Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

Chapter 22: Pale Kings and Princes

BETHANY WRINKLED HER NOSE AT THE STENCH from the potion in the Firewhisky tumbler as the Potions Master looked on eagerly.

"Thank you, Severus..." Bethany winced. "Clearly not the best vintage." She paused thoughtfully, then held out the glass. "You know, why don't I come by the lab in a minute. We can test it properly there."

"No!" he cried, startling her with his vehement exclamation. "Erm... that is, I believe it is perhaps at its most potent, and therefore best taken, when the subject is completely at ease. It should be ideal for you to test here, in the comfort of your own quarters." His black eyes darted towards Snuffles again and danced almost gleefully. "I insist," said Severus, smirking at her in a most peculiar fashion. "You should notice the effects immediately."

Bethany frowned.

What's all this about?

"Fine," she said, with a curt nod. "I'll take it as soon as I finish my tisane." She waved her hand at the tea things on the low table. "I suspect the elixir might not go well with these ginger biscuits. Anyway, I'll let you know how I get on."

Severus's face fell. "But... But--"

"Thank you... again," she said, closing the door on his crestfallen face.

Resting the tumbler on the coffee table, she sank back on the divan and placed a Warming Spell on her teacup.

Strange man, she thought, shaking her head with a sigh. "He is a bit odd, that one, isn't he?" she said to Snuffles, who barked a half-hearted affirmation. Bethany laughed. "But I don't think he's a bad sort." She frowned as she contemplated this. "No, he isn't... not really."

And he really wasn't, as far as Bethany could tell. A bit on the crabby side most days. Overconfident and arrogant to a fault. And far too paranoid to function in normal society. But even so... She knew it wasn't part of her remit to reflect on the Dark Lord's mission, but she had recently begun to question the utility of sending Severus six feet under.

Another part of her was equally unsettled by the prospect of applying this change of heart to her task for the Dark Lord. After all this time, how could she possibly pass up the last opportunity she had to get her sister back? And about Claire herself... how on earth could Bole have known? And if Bole knew... who else?

Bethany covered her face with her hands and groaned. Merlin, what a mess. Things really could not have been more complicated if they had all been intricately orchestrated by some higher power. She sighed. Well, at least there was one task she knew she could accomplish without complication.

Her eye lit on the Firewhisky glass, still lightly smoking with the Verivue Elixir. As she sat up, Snuffles glanced around the room and darted towards the tin of biscuits, barking insistently.

"Oh, come on," she said, frowning at the dog. "Haven't you had enough already? You stomach must be a bottomless pit! You can't still be hungry, can you?"

Snuffles leaped into her lap, prodding her with his nose and tugging at her sleeve with his teeth, drawing her attention toward the biscuits and away from the coffee table.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" she said, laughing at the dog's antics.

Bethany shook her head and stood. Turning away, she crossed the room and reached for the steaming tumbler. She gave the room a quick appraising glance. If Severus was right, the cushion in the corner that she had transfigured into a dog bed for Snuffles would appear in its true form.

She peered into the glass, wrinkling her nose again at the strong odour. Ugh! Honestly, the things I do for my profession...

Scowling, she pinched her nose and raised the glass to her lips. "Well, here goes nothi--"

Suddenly from behind, a hand whipped past her shoulder, gripping her wrist and knocking the glass to the floor with a splintering smash!

"Wha--"

Bethany gasped and swung round to find herself dangerously close to a tall, dark man... in the middle of her sitting room! A sensible witch might have screamed for help, or perhaps even fainted, but Bethany's reflexes proved quicker than the common train of rational thought. With her free hand, Bethany wrenched her dagger from the folds of her robes. Raising it high in the air, she plunged it downwards and--

She gasped as another hand seized hers, stopping the dagger, just inches from his chest. Her fingers weakened in his grasp and the weapon clattered to the floor.

"Just in case your aim, once again, proves better than your judgement," he growled.

That voice.

A shattered, gravelly sound--a feral baritone that sounded... faintly familiar, but... where...

"Let... me... go," she sputtered, wriggling to free her wrists, now pinned to her sides. But his hands were too strong. "Please, let me..."

