Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

Chapter 19: Second Thoughts

SEVERUS SNAPE NARROWED HIS EYES at the clock over the door.

She's late. He twisted his lips and alternately stirred the A, B, C and control samples of the Verivue Elixir. You need four hands for this, not two, he thought bitterly. What kind of potions research assistant doesn't understand the value of timing in preparation? Not for the first time, he wondered what on earth had possessed the Headmaster to impose that woman's assistance on him at the most crucial moment of his research. For a wizard known for the depth of his wisdom, Albus certainly had a knack for impetuous, ill-considered judgements.

Well, he did decide to trust you... shot back the niggling voice in his head. If that voice hadn't been his own, Severus wouldn't have hesitated to stalk it down and silence it with a well-placed hex. Instead, he grimaced into the cauldron flames.

Well, it wasn't as if Bethany White didn't know what she was doing. Prior to their first collaborative meeting, Severus had suspected that Fudge may have exaggerated her skills at potions and that, at best, the Dark Arts instructor would be a meddling know-it-all like that Granger girl, or, at worst, as hapless as--he shuddered to think the name--Longbottom.

Happily, she turned out to be neither. And whilst her demeanour occasionally suggested that she would have wished to have been elsewhere, her comments and her assistance had been highly professional and almost second-nature, as one might expect from someone who had supposedly grown up around a laboratory. When she wasn't asking him an endless series of theoretical questions, to which he barked short laconic responses, a profound silence would settle in on the Potions lab as she became absorbed in his Verivue formulae and notations. On occasion, he had observed her repeating them to herself. As if she were a student trying to commit it all to memory for her O.W.L.s. As if life depended on it.

And if it were up to me, it would! he thought, suddenly rediscovering his annoyance. At least the Headmaster had given him his assurance that Professor White's supervision of those ridiculous dance lessons had been a one-off. If Severus hadn't been as versed as he was in the Eight Cures for Apoplexy, he might have died of a fit that afternoon in the Great Hall. Even now his mind's eye persisted in irritating him with images of her hips swaying with Lupin's, a thought which, inexplicably, caused him a great deal of unease. If she was to help him, there would be no more time for such foolishness! Time was not a luxury they could enjoy. The temporary detainment of the prisoners from the raid made it all the more imperative that the Verivue Elixir be complete. He supposed the Aurors ought to have been thankful that he'd been able to provide them with as much Veritaserum as he could spare as an alternative measure. But still... If that woman doesn't make herself useful in the next few minutes, the results of the week's undertaking will be worthless. Smacking down his dragonhide gloves on the corner of the table, he stalked down the dark stone corridor to Professor White's study.

The dungeon draught behind him nudged Bethany's door ajar by an inch and Severus had just lifted his fist to knock when, echoing faintly through the narrow fissure, came the rattle of voices, excited and hushed. In rapid, agitated French.

Severus tilted his head toward the door and frowned. His conversational French had long since atrophied, from the moment in his fifth year when he'd discovered that the student exchange placement with Beauxbatons had been offered to that undeserving feckless prankster Black. Severus grimaced. Still, he recognised enough to decipher most of the present conversation.

"... don't know what you think you're playing at," hissed the Dark Arts instructor, her usual even-tempered voice dripping with sarcasm. "Unavailable, indeed."

"Well, I was," drawled the cool voice from the fire. "Surely you knew that at the time it would have been impossible for me to--"

"Yes! Which is precisely why you changed the schedule, and you know it." Through the opening, Severus could see Bethany pace back and forth in front of the fireplace like an angry lioness. She raised a warning finger at the hearth. "Don't give me that look. I know it's not her, and it won't work. I've had enough!" She stopped and faced the fire, her hands anchored on her hips in a challenge. Bethany's voice was low and startlingly menacing. "You will tell me exactly what is going on, or I'll tell them what I know."

Severus, whose eye was pressed to the sliver in the doorframe, could have sworn that the piercing gentian stare of Clarimonde van der Witte flickered toward the door for a second, but he was distracted by a cold breeze in the corridor. Glancing in alarm over his shoulder in both directions, he saw no one. As his shoulders relaxed, he turned his eye back to the firelit sitting room where the Muggle Studies instructor's wide eyes fluttered tearfully, and his gaze rested on the dainty hand she brought demurely against the choker on her long neck.

"I... I... don't know what you're suggesting," sputtered Clarimonde in shaky English. "But I can assure you," she said primly, "that I had nothing to do with that poor boy's--"

"THE HELL YOU DIDN'T!" cried Bethany.

Professor van der Witte gasped. "I... I know... what you're trying to do," she whispered, pointing a long accusing finger at Bethany. "You were gone all night before the Mulroney boy disappeared." At the Dark Arts professor's stricken expression, she pressed on, her voice flaring fractiously and quivering all the more in her excitement. "I saw you. I saw you that night, running into the Dark Forest--with a dagger in your hand!"

At this, Bethany's eyes narrowed suspiciously and her lips flattened into a wry little line. "Of course you'd know, because you--"

"I saw everything from my tower!" cried Clarimonde, stray blonde curls springing from her chignon.

Bethany's eyelids fluttered in astonishment. And then, next moment, Snape realised that he had never seen such fire flash in the pools of her eyes.

"What!" She swung round to the hearth in her fury. "What are you saying?"

Against the door, Severus strained forward carefully to catch the rest of the conversa--

"Professor Snape?"

Aaaahh!

Whirling round in surprise, he was suddenly grateful for the dimness of the torch lights to hide any colour that could be flooding his cheeks as he peered down into the reproving glare of Hermione Granger. Her dark eyes moved between himself and the open door, behind which the muffled conversation had suddenly ceased. Severus could see the wheels spinning beneath Granger's bushy crown, and as her eyebrows rose to upbraid him, he had no choice but to act quickly.

"Five points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger," he spat in as steely a tone as he could muster. Although he thought he heard his own voice crack weakly, Severus was relieved to discover that his trademark sneer was still fully functional.

"For what?" The Gryffindor's cheeks flushed indignantly.

"For turning in this week's essay late!" he growled, congratulating himself on his quick thinking at the sight of the parchment roll in her hand.

But the little upstart pulled back her sleeve to inspect her watch in the weak light and dropped her hands in a huff. "You said seven o'clock, sir," she said evenly. "It's only six fifty-three."

