Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

Chapter 20: Under Your Nose

BETHANY PEERED NERVOUSLY ALONG THE DOG'S MUZZLE, noting the rows of sharp teeth. But his eyes, blue and piercing, turned to her pleadingly. Snuffles gave her chin an affectionate lick before his lids began to droop and his head lolled--but whether in the languor of exhaustion or death, she couldn't say. Come to think of it, there wasn't much that she could say, considering that nearly all the air was being squeezed from her chest. If Lupin's dog was anything, it was heavy.

"Wingar--wingardium... Leviosa," she choked.

Welcome oxygen rushed to her lungs as the spell freed her ribs from the animal's weight. The body hovered tentatively, still dripping blood, a few inches above her.

Shifting her hips awkwardly against the slate floor, Bethany slid out from underneath it and managed a shaky effort to stand. She leaned against the door, snapping the lock into place, and gripped the handle at her back for support. Only after several deep breaths could she summon the energy to raise her wand arm. Her voice croaked sadly in the little stone sitting room.

"Mobilicanis."

But the dog did not move. She repeated the spell, and still... nothing.

How odd. Bethany blinked. She knitted her brows. All right, then, let's try... Her middle finger tapped against her temple.

"Mobilicorpus."

The dog's body suddenly shifted and hovered haltingly in anticipation of her next command. As it paused in mid-air, she managed to stop the bleeding with a quick Staunching Spell and conjured wads of sterile gauze. But the effect would be only temporary. She needed to set him down--and fast.

Bethany surveyed the piles of books and scrolls she had strewn on the divan moments before in order to oil her crossbow. The dog's eyes followed hers, rolling wearily towards the opposite corner of the room. The surface of the carved oak desk was clearly too small. Snuffles whimpered softly.

"I know," she sighed. "Not comfortable at all, is it? Well... don't worry." She stroked behind his ears with a trembling hand. "Oh, dear, this is my fault." Both she and the dog winced as her fingers peeled back a portion of the padding to make a tentative inspection of the bloody gash. She fought the sting of tears. Great Merlin, this was my doing! Guiltily, Bethany gave his ears a reassuring scratch and met his weak-lidded stare. "But I'm going to do everything I can to sort you out," she said in as soothing a tone as she could manage. "I promise."

The animal's blue eyes blinked attentively and his ears perked up as she spoke. Not for the first time, Bethany had the uncanny impression that Snuffles knew exactly what she meant. And there was something else, too, she thought, as she held his gaze. Something... something about the eyes...

Then he coughed. Another whimper issued meekly from his throat, and under her hand she felt each breath more ragged than the last.

Oh, Merlin, please let me not have hit anything vital...

She bit her lip. There was no time to lose.

"It's going to be fine," Bethany said, more to herself than Snuffles. "Everything's going to be just fine."

She strode through the threshold into the next room. There was no other option. Bethany gently redirected the dog's injured form to the side of the four-poster bed and threw back the covers. She didn't think that a wounded dog would be impressed by the faculty's crest-embroidered cashmere bedding, but she couldn't imagine a creature more deserving of any small comfort she could offer. Let the house-elves bring up more linen.

The blood had dried and hardened in places, sticking uncomfortably to the strands of the dog's jet-black coat. Bethany gingerly peeled the dressing from the left flank, taking special care not to pull away from the skin and matted fur too quickly. But cautious as she was, it must have hurt Snuffles; she saw his eyes squint painfully and he drew a sharp whimpering breath. Otherwise, the dog was silent as she cleansed the wound with a cloth soaked in diluted Antiseptic Serum. He blinked up at her with a trusting, poignant gaze.

Bethany managed a wan smile for Snuffles and rubbed behind his ears. "All right, let's see if we can't get this arrowhead out."

Without the camouflage of clotted blood, she was relieved to see that, while the arrow had left a long gash, it had pierced the dog's flank only superficially, cutting through just a bit of muscle tissue--painful, no doubt. But at least she had determined that no vital organs had been damaged or major arteries severed. Bethany released a deep sigh of relief. For this injury, she had all the equipment she needed in her old IWIC Portable MediKit. Her only problem now would be breaking the news to poor Remus. She straightened her back resolutely, determined to see the bright side. At least she wouldn't need to consult anyone else, like Hagrid, Madam Pomfrey, or even Snape. And she'd have plenty of time to think of what to say to Remus later.

