered as the symbols were traced. Spells were placed with a precision of long practice. She changed the type of wards on the walls and on the windows to the sort that would require her blood and a key word to enter. Dawn’s gray lit the small window as she finished. No sleep again. It was worth it. She felt better just seeing the marks dry. The bell began to toll the wake up call.

She washed her face and combed her hair into place. She’d need to cut her hair soon. It was starting to get in her face again. That was the problem with practical hair, it needed to be dealt with regularly, but she could do it herself, making certain that all of the cuttings were destroyed. Feeling rather gritty she decided that missing a shower would be worth it to have her coffee before the rest of the staff made it out of their quarters. Maybe she could make it to the great hall and have some breakfast before they stopped serving. She had gotten out of the habit since no one else in the group ate in the morning. Time to start some new habits.

Shrugging on her coat, she grabbed her satchel, stepped into the hall and felt something break under her foot. Looking down, she saw a familiar sight. Meuller must have been around last night. The diagram in front of her door matched the one that the Auror had worked the night before. She stepped back to see if the grid spell was still active. It was. All of her protective work sparkled gaudily. She surveyed her own pattern of spells. Very different. She knew what she had cast. Digging out a mostly unscribbled on piece of paper, she drew out what the grid showed and made a detailed description of the colors, shapes and placements of the spells. She was nodding to herself, fully involved in the analysis of what each symbol meant in regards to her work when it filtered into her senses that she was no longer alone.

"They were very interested in your wards," Lowenstein’s soft voice said. "You must set yours with blood." He paused and sighed, "Of course. You set everything with blood. Auror Mueller was here quite late. Auror Werner was most disappointed that you were not present. I would recommend that you fortify your wards."

"When did they show up? I didn’t see anyone when I came back." Jones realized that her dreams of a quiet hour alone with her coffee was no longer an option.

"Ah. You were in the village." Lowenstein looked down the hallway, he seemed to be watching or waiting for someone. "Professor de Rais has not been seen since yesterday. Perhaps you saw him there?"

"No. Didn’t see anyone from here. So, did I lose the pariah status?"

Lowenstein set his yellow eyes on her. He seemed to be weighing his answer carefully. "I cannot speak for the others. Professor Gregorov finished the last of his liquor last night. I am certain that he at least will speak to you." With that, he turned and ambled his way down to the staff room.

Jones watched him leave. She always enjoyed watching Lowenstein. Easily the best looking of the men, he moved like a cat and could be completely charming when he roused himself. And, as Wronski had pointed out, he was the laziest man she had ever met.

Wronski. Hmmm. She walked back into her office and grabbed her printouts. Wronski spoke French. At least she thought he did. She knew he had a dictionary. Gathering her pride around her as armor, she walked purposely past the staff room, glancing in to see Lowenstein, Rabe and Haken sitting at the table, and down to Wronski’s rooms. Wronski hated mornings. He tended to be non-social until lunch. From what Jones had overheard in the halls, his morning classes hated him

She took a deep breath and knocked on his door. No answer. She waited a few minutes and knocked again. A muffled voice answered vulgarly. Amazing how profanity could always be identified. Giving in, she pounded on the door. He was already in a bad mood, might as well add to it. Besides, he owed her for the wards. As she stepped back, she heard a scuffing sound. When she looked down, she saw the same diagram in front of his door, too. Mueller had been busy. Maybe this was working into a training session for the Northern District’s Aurors. Durmstrang ought to get a kickback.

Wronski flung open the door, obviously ready to heap abuse upon whoever stood there. His startled face showed that she was not whom he had expected. "What do you want?" Tugging a rumpled terrycloth robe tightly around him, he smothered a yawn and began rubbing his eyes.

"I need an English/French dictionary. I know you have one. Can I borrow it? Oh, and that book with all of the verbs, too." She made an extra effort to sound chipper, knowing it would grate on his sleepy nerves.

"Why do you need a French dictionary?" He emphasized "you". Jones’ disinterest in learning German had forced the entire group to listen to Rabe lecture her on numerous occasions.

"I want to look some words up. What do you think I need one for?" she grumbled, turning on her sarcastic voice.

Running a hand through his sandy-colored hair, Wronski looked embarrassed. "Yeah. Come on in. I’ll find it for you. I haven’t needed it for awhile. It’s around here somewhere."