Severus snapped his own pocket watch open and closed, perhaps even too quickly for himself to discern the time. Nevertheless, he narrowed his eyes into thin dark slits and affected his most venomous tone. "It is of no concern to me if your watch is slow, Miss Granger. I said five points," he said, plucking the essay from her hand. "Have a care you don't make me decide to increase that number."

Severus drew himself up to his full height and peered imperiously at the girl through lowered lids. Her indignation was self-evident in the twist of her mouth, but he watched with satisfaction as she swiftly turned and stalked away up the dungeon steps.

From behind blew a gust of air as the door swung open, and Bethany, looking rather piqued, nearly collided with him in the corridor.

"Severus," she said shortly, narrowing her eyes. She pulled the door tight with a sharp click. "How long have you been standing there?"

"I..." He felt his throat go dry, until he remembered why he had come to find her in the first place. "You're late!" he barked. "If you had given a moment's thought to our task this evening, you'd have realised that if those cauldrons are not stirred simultaneously, the timed experiment will have been useless!"

The dark, unfocussed slate of her eyes, which plainly betrayed her thoughts elsewhere, suddenly snapped to attention at his accusatory tone. Although she was half a head shorter than he, she held her chin high.

"If you had given it a moment's thought, professor," she spat (sounding not unlike himself, Severus noted), "you'd have realised that a simple Synchronised Stirring Charm would have done the trick."

Severus gaped in astonishment as she stalked off toward the Potions Laboratory without so much as a backward glance. His mind wrestled with the implications of the conversation he'd just overheard... Van der Witte had seen Bethany White leave the castle and run to the Forest. With a dagger. On the night Mulroney went missing... At the dinner, Voldemort had announced the presence of his spy at the school. Perhaps he hadn't been referring to Severus after all. Could he have meant Professor White? Could Bethany be responsible for what happened to the Mulroney boy?

He frowned. The mild-mannered Miss White didn't seem capable of it. But then, she hadn't been acting like herself a moment ago either.

Ever since his controversial appointment as Potions Master, Snape had become accustomed to--and even grown to expect--the contempt and the derision of his colleagues. He knew that, customarily, this was done in his absence, and very rarely to his face. But this was the first time that he had experienced such cheek from a colleague who, until now, he had felt certain that he had successfully intimidated.

Severus twisted his lips into a scowl. Well. He'd have to rectify that immediately.

**********

In his fifteen years, Harry had already racked up a lion's share of regrets. He regretted not being able to know his parents, not getting acquainted with them firsthand but, rather, through photographs and the tinted rememberings of their school chums. Not that he wasn't grateful for what he did have. But, still. Sometimes, he regretted having self-righteously prevented Sirius and Remus from doing away with that traitor Peter Pettigrew when he had the chance the other year in the Shrieking Shack. And if Harry could revise a single moment in time, it was that ill-fated synapsical misfire that prompted him to invite Cedric to take the Triwizard Cup with him--a casual suggestion in a moment of pride that led to Cedric's untimely death.

So, at fifteen, he didn't think it could be said that he had amassed regrets of little things--childish things, like not being able to play video games, or have ice-cream-and-pizza parties, or stamp all over Aunt Petunia's tomato patch and blame it on a scrawny, unwanted cousin... Nevertheless, as he huddled in the anonymity of the back booth of the Three Broomsticks, sipped his butterbeer and pretended not to notice a distinctive red ponytail bobbing in animated conversation with Eamon Mulroney, Harry felt a sharp pang of regret at not being quick enough to have asked Ginny Weasley to dance.

His eyes cut guiltily to the bar as if his train of thought might be visible to the crowded pub. The brisk, seasonal grey of the weather outside contrasted with the effervescent interior of the little alehouse as it teemed with thirsty, pink-cheeked upperclassmen towing frothy pints of butterbeer. The Hogwarts upperclassmen had turned out in full force for the first Hogsmeade weekend to make the most of the last days of mild autumn weather. Having descended upon the sleepy wizard town, these day-trippers must have looked like a swarm of rampaging barbarian invaders and--judging from the looks Fred, George and Lee Jordan in particular were getting from the pub regulars carting their drinks through the side door into the peaceful beer garden--they had made a similar impression. Ron and Hermione still hadn't returned from the throng of students calling out orders at the bar. Harry could barely see the barmaid Madam Rosmerta's curly up-do above all the raised hands as the students jockeyed into position to get the next round.

Harry sighed patiently and slid further into his own thoughts about What Might Have Been. What might have happened other day if he had had the presence of mind to follow his instinct when Professor White had announced, "All right, everyone! Pair up!"...

PAIR UP?

Harry's eyes had widened. He had never heard two words more terrifying when strung together. Well. Except perhaps Avada Kedavra, and then only marginally so. He glanced quickly round the crowded Great Hall like a man overboard scrambling for a life raft. That meant that he'd have to find someone to dance with, but... who could he possibly--ah! Hermione!

But before Harry could open his mouth, she had already taken Ron's outstretched arm. Hermione slipped her hand in his casually, despite the heightened colour of her cheeks. Over her shoulder, Ron gave Harry an apologetic shrug and blushed. What could he do? Harry sighed and waved them off. He tilted his friend a concessionary nod and took another look round.

The gramophone started the song again and the Great Hall swayed into movement. Harry was mildly disappointed to see Cho being led away by Will Turner, the tall, dark-haired Ravenclaw Chaser. But then, a few feet away, Harry spotted a familiar swish of red curls toward the edge of the Gryffindor crowd. He slid forward sideways, navigating through the crush of couples, past Seamus and Lavender, and Dean and Susan Bones, to where Ginny stood with her back to him by the stage. Harry took a deep breath and reached forward tentatively to tap her on the shoulder and... what happened next he now recalled with the vividness of a memory that pinched like the sting of a wasp.

Too late. Ginny was already blushing at the sight of an outstretched arm connected to the broad shoulders of Eamon Mulroney. Harry was very much afraid that he was starting to hate this guy.

"May I?" murmured the Hufflepuff.

Mulroney flashed an easy, lopsided grin and bowed with a dramatic flourish that Harry at once detested and envied. In the back of his mind, Harry knew it was extremely ungenerous of him, and yet, in that instant he jettisoned every last shred of sympathy he had felt for the boy since his near-death incident in the Forest. As Ginny took Eamon's arm, her eyes lighted on Harry in surprise.

"Oh! Hi... Harry," she said. Harry's stomach had taken a brief leap at her quick smile, but it soon vanished and she cast down her eyes with... what was that? Regret? No, no, no. Of course not. More likely, just wishful thinking on his part, Harry supposed.

