Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE, Sirius Black had never owned any more than a single pair of dress shoes. Boots, actually. Black, with soft, Kelpie-hide uppers polished to an impeccable shine—and almost never worn. In the summer before Sirius’s first year at Hogwarts, they were purchased in Milan by his father, Hugh Jasper Black, from a garrulous pot-bellied cobbler. The bootmaker’s emphatic exclamations mingled with the hodgepodge of languages heard in the ancient wizarding passage beneath the stylish heels of Muggle shoppers on the pavement of the Via Montenapoleone. Hugh had been keen to see his only son and heir succeed to the family’s publishing empire, and for that, the boy needed to dress respectably. So it was that every year, as each pair was outgrown, it was promptly replaced with another by the same old bootmaker. And every year, Sirius relegated the shoes to a little cedar box at the back of his wardrobe.

The boots only ever made their appearance at a limited number of special occasions: formal dinners at Peregrine, the Blacks’ home in Derbyshire; parent-teacher meetings in the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts; school dances—any event requiring the young Master Black to make a good impression.

Years later, Sirius the young man would learn that a convicted murderer had, by definition, no hope of making a good impression. In fact, it could be said that a convict, even an innocent one, had no need for dress shoes—or any shoes at all, for that matter. That had been the policy at Azkaban where the guards had forced Sirius, on pain of Cruciatus that first day, to surrender his robes and boots for the regulation grey burlap. Even now it astonished him that, despite his murky kaleidoscope of nightmarish memories of that godforsaken place, he could still recall with startling clarity the first touch of his bare feet on his cell’s cold mildewy floor, smeared with streaks of grime, damp straw, and the last inmate’s newspaper scraps. There, before the stony-faced warden and two beefy gaolers, for the first time in his life Sirius Black had come to appreciate the dignity that can only a pair of shoes could confer.

Perhaps that was why one of the first things Sirius did upon his return from Cuba was acquire another pair of those boots. Just having them in Remus’s guest cupboard comforted him like a talisman—a link to his past, a guide in his present, and a hope for his future. Stepping into those boots, he felt a pang of nostalgia at the memory of a young boy walking by his father’s side in the market Sotto la Via Montenapoleone. In them, he knew he could stand proud in the presence of any judge and jury, if it came to that. In them, he felt human again…

He hadn’t felt that way in a long time. No one who had learned to relegate the anguished screams, frantic pleas and sepulchral chill of hourly Dementor patrols to white noise could aspire to that feeling. After all that Sirius Black had seen in the past fifteen years, little surprised him, much as little would surprise a dead man. Rarer still was that which could both take his breath away and, at the same time, make him feel as if his lungs had filled with a cool draught of fresh air after a century of slumber… Bethany.

There were no words to describe what he’d felt in that instant he’d glimpsed her in the Forest, alone and palely loitering, or the moment in Dumbledore’s office when he’d peered into those eyes. That face that he had cast into the depths of his memory and forsaken. There were no words. Rather, a sudden stirring of warmth, a quickened patter in his chest, and a heightened and painful awareness of everything in the world that he wanted… but knew he couldn’t have—perhaps didn’t deserve to have. She was a stolen vision, an oasis of hope in his barren desert of a life. But what Sirius felt was alive. Alive again.

And yet… watching her in Remus’s arms—which he had been relieved to discover hadn’t meant anything, but still—the thought of her in any man’s arms but his own—it killed him.

It was that thought that propelled him from the comfort of Remus’s home that night, with neither plan nor presentiment. Only hope. A vain and desperate effort to see if… if he could…

Sirius frowned.

If he could what?

Judging from the force of her door’s slam and the welt on his face that night, he didn’t need a soothsaying savant to tell him that she wouldn’t be happy to see him again as either man or dog.