For the moment, Bethany bit her lip in concentration and set about disinfecting the instruments with the Antiseptic Serum. She willed herself not to think about how she had loathed the mandatory Emergency MediTraining at the Council. I can do this. Sure, I can. It's been years since I fainted in that dissection lecture, she told herself. Yet, even now, the sight of bleeding flesh made her stomach roil. But she had to manage somehow.

Bethany met the dog's unquestioning gaze with one of her own that she hoped offered some reassurance.

"Oh, dear," she muttered, gasping perhaps even more nervously than her patient. "Trust me not to remember any Pain-Deadening Charms..." Was it her, or did the dog just wince? "Well..." she said, glancing uncertainly at the door. "I suppose I could ask Snape if he stocks Anaesthetic Elixirs--" There was no question about it this time. Snuffles winced, staring at her with round, fearful eyes. From the gash beneath her fingers the blood was once more beginning to pour fast and free. Oh, no, no, no. Not now. "Right, well, there's no time for that. I'll have to make this as quick as I can," she decided aloud, "and then you can rest. I promise... okay?"

If the situation hadn't been so serious, the dog's relieved blink in response would have been vastly amusing, or at the very least, charmingly precocious. But now she couldn't afford to indulge in trifles. Bethany gently dislodged the embedded iron tip with a pair of forceps and took firm hold of the arrow where its wooden shaft protruded from his flank. You are one lucky dog, she thought wryly. If the arrowhead had lodged further forward, it might well have punctured a lung.

"This... will probably hurt," she said, squinting one eye commiseratingly, "but that can't be helped. I could pry it out the long, painful way, or the short sharp way." She tilted her head and met the dog's blue eyes with her own. "Which would you prefer?"

Snuffles's eyes widened. "Right." Bethany nodded. "I thought so, too." She took a deep breath. "Here goes--"

Giving the arrow a mighty tug, she pulled the blade free and swiftly replaced it with a surgical clamp to stem the bleeding. Snuffles yelped and bucked against the covers. His teeth tore at the sheets, but he soon settled down, his chest moving stably under the antiseptic compress she held against the wound. Bethany set the shining red tip of the arrowhead aside by the blood-soaked dressing on the nightstand, and on impulse, brushed her lips against the dog's forehead, right between his half-closed eyes.

Suddenly, from behind, came a sharp meow. Over her shoulder she spotted Lilith perched at the threshold of the bedchamber. The little white kitten arched her back, flexing her tiny tail menacingly. Toeing gingerly toward the bed, Lilith stopped to eye the whimpering dog and issued an angry hiss.

"Lilith!" Bethany snapped. "Go. Away."

Still groggy, dog opened his eyes and stared weakly at the kitten. Lilith bared her teeth and made a noise that, had she been bigger, might have been a trembling roar.

"Go!" Bethany picked up a rag and flung it at the cat, who turned at once for the door. With her back raised, Lilith paused at the threshold for one final contemptuous glare before darting through the next room and, from the sound of all the clattering that ensued, along the desk and out the half-open window.

Bethany rolled her eyes. Cats.

"You were wonderfully brave," Bethany whispered to Snuffles, resting her cheek against his matted fur. "Perfect. You're going to be fine." She drew back and caressed its ear.

Bethany secured fresh gauze to the wound with bandaging around the dog's torso. Snuffles licked her hand gratefully and lapped from the bowl of water she had conjured. She smiled. Its gaze followed her fingers as they moved from the last bandage to her own lap. Finally, the dog's eyes rested on her face before closing in repose. When, at last, his jaws hung slightly apart and his breath blew in soft, regular puffs across the pillow, Bethany relaxed her shoulders, grateful that they had both managed to weather the worst.

As she thought back on the events of that evening, the more she was convinced that Snuffles had attacked the demon in the Forest. Then, he must have followed behind her through the wood as a silent escort. Bethany smiled to herself. A guardian angel.