"Hi." The weak reply that tumbled from his own throat sounded choked and lame as he cast about in vain for a reason to be lurking casually behind Ginny Weasley. Failing to come up with anything intelligent, he settled for standing there and feeling like a right stupid plonker.

"Oh, hey, Potter." Mulroney gave him a friendly nod, and a jaunty lock of sandy hair flopped rakishly over one eye as he led Ginny away.

Disappointment settled in Harry's stomach like a stone, and he struggled with a most unsportsmanlike urge to kick Mulroney in the shins.

Harry released another sigh and glanced gloomily at the couples turning and twirling round him. It felt like a horrible throwback to the game of Musical Chairs they had played at his old kindergarten comprehensive. If memory served correctly, he had almost always lost at that game, too. But, he was older now. Things were supposed to be different. Weren't they? Yet, blinking dumbly at Mulroney's hand on the small of Ginny's back, Harry marvelled at the cosmic injustice of it all. That the youngest-Seeker-in-a-century's legendary reflexes could fail the moment he set his sights on a girl. Particularly particularly on one particular girl, he caught himself thinking.

Harry frowned and was just beginning to wonder how all this strangeness could have come over him without his noticing, when, suddenly, a hand seized his. Swinging round, he came face to face with... Eveline.

The French girl flipped her golden layers across her shoulder and smiled alluringly.

"'Allo, Harry." She raised a silken brow. "Shall we try?" She gave him a coy little nod and her brown eyes glinted flecks of gold and turquoise, almost catlike, from beneath long lashes.

Harry let out a breath. "Erm... sure. Yeah."

Then his stomach promptly dropped as he quickly calculated the odds that he would tread on her toes. But his chest flooded with relief and a silly grin plastered itself onto this face. Eveline clasped a determined hand over his and secured his other at her waist. At least one of them seemed to know what they were doing. Harry smiled wanly, only vaguely aware that the French girl had remarkably strong fingers for one so waif-like.

"You dance very well," said Eveline. Harry blinked and wondered briefly if she had been talking to him, as he was sure that he'd already scuffed her shoes twice. Perhaps she hadn't noticed. From the way she beamed up at him, Eveline seemed completely oblivious to his abysmal coordination on the dance floor--unlike Parvati, he recalled, who had persistently steered him round the floor at the Yule Ball as if he had been some wayward mule. So, really, Harry ought to have been enjoying himself.

Unfortunately, there was something wrong with his eye. It kept drifting to where Ginny Weasley's laughter pealed lightly over the music as she spun elegantly in Eamon's arms...

Just the way she laughed now, by the entrance of The Three Broomsticks, with a few other Gryffindor girls as Mulroney traced a few energetic gestures in the air and whispered something in her ear.

Harry set his butterbeer on the table. Has she always looked like that? he wondered.

"Looked like what?" asked Ron, glancing quizzically round the pub. "Who?" He slid into the booth and made extra room for Hermione.

Startled, Harry's eyes darted toward Ron in alarm. He could feel his cheeks growing hot.

"Er... Rosmerta," Harry fibbed. "She... erm... her hair looks a little... uh..."

"Red... in this light?" finished Hermione. Harry narrowed his eyes at her but couldn't decide if she was being serious or cheeky. "Must be the Halloween lights they still haven't taken down," she added, gazing innocently into her glass.

Harry made a noncommittal sort of grunt and turned away. Though his eyes roamed back to the crowd, he willed himself to ignore the huddle of Hufflepuffs and the giggling group of Gryffindor girls. Ron nudged Harry and cocked his eyebrows at Fred, George and Lee, who were perched over the far table, trying to persuade Terry Boot to sample a gumdrop. Harry and Ron winced sympathetically as Terry's cheeks swelled and stretched into twin bongo drums that the twins and even Mandy Brocklehurst took turns tapping. Luckily for Terry, the effect lasted only as long as it took for him to spit the candy out toward the door. The gummy projectile bounced off the door jamb, startling a pale-looking Neville as he stepped in from the sunlight.

"Oy, Neville!" Harry waved at the boy who paused reluctantly for a moment before approaching them. Neville had woken the Gryffindor boys earlier that morning, shouting in his sleep. Unintelligible gibberish for the most part, but unsettling and frightful nonetheless. Harry's heart went out to the boy, whose nightmares seemed to have taken a toll on the his energy level. To look at Neville, Harry was reminded of the face that stared back at him from the mirror after one of his nightmares about Lord Voldemort. Pale and shaky. Neville definitely looked like he could use a butterbeer. Possibly something stronger. But, close to, Harry wasn't sure if he'd be able to stomach so much as a wee Gillywater.

"Hey, want a drink?" asked Ron.

"Thanks," said Neville, glancing edgily at the bar. "I'll get it."

"You didn't walk down with the rest of us?" asked Hermione, quietly slurping the froth from the top of her tumbler. She peered at him more closely. "Are you all right?"

Neville coloured and he lowered his eyes sheepishly. "Er... yeah, I just had to feed my Manticore first."

Oh. Well, that explains the shakiness, thought Harry. And then, Oh no--!

"I've got to go back," said Harry, scrambling off his bench.

"Wha--?" Ron set down his mug with a thud. "We just got here."

"I know," said Harry apologetically. He raked his hand frustratedly through his dark fringe. "I forgot to feed Babette again. It's my turn this afternoon." He took one last swig of his butterbeer and shrugged on his heavy cloak. "Look, I'll come and find you when I'm done." And with that, he swept from the pub and onto the cobbled high street.

As he trudged up the sloping path away from the village shops, the merry sounds of laughter and excited chatter faded into a stillness that made Harry dread having to climb down into that dark pit. By the time he approached the school, the wind had picked up and the dark, sinewy shadows of the trees of the Forest shivered against the rolling sunlit lawn where the hulking figure of Fang the Boarhound trundled up the steps into Hagrid's hut. The gamekeeper himself emerged and settled comfortably on the stone slabs of his porch to shave down a few twigs.

"Hullo, Hagrid!"

"Harry!" The gamekeeper waved the brawny hand wielding his hunting knife. "Come teh pay us a visit, 'ave yeh?"

"Sure!" Harry grinned, swinging his head round as he headed for the cavern entrance. "I'll just go and do the feeding. Back in a mo!"