With a despondent sigh, he sank back and perched on the edge of the bed in Remus’s guest room. He fingered his chin and remembered with mild disappointment that he had shaved. There wasn’t even the satisfying scccccrrrrratch of his fingers against day-old stubble to comfort him. He rested his face in his hands for a long moment, glancing up only at the sound of footsteps at the threshold.

In the doorway, Remus hastily ran a hand through his sandy fringe and smoothed the collar of his charcoal dress cloak. He tucked a tiny, ribbon-wrapped box into his pocket and turned to Sirius with bright, dancing eyes and a flush in his cheeks. Cheerfully slapping his Kelpie-hide gloves into his hand, Remus grinned.

"You ready, then?"

Sirius cleared his throat and forced a smile. "Are you? That’s the important question."

Remus’s brown eyes crinkled happily. "Yes," came the unreserved reply.

Sirius quirked his lip and crooked his friend a teasing brow. "Think she’s fool enough to accept?"

A lop-sided grin lit up the angles of Remus’s face. "I’m counting on it," he said humbly. "Wish me luck."

Sirius gave his friend a genuine smile this time. Envious as he might have been, he couldn’t begrudge his friend his happiness.

"You’re a lucky man already," he said.

"As are you," retorted Remus. He paused thoughtfully, eyeing Sirius from the doorway. "Now all that’s left is for you to accept that you deserve it." His grin widened at Sirius’s startled expression. "Every bit as much as you deserved that slap on the face, you cheeky git."

"Touché." Sirius gave a low laugh and grinned. "Damn you, Moony. Can’t a man be maudlin when he wants to be?"

Remus chastised him with a mocking brow and shook his head. "Not under my roof," he said. "House rules." He leaned his head back to check the grandfather clock in the corridor and slapped the doorframe with his hand. "Come on, Harry’ll be waiting for you, and I don’t want to miss seeing what Snape’s coming dressed as."

"What do you mean, ‘coming dressed as’?" Sirius paused in buttoning down his dress robes. He blinked. "You didn’t tell me this was a costume ball."

"Didn’t I? Hunh." Remus frowned. "Well, can you blame me? When we were talking, it must have slipped my mind somewhere between… oh, I don’t know… your long lost love harpooning you with her crossbow, then keeping you as a houseguest, and then taking a dagger to your throat and—"

"All right! All right!" Sirius raised his hands in protest and smirked. "Sarky old bugger. You certainly know how to twist the knife, don’t you?"

Remus grinned. "I’ve learned from the best."

Sirius rolled his eyes and shrugged on his cloak. "So, who are we masquerading as? A young wizard and his dog?"

Remus pulled two black velvet eye masks from his pocket. "I thought I’d go as a dashing young hopefully-soon-to-be-off-the-market bachelor." He tossed a mask across the room at Sirius and waved his hand carelessly. "And you… you can go as a charming, adventurous, well-travelled, though normally ill-shaven, self-effacing and—what word was that?—ah! maudlin Azkaban fugitive besotted with the pretty Dark Arts instructor." He punctuated his words with a cheeky wink. "How’s that?" he said, and then ducked as a cushion narrowly missed his head.

**********

"Look, stand still and stop scratching," said Hermione, "or you’ll pull off some of those beads."

"I can’t help it." Ginny tugged at the back of her cherry red flapper’s costume. "The label’s digging into my back."

"Well, that’s easily sorted." With a pair of scissors, Hermione snipped away the Zonko’s tag and set it aside on the table in the Gryffindor Girls’ Drawing Room. "We’ll just stick it back on before you return it. There," she said, stepping back, "you look lovely." Hermione sighed.

Ginny smiled contentedly at her reflection and blushed.

"Not too shabby, is it?" she said. The vintage silk dress, which skirted her knees, hung with string beads in layers that swished in curtains as she moved. Adjusting the thin sequinned headband over her short blonde wig, she batted the long lashes of her smoky lids and her grin broadened. If only Dame Francesca could see me now.

"Hermione, what about you?" asked Ginny. "I should be helping you with your costume."