Looking up, she met the piercing blue stare of eyes in the shadow of an unshaven, angular face filled at once with fear, concern and, oddly, a hint of a crooked grin. A crooked grin that belonged to--

"No..." she whispered incredulously, struggling to pull away. "You... you're not... you can't be..."

Sirius Black nodded sheepishly. "I am."

Bethany stared wide-eyed at the ghost of the boy that she knew, hidden beneath the slightly sunken face of the man standing before her, and, peeking from the folds of his robes,... the telltale padding of gauze on his chest. Mere inches from her face, she could hear his heavy, slightly belaboured breathing, redolent of... Snuffles.

Bethany gasped with dawning comprehension. And a mounting fury.

"Let. Me. Go," she said, in as steady a voice as she could manage.

As if only just becoming conscious of his fingers imprisoning her wrists, Sirius quickly dropped his hands. He took a tentative step back and watched the tide of emotions crest over her face with wide, anxious eyes.

Then the next sound in the chamber was the resounding slap! of her hand as it struck his cheek.

**********

"Harry, I can't go like this," wailed Ron, "I look like a complete tosser."

For all his typical teenaged uncertainty, there was one thing that Ron knew he was not, and that was an exhibitionist. Which was perhaps why he felt a little uncomfortable standing half-dressed in a makeshift changing room in Zonko's Joke Shop. Crammed with stuffed chintz armchairs overlooked by several bland paintings, the disused sitting room at the rear of the Fancy Wizarding Dress Section had been sliced into dressing compartments by a small row of faded floral modesty screens. With a sceptical eye, Ron self-consciously examined his costume in the mirror, which only exacerbated his unease by leering saucily.

"Well, hell-o there," crooned its sultry voice. "Oooh, I just love a red-haired centaur. My, my, my! Is that a quiver of arrows you've got back there, or are you just happy to see me?"

From behind the next screen, Ron heard a muffled snicker.

"Oh, shut up, Harry," he said, rolling his eyes.

Quite apart from feeling exposed from the waist up--which he was--Ron was still struggling to adjust to the fact that the hoofed lower equine extremities were his. The costume's built-in Visual Filtration Feature was remarkably convincing. Ron flexed his ankle, but what his eyes saw was a genuine hoof pawing at the wooden floor of the dressing room. It was a little disturbing, to say the least. And... Circe, is it cold in here.

His skin pimpled in goose flesh from the draught through the half-open door. If he was going to spend the few hard-earned sickles on a costume, he hoped for something warm at least. Ron tugged his old chunky maroon sweater over his head and stepped back to judge the effect. From the mirror, what stared back looked unimpressively like a piebald centaur trying to camouflage love handles.

"Arrgghh! This isn't going to work!" he cried. "And this isn't exactly what I meant when I told Zonko I was going for 'fierce', or 'mysterious', or 'knowledgeable', either." Ron cast an envious glance at Harry as he stepped from behind the screen. "At least you got something human."

"So, hire a different costume, then," muttered Harry distractedly. He strode to the centre of the room in a pirate captain's black boots, a billowy white shirt tucked into black trousers with a wide red sash and a decorative scabbard. Harry pulled on a black leather eye patch, following it with a wig of mussed dark hair and a red bandana to cover his scar. Then he brandished a tin sword and grinned showing such an impressive row of blacked-out, crooked teeth that Ron had to laugh.

"That's bloody brilliant."

Harry snarled jokingly into the mirror, which responded with a low whistle and "Oooo, you're a good-looking lad... You can batten down my hatches any time, big boy."

Ron snorted and treated his blushing friend to a jocular punch on the arm.

Harry knocked Ron's fist away and rolled his eyes. "Think I might ask Zonko if he'll save this for me till we come back next week," he said, stepping back into the shop.

No sooner had Harry's footsteps faded than a soft chuckle echoed through the chamber, followed by a whispered congress of foreign voices and the faint clinking of drinking glasses...

"Mais, non, c'est pas vrai. Il ne faut pas y aller comme ça," said a familiar voice. "He cannot go dressed like that."

"Indeed!" exclaimed another. "No deputy of mine will parade into a formal gala looking like he belongs in the stables..."

Where could...? Ron turned his head, left and right, quizzically scanning the empty room until his gaze landed on the far wall. Ah!