Not that she had ever believed in such far-fetched faerie tales, no matter how often she had heard them during her childhood. But before her death Bethany's mother had often adamantly insisted on the existence of these souls that walked the earth; that each person, whether they knew it or not, was bound to a guardian spirit. As Bethany's fingers stroked soothingly over the dog's soft coat, her mind drifted to a long-forgotten afternoon and one of many disagreements she would have with her mother on the subject.

"What utter rubbish, Mum," Bethany scoffed, petulantly swinging her short nine-year-old legs from the stool. She already wished the spring holiday were over. Then the servants would return at last and she could go back to her fencing instead of having to poke round in the kitchen.

"Bethany." Her father crooked a warning brow from above the pile of pathology reports he'd been reviewing for the French Ministry.

Benedicte de Gonneville paused from rolling the paté brisée crust on the old oak table and tucked back her golden fringe with a flour-covered hand. "It's all right, Graeme," she said. "It's natural that she should be sceptical of such things. But I think it's important for our girls to know."

Bethany pouted, fiddling restlessly with a scrap of dough, shaping it into a pudgy cherub with wings. Then she squeezed it into a ball and tossed it carelessly into the mixing bowl.

"Well, I don't believe in guardian angels," she said.

Her mother smiled, slate blue eyes creased knowingly at the corners.

"It doesn't matter, darling," she said. "Yours believes in you."

But where were the guardian angels when her mother died the following year? Or when her sister was taken? Or her father killed? Where?

Bethany wiped away a tear, forcing herself to concentrate on gathering the soiled bandages.

She jumped at a soft touch on her arm. Snuffles had reached out to rest the underside of his paw on her sleeve, as one might lay a hand on someone's arm. Comfortingly.

At least, that was how she felt. Comforted. By her guardian angel. Bethany smiled to herself.

He could almost have been human.

Human.

Bethany tilted her head thoughtfully at the creature.

Funny how she'd had to use Mobilicorpus... I thought that only affected humans. Bethany's brows furrowed momentarily, then she rolled her eyes. Well, nevermind. After nearly twenty years, how much could she be expected to remember from Madame Le Fay's seventh-year seminars, anyway? Charms had never been her strong suit.

She let out an amused little sigh and bent to retrieve the gauze and bandages that had fallen across the thick pile rug. The dog's gash may not have been deep, but it was enough to have left blood everywhere, including the floor in the sitting room and--

Bethany clapped a hand to her cheek. There was also, no doubt, a thick trail of blood from the castle wall and through the corridors... a telling trail leading straight to her chambers.

**********

"Goyle!"

Draco Malfoy leaned across the polished wooden table in the far corner of the Library and thwack! rapped Goyle's snoring head with the hard cover of his book. Squinting against the late afternoon glare and lifting his head drowsily from the pictures in his Herbology text, Crabbe guffawed aloud, earning a reproving glance from Madam Pince. Behind the reference desk, the humourless librarian tutted volubly and turned her beady bespectacled glare back to the card catalogue.

"How do you expect me to concentrate with you carrying on like that!" spat Draco. "You, too, Crabbe. If you're going to fall asleep, then take the barnyard animal sounds back to the common room where no one'll mind. Except maybe Bole..." He smirked wickedly. "In fact," added Draco, reaching out to grasp Goyle by the arm, "if that oily pompous git is there, do try and snore as loudly as possible."

He waved the pair away like bothersome gnats and smiled not-quite-beatifically at Madam Pince as he continued on to the next chapter of Death in the Afternoon. During that crucial interview with Tom, he had hastily plucked the book from the Dark Lord's library based on its title and had expected a Muggle mystery novel, like the ones the family nurse Irina had left behind at the Manor before accompanying his father on that ill-fated Nundu hunt. Instead, Draco had found a detailed treatise on the art of the Muggle sport of bullfighting. Blood, gore, death, courage, cowardice, honour and dishonour... He'd been mildly surprised to find it a highly engrossing read compared to anything on the Muggle Studies syllabus.

Muggle Studies. Draco gave an ironic snort.