"Oh, don’t worry about me," Hermione said, swiping a stray curl from her face. "I’ll get dressed in a bit. I’ve been hunched over practice O.W.L.s all day, and I’m too tired to think of pulling on all those crinolines at the minute."

"Well, before you do," said Ginny, "I have something for you."

"You do?"

Ginny nodded. "Just a little something to say thank you for all the help and advice you’ve given me ever since I lost Dame Francesca’s book."

"Oh, no!" said Hermione, blushing. "You really didn’t have to do that!"

"I know. But I wanted to." Bending across the couch, Ginny pulled a small box in shiny red and gold wrapping paper from her rucksack and handed it to Hermione. "Now before you open it, I just wanted to tell you that I’ve been using all those Transfiguration tips you gave me last week. And I’ve been practicing on small stones." She grinned. "You can tell me what you think."

Hermione twisted her lips curiously and shred the wrapping paper off in one go. Pulling the lid off the flat box, she pushed aside the tissue and—

"Ginny!" Hermione put a hand to her mouth and blinked, staring wide-eyed at several interlocking strands of rough cut diamonds, sparkling in the lamplight of the drawing room. "This is beautiful! Thank you! But… how did you… I mean, this is amazing!"

"Merry Christmas, Hermione," said Ginny, beaming. "Don’t tell anyone, but it’s made of a transfigured string of garlic cloves Fred nicked from the kitchen. Not to worry; its doesn’t smell." She winked. "But like this I thought you might be able to put it to good use tonight."

Hermione nodded happily. "I definitely will. This is perfect." Hermione’s eyes glazed over as she clasped on the necklace and peered into the mirror. "I wonder what the boys are wearing."

Ginny shrugged, tucking a stray red curl under her new blonde fringe. She scratched thoughtfully at the neck of her dress and rustled a few more beads. "Dunno what Ron’s wearing; he’s been awfully secretive about it since he and Harry went to Zonko’s." She fought the tug at the ends of her lips. "But I think he said Harry was planning to go as a pirate with a black eye patch and everythi—"

"Oooooo! What a beautiful dress!" cooed a voice from the passage.

Parvati stepped into the room in a long wool cloak in winter white. With her long hair pinned and tucked into a white fur cap and her hands stuffed into a matching rabbit fur muff, she looked every inch the perfect Russian princess. Following close behind was Lavender, dressed as a red-haired Arabian genie in curled-toe shoes, orange and fuschia silk balloon trousers and a halter chemise decked with strings of tiny gold cymbals. Peeking out from the drape of a long veil was a jewel set cheekily in her navel.

"You both look… incredible," said Ginny, glancing from one to the other.

Lavender knitted her brows quizzically and closed the distance with a few tinkly strides.

"Ginny?" She blinked.

Parvati’s eyebrows rose, vanishing into the white fur cap. "Ginny! I never would have recognised you." She shook her head in amazement.

Ginny shrugged. "Must be the wig."

"It’s definitely more than the wig," said Parvati, "but I can’t work out what."

Ginny shared a self-satisfied grin with Hermione. Ginny never thought she’d be so grateful for remembering Dame Francesca’s Freckle Effacing Charm.

"Well, I think whoever the lucky boy is," said Lavender, grinning, "he’s going to need someone close by to catch his eyes when they pop out of his head."

"Here, here," agreed Hermione cheerfully.

"Oh! Who are you going with?" asked Parvati, smoothing out her muff.

Ginny blushed. "Erm… well, actually there isn’t—"

"’Oo would want to dance with someone ‘oo drowns out ze music with all zees beads?" came the snooty drawl from the door.

Ginny’s face fell, though she was gratified to see three astonished glares train toward the door.

"Of course, I am only joking," said Eveline in a manner that suggested that she was anything but. Leaning against the threshold, the French girl adjusted the front of a gauzy toga in pale turquoise and raised an elegant hand to preen blonde tresses garnished with gold ribbons.