Hagrid cupped his hands round his mouth and called out cheerfully, "It's their nap time, doncha know. Best be quiet about it, or they can get a bit pesky, the little devils. Must've given yer friend Neville a right scare just now." Hagrid winked and Harry forced a smile at the gamekeeper's parental sigh. He had no desire to find out what Hagrid's definition of "pesky" was.

At the far end of Hagrid's pumpkin patch, the slab of earth and woven tree root that served as both marker and handle for the cavern door had been propped ajar, and Harry gingerly climbed backwards down the flimsy rope ladder, taking care to keep his grip on its fraying edges.

Jumping from the last rung onto the gravelly cavern floor, the first thing he noticed was the chill there in the dark, a stark contrast to the bright shaft of sunlight streaming down the ladder. In the air hung a faint odour of sulphur and a light smoky haze, as if the torches had just recently been extinguished. The little hairs on Harry's neck stood straight at the ominous clink of shackles and the rustling of heavy paws curiously crunching his way. Despite the protective bars on the cages, the Boy Who Lived began to worry about whether he'd soon be known as the Boy Who Was Shredded Alive. Eager to be done with his task, Harry quickly groped round, guided by a now-familiar stench. He held his sleeve over his nose and peered down into the large wooden vat where a giant shovel protruded from an unappetizing salad of mandrake leaves and dragon pellets. Ugh.

Filling the closest bucket, Harry tiptoed round the cages, glancing at the nameplates as he passed. Charlotte... Gracie... Euclid... Theodore... Harry paused in mid-step and stifled a laugh. There was even a Vernon, issuing guttural wheezes and drooling a little puddle onto the floor. All but one or two of the beasts were asleep, and those that weren't bobbed their heads sleepily and closed their eyes again. This was odd. Normally, the sight of a student coming to feed them would be almost enough to send every last one into a ravenous frenzy. On the other hand, he didn't doubt that, after weeks and weeks of dragon droppings on the menu, they'd finally lose a little interest.

Partway down the aisle, his own Manticore Babette was snoring vociferously. Judging from the way its eyes rolled back and forth and occasionally slid slightly open, it wouldn't be long before it woke. Hastily emptying the foul-smelling gruel onto a tray at the edge of the bars, Harry jumped at a noise by the far cavern wall. Quick, light footsteps.

Turning quickly to squint into the darkness, he thought he detected movement--a flash of white blond disappearing behind the jagged rocks in the shadows. Malfoy? Suddenly, the voices of his godfather and Remus Lupin assailed his ears. A Hogwarts student was among them... Draco Malfoy... Voldemort's made no secret of targeting you, Harry. You're going to have to be on your guard.

Despite the chill, his fingers began to perspire and his heart pounded heavily in his chest. Resting the bucket on the ground, Harry drew his wand cautiously and crept down the aisle.

But there was nothing. Just an old iron gate that looked as if it might have rusted in place centuries ago. He couldn't quite tell, but behind the grate appeared to be just another sealed-off passage, perhaps leading to another one of Hagrid's caverns. Harry glanced round at the surrounding cages. No one. Nothing but a couple of somnolent Manticores pawing at the gravel floor in their sleep. Harry lowered his wand and released a long breath. It must have been his imagination. Yes, that's it. Hogwarts was so full of surprises, you came to expect them everywhere, including where they weren't.

With a much lighter step, Harry started towards the entrance, just passing the Manticores assigned to Ginny and another to Eveline and Neville, when his eye caught a bright little flash from something glinting in the dirt by his toe. Reaching down with his fingers, he raised the sharp-ridged object against the weak light. A shiny iron key with a curvaceous handle. Harry frowned and turned back to the rusty gate. I wonder if--

But then there came the soft whistling. Everywhere. No words--just a whistled series of agitated notes that he didn't recognise. The cavern echo multiplied the single voice into an invisible mob and the angry notes poured from the rocks like venomous whispers.

A faint scratching and a low growl issued, first from one, and then from several of the cages behind him as the Manticores awoke. Harry froze, then made a slow half-turn. Over his shoulder, in the shadows, he gaped in horror at the sea of red-yellow eyes and rows of fierce gnashing teeth. It's fine. It's fine, he repeated to himself. They're caged. It's fine.

And it was. Until amongst the growling and the rattling of bars, came the creak of a few hinges and the sudden pounding of clawed hooves and heavy, spike tails whipping through the stale cavern air on the path behind him. Holy Circe, they're free! Harry went white as a long stinger narrowed missed spearing his left ear.

But he hadn't been made Gryffindor Seeker for nothing. With a speed typically reserved for the Quidditch pitch, Harry scrambled up the rope ladder and flung himself through the trapdoor, still gripping the key.

**********

"Padfoot," said Remus, rifling through the mound of paper on the desk in his makeshift data room, "have you seen the briefing Moody sent about those prisoners?"

Remus glanced over his shoulder to the other corner of the living area of his family's old thatched cottage. He wondered if his parents might be turning over in their graves to see their prize collection of rare books in a heap on the floor beneath the vacated shelves, now stacked with rows of Nogtail hide lever arch files containing everything on the Order's hunt for Voldemort.

"Padfoot?"

Silence.

By the window, his dark expression hidden in shadow, sat Sirius Black. Although his eyes never left the Transylvanian topographical survey, he coldly extended a long arm to indicate a stack of correspondence on the mantel.

For Merlin's sake, Remus thought exasperatedly, how much longer can this cold shoulder act last? For the past week, Sirius had done nothing but successfully skirt most of Remus's attempts at conversation, usually by escaping into the garden to chop more firewood or knock about the cottage's aging rock garden to shape the heather beds, primroses and clumps of winter jasmine.

Remus pushed up from the creaky wooden chair and stepped to the hearth, glancing back at his friend's surly expression. The only sound in the tiny room was the creaking of the boughs of the great oak in the front garden and the whirring of the late autumn wind through the Lupins' little Shropshire glade. He unearthed the missing file and swung round to stare at his friend. Remus released a conciliatory sigh.

"Oh, come on, Sirius," he cajoled. "You're not still on about that, are you?"

Sirius's bright blue glare darted reproachfully toward Remus from the corner of his eyes before quickly returning to the sheaf of notes he'd been making since the beginning of the afternoon.

"Don't know what you're talking about," he said stiffly, marking a trail of green ink along a ridge of the Eastern Carpathians. In that little growl, Remus detected the sting of betrayal.

Oh, boy.

