The Concert
It was early December, and the date of Gabrielle’s concert. By injudicious over-use of her Time Twister, Ginny managed to free up the entire afternoon beforehand. Even though she was stumbling with tiredness by the time she’d finished her day’s lessons, she felt a strange feeling of release as she emphatically dropped her Time Shifter on the kitchen counter before walking down to the main gate with Gosse. The wind was strong and icy, and she was looking forward to the warmth of the capital.
But it was considerably colder when they arrived in Paris. Incredibly, there were inches of snow on the ground, and plenty in the air. They had twisted directly to Ginny’s favourite dress shop, where it was a strange nervous pleasure to introduce Gosse to Florence.
Florence gave her sly froglike smile up at Gosse. “So,” she said to Ginny. “This is not for him, this time?” Gosse gave Ginny a puzzled sideways glance.
“No,” said Ginny, feeling her face heat. “We’re going to a concert.”
Florence flicked a bent forefinger at Gosse’s formal robes. “He’s wearing that,” she said, firmly. Which sounded more of an order than a question, but Ginny said yes anyway.
“So I was thinking something long…” Ginny began, thinking of Gabrielle’s diktat about not competing.
“Ach,” said Florence, dismissively. “But you are not performing, I think!”
“Well, no…”
“Hmph!” said Florence. She led the way into the fitting room. The room was full of dresses already, and Ginny was concerned to see most of them were short, some excessively so.
“I am representing the school,” Ginny said defensively.
Florence squinted at her. “A concert, yes?” she demanded.
“Yes…”
“Two halves,” said Florence. “The top half for listening, the bottom half for flirting.”
“Flirting?” echoed Ginny, with an embarrassed glance at Gosse. “No…”
“Your clothes!” rapped Florence. “Off!”
I can always argue later, Ginny told herself as she removed her blouse and skirt. She heard Gosse clearing his throat, and she couldn’t decide whether he was actually embarrassed or merely mimicking her.
Florence advanced on her and squinted at her chest. “Good!” she said. “This is better! But not for today. Remove it!” Ginny sighed as she removed her bra, and to her relief it remained on the chair with her other clothes. “Now, arms!”
Why did I bring Gosse? Ginny wondered as she put her arms in the air and the first dress dropped over her head. Is all this bullying going to give him ideas?
The dress was short, but at least the top half mostly covered her, to her relief. It was red, always a dangerous colour for a ginger, but when she looked at Gosse he nodded approvingly. And the collar was high, so only her arms and legs were on display.
“It’s great,” said Ginny hurriedly. “I’ll take it.”
Florence grunted, unappeased. “For your school, perhaps,” she said. “Arms!”
Ginny sighed and raised her arms once more.
The next dress was the purple of a Freezing spell, and it was just as short as the red one. The material shone like metal, and was high at the neck, technically, but had a narrow vertical slash almost to her waist, showing a line of skin. Ginny decided she rather liked it.
Gosse raised his eyebrows and grunted.
“See?” said Florence, triumphantly. “He is stunned! But he has seen nothing yet! Arms! Quickly! Now your briefs. Take them off!”
The next dress… wasn’t a dress. It was a kind of trouser suit, yet clingy. Like a Barbegazi suit, she decided, except that - like the purple dress - it was slit, but the slit down the front was even longer, and to Ginny’s horror there were also slits the entire way down her sides, linking with slits down the fronts and backs of her arms. Ginny wasn’t sure how it all stayed together. She cocked a worried look at Gosse.
“It’s a good colour with your hair,” he said. It was very dark blue, or black, embossed with strange patterns. “Celtic,” he added.
“No,” said Florence, studying Ginny through squinting eyes. “Old German.”
Ginny twisted in front of the mirror. The colour changed mysteriously from black to blue and back as she did so, and symbols appeared and disappeared. Her hair seemed extra vivid against the suit, which also flattered her curves. And the slits didn’t show anything, not really…
“This one,” said Gosse.
“You will need boots,” pronounced Florence.
“Really?” said Ginny, mildly disappointed. She’d been hoping to use the glass heels she’d brought, and give herself some height. But the pair of boots that clattered onto the floor in front of her had heels, and even her toes were built up. They were black or darkest blue like the dress, and ankle boots, so they didn’t eclipse the slits in trouser legs. She stepped into them, and saw in the mirror that they thinned and lengthened her legs gratifyingly. She didn’t even have to bend down, as they zipped themselves up. They were strangely comfortable, and she could clop noisily around the room, studying herself from all angles. The fabric clung to her, making her feel strangely naked.
“Just don’t tap your feet,” said Gosse in her ear. His hands were on her now. She turned to look at him, their faces level now, because of the heels on the boots. She was mesmerisingly close to him, and kissing him.
