Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

Chapter 21: If All Shall Be Revealed

BEING A WEASLEY AT HOGWARTS HAD ITS ADVANTAGES, Ginny decided. Several, as a matter of fact. And not a single day went by without her once feeling gratitude for these things in varying degrees. Courtesy of Fred and George, Ginny had an immediate "in" with the Gryffindor Quidditch crowd; a discreet amount of academic favouritism from Professor Sinistra and Madame Hooch, who (if her older brothers were to be believed) each still held a candle for Bill and Charlie respectively; her choice of contraband Honeydukes's sweets to tide her over between Hogsmeade weekends; and, perhaps best of all, more than her fair share of excuses to make conversation with her brother's best friend, He Who Makes Her Knees Melt.

She sighed.

Unfortunately, the most she had ever seemed to be able to contribute to any conversation with Harry was no more than the occasional undignified squeak, or a startled hello. For a girl who shared a farmhouse with six older brothers, Ginny recognised that she was woefully deficient in conversing with boys. Boys, meaning Harry. But really, who could blame her? Although she and Harry had been much thrown together over the years, they had almost never properly spoken--unless, of course, she counted the time she had woken to find him kneeling at her side in the Chamber of Secrets--which she didn't. The homicidal hologram of a Dark wizard wannabe and a crazed Basilisk hardly made for a Sleeping Beauty scenario in her book.

Still, truth be told, Ginny doubted whether she would have known what to say even if she had been alone with Harry. She had enough trouble remembering to exhale when he was around. It was infuriating.

Luckily, Dame Francesca was going to help change all that.

Ginny patted the dog-eared volume in the pocket of her robes as she single-mindedly crossed the length of the trophy room. Pausing at the threshold of the deserted Arithmancy classroom, she cast one last cautious glance up and down the hall, before stepping inside and sliding behind a desk. The rosy rays of the evening sun dipped below the spiky treetops of the Forest and cast web-like shadows on a blackboard covered in Runic formulae.

Absently, she tugged at the collar of her robes and loosened her Gryffindor tie. But her eye remained on the first of Dame Francesca's appendices on "Attracting Your Ideal Man".

Dame Francesca's Basic Envisio Spell involved a great deal of visualisation by the casting witch, and, in Ginny's opinion, an awful lot of faith.

Conceptualisation, wrote Dame Francesca, begets reality. If you can't imagine it, my darlings, it can't happen. You must first relax your mind and your body. This is essential. Next, visualise yourself in love. Capable of love. Then, for practice purposes, envisage your beloved. See him in your mind's eye.

Ginny tutted at Dame Francesca. Oh, come on. It's not like I don't do this already, she thought, blushing scarlet. Erm... often, in fact. But she suddenly felt uncomfortable daydreaming about Harry on command. It was ridiculous. From the little inset picture beside the instructions and the incantation, Dame Francesca crossed her arms over her ample bosom and sighed. Ginny blinked again to find the Makeover Matron's over-tweezed strawberry-blond brow arching at her reprovingly.

"Oh, all right!" Ginny gave a petulant groan and closed her eyes, feeling distinctly silly. But beneath her lids, she had no trouble picturing Harry: shy smile, adorable scar, Martin Miggs hair and all.

See him in your mind's eye. Hold on to the image. Then say the words, and MAKE HIM YOURS...

Her over-eager eyes skimmed inattentively over footnotes on the spell's applications in wand magic, potions, food and drink. It was the original spell she wanted, in its purest form. But the incantation was the hard part. Ginny's tongue stumbled over two paragraphs of foreign phrases as gracefully as a moose with a sprained ankle. In the end, she had to restart the recitation twice and was just about to slam the book shut in frustration when--

"Ginny?"

That voice. She fluttered open her eyes... and flushed as red as her Gryffindor tie.

"Harry!"

She winced at the sound of her own startled squeal. Her eyes drifted up from the hands resting on the edge of seatback in front of her to a pair of laughing green eyes.

Okay.

Calm.

Calm.

You are an oasis of calm...

Harry grinned down at her from the other side of the desk and raked the dark fringe from the rim of his spectacles.

An oasis of ... of...

Oh, bugger!

Ginny cleared her throat and glanced round the classroom. "Harry, how did you know where to find me?"

She was a little relieved to note that his cheeks were blossoming pinkly. Good, that makes two of us.

Harry let out a nervous laugh, peering at her curiously. "What... what are you doing here?"

"Oh." The next nervous laugh to echo in the room was her own. "Oh. I, um... was just looking for a quiet place to... erm, read and--"

"Ginny, I'm glad you're here," said Harry suddenly. "Because..." He swallowed uncertainly and she found her eyes drifting to the movement of his Adam's apple as he straddled the chair in front to face her. Ginny was alarmed to discover her stomach making strange involuntary gymnastic movements. Each breath fluttered in her chest. Harry ran his palm along the blotter, seeming to find it easier to talk to the desktop. "... there's something... Lately, I couldn't help but notice that you seem to be getting on really well with Eamon Mulroney--and he's a really good guy and everything, don't get me wrong. But, I... It's just that--"

"Yes?" Ginny leaned forward across the desk, her fingers absently fraying the edge of Dame Francesca's pages.

Harry blushed and shrugged, raising his eyes bashfully. His voice was almost a whisper. "Well... I... I was hoping that--"

"Oy! Harry? That you?"

Aaaaarrrgggghhhhhh!!!