Remus drooped his shoulders and plunked into the closest armchair. He leaned forward, still clutching the file, and rested his elbows on his knees. What had be been thinking, anyway, flirting with that woman? It had seemed like a bright idea at the time. Only, he thought he'd seen a spark of something in Sirius's eyes when they'd spoken about Bethany, something that Remus thought he could help his friend find again. He'd thought Sirius might just need a nudge. Well, maybe I was wrong.

"I meant the whole, er... dancing thing," said Remus weakly.

Sirius gave a forced, hollow laugh. "I told you already. I don't care." He shrugged emphatically. "She can dance with Snape for all I care. You can dance with her, too, if it comes to it. Kiss her hand, see if I care. It's a free country, isn't it? For the moment, anyway..." Sirius's voice carried the flatness of one who didn't quite believe the truth of his own assertions. He narrowed his eyes at Remus accusingly. "Though I don't know how you would characterise your own behaviour out there, given that you're already spoken for... You are, aren't you?" Sirius swivelled round on his seat to fix him with an intense stare.

Remus crooked an enigmatic brow that seemed to further exasperate his friend and his lips were experiencing a distressing tendency to curl up at the corners. Maybe I wasn't wrong, after all.

Sirius shrugged. "Well. Anyway, that's nothing to do with me, now, is it?" he finished irritably. Sirius turned his frown back to the ordnance survey. "Like I said, it's all in the past, all right? It doesn't matter to me. Not one bit."

Noting the indignant set of his friend's jaw, Remus decided to take his chance.

He released a deep sigh in a melodramatic rush. "Oh, Padfoot, I'm so glad to hear you say that, mate," Remus said quickly. "Then I guess you won't mind if I invite Bethany here some evening... to, er, help with my sword research?" He pressed on, pretending to be oblivious to the way Sirius's head snapped up in surprise. "Oh, I know, I know what you're thinking. The research is just my cover. But for the sake of appearances, it would lend some wonderful credibility, wouldn't it, for me to get to know a fellow academic's work intimately? Bethany's an expert on the subject. Perhaps if she came over for dinner some evening--that is, of course, if Snape can spare her. Albus says that she and Severus have been keeping the dungeon fires burning quite late..." An oblique glance at Sirius rewarded him with a view of his friend's troubled expression. "... So, I was thinking, one evening when you're away--on reconnaissance, perhaps, so we don't... erm, disturb you..."

He snuck another quick glance at the window and--

"Hey! Where are you going?" called Remus.

But Sirius did not reply. His determined stride had already taken him halfway out the front door, shrugging on the bespoke wool travel cloak he reserved for trips to the school. The oak frame shook with the force of the slam.

Remus couldn't resist a little smirk.

Good.

Adjusting the cushion on the back of his armchair, Remus waved his wand to light the reading lamp and settled back to thumb through Moody's findings.

**********

"Hermione, scoot over a little, would you?"

Hermione shifted to the right on the couch as Ron climbed over their discarded rucksacks, mimicking his mother and balancing a tray of tea and orange shortbread biscuits he'd nicked from the buffet table in the corner. He waved a dismissive hand at Hermione's Malkin's bag on the coffee table and set down the tray.

Their eyes still smart from the brilliant sunset outside, but earlier as Hermione and Ron stumbled through the portrait hole, it was clear that they had stepped into the middle of an impromptu feast. Red and gold streamers flew overhead in the common room, threading through floating candles being lit by Nearly-Headless Nick, the resident Gryffindor Ghost. The tea tables along the far wall buckled under the weight of punch bowls and pastry plates. Someone had even cleverly charmed a Gryffindor teapot to supply butterbeer on tap. In accordance with their own version of tradition, Fred and George had pilfered enough sweets and snacks from the kitchens for the whole House and a hastily-drawn marquee draped above the fireplace proclaimed the evening as a Belated Halloween Bash to honour the Gryffindor transfer students. None of whom happened to be around at the moment, but the twins weren't about to let themselves be put off by a little hitch like that.

"Do Fred and George have permission to do this?" Hermione asked Ron. "Because, you know, as a prefect I'm supposed to ensure that all House events have the requisite approval from the--oh!"

Ron bowed and presented her with a china cup--light tea, with two lumps on the side and just a drop of milk. Precisely how she liked it. "Thank you." She grinned at Ron, thinking it suited him, that bashful little quirk he did with corner of his mouth. What was I saying? Goodness, she'd already forgotten.

By the time she remembered, Ron had downed his tea and inhaled two biscuits. Glancing round, she found him perched in a quiet corner by the fire, where he was... Good Lord, was he really arm-wrestling Neville? Her mouth dropped open in reluctant fascination. Ron was at least a whole head taller than the boy and when they leaned across the coffee table, Neville came to about eye-level with the knot of Ron's tie. The idea of Neville arm-wrestling was absurd enough on its own, though not nearly as odd as the fact that Neville was winning.

After a few seconds, Ron's face flushed a bright crimson. One or two veins protruded prominently on his neck as his arm finally collapsed under Neville's grip. Neville smiled and shrugged meekly, moving across the room to join a boisterous game of Exploding Snap already in progress between Dean and Seamus.

As Ron met her eye, his face cracked into a sheepish lopsided smile. "I, um... I meant to do that," he gasped, gripping his shoulder gingerly, "--was being, erm... generous. You know, for the sake of his--ouch!--his... ego."

"Mmm," muttered Hermione. "Very big of you."

Ron grinned, raising his chin magnanimously. "'Tis, isn't it?"

Hermione crooked a wry brow over her teacup, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. Ron's face flooded with relief as Harry walked in through the portrait hole. His unruly black hair stood up in windblown sections and he looked flushed.

"Harry, where have you been?" gasped Ron. "You missed the Gobstopper Giveaway at Honeyduke's," he said, holding up bulging bags of candy. A hearty rattle sounded as he shook them.

He then picked up a plate of peppery biscuits from the tea table, tipping it at Harry. "Fred's Freckle Florentines. Guaranteed to connect the dots on your face. Any takers? No? How about you, Hermione?"

She shook her head and waved away the plate of glowing biscuits.

"Where have you been, Harry?" she said. "We waited as long as we could at The Three Broomsticks but--"

Harry slid into the armchair opposite and in a low voice recounted a horrific tale about his Manticore feeding mishap. His voice dropped to below a whisper as he described a glimpse of white blond hair in the shadows and the voice that unlocked the cage doors.