What a disappointment that elective was turning out to be. He didn't care a whit about getting top marks in that class--like every other boy (and oddly, he suspected, Millicent Bulstrode), Draco had admittedly signed on because of certain... inherent attractions, as well as a few Ravenclaw rumours about racy after-school projects. So it galled him that that freckle-faced fool Weasley, who did nothing more spectacular than turn seven shades of crimson within ten feet of Clarimonde van der Witte, should be invited to take part in her extra credit, one-on-one projects. Not that Weasley had ever had the time to take part in any, as he always seemed to be called away to run last-minute errands for Dumbledore. Draco scowled. Such a teacher's pet. Professor van der Witte never so much as looked Draco's way in the classroom, but instead cloyed all over that temperamental tomatohead. Why?! There had to be something seriously amiss. It wasn't as if anyone normal could find that ferine philistine remotely interesting.

Over the top of Hemingway's explication of the two best ways to kill a bull with a sword and a muleta, Draco's eyes drifted across the stacks to a now-familiar ginger-curled ponytail and a pair of bright eyes. Even Weasley's sister's got more spirit than he does. He watched her face flush with fury as she splenetically wrestled a slim purple volume from her troublemaking twin brothers, and smirked to see her charm parchment into dart-sized paper aeroplanes, swarming them round her brothers like bees. Clearly more spirit--if not decorum.

Looking away at last, he was startled to meet the curious gaze of the Slytherin Keeper, Julian Bangert, known to some as Gengis Bole's closest friend--if Bole could be said to have friends, that is. Which Draco doubted. Still. He cleared his throat and immediately launched a studious avoidance of Bangert's quirked dirty blond brow.

Irritated for entertaining even a fleeting bout of self-consciousness, Draco dropped his eyes to the page and flipped quickly through the appendix of old Muggle photographs of bulls and matadors meeting their demise through bloody variations of the same inevitable fatality. Not surprisingly, these did little to ease his discomfort. He paged past illustrations of how best to taunt and spear a bull with multicoloured sticks; flicked through descriptions of complicated cape work; and grimaced over illustrations of matadors mercilessly gored in a charge. Ugh. Draco couldn't think of a death more barbaric. Well... actually, yes, he could. But this was bad enough. By the time he reached the photograph of the anguished, wide-eyed corpse of the matador Manuel Granero, he was ready to snap the book shut and head to the Slytherin common room for some less nauseous activity. Perhaps Crabbe would be swallowing spiders whole again today.

Hastily pocketing his quills and tucking his books under his arm, Draco kept his pace casual as he skirted Bangert's table. Bright and menacing as a carrion bird's, Bangert's eyes followed Draco, who nodded coolly in return.

"Bangert."

The Slytherin Keeper tilted his head a notch, his narrowed eyes never wavering. "Malfoy."

Passing the table of fourth-year Gryffindors, Draco cast a dramatically disdainful glance down his nose at the Weasley girl, but irritably cut his eyes away when she failed to take note of it. The pinched face of Madam Pince rose from the reference desk, looking as vituperative as Draco felt. Following her gaze, he turned back to see Ginny Weasley laughing with that pretty boy Eamon Mulroney. He frowned. What? That hypochondriac Hufflepuff? Draco was alarmed to experience a weird stab of annoyance that he couldn't readily explain.

But it all melted away as he caught sight of Potter. There, alone in the far corner. Painfully pretending not to stare at the pair of them. He looked miserable.

A malevolent little smirk wound its way along Draco's lips as he shouldered through the swinging double doors into the corridor.

Excellent.

By the time he reached the entrance to the clammy dungeon passage, he had almost successfully wrenched his mind away from matadors, bulls and blood--and anything or anyone invoking disturbing associations with the colour red--when he stopped at the sound of hushed voices echoing softly from the Potions lab.

"... I don't quite understand, Filch," drawled the silken voice of the Potions Master. "What would Professor White have been doing scrubbing the floors in the western stairwell?"

The Dark Arts witch scrubbing floors? Draco raised his eyebrows and shuffled backwards into a small alcove to listen.

"Oh, I'm sure she wouldna told me, Professor," whispered the caretaker. "Mrs Norris and I were quiet as Lethifolds, an' we gave her a good scare--not intentionally, mind yeh. Though she can be awfully skittish, that one. Leaped up quick as a flash an' tucked the rag into her robes, she did."

"Did you say anything?"