They jumped apart at the sound of Fred's voice outside. The soft orange glow from the torchlit corridor flooded the room as the door creaked open.

"Gin, what are you doing here?" Fred leaned on the door handle and raised his eyebrows. "I thought I heard Harry. Aren't you coming to dinner?"

"Well, actually," she said, slowly turning to Harry, "I was just--"

Ginny gasped.

Harry was gone.

"You were what?" Fred blinked at her from the threshold.

"I... uh..." She swung round at the moonlight shining hazily through the mullioned windows. There was a back door, but she hadn't heard it open or close. How did he...? She shook her head. How... bizarre.

Turning back, she found Fred reading curiously over her shoulder. "Is this all about the Envisio Spells?" He quirked an infuriating brow and eyed her cheekily. "Hey! Isn't that the same one that Percy used to practice talking to Pene--"

"None of your business, Fred Weasley!"

Ginny slammed the pages together and whipped the book off the desk. Dame Francesca gasped in alarm, clinging for dear life onto the sides of her inset cover photo as she disappeared into the folds of Ginny's robes. But Ginny was too embarrassed to feel guilty.

"Ea-sy!" Fred sniffed, raising both hands in mock surrender. "We just heard from McGonagall that Dumbledore's making an announcement at dinner and we're all meant to be there." He scowled. "You coming, or what?"

Ginny frowned, glancing round one last time. Then her face softened. "Sure," she said, sliding from the desk.

Fred held the door open for her and grinned evilly. "So... who's your victim?--I mean, the lucky bloke?... Ow!" he yelled, rubbing the arm she had just punched.

His unrepentant smirk, however, didn't fade until they reached the Great Hall, where they found Harry already seated at the Gryffindor table. Fred winked at Harry, earning himself a puzzled glance. Ginny trained one last scowl at Fred as they slipped onto the bench across from Hermione, Ron and Colin Creevey. Ginny blinked in astonishment at Harry's half-empty plate.

"Harry... how--"

"Oh, hi, Ginny," he said, calmly reaching across to nick a few fries from Ron's plate.

How did he get here so fast?

"Well, well, what have we here?" asked Fred. He peered curiously at Colin heaping a small pile of black shells onto a wide bowl beside a mound of thinly sliced chips.

"Hullo, what's this?" echoed George. He sidled up to the group and rested a pot labelled Transfiguration Treacle on the table. Ginny raised her eyebrows at the twins. How they were going to pass their N.E.W.T.s if all they did was add to their repertoire of magical gags was beyond her.

The twins shared a look and frowned doubtfully at the simmering bowls.

"Moules frites." Hermione read from a little menu scroll covered in dainty lettering at the centre of the table. "Fresh Atlantic mussels in a broth of white wine sauce, cream and chives, garnished with chips and garlic mayonnaise."

"Mayonnaise?" chimed the twins, arching their eyebrows.

"'S a Belgian thing, 'pparently," mumbled Ron through a mouthful of thin-sliced garlic chips. "Must be that new chef or something. Dobby said it's part of Dumbledore's new international integration programme."

"Okay, but... mayonnaise?" echoed George, wrinkling his nose doubtfully.

"Mayonnaise." Hermione nodded. "Oh, come on, have an open mind. It's all right, really. Try some. Or, if you prefer, there's some paella." She pointed to a steaming platter of Spanish rice topped with shrimp, lobster, more mussels and colourful vegetables.

"Hey, you missed the announcement in the common room," said Ron, holding his tie back and shovelling himself another helping of mussels.

"Which was?" Fred and George paused over their plates.

"Pig's moving in with me," he said matter-of-factly, "and Errol's being transferred to your dorm."

"Says who?"

"McGonagall said that?"

"Well, not in those words, obviously, but she said Dumbledore would explain..."

Ron's words drowned in a din of dining hall conversation. Ginny had only been half-listening to the discussion as she snuck surreptitious glances at Harry over the self-replenishing mound of garlic chips. He met her gaze briefly and smiled. But... in a bland, disinterested sort of way. Not at all as if he had just been hunched over a desk in a secluded classroom about to Confess Something Very Important.

She sighed in disappointment. When he knitted his brows at her questioningly, she realised with a start that she had been staring. Ginny cut her eyes away in confusion and willed herself to focus on the staff table as the tinny peals of tapped crystal rose over the students' dinner chatter.

A squeal rose from the far end of the table.

"Oooo! This is it! This is it!"

Parvati and Lavender bounced excitedly in their seats, giggling and shushing as many Gryffindors as they could reach, as the Headmaster rose.

Ginny leaned across the table to whisper at Hermione. "This is what?"

Hermione shrugged and dropped a black mussel shell into a side bowl.

Waiting patiently for silence, Dumbledore adjusted the sleeves of his sea green robes, which were embossed with a Mediterranean nautical chart in gold and silver threads. Tiny schooners drifted with the currents along his lapels as he tapped his goblet one last time.

"I have two announcements to make this evening," he said. "The first, brought to my attention by Mr Filch, is of great administrative importance. As you are aware, in these past weeks we have seen a sharp decline in the return rate of the school's owls--"

"He means they're disappearing," whispered Colin Creevey, shaking his head.