“So,” said Florence, behind her. “Shall I wrap your other clothes?” she asked. “Then he can take you home before the concert.”
They were embarrassingly late for the start of the concert, and hurried into the hall with everyone else’s eyes on them. She had to squeeze along a row past numerous legs, including Fleur’s and Bill’s, and Mr Delacour’s. Delacour seemed delighted to see her, and she was equally pleased, but her mother’s hand was reaching across several seats to pull them into their places. Fortunately her mother was on the far side of Mr Weasley, so Ginny could sit next to him and ignore Mrs Weasley’s hissed remarks about how late and noisy they both were as the lights went down.
Ginny craned round to look at the audience; There must have been over a hundred there, which had to be gratifying to Gabrielle.
Here was Gabrielle, stalking onto the stage in a long wine-coloured dress, and everyone was applauding. Her accompanist sat down and started playing, almost immediately. A cheerful, march-like song, easy to listen to. Gabrielle’s singing voice was nothing like her speaking voice: It was rich, high and velvety, and rang throughout the hall.
“Thank you,” said Gabrielle, when the song had finished and the audience had applauded. “That was a heroine encouraging her lover to bravery. So a classic operatic heroine, but not the kind of heroine I wish to be tonight. I prefer a heroine who acts, who gets her hands dirty. Like this one…”
The next song was darker, intense, impassioned. She felt Gosse’s hand steal into hers. The next song - an anti-heroine, according to Gabrielle – was slow and menacing, yet satisfying.
When the next piece ended, Ginny realised with annoyance that her father was snoring. She shoved him, irritably, and he snorted, even more embarrassingly, and sagged against her until she fended him off.
The next song was passionate, arousing. The room went dark around Ginny, as she was taken back to the hours that afternoon she’d spent with Gosse. Would this music arouse him as much as her new clothes had?
She was prodding her dozing father ever more angrily as each song ended. Some songs were strange, almost unpleasantly atonal. Gabrielle mentioned an entire nunnery being decapitated, but Ginny couldn’t work out whether the song that followed was a heroine’s or an antiheroine’s.
“You have listened for a long time now,” Gabrielle was saying, “And I thank you for it. But before you can stretch and talk, let me give you one more famous antiheroine. Mozart’s Queen of the Night…”
The pianist launched into a storming introduction, but Gabrielle had no problem competing with him, in volume and intensity.
And rage. Unconsciously or not she stepped forward as she sang, her angry gaze on each eye in turn. Then Gabrielle was turning away abruptly, theatrically, as the pianist thundered on. But now she was sweeping back towards her audience, her hand like a claw reaching out to them, and she was singing once more. Incredible, Ginny thought in blank amazement. A startling range, soaring and plunging scales, totally controlled. Arpeggios at the very top of her range, surely. But such intensity, such fury. Such anger.
It was an effort to release Gosse’s hand when the piece ended, so she could applaud with the others. She stood, ignoring her parents, feeling a strange desire to be moving. She pushed Gosse ahead of her, out past all the legs, out of the hall and into the entrance hall, which was thronging with people. There was no sign of Gabrielle, or the Delacours, but Gosse was holding her back, and she realised he was talking to someone, somebody she didn’t know, and restlessly she excused herself and headed for the doors to outside.
There was fresh snow on the ground now, and the air was freezing, if briefly clear of snow, but she welcomed it after the closeness of the hall. There were plenty of others from the concert hall outside as well, standing in loudly chatting groups, and she wandered between them, unsure of her needs here. Company? Solitude? She was conscious of lines of cold down her skin, where the slits exposed her. Her boots left strange hoof prints in the snow.
A strangely familiar face; Shock haired, thick-lipped, not hugely tall, but well-muscled. Her over-tuned emotions took her back, powerfully, to Hogwarts, so many years now, to the Yuletide ball, and the Triwizard Cup. Only she’d been younger then…
Of course! Viktor Krum! The Romanian Quidditch Seeker. What was he doing here, in Paris?
His face unlocked a secret from her past, one she hadn’t told anyone. Particularly not Harry, and definitely not Hermione.
She’d encountered Viktor outside the castle, a week or more before the Yule ball, on a dark freezing evening like this one. She’d been needing air, like tonight. Harry had been even further away just then. He could only scowl at her, from afar.
The Viktor then had seemed annoyed, fidgety. “Lost something?” she’d asked, lightly. I’m not like the others, she’d told herself. I’m not interested in world-famous Quidditch Players. Not when there’s an authentic world-famous hero only yards away. Even if he only looks at me.
The Triwizard Krum had looked up at her in surprise, but then his eyes were on her, on her hair, her figure, and she’d felt a powerful streak of vanity.