"Poor Hagrid's having a real time of it now," said Harry. "I think he's having to resort to pulling out the old pink umbrella."

"Oh, dear." Hermione's eyes darkened. "Do you think it was Malfoy?"

"The bloody coward!" cried Ron. "Those beasts could've killed you!"

"But why would he do that?" Hermione looked at Harry incredulously with round horrified eyes. "And why now?" She furrowed her brow. "You didn't provoke him or anything, did you?"

Harry shook his head and scratched at his fringe. "I didn't even know anyone was there. I mean... I'm not even really sure it was him, but... whoever it was might have left this," continued Harry, holding out a largish wrought-iron key in the shape of a serpent's tail. "It could have fallen out of his pocket."

"Guess it's not Hagrid's?" asked Ron.

"Nope." Harry shook his head. "Said he'd never seen it before."

"May I?" Hermione took the key from Harry's outstretched hand, examining the flat of the tail. At the extreme edge, she noted what looked at first like a scratch. "Mmm. What's this?"

"What's what?" Harry repeated, squinting through his spectacles.

"Here, let me try something." She pulled out her wand and glanced quickly round the room. The other Gryffindors were too busy milling about the buffet and butterbeer tables to take any notice. She only hoped that the charm she'd read about the other day in O.W.L. prep might work. Pointing her wand at her eyes, she whispered, "Magnificus."

Unfortunately, this first attempt at the Vision Magnifying Spell, turned out to be so visually disorienting that Hermione's head flew back, knocking against the high back of the armchair. She blinked wildly at the explosion of shape and colour and struggled to adjust.

To her left she spied a dancing yellow glare, which she was cognitively aware of as the fireplace. Turning her head tentatively to her right, dark colours ran together until she came across a sight that nearly made her scream. A colossal Black Hole surrounded by a thick outer circle of bright blue spotted with large paddles of green and brown. A thick canopy of curved red-orange tentacles flew up and down over the circle like an oversized oriental fan. What in Merlin's name is that? And where am I? Her fingers dug deep into the soft arm of the couch. And, oddly, in the distance, she could still hear Fred and George telling bawdy jokes to Angelina and a few giggling sixth years. Her panic lasted only a few terrifying seconds before she realised that she had been looking at Ron's eye.

"Hermione?" whispered Ron's fretful voice from off to the right. "Hermione? Are you all right?" She felt the stroke of strong reassuring fingers on her right arm.

"I... yes, I'm fine," she said carefully. "Hang on. Just... give me a second." She felt round blindly for Ron's hand on her arm. She needed an anchor to help her concentrate on not looking down at her palm too fast. Dizzyingly, colours and blurry shapes flooded before her as she tilted her head down, adjusting in fractions, left and right, until her eyes finally found what they were looking for. On a wide pinkish plain with four or five dried river beds (which she recognised as her palm), she found the tip of the key, a jagged edged plateau of otherwise depressingly steely terrain. Across the top ridge of the plateau, she spied the scratch they had identified earlier. But it was no scratch. It was a glyph of a tree stump, shaped like a capital "T" with one arm sawn off. She blinked at the almost anticlimactic discovery.

"Reducio," she muttered, discreetly flicking her wand towards her eyes. Fortunately, she had had the presence of mind to take special care not to say "Reducto." She shuddered to think of what the consequences of that kind of linguistic mistake might have been.

"It's a glyph of a gibbet," she said finally.

"A gibbet?" echoed Harry.

Ron crooked a ginger brow. "Chicken guts?"

Her exasperated sigh was back. "I said gibbet," she said, rolling her eyes. "Not giblet."

Ron chuckled. Hermione's breathing came easier now that she could see all of Ron and Harry and the rest of the common room. "It's a kind of wooden stump Muggles used at one time to hang men by their necks. Hanging," she explained to Ron, "was an old form of Muggle execution."

Ron grimaced. "Whatever you do," he groaned, "don't mention it to my dad. He might want to collect them, too." Hermione shared a grin with Harry. Arthur Weasley's interest in Muggle artefacts was more than just professional. The previous summer at the Burrow, he'd proudly displayed his extensive collections of "Eckeltrick" plugs and batteries--to which this year he'd added a stockpile of discontinued mobile "Fellytones."

Harry frowned at the key. "'Wonder what it opens." He turned to Ron. "Didn't you tell us Neville had seen Snape give Malfoy a key at the beginning of term?"

Ron nodded. "Yeah. Right after he stiffed us with having to find our own dragon droppings samples."

"Then maybe this opens the Potions cupboard."

Ron's face fell. "Well, we'll never find out now. Remember making the Polyjuice Potion second year? Bet you three rounds at the Broomsticks that Snape's set a whole slew of wards and Hinkypunk Harpoons on those doors since he noticed his Boomerang Thing was missing--"

"Boomslang Skin," corrected Hermione, stifling a giggle.

"Well, don't worry," Harry said as he pocketed the key. "I'll find out if it works."

Ron raised his eyebrows. "How?"

"I don't know." Hermione frowned. "It might not be worth it. If Snape caught you, Harry, you'll be lucky if detention's all you get."

Harry shook his head. "Soon enough Snape's bound to give me a detention for--I don't know--breathing wrong, maybe? It's just a matter of time. Then I'll get to it easily enough because I have detention." He shrugged, adding resignedly, "I can risk it. Anyway, it's not like anything interesting's bound to happen while I'm scrubbing cauldrons on a school night."

**********

"Damn!"

A portly potions manual slipped from Bethany's grasp, hitting the floor with a loud, echoing thud. It was immediately followed by a second... and a third. In this way, one quarter of her load ended up strewn round the long corridor between the Library and the western passage. Heaving a sigh, she stooped furiously to pick the books up, roundly cursing the Evil Vicar for making a servant of her. She hadn't been sure what to expect when she had made her agreement with Dumbledore to assist Snape, but it certainly wasn't this. Relegated to "errand girl" by a self-important saturnine sadist, when all she'd done was point out that if the Demiguise hairs had come in different lots, that would skew the results. You'd think the man had never been wrong before!

Thankfully there wasn't a soul to hear her frustrated epithets, as the students' curfew had begun hours before. In the staff room, Sybil Trelawney had predicted that all four Houses had planned a Welcome Feast of some kind for the transfer students. Her lips curved into a wry smile. Whether or not Trelawney's premonition had been "inspired" by the band of student smugglers they had both witnessed sneaking large bundles from the kitchens, Bethany felt certain that no student would be inclined to defy curfew tonight.