"There have been rumours, circulated by the press, of poachers operating in the vicinity of this school. Whether these rumours are true is uncertain at present," continued Dumbledore. "Nevertheless, effective immediately, the owlery is strictly off-limits to students." The agitated hum of anxious whispers swelled and spread in little overlapping eddies around the room. Ginny watched the Headmaster's eyes scan the room to rest on Harry. "All students," emphasised the Headmaster with a jaunty wink. "For their safety, all owls belonging to individual students will be relocated to each owner's dormitory until further notice. As these owls do not belong to Hogwarts, it is not for the school to preclude deliveries they make on behalf of their masters. But until the cause of the owls' disappearance is identified, I am afraid that any deliveries by owl shall be at the risk of the sender."

A puzzled, uneasy silence filled the room before he continued.

"The school will provide an alternative means of postal delivery via Sea Serpent Delivery." He paused to indulge a smattering of groans and nodded. "Yes, yes. Whilst it is true that this method is more cumbersome and certainly more time-consuming, for the moment I am afraid it is our only alternative. Each Head of House will provide further details on how to arrange for a delivery as well as on the use of your common room fires for more urgent communications."

Ginny glanced along the table. Lavender and Parvati seemed surprised and a little subdued. Whatever announcement they had been expecting, it certainly hadn't been that.

"There is one more announcement," said Dumbledore, "and then I promise to leave you to your dinner."

Ginny watched Parvati and Lavender perk up hopefully. They nudged each other and Ginny's seldom-seen roommates, Margaret, Ivy and Betty, who all turned to the Headmaster with flushed, expectant faces.

"Last year, following the Triwizard Tournament," began the Headmaster, "the Board of Governors met to discuss the role of Hogwarts as a centre of cultural exchange and its role in fostering closer ties with other wizarding communities in the international sphere. For this reason, the British chapter of the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus has been revived." He dipped his beard briefly in acknowledgement to Professor White and Professor van der Witte at the staff table. "And as many of you have already noted, even the usual fare from the kitchens has taken on a distinctly foreign flavour." Dumbledore paused with a roguish twinkle in his eye and his beard twitched in amusement as the pun won him a few eyerolls from the audience.

"Following the success of last year's Yule Ball, this year--"

An excited squeak issued from the Gryffindor table.

"It's true!" Lavender gasped. "We're having another Yule Ball!" Parvati giggled and the other girls bounced happily on the dinner benches.

"I am afraid, Miss Brown," said the Headmaster, "that there will be no Yule Ball this year. The Ball is a specific accompaniment to the Triwizard Tournament which may not occur again for... several years."

Dumbledore glanced across the room of stricken faces, resting his gaze finally on Lavender, whose blonde bob stopped bouncing. She looked positively deflated.

"However," said the Headmaster, crinkling his eyes behind the half-moon spectacles, "in the interests of international magical cooperation and in lieu of a Yule Ball, Hogwarts is pleased to announce that we will be hosting a Yule Masque--"

Ginny strained to hear, but the rest of Dumbledore's words drowned in a series of delighted squeals and cheers. He paused patiently, allowing the wave of excited banter to pass. He held back his long white beard and sampled one of the thin chocolate coffee biscuits that had materialised in golden plates across the staff table and took a long draught from his goblet.

"Attendance at the Masque," he said finally, "will be open to students in their fourth year and above. Students are welcome to invite friends from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang; however, the arrival times of all guests must be scheduled with Professor Flitwick, who has kindly consented to undertake the task of organising all arrivals by Floo."

The entire Hall erupted once more in jubilant conversation. Although the Headmaster looked as if he might have had more to say, he gave up. Dumbledore sighed and sat back down contentedly to pour himself some tea.

A ball! As the information slowly sank in, Ginny's heart began to pound. A costume ball, at that!

She grinned at Hermione, who returned her smile with a disappointingly tepid one of her own. Hermione's eyes darted briefly at the only face in the hall that seemed remotely disappointed at the news. Ron. Rather than cheer, he reached soberly across for the pumpkin juice and seemed to be studiously avoiding Hermione's eye. Ginny frowned. I wonder what that's all about.

But she didn't have long to speculate before her eye caught something that made her heart stop. Harry was blushing. But not at her.

Ginny followed his glance and... oh, no. Don't turn around. Don't turn around. Don't-- Oh, no. Her heart sank to find that the cause of Harry's sudden rise in colour was as she had feared.

Eveline.

The French girl treated him to one of her coy half-smiles, crooked a teasing, impeccably-tweezed brow, and twirled a few strands of blonde hair contemplatively, as if she were sizing Harry up. Ginny scowled. She was very much afraid that she was really starting to hate that girl.

Ginny glared blankly at her untouched paella and wondered if even Dame Francesca couldn't help her now. How on earth am I supposed to compete with that?

Then, just as it seemed that matters couldn't be more complicated, Ginny raised her eyes, and, across the Great Hall, met the hopeful gaze of Eamon Mulroney. The Hufflepuff grooved a dimple in his cheek at one end of a lop-sided grin. Then he arched a sandy brow in a manner that could only be described as... maddeningly attractive. Damn! Without warning, the telltale heat flooded into her cheeks. How does he do that? Embarrassed, she felt her lips curling upwards against her will.

Holy Agrippa. She let out a tiny, inaudible whimper. I. Am. SO. Weak. Ginny rested her cheek in her hand and cursed herself for being so fickle. Then she acknowledged with some regret that she might have to rethink seeking a vocation with the Department of Mysteries. With a countenance as transparent as hers, she would surely have an abysmally short-lived career as a spy.