"Erm... well," said Filch, "I offered to fetch me own mop to help her, but she wouldn't hear of it... 'Said she was just about finished. Didn't seem to want me comin' any closer."

"Why? What was on that rag?" Snape prompted. "What was she hiding?"

Filch's voice was so low that if Draco hadn't been holding his breath, he might not have heard the caretaker's reply.

"Blood, sir."

"Blood?" The Potions Master's voice rose an octave.

Draco's copy of Death in the Afternoon slid from his arm and hit the floor with a resounding thud! He gasped.

The door to the Potions room flew open, and Draco quickly feigned having dropped the book in passing.

"Sir."

He nodded in polite acknowledgment at his Head of House, trying not to twitch as the Stygian gaze followed him down the corridor. Draco strolled purposefully to the bare stretch of mildewed stone that marked the entrance to the Slytherin common room. He had barely enough time to cast a cautious glance over his shoulder before the lab door behind him closed with a firm click.

**********

"Pig! No, wait!" cried Ron, throwing out his hands. "Slow down! Slow down, you're going too--"

The little owl dipped down from the small bevy of post owls, flittering shakily from the weight of a package of what appeared to be a loaf of Mrs Weasley's banana bread strung round its leg, before finally dropping it into Ron's soup bowl with a loud splash.

"--fast," finished Ron lamely.

Harry laughed at the creamy orange rivulets cutting jagged stripes down the front of his friend's robes.

"Oh, shut up, Harry." Ron's rebuke gave way to a silly grin as he mopped at the mess with a napkin.

Across the table, Hermione wrinkled her nose and turned to pluck a letter from the beak of a brown spotted Boreal owl.

"Hallo, Kolya," she said, then followed this with something odd and garbled that sounded like "Blagodarya" as she slipped a piece of her seven grain cinnamon toast into the owl's beak. Its bright yellow eyes blinked and its head dipped in a stiff, almost dignified bow--as dignified as an owl could look with a chunk of bread in its face--before soaring out through one of the hatches in the enchanted ceiling. Hermione cast a quick eye over the return address and slid the brown parchment envelope under her plate.

"What's that?" asked Ron.

"Nothing." Evasively, Hermione reached across Harry for the sugar bowl. "Just a letter."

"I can see that." Ron rolled his eyes. "Well... aren't you going to open it?"

"No." Hermione gave a nonchalant shrug, but her cheeks coloured as she shook her head. "It's nothing important."

"So, who's it from?" asked Ron, spooning a dollop of sour cream onto his carrot and coriander soup.

"No one important."

Ron's eyebrows rose. "Who?" He paused with the spoon in mid-air.

Hermione sighed heavily, occupying herself with buttering more toast and looking as if she was doing some very quick thinking.

Ron's forehead wrinkled. "Oh, come on, what's the big deal?" He leaned back on the bench and crossed his arms. "I don't see why you have to be so secretive about it," he muttered petulantly.

Hermione frowned, looking very much like she would like to say something, but not knowing what. Instead, she swiped a small chunk of bread along the ridge of her bowl. "I'm not making a big deal about anything," she said, not quite meeting his eyes. "It's nothing. I told you."

Ron snapped his fingers. "It's from that Far Eastern Magical Masters Programme you read about, isn't it?"

"No."

"Then it's about the article you submitted about S.P.E.W. to the Daily Prophet."

"No, it isn't," she said crossly, taking a sip of her pumpkin juice. "Now, that's enough."

Ron continued to stare quietly at the envelope. Four years of previous experience interpreting the gleam in Ron's eye told Harry that his friend was battling with a fiendish urge to snatch it from beneath Hermione's plate. But Ron kept admirably still and merely dipped his head provocatively. "What? Is it from... a boy?" His ginger brows bounced up and down. "Does Hermione have a secret admirer?"

Hermione flushed. "Ron!"

"Oh, come on, Hermione," he cajoled. "You know I can find out if I want to." Ron held up a limp crust of bread as a fake moustache, crooked a long brow and put on a heavy accent. "Reeziztanz ees futile. De neighbourhood ees krawling vit my spies!" He laughed. "Oh, you know I'll find out some way or another, so you might as well tell me who--"

"Viktor." Hermione sighed and put down her spoon. "It's from Viktor Krum."

