Dumbledore’s friends were the most excellent hosts she ever had the pleasure to board with. They were three brothers who had learned as much English as possible to accommodate her and when they didn’t know a word they would act it out like charades which provided an endless source of entertainment for all of them.
The eldest was called Pierre, a rotund gentleman with great red cheeks and a seemingly endless supply of wine with which he quenched Gwen’s thirst regularly. She didn’t know it yet, but the Frenchman within her was slowly waking up to the joys of living rich. Soon she would be overtaken by the desire to drink barrels of wine and eat giant mounds of cheese. She was going to have to get this under control before she returned to teach.
The next was Jerome, the smallest of all three, who kindly offered to be her tour guide about the countryside he knew. He knew the most English out of the three and spent the most time just chatting to Gwen about their pasts. He was sweet and mild compared to his other two brothers, and hardly seemed related to them.
The last was Phillipe and he was definitely the wildest of the bunch. He drank Pierre under the table and both of them would be up late at night, playing cards and smoking more cigarettes than Gwen thought possible. Smoking seemed to be a very popular thing to do in France, but Gwen wasn’t about to take up another bad habit.
After a few days of cajoling about with the brothers three (which ironically was their last name: Trois) she finally decided it was time to deliver her letter to Madame Maxime. Dumbledore hadn’t been very specific with his directions, but Gwen thought that it was merely because he was far too pre-occupied with other business about the Order. He handed her the letter with strict instructions to give it only into the Madame’s hands.
After hours of searching Gwen finally found Beauxbatons. It was one of those unplottable places and could not be positioned on a map. This made her job particularly difficult, considering she had no concept of the French language. She couldn’t ask for directions even if she had found a non-muggle type. Fortunately she had a knack for stumbling on things when she least expected. She figured it was just another facet of faerie luck, threw up her hands and laughed.
She entered the gates to see a lovely castle, pale blue in color with airy windows everywhere. She approached the main door and after checking in with a guard entered a great marbled entranceway. Pillars ran from the floor to the ceiling, carved masterfully from the exquisite stone. Cherubs perched on top of the pillars gazed down at her and she could have sworn that they started to whisper excitedly when she turned her head from them.
The room was devoid of living creatures as she noticed two over-dressed ghosts floating past her, speaking in the smooth cadence of the foreign language she could not understand. She smiled as they passed, hoping one of them would stop and point her in the right direction, but they didn’t even perceive her. Ironic, she thought, that the dead could ignore the living just as much as the reverse.
A large hand landed on her shoulder and reminded her strongly of the time she and Harry had been caught sneaking back into the common room by Professor McGonagall. Of course the memory carried with it a sinking, guilty feeling and it read loudly on her face when she turned to see the giant who had nabbed her.
"What iz your name?" Madame Maxime said in her elegant accent. She was towering above Gwen in a deep blue, satin gown. Her body was well proportioned for its size, but what size. She stood as tall as Hagrid and with her eyebrow arched at a quizzical angle seemed almost deadly. Gwen didn’t want to admit it, but for a moment she thought she might understand all the prejudice that came with being a giant.
"What iz your name?" The half-giantess repeated.
"Which one?" Gwen snorted, forgetting her manners. "I have quite a few."
"Why iz zat?"
"It's a defense mechanism, keeps people guessing." And it tended to be common in folks with fey blood. Even the Stag King had a multitude of names. Maybe it was a decoy to keep people from guessing their real name, which for reasons undisclosed to her held a strange power over the fey. Whomsoever had control of her fey name had control of her. “Guenivere.” She said, trying to shake the thoughts from her head. “Most people call me Gwen.”
“Guenivere iz a lovely name.”
“Thank you Madame.” She said courteously. She might as well try to be more formal and make a good show of it.
“Dumblydor ‘as sent you?”
“Oui.” She said, practicing the only French word she knew besides bibliotheque. Although she suspected that word would be useless to her in this context.
“Tu parle Francais?”
“No.” She said with an embarrassed smile. “But you obviously have a fantastic grasp of English.”
Madame Maxime positively beamed. Gwen made a mental note that flattery would get you everywhere with the French. They continued to make small conversation for over two hours, standing casually in the gorgeous hallway. Finally Gwen delivered her letter from Dumbledore and with much ado said adieu.
She smiled. Hagrid and Maxime, she thought, would make a great couple.