**********

Draco Malfoy spat a vehement exclamation.

He nearly split his wand in frustration as the fourth of his Portable Flames extinguished in the hearth. The fires weren't catching as easily in Draco's room as they had in the fall. The damp logs, hastily dried and distributed by the house-elves, refused to kindle. Ordinarily Draco wouldn't have passed up the opportunity to upbraid the elves, but today he was in a hurry.

He tightened the knot on his Slytherin tie and slid on his robes, all the while keeping an eye on the yellow-orange flames licking the edges of the scroll he had thrown into the hearth. The words in silver ink hovered in relief against the cavernous black of the Dark Lord's parchment.

30 November

Draco,

It was a great pleasure to make your acquaintance at the Dark Lord's banquet. I trust that you returned safely and that you are well.

The Dark Order looks forward to the honour of your presence at the next stage of your induction on 14 December. Severus Snape shall provide the location and portkey instructions. In the meantime, the members shall continue to deliberate on your readiness to join our number and look forward to the opportunity of conducting a more thorough interview. I for one am quite curious to have your thoughts on Death in the Afternoon.

Should you have any questions regarding the Dark Order or the Initiation Process, please be aware that, as direct liaison to Lord Voldemort, I am always available to discuss any concerns that you may have. Moreover, in my capacity as your friend, please be assured that you may trust in my discretion.

Tom

Draco frowned. In the letter, there was nothing more than a vague assumption as to Draco's safety. Not a single bloody word about the band of body-armour-clad hooligans who had stormed the mansion. He scowled incredulously. I was nearly hexed to splinters by a masked homicidal maniac, my arm ended up in a sling, and it took two weeks to grow my shoulder back properly, but I'm fine now, thanks for your interest. He rolled his eyes. Watching the final chunks of parchment burn white and disintegrate against the logs, Draco twisted his lips bitterly. On the other hand, the Dark Lord's ambassador was one up on his father. Lucius hadn't so much as owled or Floo'd his son since the Ministry raid on the séance to verify that Draco had escaped unscathed.

With a good deal more satisfaction, he turned to the desk and fingered the note delivered earlier by a self-important-looking raven. In neat garnet cursive on expensive hand-pressed vellum was the invitation to join the Sentinels. "Dear Mr Malfoy," it read, "It is our pleasure to offer you a coveted place amongst the governing elite of the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus. Your exemplary record of academic and other achievements since your matriculation at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has marked you as someone who has the natural leadership qualities that are the hallmarks of a Sentinel of the Society." Draco quirked a slender platinum brow. Being fully aware of his last term's results, he might have queried the selection panel's decision, but at that moment, a small dot at the centre of the page caught his eye.

The dot grew, whirling in place as it took on the shape of... a man. Of sorts. A wild-looking man with short stubby legs and a crown of laurels turned to Draco with an impish gleam in his dark eyes as he clicked his heels together in a little jig. He capered ridiculously around in his little inset square with the train of his golden toga draped over one arm and a jug of red wine in the other. Draco sighed impatiently and stared in disdainful silence until the corybantic crackpot finally stopped dancing and draped an arm casually across the bottom of the square.

He crooked a jaunty finger at Draco and pointed to a minute box below the frame that he hadn't previously seen, containing two tiny words: "Tap me."

At the touch of his finger, silver letters sprung from the page and into Draco's room, spinning round him loosely in the air like ribbon confetti as the little man recited the message:

Young man, lean closer and you shall hear
Of the Sentinel Congress that draws near.
On the 6^th of December at half past ten
(Hardly a man can miss it then
Who wishes to join the blue bloods here)
I say to you, friend,
Strike a path on the lawn from the western arch,
On broom or foot by the hallowed light,
Add a voice to the sound and follow the march
To earn your glory if the offering's right:
A cup is enough, this you shall see --
A gift for the Queen or a shell you'll be,
Then, free to conquer, sway and charm
From every wizarding village and farm
That her music play for good or for harm.

"What the hell does that mean?" Draco muttered aloud as the net of glittery letters faded.

He half-hoped that the little toga-clad man might give him a few hin5/18/2003ts, but at that moment the screech of the hideous Harpy wall clock sounded and a long talon shot out and nearly grazed his forehead before sliding to "Practically Late For Dark Arts." Draco grimaced and made a grab for his books, vowing never again to accept any birthday presents from his father's foreign clients. It's not as if that French crank Donatien de Sade was family, after all...

***

"NO TOUCHING, ZABINI! I said, don't touch the swords until I tell you!" The Dark Arts professor's glare was enough to send Blaise Zabini's hand recoiling back across the aisle. " And you're late, Mr Malfoy."

Draco paused in the aisle, straightening as the flush burned his cheeks. Slowly, he brought his gaze level with the stormy grey of Professor White's eyes.

"Eight points from Slytherin." The Dark Arts witch crossed her arms and leaned back against the front desk, the fingers of one hand twirling the carved handle of a short slim rapier. "That's one for every minute of class that you've missed."

With her dark hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, Professor White looked more severe than that stiff-lipped old bat McGonagall. But because of her youth and those fawn-like eyes, perhaps, she seemed less fierce--certainly to Draco, who had turned over and over in his mind the conversation between Snape and Filch from the other night. Professor White was the Dark Lord's spy? Undercover as a professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts? Clever. Draco was sure she couldn't afford to have her secret known, not until the time was ripe. And it was this secret knowledge, the power of the threat of blackmail, that Draco latched on to as he levelled her his fiercest defiant stare.