Hoofs clicking beneath him, Ron carefully edged between the coffee table and Zonko's threadbare settee to peer into a small interior painting of an old country pub. Around a rough-hewn wooden table, pockmarked with rings from previous rounds of ale, gathered four familiar-looking soldiers in cerulean doublets that matched the plumed hats hung by the door. Entering from the left of the frame was the dark-haired young Frenchman, Grimaud, bearing a larded hare, a fat capon and mutton leg dressed with garlic. Shortly behind followed Planchet, struggling with four exceptionally large bottles of old Burgundy which he nearly dropped when he caught sight of Ron.

"Morbleu!" gasped Planchet, resting the bottles on a buffet table by the door. "What 'as 'appened to monsieur?" He glanced in alarm at Ron and then at the soldiers.

"This is what befalls valets who fail to serve Monsieur D'Artagnan's tête de veau just so," quipped an auburn-haired soldier, chuckling behind his finely trimmed beard.

As Planchet's eyebrows rose in distress, the youngest soldier shot an arm out, slapping the speaker's wrist with his gauntlet.

"Porthos! Stop frightening the poor lad," he scolded. "It's all right, Planchet. Monsieur Porthos is only having a bit of fun with you." He laughed, clapping Planchet companionably on the arm. "If we've understood correctly, this gentleman is merely trying a costume for a masque at the school on the hill," he said, nodding at Ron. "Isn't that right, young man?"

"Er... yeah." Ron scratched his head. "Um... not to be rude or anything, but we're in Hogsmeade, not Hogwarts. I mean, I didn't realise you portrait people could travel outside the castle. Aren't you supposed to be at the school?"

Porthos furrowed his heavy brows. "What does he mean?"

"Aucune idée," said the young soldier, giving a little Gallic shrug. "Perhaps he means in the same way that we think he cannot travel outside these windows that we come across from time to time," he said, waving an arm to encompass Zonko's dressing room.

"I think we must make a point of asking a native about these strange English windows," mused an elegant soldier with dark, mild eyes. "Perhaps, D'Artagnan, your charming amour in the Pink Dress from Gryffindor Tower?"

The young soldier laughed. "The lady Emeline is not my mistress, Aramis," he said. "Perhaps you mistake me for Athos."

"I cannot admit to such good fortune," said the quiet soldier at the head of the table. He crooked a dark brow. "Porthos, then?"

The red-bearded man smiled into his wine glass and said nothing, but the deepening pink of his cheeks and the twitch of his lips seemed enough confirmation for the group, who laughed and rained the man a few hearty claps on the back.

"Emeline?" Ron's eyes widened. Did they mean... the Fat Lady? He frowned. This was all far too surreal for a costume-shopping trip to Zonko's. His head spun from so many questions sloshing about that he was starting to feel a little dizzy. "But you... you..."

"I apologise," said the young soldier. "You must think us rather impertinent, as we haven't even properly introduced ourselves. You have already made your acquaintance with our valets, Planchet and Grimaud. And we are some of the King's loyal Musketeers. I am D'Artagnan; this cheeky bounder here is Porthos." The Fat Lady's bearded paramour raised his goblet in greeting. "That deceptively pious-looking one there is Aramis," he said, gesturing at the elegant soldier with the slender face and short-cropped greying hair. "And this," said D'Artagnan, tilting his head to indicate the most lordly of the lot, "is Athos, who makes up for his economy with words with his wealth of wisdom." D'Artagnan waved his glass toward Ron with a dramatic flourish. "Faithful Musketeers, friends, I give you Ronald Weasley, on whose assistance we rely to comb the castle for le demon clair, the White Demon."

"Ronald Weasley!" boomed Porthos, flamboyantly raising his glass. "Of course, I remember now. Friend of that crazy Scotsman with the grey mare. The young man pining away for the love of the little grisette--"

"I am not!" cried Ron, giving his centaur's tail an indignant swish. He didn't know what a grisette was, but he suspected that they might be talking about--

"Tiens! Ah, yes!" D'Artagnan nodded. "The comely young lady, always seen with her pretty nose in a book." He raised a dark brow at Ron and quirked his lips to indicate his approval. "A fine choice of dance partner."