Hogwarts was so peaceful, empty like this, she thought, casting her eyes round the silent hall. Which was probably why she had found herself warming up even to the normally-deserted dungeon--despite having to share it with an insufferable grouch, who, rather than being grateful for her assistance, preferred bluster and invective, launching into an ungrateful barrage of criticism the moment she set foot in the lab. ("Look what you've done! Even the thickest of my second years can distinguish between coagulated Calligulan extract and Dionysian Opiate!"--Snape sniffed derisively--"Dumbledore had vouched for your competence with potions, Professor White, but I daresay he was surely misinformed...blah-dy-blah-dy-blah.") She felt the bile rising in her at the memory of some of the sniping comments Snape had made since the first day they'd begun their joint research sessions.

Yet, the more she thought about it, the more he reminded her of her own parents' housekeeper, a stout, bossy old woman presiding possessively over her kitchen domain. Snape would be appalled to hear that analogy, she thought with a little chuckle.

Forget Snape. It doesn't matter what he thinks of you, anyway, chastened Tom's sibilant voice in her head. Once you've got all the information the Dark Lord needs, we'll be rid of him for good.

Bethany's smile vanished and she straightened unsteadily, holding onto a nearby window bench for support.

Mechanically, she reached out a weak hand to gather the remaining books, Moste Potente Potions, Exotic Elixirs of the Middle East, and Potions for Pinheads--back in the Library, she had tossed that last one into the pile. Just to see if he'd notice.

And this is precisely what bothered her. What had she been thinking, giving up a prominent position at the International Wizards Intelligence Council, agreeing to enlist as a Death Eater Novice, promising to assassinate one of the Dark Lord's enemies? Who was she kidding? She couldn't pop off Snape--just like that. Certainly not any more than she could resist jousting him with her own subtle insults. Not that I like him at all, for heaven's sake! She wrinkled her nose at the thought. But, while she didn't exactly hate him, there was something rather satisfying about ribbing the stiff-collared, sour-faced Evil Vicar. Bethany chuckled again and was just thinking of possible ways to propose out-snarking Snape as a possible Wizards Olympic sport when a cold wind sliced through the trophy room and toppled the perfect pile of books she'd left on the bench.

Bethany stared vexed at the cracked spines of the open volumes face down on the rug, pages half-torn, flapping ignominiously in the brisk breeze. A telltale cackle echoed boisterously in the hall, and Bethany whirled round to find the squat ghostly figure of a man with wicked, dark eyes, disproportionately long arms and curly-toed feet, sitting cross-legged in mid-air.

Peeves!

"Professor White, likes a good fright," he sang, "dashes in and out of the Forest at night; what she does, no one knows--'cept when a student gets fifty blows--"

Bethany gasped. Why that little--

She knew better than to heed the insinuation, but before she could stop herself, she'd pulled out her wand and pointed it at the poltergeist. At the bright blue flash, Peeves turned to flee, but the sting of the spell caught the seat of his baggy breeches and he scampered off through the closest wall, mewling and clutching his smoking bottom.

Alone again, Bethany sighed, sinking back on the bench. She should have known much better than to hurl a harmless ghost a potent duelling hex. That was an Academy basic. Keep a level head. Never lose your cool.

Oh, dear. Well, she had neither. That much was clear. Wasn't that, after all, why she'd earned her stripes in the head office and not on the field? But for all she knew, Peeves might not have been far from wrong. Damn it. She rubbed her temple with her palm. If only she knew what happened in the Forest that night...

Somewhere ahead along the west passage, a door slammed, stirring Bethany from her reflections. She shook her head, as if that might refocus her thoughts. Bending to pick up one last book in the shadow of a trophy display, she heard muffled sobs and light, hurried footsteps stopping abruptly ahead. Leaving the books for a moment, she straightened and moved toward the stairwell. In the torchlight, a pale figure paused for breath beside a collection of stone urns. Bethany recognised the trembling figure of a fifth-year Gryffindor.

"Mr Longbottom?" Startled, Neville turned to her with wide eyes and nodded weakly. "You should be in your dormitory," chastised Bethany. "Go on. I won't take any points if you--"

Bethany stopped. The boy was white as chalk and his slackened eyes were red and rimmed with dark circles. Neville's knees buckled and Bethany reached out to grip the boy by the shoulders, as it seemed as if he might collapse without the support.

Bethany spoke almost to herself. "You need to see Madam Pomfrey."

"No!" With what must have been every last ounce of strength, Neville's eyes snapped to attention. He shrugged his robes out of Bethany's grasp and resumed a calmer tone. "No... thank you, Professor. There's no need. I'm fine," he mumbled, "just tired... going back to my room."

"You should know that students are forbidden to roam the corridors at this hour." Bethany frowned, eyeing Longbottom with concern. It wasn't that the boy looked so terribly ill. He was clearly frightened as well, shaking like a sheet in the wind. "Where have you been?"

"I...uh, the kitchens," he stammered. "I... missed dinner because I fell asleep in the Library again and I just needed something to drink..."

Bethany eyed him sceptically. She couldn't be certain if he was telling the truth or not, but before she could decide the best course of action, Longbottom had already taken flight, calling over his shoulder down the corridor, "I'm fine now, Professor. Thank you. Please don't worry about me..."

She shook her head and sighed. She really would need to develop quicker reflexes to deal with students.

Bethany peered wearily down the corridor through which the Gryffindor had disappeared, then turned back to the weighty stack of books. Tutting irritably to herself, she realised that she had been going about the books all wrong. She waved her wand.

"Ineluctabilus."

With some satisfaction, she watched the books float above the floor and made sure they followed behind at a respectable distance. But she didn't get far.

After only a few steps, she looked down and noticed the staggered trail of dark dots on the light stone floor.

Drops that looked like blood.

As she bent to finger the patches of dark crimson, the rustle of rich fabric caught her attention. Her eyes darted quickly to the shadowy recess at the stairwell where the hall met the western passage. She glimpsed the side of a white face and the swish of blonde hair vanishing down the stairs, leaving in its wake an eerie far-off laughter, light as a bell and cold as the grave.

It was a scene she had rehearsed in her mind a thousand times since that night in the Forest, and now her body sprang into action. Letting the books drop to the floor, she lunged forward and tore down the stairwell with her skirts flying. As she reached the bottom newel and the gaping door through the side of the castle's outer wall, Bethany raised her wand with an urgent whisper.