Professor White, however, was unimpressed. She crooked a reproving brow and rapped his desktop with the sharp end of her rapier before resuming the lesson.

"As I was saying," continued Professor White, "today marks the beginning of your training in the art of Wizard Fencing." Draco followed her gaze as it passed over the cluster of fifth-year Slytherins. "Each of you will be designated a sword with which to practise--each and every sword shall be returned to me at the end of every lesson," she added, with a leery glance at a handful of students, including Millicent Bulstrode, whose stout fingers flexed in anticipation of getting them round a blade.

Draco gave his mouth a wry twist. Professor White had every reason to be wary. Draco had once seen Bulstrode break the legs of her own cat in front of an audience, just to see whether Skele-Gro was effective on animals. Clearly, whoever at the Ministry mandated Wizard Fencing in the Dark Arts O.W.L. had never envisaged the genocidal potential of letting Millicent Bulstrode within four feet of a weapon.

"... and since safety is of the utmost concern," said the Dark Arts professor, "the swords you see here have been child-proofed, so to speak, with a Hrunting Charm--"

"Gesundheit." From the back of the room, Zabini sniggered and peered up at Professor White through his faded auburn fringe.

"That means," she continued sternly, "that the blades on the wall behind you are considered Children of Hrunting, named after the renowned magical blade that served a series of Germanic warrior mages in the sixth and seventh centuries.

"No sword, when wielded in hatred, will perform for its master. It may only be used with responsibility, and its powers cannot be tapped by an evil source." Professor White held up the blade in her hand, turning it to reflect the light from the wall sconces. "These swords will not only hone your blade-handling skills, but your mental attitude in combat, where above all, honour is most important."

Millicent Bulstrode rolled her piggy eyes, looking rather disappointed by this information.

"What you will learn in this class, and under the aegis of the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus, for those of you who are members, is how to be a warrior--not a, um... a hired killer." Professor White blinked for a moment, stumbling over her choice of words. Then she continued thoughtfully. "A warrior is self-motivated and has a specific, noble agenda. He possesses a self-image marked by restraint. One of the greatest fencing experts of our time once wrote that a warrior is not just there to kill, but to choose a fit form of victory. Remember this: the warrior distinguishes himself from the hired killer by what he will not stoop to."

Suddenly, the professorial mask lifted from her face to reveal something else entirely. The world-weary look of an old soul. A reluctant, but diligent soldier. And no matter what else Draco might have thought of the Dark Arts witch, he believed her. "Even the non-warriors amongst us would probably do well to keep that in mind, I suppose," she murmured, almost to herself.

He frowned, fidgeting with the fencing gloves on his desk. She had a very strange lecturing style, this woman.

"Now, if you would all please form a queue..." she said briskly, striding down the aisle to the sword gallery beneath the arches at the rear of the classroom. "That's right, just here." She nodded, indicating the end of a long table laid with blades of all shapes and sizes. "Today, we will simply practice holding the sword and other matters of general Wizard Fencing Etiquette--"

"That's all?" Zabini looked put out.

"You have a problem with that?" Professor White raised a dark brow.

"Oh, come on," he whinged. "We've been waiting three months for this."

"You think this'll be easy?" She smiled at Zabini, but her arched tone was clipped and low on patience. "It only looks like child's play, I assure you. So listen carefully.

"You will need to choose your swords--actually, let me restate that. Like a wand, a sword will often weigh the worthiness of its master, so you may find that you will have to pick up more than one to find your match. Now, before you try the swords, you must always--"

The lanky Zabini shouldered past Crabbe and Goyle at the head of the queue and reached for a heavy-looking sabre with a gaudy, jewel-encrusted handle.

"Wait!" cried Professor White.

Zabini brandished the sword in his gloved hand and leered triumphantly at the class. But his self-confident smirk vanished as his glove began to smoke and the sword itself emitted a low hum. Zabini let out a pained howl and slashed wildly at the air, trying to throw the sword off. Shrieks and yells echoed through the classroom as the Slytherins took cover behind stone columns or dove under desks. Alarmed, Draco scampered backwards with the rest of the class, tugging Crabbe and Goyle with him, and ducking and cringing as the whoosh! whip! swoop! of the sword sliced towards them. Draco gasped as the blade just missed his nose--

"Petrificus Totalis!"

Following a bright flash of light, Draco opened his eyes to find Zabini petrified with his head thrown back in mid-scream and his sword arm raised above his head. Professor White lowered her shaky wand arm and approached the Slytherin, muttering a few words under her breath. The sword stopped its loud humming and she was able to flex Zabini's fingers enough to pry it gently from his grip and lay it back down on the display table.

"Enervate."

Zabini moaned and crumpled to the floor in a heap, crouched over the right hand he cradled to his chest.

"Hrunting swords are not toys. There's a reason why these are kept locked in this munitions case." She let out an exasperated sigh. "I was about to say that before handling one of these swords, it is imperative that you clear your mind of self-serving thoughts," she said pointedly, standing over the whimpering Zabini. "Let's just say these swords... erm, vehemently object to frivolous handling." Professor White tugged the boy from the floor and nodded to the rest of the class. "I will take Mr Zabini to the Hospital Wing. The rest of you, turn to page 406. When I return, I want you all to have read and memorised Whiplash's Ten Key Points on Handling a Little Hrunting." She set down her rapier, clinking it jarringly against the blades on the table.