Ron felt his face turning several shades of red that coincidentally complemented his costume. "Hermione's not my... That is, I don't think she'd be, erm..."

In the portrait, four goblets paused in mid-air.

"Do you mean to say," asked D'Artagnan, "that the young lady has refused your offer to escort her to--"

"Well, no," replied Ron sheepishly. "I... haven't asked Hermione." He frowned and stared darkly at his hoofed feet, thinking of Viktor Krum and that bloody letter. He wished he hadn't been so restrained that day in the Great Hall. He should have snatched it from her plate, because now he'd spent far too much time torturing himself with wondering what it said. Sod maturity!

"You haven't extended the invitation?" Porthos peered at him with round, disappointed eyes.

Ron was starting to feel rather uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken, but found himself floundering on regardless. "Well, what if she... I'm afraid that she might... go with someone else..." he added, "that big-nosed, bow-legged brooding bast--"

Ron stopped abruptly at the sight of six curious faces peering from the painting. He cleared his throat.

"Let's just say, I... don't trust the guy," he explained lamely.

"Then the solution is perhaps a simple one," said D'Artagnan with a confident nod. "You must secure her acceptance before she comes to an understanding with this scoundrel."

Looking at D'Artagnan's rakish grin, Ron couldn't imagine that he had ever been a pimply fifteen-year-old suffering an attack of nerves from having to ask a girl to a ball.

"Asking is a lot harder than it sounds," he said, giving the optimistic man a rueful smile.

"There are perhaps other options," said Aramis. Pausing to sip his burgundy, the Musketeer raised his mild black gaze to Porthos, who grinned.

Ron squared his shoulders hopefully. "There are?"

"You could challenge this suitor to a duel," suggested the eager Porthos. "Aramis and I could be your seconds--"

"Oh, no..." Aramis frowned and wiped his fingers delicately on his serviette. "Perhaps Athos or D'Artagnan would be more suitable, Porthos, as you know I am almost a man of the cloth. And at Yuletide, I expect to be quite busy at the house of a doctor of theology writing my commentary on the sixteenth chapter of St Augustine in Latin," he said with a curious quirk to his lips, "which I expect to preoccupy me a good deal."

"Hmmph. This would not, by any chance," mused D'Artagnan, "be the same doctor of theology with the respectable niece?"

The little room erupted with laughter, and Ron couldn't help but find himself grinning along.

Porthos rolled his eyes.

"Fine. Athos or D'Artagnan it is. Then challenge this man... this..." He waved his hand searchingly in the air. "Does this big-nosed, bow-legged brooding bounder have a name?"

"What? Oh." Ron blushed. "Erm... Viktor Krum."

"Krum?!" Porthos raised his bushy auburn brows, twitching his red beard with his grin. "It's all in the name, gentlemen. And an unfortunate name it is. This Krum must surely be a rogue. I say, challenge him to a duel for your lady's hand, Weasley."

Ron's grin widened. They made it sound so easy, like duelling was as commonplace as jam on toast. He found their enthusiasm infectious.

A duel with Krum? It was tempting.

Ron reflected for a moment, but finally shook his head. The thought of incurring Hermione's wrath for engaging in such a reckless and illegal activity made his knees tremble, he realised, even more than looking down the wrong end of Viktor Krum's wand.

He laughed. "Whether I won or lost, I'm afraid Hermione would kill me. The odds of survival would be greater if I asked her to the Masque." He shrugged. "It'd be nice to know... how, though."

The four Musketeers glanced at one another. Porthos grinned behind his red beard. Aramis raised a dark, mischievous brow. And from behind his black moustache, the laconic Athos smiled playfully. Grinning, D'Artagnan nodded first at his companions and then at Ron.

"Fear not, friend. You shall have assistance in your wooing."

"Indeed," said Athos, nodding with the slightest tilt of the head. "You shall have the best."

"It is only equitable," said D'Artagnan, "that we should help you in your quest, as you help us in ours. Isn't that right, gentlemen?" He rose from the table and took up his glass of burgundy. The other Musketeers followed suit.

"All for one," prompted the young captain.

"One for all!" cried the men around the table with an amiable concurrence of clinking crystal goblets.