Ron's face fell. "Oh." He blinked dumbly for an uncomfortable moment. "Well, that's... uh... that's..."

Ron's cheeks had nearly turned the shade of his hair. Harry could empathise. He was starting to feel quite awkward for simply being the hapless observer, and found himself extremely relieved when a lean shadow fell over the Gryffindor table.

Harry swung round to find Remus Lupin standing behind him.

"Professor Lupin. Hi."

If Lupin had heard any of Ron's and Hermione's conversation, he didn't show it.

"Harry." Smiling distractedly at Ron and Hermione, he bent forward and rested a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I was wondering if I might have a word," Lupin said quietly.

"Sure." Harry nodded gratefully and stepped from the bench to follow him through the great oak doors into the Entrance Hall. Once beyond the sunny warmth of the dining hall, the shadows under Professor Lupin's eyes darkened as he cast cautious glances up and down the empty corridors. Lupin leaned against the stone newel at the foot of the stairs. From the pallid cast to his skin, Harry guessed that the passing of the full moon over the weekend had taken its usual toll on his former Dark Arts instructor. Probably. But, perhaps it was something else...

"Professor Lupin, are you all right?" Harry reached out to steady him as he leaned against the balustrade. "Can I get you something to--"

"No." Lupin shook his head. "I'm fine, Harry. Thanks. I'll be heading back to the Library in a minute, but I just wanted to ask if you've seen, er... Snuffles recently."

"Snuffles?" Harry's brows rose in surprise. "No. Not since the day you and Professor White--"

"Danced, that's right," interrupted Lupin, looking oddly pained. "I remember." He frowned to himself and stared unseeingly at the flagstones beneath his feet, as if he was thinking of where he might have misplaced something important.

"What is it?" asked Harry. The anxious expression on his old professor's face was starting to worry him now.

"Snuffles left the cottage last week, and he was on his way here..." Lupin's lined features rearranged into an expression that he couldn't read. "But you've not seen him?"

The corridor suddenly seemed quite cold to Harry. "He hasn't come back?"

Lupin shook his head. "Not... yet." His eyes took on a penitent cast, almost apologising for having brought it up. "But he'll be back. It was wrong of me to trouble you," he said hastily. "Who knows? He'll probably return even as early as tonight, Harry, so we shouldn't worry just yet."

Don't worry? Harry's eyes widened at Professor Lupin. Hadn't he seen the Daily Prophet that morning? There had been three more attacks--large explosions this time--in Lancashire, Derbyshire and Surrey. Twelve people had been taken to St Mungo's for physical injuries and Memory Charms, and the body count had risen overnight from six Aurors and twelve Muggles to eleven Aurors and twenty-four Muggles... In the pit of his stomach, Harry felt the familiar coil of fear. With some effort, Harry forced the eerie transparent images of Cedric, his parents and other of Voldemort's victims from his mind. But what if Sirius...

"... just wish there was some way to find out exactly where he is," Lupin was saying. "Or at least if he's not still--"

"Here," finished Harry suddenly. He snapped his fingers. "At least we can find out if he's here."

In Lupin's eyes Harry thought he saw just the faintest glimmer of nostalgic recognition, and perhaps even pride. Lupin smiled and arched a sandy brow. "Still have the map, then, do you?"

Harry nodded and slanted his head toward the chattering sounds of the Great Hall. "In my rucksack. I'll get it."

A few Ravenclaw underclassmen passed without so much as a glance at the slightly dishevelled Ministry researcher and Harry.

"Maybe somewhere with a little less traffic would be..." Lupin trailed off and indicated the set of doors at the far end of the Entrance Hall. "There's a broom cupboard just by the--"

"I know the one," said Harry with a sly smile. As if it had been yesterday, he remembered dragging Crabbe's and Goyle's bodies into the very same cupboard with Ron for Hermione's Polyjuice experiment in their second year. One day he'd have to sit down and tell that story to Professor Lupin and Sirius. Once we find Sirius, Harry reminded himself.

"Excellent." Lupin pushed off casually, walking towards the far doors. "See you in a sec."