"I am duty bound to tell you not to touch the swords until I return. The choice, however, is yours." At the door, with Zabini under her arm, the Dark Arts witch turned her angelic face back to the class, then smirked in a disturbingly Snape-like fashion. "Defy me at your own risk," she said, and disappeared into the dungeon passage.

Other than a few nervous whispers and the scraping of quills, the Slytherins made no sound. And not a single student moved until the bell rang.

**********

Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!

Severus Snape swirled the crushed remains of two ounces of Chizpurfle Larvae in his mortar and pestle. Such a glorious sound. The crack of the shells and the occasional pop! of tiny cerebral sacs. After that maladroit moron Longbottom destroyed his previous batch, Snape had despaired that he might never find a supply aged to the right maturity in time to test with the Verivue Elixir. And Merlin only knew he wouldn't be able to stand the potion's pungent odour long enough to cultivate another crop on his own. If Professor White hadn't been able to secure an order so swiftly--

And so would anyone who had spent the past seven years as Deputy Head of the Intelligence Council, he told himself. So, the woman had connections. What of it? Could one expect him to be beholden to her for a case full of cultured insect larvae?

He frowned into the glowing, glutinous liquid he spooned into the beaker.

Yes.

His dark brows furrowed as he distributed the milky solution with the pipette. It intrigued him that she hadn't yet tried to demand a quid pro quo for such a large favour. A random train of former colleagues and would-be collaborators drifted through the transom of his mind. In Snape's experience, anyone else would have extracted their pound of flesh by now. But not her.

The days since their tentative partnership began had fallen into a pattern of subdued greetings and brief, businesslike exchanges over beakers, pipettes and cauldrons. It seemed unfathomable to him that he had ever objected so vehemently to her presence in his domain. In the solace of the Potions Lab, Severus allowed his lips to curl. "Tantrum" would be more accurate, he thought with remorseless amusement, remembering his tirade in Albus's office several weeks earlier when the Headmaster had first raised the suggestion. Luckily that bust of Headmaster Plummett-Smasch wasn't an original...

For years Severus had prided himself on the impenetrability of his store of Potions knowledge. A treasure trove of useful, but largely unsavoury recipes that distinguished him from the puppets and dancing monkeys who mass-produced goods at the behest of the Ministry or the Dark Lord... or both. Well-meaning as Albus had been, Severus knew that succumbing to the Headmaster's plan would mean compromising access to the very information he had cultivated and staunchly guarded for so many years. And so he had waited, watchfully, expectantly, cynically, for Bethany White to double-dip in the potions cabinet, slip a sample in her robes, crib notes--anything. Hers was the perfect cover for a spy of the Dark Circle. And he knew she had her secrets. Filch's story about the blood in the corridors only fuelled the fires of his suspicion.

On the other hand, he could hardly imagine that Bethany White was who "Tom" had slated as the insider who would lead a Death Eater charge on the school. He thought of the distracted look in her eyes of late and how the other day she had accidentally set her robes on fire and then surprised him further by laughing it off. He wondered about the wild flowers (obviously torn from Meriwether Sprout's winter greenhouse) that he had seen, once or twice, lying across her threshold as he passed her door. He wondered about the contented look that settled on her face during unguarded moments in the evenings. And he wondered, rather irrelevantly, if it had anything to do with Remus Lupin.

And so it was that, as the weeks passed, Severus found that his indignation at Bethany's assignment to their task had diminished, and this both perplexed and unsettled him.

"Aaahhhh!"

Startled, Severus leapt up at the sound of bubbling in the three cauldrons. Swiftly extinguishing the flame, he waved away the fumes and peered beyond the rims. The colour. It was perfect. The pallor and consistency of the Headmaster's favourite blackberry eau de vie--and infinitely more pungent. He pinched his nose and winced. It's done. At least Severus hoped it was. The Chizpurfle Larvae had been the last of Remedian's last-minute additions to the last known viable Verivue Elixir. And if his calculations had been correct, one of the three cauldrons contained a viable version of the elixir's first brewing phase.

Ah, but how to test it...?

Impatiently brushing back a lock of hair, he cast his eyes excitedly about the laboratory in its shambolic state. Reaching into a terracotta pot suspended on a low shelf, he extracted four freeze-dried lacewings and dropped them into an empty bowl. From a small wooden box at the end of the rear counter, he picked out a small hawk feather quill, transfigured it into the same species of lacewing and tossed it into the bowl.

Then he pulled up a stool and poured himself a finger's worth of each elixir into three Firewhisky glasses and took a deep breath. The most potent Elixir of Truth known to man. What if he had done it? If one of these was indeed a viable elixir, it would be the first successful batch brewed in eight centuries! Severus eyed the simmering cauldrons feeling almost giddy, like a schoolboy about to tear the thick vellum envelope for his O.W.L. results.

Wrapping his fingers around a glass, he downed the burning liquid in a single gulp and nearly coughed it back up again. Ugh! It tasted like... like... ugh, armadillo bile. And peering into the bowl at the testing subjects, he saw... five lacewings. Dammit! Severus spat a string of stronger exclamations when the next cauldron's serum yielded similar results.

But as he gulped back the last sample, the burning in his throat became a chill, a cold so intense he felt it reach, quite literally, the roots of hair. And this time, peering into the bowl he found the four lacewings and... the transparent shadow of a hawk feather quill!