D'Artagnan's eyes twinkled with mischief as they rested on Ron. "But first, our plan requires an alternative disguise for Monsieur Weasley."

**********

The winter wind had finally come to Hogwarts and announced its arrival by battering the castle walls and insinuating itself through every available fissure in its windows. Apart from the wind's eerie whistling, the only other sound in Gryffindor Tower came from Fred and George Weasley, disappearing down the steps to the boys' dorm, whispering excitedly like a pair of smugglers with ill-gotten booty. The deserted common room's only occupant perched on the great window bench with her forehead pressed to the cold glass and a forgotten Astronomy text on her lap.

Hermione unfolded one leg that had fallen asleep and wiggled her toes against the cushions to deaden the pins and needles. Absently tucking a tangle of frizzy brown curls behind her ear, she watched wistfully as a small lantern-lit procession of students made its way across the western slope and into the dark folds of the Forbidden Forest. If she squinted, she could just make out Harry's and Ron's silhouettes in the middle of the little parade of cloaks flapping wildly in the breeze.

A sigh of disappointment escaped her lips and fogged a section of the panes. Hermione knew she shouldn't be jealous. It was a great opportunity for both Harry and Ron. She was always being singled out for some academic prize or other, so she felt she shouldn't begrudge them the fact that they had been tapped to join the Sentinels.

On the other hand... why not her? Could there have been a clerical error or some mistake? It made sense, didn't it? Assuming that the criteria were academic, of course. She frowned. Come to think of it, what were the criteria? All this talk about the prestigious "Inner Circle"--by invitation only. Very posh indeed. And yet she found it curious that no prerequisites had ever been mentioned. Not in any of the literature, nor at any of the meetings. That was rather odd, wasn't it? And just who was responsible for the selection of candidates? There hadn't been a British Sentinel Congress for centuries, so without a group of incumbents (live ones, anyway), who got to decide--

"Hermione, have you seen a little book around here? A thin purple book? Er... Hermione?"

"Hmm?" Hermione pouted, climbing off the wide window bench in the common room, and turned her distracted gaze to Ginny. "Sorry... what?"

Ginny threw a cautious glance around the common room and blushed. "I think I might have dropped a book in here," she said. "Have you seen it?"

"What book?"

The girl shifted her weight self-consciously. "It's a slim little purple paperback by..." Ginny cleared her throat and swallowed. "By... Francesca Nadaworth."

Hermione knitted her brows together. "Francesca Nad--" She stopped abruptly and looked up. "You mean Dame Francesca? Witch Weekly's Makeover Matron?"

The girl gave a meek nod, and Hermione stared at her in mild surprise.

"Ginny! You aren't reading her book with all the spells to attract your ideal mate, find your One True Love, blah-dy-blah-dy-blah, are you?"

Ginny gave a little shrug of admission and blushed redder still.

Hermione shook her head. "Well, no, I haven't seen it," she said. "But when you find it," she whispered with an eager grin, "would you mind if I just had a quick flick through?"

The common room echoed with their giggles.

"Sure," said Ginny, rummaging through the cushions on the couch by the fire. She managed to unearth three Chocolate Frog wrappers, a crushed eagle feather quill, and a thick woolly maroon winter cap. "Hmm, this is Ron's," she said, turning the cap to the front to reveal an "R" in Mrs Weasley's familiar embroidery.

"Oh! Ron was looking everywhere for that just now," said Hermione, glancing out the window at the swirly clouds blanketing the moon. "He really ought to wear it out at the Sentinel Congress tonight. It's freezing outside."

"Want me to take it to him?"

"Um... No, no," said Hermione, quickly reaching beside her bookbag for her cloak and scarf. "I'll do it. They haven't gone far; I saw which way they went." Before she could think twice, she had shrugged on her cloak, tied on her scarf, and was backing out the portrait hole. "See you in a bit!"

The last thing she saw before she sped down the staircase was Ginny's grateful expression and her knowing grin.