“The redhead,” he’d said, surprising her. There were several other redheaded girls at Hogwarts, although none with her vivid intensity of colour.
“Do you like redheads, then?” she’d asked, approaching him, so she was looking up at him. Somehow it was easy to flirt with him, when she was still a tongue-tied fool with Harry. Good features, she’d thought, studying them closely now. Strong and sensuous. Do I mean sensuous? Something had stirred within her.
He’d reached out a hand to finger the hair falling past her face, and boldly she’d let him do it. Why not? she’d asked herself. I can look after myself.
“Sometimes,” Viktor had said.
“How about now?” she’d asked, provocatively.
She was outside the concert hall once more; In amazement, she approached him, slowly. He turned his head, and he was looking at her in surprise. His eyes were taking in all of her, like he had then.
Surely Viktor must have aged more than this. He looked identical to the way he’d been, years ago.
“Viktor?” she asked, still not sure.
His mouth quirked. “Do you want an autograph?” he asked. His voice was different. Higher, surely. But the accent was unmistakable.
“No…” she managed.
“I am not Viktor,” he said with a shake of his head, but his mouth was twitching, and he was still looking at her. “I’m his brother. But everyone says I look like him.”
“You do,” she said, mesmerised. “So what’s your name?” The Queen of the Night’s arpeggios were ringing inside her head.
“Sandrin,” he said. “Like, Alexander.” He had stepped away from the others in his party, his gaze fixed on her. Like Viktor’s. “So another conqueror,” he added. “Another victor.” Or did he say Viktor? “But I’m not a world famous Quidditch player. Not yet. Does that disappoint you?”
“Not really,” said Ginny, unthinkingly.
She remembered kissing Viktor then, her hands on him, his arms crushing her, their mouths hungry on each other. This is so easy, she’d told herself. Why not with Harry?
Viktor’s hands had been on her, questing, on her rump, sliding down to her thighs, seeking her bare flesh where her jumper met her jeans. Her own fingers digging into the satisfying muscles on his back.
Eventually she’d pushed Viktor away, dragged his fingers from her. “Not here,” she’d said.
“Where, then?” he’d said.
“Not anywhere,” she’d answered. “Not where my boyfriend might see us.”
He’d looked annoyed, but had released her.
“Ahh!” she’d cooed, with mock sympathy. “What’s the point of being a famous international Quidditch Player, if all the good-looking girls are taken?” She’d grinned crookedly up at him. “Good night, Viktor.” She’d turned away, teasingly.
“So who is this boyfriend?” he’d called after her, irritated. “Perhaps I fight him.”
She’d turned, briefly, amused. “You already are fighting him,” she’d said.
He’d frowned once more. “Diggory?” he’d asked.
“No,” she’d answered. “Better than him.”
She was back in Paris now, outside the concert hall, talking to Sandrin, not Viktor, her head whirling.
“So why are you here?” she asked. “In Paris, I mean?”
Sandrin gestured towards the hall. “She is a friend,” he said. “A long time now.”
“Gabrielle, you mean?” Ginny asked in surprise. “How did you meet her?”
“Viktor introduced us,” said Sandrin.
“So are you…?” Tactless question, Ginny.
He shook his head, his thick lips twisted in amusement. He gestured at himself with both hands. “I’m available,” he said.
“I’m not,” Ginny said rapidly, feeling her face heat. “Gosse is, er…” She gestured nervously towards the entrance to the hall.
To her partial relief, he didn’t seem annoyed. “Well,” he said, his eyes studying her, taking in the slits in her dress. “When his time is over, come and see me at Durmstrang.”
“You’re at Durmstrang?” she asked. Is he a teacher too? He nodded. “I’m at Beauxbatons,” she said.
“What year?” he asked.
That annoyed her. “I teach there,” she said. Somehow she couldn’t confess to being a headmistress, not after flirting with him.
He looked horrified. “Excuse me,” he said. “You look so young,” he added.
She shook her head. “I should be flattered,” she said. “And I’ve only been teaching a year.” Close enough to the truth, she told herself.
But Sandrin’s air had stiffened. “So… What do you teach?” he asked. She realised with a guilty twinge that he must be a pupil still, so younger than her. He looked so mature. Like Viktor…
“Humanities,” she said. He looked blank. “English, history,” she said. “Things like that. Music and Art.” How do I tell him I prefer the flirting?
He nodded politely, then frowned. “Art?” he asked, squinting at her. He was staring at her hair now.
“I’ve got to go,” Ginny said hurriedly. “Nice to meet you. Sandrin…” She backed away from him, then turned and made for the doors. Others were heading the same way, and it seemed the concert was restarting. Good, Ginny told herself in relief, as she breathed in the heated air of the building. Before I make even more of a fool of myself.