Great Merlin, he'd done it.

He'd done it!

Determinedly pouring a fresh glass, he made hastily for the door. Now, all I need is a second opinion. Glancing at the moonlit hands of the clock on the wall, he grimaced. And I don't give damn what time it is.

**********

Bethany slumped back against the divan and pillowed her head against the red velvet cushions, wondering if there was some way to alter her contract to preclude teaching two Slytherin classes in a row. Closing her eyes, she struggled to sweep her mind clear of the seventh-year Slytherins--and that viper Bole in particular. Having to spend the evening helping Madam Pomfrey drain Zabini's blisters of pus and reverse the Devil's Hand Hex was bad enough. But just when she'd thought the day couldn't have gotten much worse, she'd had to withstand the taunting of that smug, unsavoury Quidditch captain. It was a miscalculation to let him volunteer in class, she realised.

"Yer an expert wi' that blade, Professor," drawled Bole. In front of the seventh-years in the Dark Arts classroom, he mimicked Bethany's handling of her rapier with the broadsword in his hand. "Bit flimsy, though, innit?"

"Oh... no, not specially." Bethany shrugged and took a few sweeps with her own sword. "Hrunting rapiers are lighter and slimmer than the one you've got there, but their incisions are precise. If you know what you're aiming for, you can kill anything, even large beasts like the West African Erumpent and the Nundu, with a single thrust." She shook her head at the class. "Whatever this thing hits does not get up and walk away afterwards."

"But surely," said Bole amiably, slowly running a thin finger along the sharp edge of his blade, "a Hrunting can't slay everything?" He gasped--almost in delight, Bethany noted--as he cut his finger and drew blood.

"There are some creatures even these can't kill." Bole sucked thoughtfully on the little wound and licked his finger clean. "'S right, innit, Professor White?" he said, sneering through slightly bloodstained teeth...

That was when she had nearly fainted. Bethany didn't need a mirror to tell that she must have gone ash white. She had hoped that none of the other students would notice. But as she turned quickly to the blackboard to write a list of Failsafe Manoeuvres for Hunting with a Hrunting, she found her own fingers trembling around the chalk. Somewhere from the back of the room, she heard Julian Bangert snigger...

Bethany shuddered to remember it now, the insinuation etched in every line of Bole's cynical, world-weary face. The eerie gleam in his eyes. And the blood. Bethany swallowed hard and opened her eyes, but the image was still there. Dear Merlin.

Did he know? How could he?

A feather-light brush of fur against her hand stirred her from these thoughts, bringing her back to the soft golden glow from the hearth. She turned her head and smiled into Snuffles's goofy face. He licked her nose and blinked at her playfully with his tail set at a hopeful wag. Over the past weeks, he had become her evening routine. She didn't want to imagine what it would be like to finally give the dog up to his rightful owner in a fortnight, and she wondered whether she ought to ask Remus to let her keep Snuffles. She glanced at the haphazard mound of personal correspondence her desk. Her eyes easily picked out Remus's reply to her explanatory letter about Snuffles's injury in which she offered to take care of Snuffles until Remus fetched him at his earliest convenience.

Hmmph! It stunned Bethany that Remus Lupin's "earliest convenience" could be no sooner than mid-December! It was appalling. Scheduling a series of extended research trips back-to-back without making arrangements for the care of one's dog! Not for the first time, Bethany shook her head at the thought. She had imagined Remus capable of more compassion for his animal than that. You'd think the man didn't want to have his dog back at all!

On the other hand, Bethany was loathe to complain. How could she resist a creature who greeted her the moment her key turned in the lock; who brought her the paper in bed--if somewhat crumpled as if half-read; and who, with the prescience of a psychic, knew to pick all the banana chunks out of her breakfast salads. She did puzzle, however, on how he managed to pilfer clusters of irises, jonquils and other flowers from Meriwether's hothouse to leave conspicuously on her doorstep. With ingenuity and charm like that, she mused, in a past incarnation Snuffles might easily have been a thief, or a florist, or an outrageously successful Casanova. And he even astounded her with his sense of modesty, confidently carrying her bathrobe in his teeth but stumbling forward on the slippery bath tiles with his eyes closed until the cold black tip of his nose hit the tub. Bethany caught herself smiling just thinking of it. Yes, Snuffles turned out to have quite a few engaging traits.

And in recent moments of profound (and alarming frequent) introspection, Bethany had made an important self-discovery: she was lonely. And had been for so long. An undercover mission for the Dark Lord left little time to indulge in frivolities like friends and absolutely forbid the acquisition of confidants and confessors. And it wasn't as if Lilith could talk--not that the self-absorbed little feline would have much of interest to say if she could, thought Bethany. The kitten occupied most of the day lounging about and cleaning the black spot on her left leg, and her evenings were spent outside the castle--no doubt pouncing on unsuspecting pigeons, judging by the feathers that Bethany often found scattered by the window ledge. And kitten unreservedly loathed Snuffles, hissing and scratching at the poor thing at every turn, which made Bethany naturally protective of him.

She certainly couldn't imagine Lilith sitting companionably beside her as she read poetry by the fire. The little cat would never have had the patience. And, okay, so it was a bit naff to read aloud to one's pet. But as Snuffles wasn't technically her pet, Bethany wondered if that made these private poetry readings any less ridiculous. Hmm... Well, all right, perhaps not. But still, since he'd been sequestered in her chambers, Snuffles seemed quite content simply to watch her read, or gaze into the fire and think... well, whatever it was that dogs thought. He never appeared compelled to be elsewhere--although she suspected that it may have had something to do with his injury--the injury Bethany herself had inflicted.