***

The clock in the vestibule by the castle's west doors rang half-ten as Hermione's shoes skidded to a halt by the iron-framed double doors. What a ridiculous hour to hold a meeting, she thought. And on a Sunday. Half of the teachers had probably already retired for the evening. She tugged open the heavy door and a gust of icy wind hit her like a wave, hurtling her back into the vestibule. If she hadn't been so curious about the Sentinels, she might have turned back earlier. But on the other hand, if she had, Ron would probably get sick without his hat--and it would serve him right, too! Gallivanting around on a night like this without proper insulation. The boy didn't even know how to passably conjure a Portable Flame. See? she told herself. Justification enough right there.

And it had nothing to do with guilt.

Well, all right, maybe not nothing exactly...

But how was she supposed to feel with Ron giving her the cold shoulder? Lately it seemed he couldn't even look her in the eye. It wasn't even technically her fault--though in hindsight she supposed she could have sidestepped this entire feud simply by showing him that the letter from Viktor had been perfectly innocent. Really. Just the usual polite enquiry after her studies, a good-natured rant about his demanding Quidditch schedule and his maniacal coach, and his reservations about extending his contract with the Bulgarian national team because what he really wanted to do--to the great consternation of his father--was train to be a mediwizard. He'd told her as much when her family had travelled to Tŭrgovishte for that long weekend over the summer. Viktor wanted to be the first in his family of forest rangers to go into magical sports medicine, and he sought Hermione's advice on the best way to break the news to his father without giving him a stroke.

Would Ron have understood? she wondered. Probably not.

Men. Why did they have to be so obstinate? Why did he have to be so obstinate?

Then again, perhaps she should have given Ron the benefit of the doubt. But she dreaded his reaction to the name "Viktor Krum" and the whole argy bargy those two little words seemed capable of causing these days. It was almost comic. Ron's fists would clench, a red flush would sweep across his face, his eyes would narrow and she'd half-expect him to punch the nearest wall. Sometimes, that boy could be so hot-headed. Utterly unreasonable. And... She sighed. Kind of endearing, really.

Hermione blushed. Casting the remnants of her indignation to the wind, she clutched the woollen cap to her chest and plunged into the Forest. She knew that she was being over-solicitous, but that couldn't be helped. She just hoped that Ron might start talking to her again.

Squinting into the darkness, Hermione could just discern the faint orange lights of lanterns through the distant boughs. Although the wind dropped to a virtual standstill in the wood, the wintry cold bit through her thick travel cloak to the goose flesh on her skin. Hermione shivered and conjured a Portable Flame, all the while quickening her pace as she closed the distance between herself and the Sentinel procession. But as she drew nearer, she heard a sound that made her blood run cold. A soft chorus of voices singing an eerie wordless dirge. The same tune that had summoned Ron and Harry into the wood months earlier, and that Eamon Mulroney had whistled after--

What was that?

Hermione froze on the path and whirled round at the sound of rustling leaves, promptly dropping and extinguishing her Portable Flame. She clutched Ron's cap to her throat and found that it gave her a comforting--if completely irrational--sense of security.

"Hello?" she called. "Who's there?"

But the only sound that greeted her was an uneasy silence in which she imagined the faintest of breaths, like something lurking, waiting in the darkness. A small breeze eddied around clusters of overhanging vines in the shadows but yielded... nothing. Hermione shuddered and forged ahead toward the lights and the music, periodically tossing nervous glances over her shoulder. The sudden snap! of twigs from behind propelled her forward and she scrambled along the thorny path, climbing over fallen trunks and weaving her way through tangles of low-hanging branches.

Then just as she managed to sidestep an outcropping of Devil's Snare, she realised that she had caught up with the boys. Still singing, Harry and Ron filed in behind eight or ten others to form a semi-circle in a clearing that she recalled from their trek through the wood for Professor White's only outdoor lecture. But it wasn't Professor White perching imperiously on a gnarled tree stump as if it were a throne. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

It was Professor van de Witte.

The Muggle Studies instructor threw back a long ermine cloak to reveal a sleeveless high-necked gown in embroidered crimson lace and satin. From her vantage point behind a clump of tall bushes, Hermione rolled her eyes, wondering if the woman owned anything that didn't look like it had been borrowed from a can-can girl or a bordello madam. The professor raised a slender arm to conduct the chorus of ethereal voices. Without a break in rhythm, she slid from the stump and slowly paced along the line of Sentinel recruits--all of whom were male, Hermione noticed. Will Turner, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Jeremiah Meeks, Ernie MacMillan, Eamon Mulroney, Draco Malfoy, Terry Boot, Olaf Sponger, Harry, Ron and... Neville.