She found herself more distracted in the second half. She could still enjoy the music, but her thoughts were drifting continually from Gosse to Viktor to Sandrin, and she only clapped mechanically to applaud each piece. Afterwards, she could remember that the last piece was about a girl who made cigarettes, but whether she was heroine or antiheroine Ginny couldn’t be sure.
Eventually the applause died down, and Gabrielle stepped forward. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much. I would like to sing one more song for you. I imagine it will be unknown to many of you, and I dedicate it to my English relatives, who are here today, and especially to my sister Fleur, who feels so strongly about this piece.”
Ginny craned around in puzzlement to look at Fleur, who looked confused, and then suspicious. The pianist began to play something soupily romantic, and then Gabrielle sang:
“Oh, come and stir my cauldron,
And if you do it right…”
“What?” said Fleur, loudly. “Gabrielle, I’m going to kill you for this!” Fortunately, perhaps, she spoke in French.
“I’ll boil you up some hot strong love…”
“Arthur!” said Mrs Weasley, excitedly and just as loudly. “It’s Celestina Warbeck! Oh, isn’t that lovely!” She nudged Mr Weasley hard in the ribs. He awoke suddenly. “Mmh?” he said, nearly as loudly. “What was that? Has it finished?” His wife was joining in with the singing.
“Mum!” Ginny hissed as loudly as she dared, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. And then Gosse was elbowing her, annoyingly, and shushing her in turn.
“I’m leaving,” announced Fleur, and stood abruptly, but Bill was hauling her quickly down into her seat again, so she resembled a jack-in-a-box.
“Don’t elbow me, Gosse!” Ginny snarled in a whisper. “I was just trying to shut this lot…”
“Shh!” Gosse said, more loudly, infuriatingly.
“It’s going to be a warm, warm night tonight!” finished Gabrielle, to Ginny’s infinite relief. She clapped as loudly as she could, in an attempt to cover the endless recriminations around her.
Gabrielle bowed, bowed again, left the stage, returned, accepted a bouquet of flowers from a young boy, and then left the stage. The applause petered out, to be replaced by animated conversation throughout the auditorium.
“Wasn’t that wonderful!” Mrs Weasley was saying, her face glowing with pleasure, while her husband blinked and looked blearily around the room. Fleur and Bill were having a – fortunately near-silent – argument. “It was great, Mum,” Ginny could say with perfect honesty, in rare agreement with her mother. “Did you enjoy it, Gosse?”
“Very much,” said Gosse, politely. “We must congratulate…”
A loud scream filled the auditorium. The hum of the roomful of people disappeared into silence. They could hear a woman crying out. Ginny couldn’t understand the words. She could see her now, in the middle of the room, being comforted by a man of a similar age. They were in their thirties, she judged. The man had broad, square features, where the woman was slender and very pale, and crying. He was having to support her. The noise in the room was gaining once more, as several others converged on the pair, and Ginny could see a group of them arguing. She recognised one of them: Sandrin Krum. Nosily she crossed to talk in his ear.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Do you know what’s happening?” Sandrin merely shook his head, intent on the words of the others.
She felt a hand on her arm. “We need to go,” said Bill. “Before Drommy sends a search party.” Fleur was on his arm, looking white.
“Are you OK?” Ginny asked her, concerned.
Fleur nodded. “We can’t stay,” she said. “But tell us what’s happening! Send us a Patronus!”
It was a measure of Fleur’s agitation that the thought of a rhinoceros coming to call was less worrying than not hearing the news that was breaking around her.
Sandrin was turning towards Ginny. “The Giants,” he said. “They’re attacking Durmstrang.”
“Durmstrang? So what are you going to do?” Ginny asked.
“Defend it,” said Sandrin, with a shrug.
“Against Giants? You’re mad!”
“You should just leave,” said Gosse, over her shoulder. “They’re just buildings.”
“We can’t…”
Several of the group of men and women were in tears, but others were angry and strident.
“What are they saying?” Ginny asked Sandrin, touching his arm.
Despite this being in a public place, in sight of Muggles, Ginny watched a pair of figures twist and disappear with a crack. Another pair were about to twist, but a tall, bulky man grabbed the arm of the other man, who was smaller, and he was arguing, trying to get his arm free.
The smaller man was shouting now, and the woman with him was screaming at the larger man, but he wouldn’t let go. To Ginny’s shock, the woman pulled out her wand and Stunned the large man. He fell like a tree, and the smaller man was looking at this in horror. She took his arm, and they disappeared with a crack.
Sandrin was still next to Ginny. He looked stunned and uncertain. “I need to go,” he said, but as he started to twist, Ginny reached out and took hold of his arm.