"Accio Crossbow!"

By the time her sprint had taken her across the moonlit lawns to the edge of the Forest, she could hear it whizzing behind her. At the closest oak tree, she swung round and held out a hand, feeling the satisfying slap! of the metal shank of the bow in her palm, followed by a quiver full of arrows. Still, though she may have been armed, as Bethany entered the icy chill of the wood, even the feel of her trusty dagger against her thigh offered little reassurance.

But she was determined to finish what she started.

The twigs underfoot dug sharply into the soles of her shoes while low-hanging branches reached out to tear at her face and arms. Keeping her eye trained ahead, she tracked the quick, birdlike movements of the figure in white as it led her deeper and deeper into the wood. With each step, Bethany feared she would lose her way, but she congratulated herself for thinking ahead this time as she paused occasionally to burn a silvery disc into the trunks of prominent trees as markers.

At last, the white-robed figure slowed and came to a standstill in the very glade that Bethany had used for the Pogrebin lesson weeks before. Waiting by the crooked stone slab was a dark-robed man in a silver mask. And he wasn't alone. From her vantage pint through a thick web of tangled boughs, Bethany watched as a shorter, plumper figure emerged from the shadows, similarly garbed but wielding a silver hand. She couldn't think why exactly, but his stoop reminded her of someone... but who? On the first man's order, the smaller man raised his silver hand and produced a roll of parchment bearing a black seal. With an obsequious little bow, he stepped forward to hand it to the figure in white.

Bethany strained forward from her hiding place to see better when the branch she had been clinging to collapsed. A loud rustle and a snap! rang through the trees and the two wizards retreated into the darkness. But the ghastly figure in white turned its head in her direction. Bethany gasped and struggled to her feet, unable to tear her eyes from what she saw. She had been half-expecting Claire's ghost. But what came flying at her through the glade was something more horrific than she could have imagined. A hoary-headed demon with pale skin stretched tight across skeletal features and dark, sunken eyes, flashing red--red as those lips that bared sharp yellowed teeth. Lips that curled to release a sharp, serpentine hiss. An echo of hell.

Bethany stumbled backwards against a tree trunk, then turned to run. The footpads in her wake were gaining closer by the second. Still running, she had just managed to click an arrow into place along the shaft of the rusty crossbow when her foot snagged on an outstretched root and she tumbled headlong into a thicket of briar and vines that may as well have been a trawler's net. Struggling was futile. The more frantically she fought, the tighter the grip on her arms and legs became. As the chilling scrape of the beast's footsteps drew nearer, she trembled. The crossbow dangled from a branch, just a whisper from her right hand. All she needed was to grab the handle. She leaned to the side to reach it. And again. Just...one more...stretch--

Got it!

The footsteps had now reached the first row of bushes. They slowed down to a creeping pace and paused eerily, like the split second of silence before the panther strikes. Oh, God, any second now...Bethany tilted the crossbow, using a branch for leverage. She positioned her finger on the trigger. Any second... Three... two--

Suddenly, there was a loud thud! of a body crumpling to the ground, and the air splintered into a maelstrom of feral growls and yelps and hissing. Bethany's breathing nearly stopped altogether as the bushes shook violently. What the hell is that?! But in the shadows, nothing emerged from the thick veil of leaves and branches.

Then, abruptly, the leaves stilled and the growls and hisses evaporated into an eerie calm. Bethany waited with wide eyes, but there was no sound. No movement.

At last, she gingerly pried herself from the briar and glanced in all directions. She was alone.

Willing herself to breathe steadily, she concentrated on retracing her path by tracking the silver markers she'd burned at the bases of the trees. The moonlight-dappled lawns of the castle had just loomed into view when she froze at the sound of a movement from behind. She was being followed.

Yes. She was. There were footsteps, edging closer, crackling against dried leaves and twigs on the path. She waited. Gripping her crossbow and slowly raising it to her shoulder, she stood still, with her finger on the trigger. All right, this time. Any second now. Three... two... one--

In one fluid motion, Bethany took aim into the pitch black shadow and fired. Pfffuit! The arrow shot forward and a a moment later she heard the thud! of a heavy body landing against in the undergrowth. Then she did what she knew any sensible wizarding intelligence agent would have done.

She turned and ran.

Ran faster than she ever thought possible. Ran through the still-open door on the western side and through the series of darkened corridors, not once pausing for breath until she fell through her own chamber door and bolted the groaning lock behind her. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. She dropped onto the divan, clutching the crossbow to her chest, and glancing blearily around her quarters. Who knew that a dungeon could offer such solace? she thought irrelevantly.

If Bethany had been a drinking woman, she'd probably have needed at least two fingers of Firewhisky. Actually, I could use one, she thought, glancing in disappointment at the remains of her tea on the desk. Exercising command of her shaky limbs, she settled instead for boiling some fresh water in the fire and steeping in a few dried verbena leaves to soothe her nerves. Not that her nerves had often needed soothing. But she thought a near-death experience at the hands or claws--or teeth--of a demon of darkness qualified for a soothing cup of her father's verveine.

Bethany had only just managed to pry herself once more from the couch when a startling pounding and scraping came from the door broke the silence of her chamber.

Scratch! Scratch! Scratch!

"Peeves!" she warned, stepping forward to snap the lid on her crossbow and shove it back into its cupboard, "as Merlin is my witness, I'll turn you to stone and have the Bloody Baron smash your sorry arse to bits, if you don't leave me alone!"

But the scraping persisted, now and then punctuated by a high, persistent whimpering. Bethany, however, was not in the mood for that poltergeist's games. More so tonight than any other. She lowered the teapot and stomped to the door, flinging it open with an angry tug.

But it wasn't Peeves at all. At the threshold, on its hind legs stood a large bear-sized black dog. Remus Lupin's dog.

She moved to dodge it as it fell, but not soon enough. Pinned beneath its weight, she struggled to breathe under its sodden mane. She coughed against the tufts of hair in her mouth. Bethany wrenched her hand free and made a grab for her wand. But after a panicked moment, she realised that it wasn't trying to attack her. It wasn't doing much of anything at all, in fact, except breathing heavily and--she quickly extracted the hand trapped between them--and... oh, gods, bleeding all over her. Pulling her head back slightly, she could just see jutting from its heaving flank, the outline of... an arrow.

She closed her eyes.

Oh, no.