Harry strode back into the Great Hall. In comparison to the silence of the Entrance Hall, he found the surrounding din of clinking china and animated lunchtime chitchat nearly deafening. That is, until he reached the Gryffindor table, where his two best friends had fallen into an uneasy, artificial silence. Hermione stirred her soup distractedly, feigning interest in what Lavender was saying about some kind of magical skin product. For his part, Ron had taken an uncommonly keen interest in a discarded copy of Witch Weekly.

Clearing his throat, Harry stooped to retrieve his rucksack from beneath the bench.

"I've got to go see Lupin," he explained, hitching his rucksack onto his back. "I'll catch up with you in Dark Arts?"

"Sure," muttered Ron dully, turning back to scowling at a glossy Malkin's fashion spread.

Hermione gave Harry a glum expression and nodded.

Oh, boy.

From the deserted Entrance Hall, Harry had no trouble slipping into the cupboard unnoticed. Once inside, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light, Harry wondered whether the little room hadn't seemed larger three years ago. The sloped ceiling under the stairs seemed lower than he remembered and he had to stoop, edging the few feet to a crate on the floor. Lupin perched on another low crate. His long legs bent at sharp angles and his knees drew almost level with his shoulders as he guided a portable golden flame to the centre of the broom cupboard with his wand. Although it seemed odd at first to see his former professor looking so at home there, crouched in that little space, Harry suddenly had no difficulty imagining Lupin's schoolboy self, huddled in the dark, plotting some mischief with his friends. Harry couldn't resist a grin.

"Here's the map," he said, pulling the dog-eared parchment roll from his rucksack.

"Thanks." Lupin reached for the scroll and smiled. "And to think that when we made this, none of us could have imagined the extent of its utility in the future."

Lupin stretched the parchment, tapped it once with his wand and said, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

From his wand tip spanned an intricate web of intersecting lines, fanning out to the very edges of the frayed map. Across the top of the page appeared the now-familiar greeting in ostentatious green script:

Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs

Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers

are proud to present

THE MARAUDERS MAP

"Lumos."

Harry held the light from his wand at the parchment as he and Lupin crouched forward to inspect the three-dimensional blueprint of the school. The Great Hall stood out prominently as a long rectangle teeming with the activity of hundreds of little black labelled dots. Most of the professors' names sprawled along the end occupied by the staff table: Vector, Sprout, Flitwick, Snape, Sinistra, Dumbledore, McGonagall... At the Gryffindor table, Harry was aggrieved to note, there seemed to be a disproportionate amount of blank space between "Ron Weasley" and "Hermione Granger." Harry's eyes followed the dots marked "Seamus Finnigan" and "Dean Thomas" as they exited the Great Hall, turning left and up the stairs. He could hear the faint echo of their voices beyond the cupboard door.

"Right, here we are," said Lupin, pointing at the square box off the main stairs. "Harry Potter and Remus Lupin."

Scanning the rest of the castle was easy. The Library appeared deserted, unless you counted the Grey Lady of Ravenclaw browsing the History Section and the Fat Friar of Hufflepuff loitering in Magical Culinary Arts. "Terry Boot," "Angus Warfield," "Mandy Brocklehurst," and "Will Turner" had gathered in a private study room in Ravenclaw Tower, where Terry was most likely taking bets on the outcome of next week's Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff match.

A movement in a corner of the map drew Harry's eye to one of the seven secret passages that led from Hogwarts to beyond its boundaries.

"Look at this," he said, pointing at a small unlabelled dot. Well, not unlabelled, exactly. But Harry thought it odd that the name was so transparent that it wasn't even legible on the parchment. The label seemed to follow the dot like an afterthought, a shadow. The dot slowly wended its way through the end of one of the caved-in tunnels that ran from the western edge of the school, past Hagrid's hut and into the Forest. "What do you think this is?"

"I can't say." Lupin frowned and squinted, nearly touching the vellum with the tip of his nose. "It could be that the map is too old, starting to malfunction in places." He shrugged. "I've never seen a name appear--or rather, not appear--like that before."

"An animal of some kind?" ventured Harry.