Neville?

Hunh. Hermione supposed she shouldn't have been surprised, given Neville's sporadic displays of his more assertive side this year. Beside him stood Eamon Mulroney, looking as though he might buckle from the slightest gust of wind. The Hufflepuff, who, according to Ginny, had been in and out of the infirmary for weeks, was white as a sheet and trembling as the breath from his mouth puffed little white clouds into the icy air. Merlin, is he even allowed to be here? Hermione frowned. She would have thought that whoever was responsible for scheduling this conference, congress--or whatever it was--in the middle of December would have had the foresight to make arrangements at some location inside the school where they could at least avail themselves of a little central heating. Hermione's lips gave a wry twist. On the other hand, as it was that woman running tonight's show, it couldn't have been less surprising. Hermione had never in her life met an instructor that she actually loathed (well, apart from Sybil Trelawney and, on most days, Snape)--really loathed--until Professor van der Witte, who seemed to have this terrible predilection for... what on earth is she doing?

She gasped as the witch casually brushed Eamon's collarbone with a lazy red-nailed finger. Hermione opened and closed her mouth in outrage. What was it about this woman that made it seem as though her Biorhythmic Chart had permanently plateaued on "Come Hither"? Can she even do that? Wracking her brain, Hermione combed through every clause she could recall from the Hogwarts Policy on Teacher-Student Communication and Contact, and couldn't find anything that condemned that sort of gesture as inappropriate per se, but... But it was just so... so... wrong. At least the way Professor van der Witte did it.

Eamon, however, took no notice. And neither did anyone else.

Staring blankly ahead into the trees, the boys kept up the same wordless dirge-like melody until Professor van der Witte, standing once again before the stump, silenced them with a wave of her outstretched arm. Her eyes widened until her blue irises all but vanished in the contrasting white, and from her lips came a shrill, high-pitched wail that couldn't have been more different from the boys' sleepy a cappella. It didn't even sound human. Hermione had read about banshees' wails so piercing that glass shattered and hearts exploded; she hoped this wasn't something similar. Hermione winced and covered her ears, but it was no use; it was a sound to cut through flesh. The note encircled her head and gripped it like a vise, so painfully that Hermione fell to her knees. Then, just when she feared she could take it no longer, the song stopped.

Hermione opened her eyes and pushed back the leaves of a thorny bush.

"Who among you shall make the first offering?" asked Professor van der Witte, glancing round expectantly. A small teasing smile hovered on the coral red of the professor's lips as her gaze rested on--

Ron.

He broke mutely from the ranks of the recruits and stepped forward. With a creeping dread like a Lethifold in her stomach, Hermione watched as he approached the witch. Ron calmly drew his cloak back behind each shoulder. Then he stretched his arm toward Professor van der Witte and drew his sleeve back to the elbow. What on earth...? Hermione glanced in disbelief at Harry, who seemed to be observing the proceedings as placidly as the other boys.

But this couldn't be right.

Fumbling in the pockets of her robe, her fingers coiled round her wand.

A coy smile tugged at the professor's lips as her eyes beckoned to Ron and her gaze raked over him appreciatively. Hermione felt a surge of fury well up in her. Despite the winter chill, Hermione's blood percolated to a steady boil as the Muggle Studies professor turned Ron's outstretched hand palm side up and fingered his wrist in the same manner she had Mulroney's collarbone.

Then, by the light of the flickering lanterns, she saw in Professor van der Witte's other hand the smooth glimmering edge of a blade.

Hermione gasped.

The witch raised the knife. Suddenly there was no time. Hermione shot her wand arm through the foliage and said the first thing that came to her head.

"Tarantallegra!" she cried.

And then, "...Oops."