Interspersed with much yawning, he began to sort through piles of books scattered on his desktop. The shelves had overflowed years ago and he had some sort of system, based perhaps on book size or color – not subject – that he used to arrange his collection. Tomes were stacked on the floor in tall piles. Jones was impressed. Some of the stacks were at least two feet high. It soon became clear that whatever method he used to organize his library wasn't working. With a muffled thud, he threw himself into his chair and blearily swung about, looking at the shelves behind him. The chair squeaked as he bent over to grab and then discard a faded volume. "If it isn’t too long, maybe it would be easier if I translated it for you." Wronski squinted at another cover. He seemed to be having problems focusing on the book spines.

"I have a couple of web pages that I printed out." She handed over the printouts and watched as Wronski squinted at the first page, gradually holding it further and further away. Grimacing, he began to fumble about in the chaos of papers already jumbled on his desk until he found something. She just managed not laugh as he slipped on a pair of reading glasses. "When did you get glasses?"

He shot her an angry glare. "I only need them for reading." Carefully adjusting the glasses until they reached the right place on his nose, he began to read through the printouts. "I didn’t know you were interested in the fifteenth century or the Hundred Years War." He continued to read and then gave her a very odd look. "What are you looking for?"

"I just want to know what it says." She tried to sound innocent, but she just wasn’t the sweet and innocent type. "OK. I did some vanity surfing and plugged everyone’s names in. I got some hits on Gilles. I’m just curious…" "Just Curious" That might as well be her motto or epithet.

Wronski frowned at her and went back to his reading. "This first one is about the French knights who fought with Joan of Arc. It’s mostly just listing who was with her. The second one is about heraldry. It deals with achievements and augmentations." He glanced over at her blank expression. "Talk to Siegfried. He loves heraldry." Wronski shuffled the already-read pages to the back of the stack. After a bit, he made a face. "This one is a short synopsis of testimony in a trial of someone named 'Gilles de Rais'. Sounds like something the big guys would like. Lots of gory descriptions. Dead kids. That sort of thing." He continued to read, occasionally twisting his mouth into odd shapes. "This is really gross for this time of the morning. Do you want me to write everything out? I could, I guess." He leafed through the pages. "It would take me a few hours to transcribe it." Suddenly, he smiled. "Do you think this is 5K worth of translation? We could call it even for the wards."

Trying not to smile back, but thrilled that someone was talking to her, she nodded. "Sure. I’d call that a fair trade." She started to pick up her satchel. "Paul, when did Werner and his jack-booted thugs come back last night?"

"Pretty late. Almost midnight. They marched in. He did a head count. Asked where you were. Where Gilles was. And then they spent the rest of the night in the hallway. I guess they decided to hold a training seminar on that grid spell thing." He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "You would have loved it. Werner lectured on the set up, the tools, the most common spells you see, what he thought he saw in the grid on Gilles’ door, on my door, on Lowenstein’s door and on yours." He grinned at her disappointed expression. She would have loved it. "Any way, they let us go back into our rooms around one o'clock or so. Everyone’s going to be dragging today. See, you should have just toughed it out instead of hiding. I’m sure Mueller missed you. He kept bumming cigarettes off Werner’s staff. I thought you smoked a lot…"

She nodded. "Sorry I missed it. I need a cup of coffee before classes start. At least it’s Friday."

"Oh, another thing. I guess someone else was killed. Another de Laval. Werner’s bosses must be having fits. He looks like someone who’s expected to produce results. He did say that we, meaning everyone here except Gilles, were no longer under suspicion. I guess that’s good. I thought they put locator spells on everyone. I wonder why they can’t find Gilles?"

She opened her mouth, trying to tell Wronski about the end of last Saturday’s interrogations, but nothing would come out. She mimed writing at Wronski who looked at her as if she had suddenly gone mad. She stamped her foot. Annoyed, he handed her a pad of paper and a pen and stood back.

It took an active thrust of will to force her hand to write. It got harder with each word, but she managed to scribble that de Rais had never been interrogated. Wronski put his glasses back on and read what she had written. "No? How did he get out of that? Why can’t you talk?"

She shrugged and tried again to talk about it. Nothing. Her mouth clamped shut and the muscles began to ache from her efforts. She grabbed the paper and pen again, but her hand began to shake violently. She gave him an imploring look that declared her defeat.

"Must be a powerful spell to shut you up. Maybe we should thank him." He ducked as she flung the pad at him.