"Possibly..." replied Lupin. "But this is odd. This name almost looks like it's been half-rubbed out. Animals appear differently," he said. "Look here. That's Fawkes in Dumbledore's office, isn't it? No tag for that dot there, but it's a fair guess." He shifted his finger to another edge of the map. "And here, there's Filch--"

"Right," said Harry, " and Mrs Norris. You can read her label."

"Yes, well," said Lupin with an impatient wave of his hand, "actually, she's an exception."

Harry followed Lupin's finger to the trophy room where Filch, Mrs Norris and the Bloody Baron appeared to be confronting Peeves. Further along the page, the names of house-elves that he recognised, including "Dobby" and "Winky," "Tuppy" and "Jinky," bobbed around in the kitchens. Harry thought "Roger Mercure Brown" seemed rather pretentious for a house-elf, however, and was just wondering whether he might have heard it before when Lupin exclaimed, "Oh, thank Merlin, he is here!"

"Sirius?" Harry felt a relieved lightening in his chest. "Where?"

Lupin opened his mouth, but hesitated. At Harry's questioning gaze, he cleared his throat. "He's, erm... in the dungeons."

"The dungeons?" Harry shifted forward from his crate to get a better view. "He's... in Professor White's quarters." Harry's brows furrowed. "What's he doing there?"

But as Harry glanced at the small dot on the diagram, "Sirius Black" didn't appear to be doing much of anything at all, while the dot marked "Bethany White" hovered in an adjacent room between the fireplace and the desk.

Lupin' face flashed a glimmer of amused astonishment before assuming an odd closed expression.

"Professor Lupin," said Harry, "do you think that Professor White knows that Sirius is an Animagus?"

"I don't think so," said Lupin, shaking his head. "My guess is that he's still currently masquerading as Snuffles."

"But then why--"

"He has his reasons, I'm sure," Lupin said quickly. He shrugged. "I do wonder why he hasn't notified any of us, but when he returns, we'll find out why. For now, at least we know he's here." He sighed with relief, ran a hand over the parchment and proceeded hastily to change the subject.

"You know, it seems like only yesterday that your father, Peter and Sirius and I wrote this map." His voice took on a nostalgically wistful pitch.

As Lupin's eyes glazed over with a far-away expression, the top of the page cleared and a line of loopy writing spanned the smooth surface of the map.

"Mr Moony extends Mr Lupin his greetings, and would like to compliment him on what a striking-looking gentleman he's become, though that should be no surprise considering the fine chiselled features he always had as a young man. Mr Moony would like to add that Mr Lupin has turned out rather dapper, too, one might say. No doubt very popular with the ladies, this one."

Harry's eyes darted up in amusement. Lupin's face was turning a deep shade of crimson and his lips had begun to twitch.

"Mr Wormtail welcomes Mr Lupin and registers his admiration of the gentleman's ability to enchant the fairer sex with his recent mastery of Latin dance. That Marauderish hip sway has previously been known to captivate. And the distinguished grey at the temples probably helps, too."

Harry's eyebrows rose, as did the colour in the hollow of Lupin's cheeks.

"Mr Prongs extends his compliments to Mr Lupin and concurs with Messrs Moony and Wormtail. Indeed, it is the quiet ones that tend to surprise the most--although this gentleman does seem to recall an incident in the Astronomy Tower in which the young Mr Lupin and--"

"Mr Padfoot seeks to remind Mr Prongs of the unseemliness of publicly regaling another man's amorous exploits, which is the reserve of so-called ladies' romantic fiction and politicians' memoirs. On the other hand... Mr Padfoot can think of another, more noteworthy tale of young Mr Lupin involving the greenhouse after hours, a blindfold and an attractive--"

"Mischief managed," said Lupin abruptly. He exhaled as the glittering green letters washed off the page.

Professor Lupin ran a hand through his sandy fringe and cleared his throat, loosening his collar with a finger. "Well, I think we've gotten what we came for," he said, rolling up the map and handing it to Harry. "Thank you for this."

"You're very welcome." Harry nodded. It was a struggle to remain solemn and he had to purse his lips to keep them from straying upwards at the ends. Lupin, he found, was fighting to maintain a similar expression.

Between the man and the boy, there was a moment of self-conscious and eloquent silence. Then the tiny cupboard erupted with the sound of laughter.