Hermione had intended the spell for Professor van der Witte, but in the glen it was Ron's legs that jerked about in a rapid, delirious dance. His violent jolting movements wrenched him from the stunned witch's grip and across the clearing, through the flank of Sentinel recruits. He knocked first against Will Turner, ribbing the poor boy with his elbow, before collapsing onto Ernie MacMillan, who fell like a domino, taking down the rest of the boys with him. In the next instant, they all lay in a pile of overlapping appendages and it took a moment before some began to sit up groggily. Ernie MacMillan groaned and held his head. Harry felt around in the grass for his glasses, and Malfoy muttered something about little men in togas.

"Mmmph... Gram, just five more minutes," mumbled Neville, swatting vaguely at Eamon Mulroney, "then I'll get up."

Hermione covered her mouth with her hand to still its sudden twitching.

The entire scene would have been funny if the situation hadn't been quite so serious. The Muggle Studies witch swung round and fixed her gaze in Hermione's direction. With a strangled cry, she levelled her blade arm straight at Hermione's clump of bushes.

"Who dares interfere in these proceedings?" she screamed. "Show yourself!"

Hermione held her breath.

Without waiting for a reply, the witch, bright eyes blazing, charged across the clearing with the dagger in her hand. Hermione widened her eyes and gasped. Any second now, the professor would spot her gawping from behind the bushes. And for some reason, Hermione was inclined to think that whatever Professor van der Witte had in mind, it wasn't a detention.

Suddenly, a firm grip took her by the shoulders and pulled her back into a clump of shrubbery.

"You foolish girl!"

Professor White glared down at her from beneath the hood of a Nundu skin travel cloak. Angry as the professor's face was, to Hermione it was a welcome sight. The Dark Arts witch opened her mouth to say more, but seemed to think better of it. Her eyes softened.

"Hermione," she whispered urgently, glancing toward the clearing, "you shouldn't be here. Go back to the dormitory. I want you to start back right now, understand? Do you know the way?"

Hermione nodded.

Professor White quirked her lips and snorted under her breath. "Well, you're one up on me, then," she said wryly. "Now, run along. Quickly." She gave Hermione a tap on the arm, then climbed through the thicket into the clearing.

Hermione cautiously waited a few seconds before brushing the vines and dried twigs from her cloak. She then started to tiptoe round the glade, hoping to catch up with Ron and the other boys whom she could see stumbling away in a puzzled-looking group toward the castle. But no more than twenty paces from the glen, she froze at the sound of voices in a heated skirmish. A rustling breeze had picked up, making it difficult to catch all of what was being said--or even to discern who was saying what.

"... don't know what you think you're doing--"

"Me?! How dare you. You know you can't just--"

"Oh, yes I can."

"Look, just put the dagger away."

"I think... not. You forget, I know you."

"Not as well as you think, perhaps."

"I know what you did to that boy."

"Do you, now? Perhaps you do, but then again...perhaps not. Let's say that you really do know. Then you would also know that that little blade is no match for me."

"Oh, I've got much more on my side than this blade. I know what you're up to, you and your mission. And I won't let it happen. Not at this school. Not to these people. Not again. One false move, I warn you, and your time is up."

A sardonic laugh sailed out from the clearing. "Au contraire, ma puce, it is you who must watch your step. You don't know who you're dealing with. Because if you did, you would be far more concerned with the end of your time than with mine..."

"Hermione?"

Hermione nearly screamed at the touch of a hand on her shoulder. She swung round to find Ron standing behind her as the other boys came down an adjacent path. He scratched his head and shivered, peering round the wood in alarm like a sleepwalker interrupted.

"What are you--what are we doing here?"

"Ron!" she whispered. Without thinking, Hermione flung her arms around his neck. Ron flinched and awkwardly patted her on the back while Harry broke away from the other boys to join them. Blushing, she quickly pulled away.

"Hermione, wha--"

"Shh! Wait, listen."

"What?"

"Can you hear them?" she said.

Ron frowned, teetering unsteadily. "Um... hear what?"

Behind him, Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

"Wait here," Hermione said quietly. "Wait for me, okay?"

She slipped from Ron's grasp and left the two boys blinking quizzically behind. Navigating through the trees and creeping quietly around the underbrush, she craned her neck and paused every few steps to listen. But all she heard was the rustle of leaves in the rising wind. Pushing back a branch, she peered ahead to where the shadow of the gnarled tree stump presided over the glade in the dying light of waning lanterns.

Both women had vanished.