Oh, dear. She sighed. I'll probably go to my grave still feeling guilty about that, she thought as she fed him the last of her Weaver's Original Ginger Biscuits from the tea tray. He smacked his jaws with relish and leaped onto her lap.

"More?" She raised her brows at the dog as it barked in reply. "I know these are your favourite, but don't you think that six in row after such a large dinner is--" He barked again and turned to leap at a biscuit tin on the top shelf above the desk.

Bethany rose and crossed the room. "Well, aren't you the sly one?" She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "How on earth did you know these were here, hmm?" she said, reaching for the container.

But getting to the biscuits turned out to be more difficult than it looked. Propping herself up with one knee on the desk, she stretched up with her arm, but slipped sideways across the blotter, sending her neat recycling stack of Daily Prophets--slap! slap! slap!--onto the slate floor.

She rolled her eyes and retrieved a handful of biscuits from the tin, which she held out to Snuffles. As he crunched happily away, she stooped to gather the newspapers from beneath the desk. Her gaze lit upon an inset photograph of forensic analysts from the Department of Mysteries inspecting a ramshackle cottage in rural Wiltshire. Beneath it ran a half-page article about the global search for the convicted murderer and Azkaban fugitive, Sirius Black--

Sirius.

Her breath caught in her throat as it had weeks earlier, the moment before she confiscated the paper from the Potter boy on the first day of class. But it wasn't the article that had stopped her pulse, nor the archive photograph of a sunken-faced man with long, matted hair. It was the little inset photograph of a young man with cropped dark hair falling rakishly over laughing eyes, a crooked grin lighting his angular features. The caption below it read, "The Making of a Murderer: Schoolboy Black as Hogwarts Wizards Fencing Champion."

"I still don't believe he was a murderer," she murmured aloud. "Sirius Black couldn't have been. Not the one I knew."

The crunching stopped abruptly. Snuffles raised his head. He seemed to have lost interest in the biscuits altogether.

Bethany sighed and sank back onto the divan, taking the front page with her. Snuffles padded across the faded kilim and rested his chin against her knees. His large, round eyes blinked up at her curiously, darting from the newspaper to her face.

Her mouth curved in a slow, sad smile and she looked down at her companion. "I'm sure he'd have liked you, too," she said, scratching affectionately behind his ears. "Though you'd probably have had to fight him for those ginger biscuits you love so much."

And then, for no reason at all, other than that she had had an extremely trying day, she found herself sinking to the floor and embracing Snuffles. The dog responded with a series of slobbering licks on her cheek that made her laugh.

She sighed into the dog's neck and stroked his mane. "I just wish... I knew where he was."

Suddenly Snuffles stepped back with an odd, unreadable expression in his eyes.

Startled, Bethany glanced up.

"What is it?"

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! A loud pounding thundered at the door.

Pushing up from the floor, she straightened her robes and brushed back a few loose tendrils from her face.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Bethany glanced at the clock on the mantel. It's so late! Who on earth could--? This had better not be Peeves, she thought.

With a resigned sigh, Bethany unbolted the door and flung it open to find the Evil Vicar standing in the corridor.

"Severus. What are you doing here?"

The Head of Slytherin had a half-filled whisky tumbler in his hand and a wild gleam in his eye that prompted Bethany to close the door halfway.

"I've done it," he croaked excitedly. "We've done it!"

"Done what?" Bethany frowned. "What are you talking ab--oh!" Her eyes widened. "The elixir!"

He tutted at her impatiently, as if only an imbecile couldn't work out his vagaries.

"Yes, the elixir. It's reached the first brewing phase," he said. "It will be some time before it can be ingested to discern thoughts and motivations, but for now it works to reveal that which is visually hidden. I've just tried it myself in the lab. But--"

His excited words ceased abruptly as his eyes widened at the sight of something over her shoulder.

"Severus, what is it?"

"What," he said in a dangerous drawl, "is that doing here?"

Bethany turned to survey the room and shrugged. "What--"

"Him," snarled Severus. He pointed at Snuffles, eyeing the dog with an expression of disgust. Snuffles, for his part, startled them both by baring his teeth and issuing a low warning growl.

Hmmph! I might have guessed the Evil Vicar was a cat person, thought Bethany.

"I'm looking after him while Remus Lupin is away."

At the name "Remus Lupin", the Potions Master's face blanched and took on a sour cast as if she'd said... well, she couldn't imagine what she would have said to make him look like that.

It was odd.

No, no. He was odd.

Bethany crossed her arms in exasperation and sighed. At this hour, and after the day she'd had, she was rather disinclined to engage in this kind of conversation. "Do you have a problem with that, Severus?"

The Head of Slytherin suddenly turned to her and smiled beatifically. He raised a thin, dark brow.

"Oh, certainly not," he said in his silken voice. "It is an admirable quality to want to help one's colleagues, even for a Slytherin. Which brings me back to the purpose of my call." Severus narrowed his eyes at Snuffles and his lips curled wickedly at the corners. "I do need a second opinion on this Verivue Elixir. Drink this," he said, pressing the elixir sample into her hand in earnest, "and we shall see if all shall be revealed."