Lavender narrowed her eyes at the girl. "Hmm… And just who are you supposed to be?"

A self-satisfied smile slid onto Eveline’s lips. "I’m sure even ‘ere at ‘Ogwarts you are familiar with ze face zat launched a thousand ships," she said loftily… then frowned as the girls stared in mute disinterest. "’Elen of Troy, of course," she said impatiently.

Parvati frowned, as if deep in thought. "You know," she said finally, "I don’t recall an Ellen of Troy, do you, Lavender?"

Lavender smirked. "I think that must be Helen’s plain-looking older sister."

Eveline gasped and sniffed, tilting her nose even higher. Ginny had just a glimpse of turquoise skirts whipping furiously down the corridor. The girls’ drawing room maintained a pressured silence until the door to the common room closed.

"Well. She seems to think quite a lot of herself," muttered Hermione with a mocking twist of her lips. "That’s the girl from Beauxbatons, isn’t it? She could have gone as a marching band, tooting her own horn like that."

"Yeah, well, never you mind about her," said Lavender, giving Ginny a reassuring pat on the arm.

Parvati nodded fervently, swaying the white fur of her cap back and forth. "She’s just jealous because you look fantastic."

Ginny’s face broke into a grateful grin as she drew them in for a hug. "Thank you!"

**********

Remus heard the music even as a brisk north wind blew up from the lawns and the sleepy purple hills in the distance. Padfoot trotted ahead at a quick pace along the golden avenue of flickering hurricane lamps. The gravel walk itself had been given the red carpet treatment, flanked with towering topiary—lions, hedgehogs, ravens and serpents—raised and trimmed by Meriwether Sprout’s meticulous hand expressly for the occasion. Overhead, miniature faeries bearing tiny torches danced to the happy sound of distant strings.

At the head of the stairs, beside a tall stone urn overflowing with winter lilies, Padfoot sidestepped groups of foreign revellers in gay, colourful costumes as they milled round the main entrance…

"Tiens! Padma, salut!"

"Salut, Jean-Marc! Françoise! Merry Christmas!"

"Hi, Britta! Frohe Weinachten! Merry Christmas!"

"Hallo! It’s so nice to see you again."

"Mince! ‘Fait froid en Ecosse!"

"Yes, it’s very cold. Vy don’t vee go inside, it’s freezing out here!"

Over the jubilant din of greetings and exclamations, Padfoot barked, swinging his tail impatiently.

"All right, all right. Your nose isn’t the only one that’s cold." Remus smirked. "Give an old man a minute and keep your hair on, you great shedding brute," he quipped, quickening his pace across the shallow carpet of snow.

Following behind the crowd of giggly girls and nervous pink-cheeked boys dressed as everything from troubadours to tarantulas, Padfoot led Remus to the Great Hall. The wide oak doors, hung with red-ribboned wreaths, had been flung aside to reveal a stunning view of snowflakes descending in drifts from the enchanted ceiling’s night sky, landing on the gilded arms of tinselled Christmas trees at each corner of the Great Hall. The golden glow of floating candles illuminated the four House flags hung in turn along the walls. The usual House tables had been replaced by smaller round candle-lit ones swathed in Yuletide reds and greens.

"They still know how to pull out all the stops for the crowds here, don’t they, Padfoot?" whispered Remus as he slid a plate of mini mince pies, pilfered from the buffet, across the floor to the great black dog. Snuffles gave the offering an investigative sniff, then crunched as many sugar-coated pies as he could between his jaws.

"Not much has changed, has it," he said, giving Padfoot’s neck a playful pat. "The Christmas trees, the candles, the confetti… you, slobbering into a half-decimated plate full of mince pies…"

The chewing ceased abruptly as Padfoot issued an indignant snort. He cocked his head to one side and gave his eyes an ironic roll, then glibly resumed his crunching.

Remus chuckled, adjusting his eye mask and glancing about the Hall. A small chamber group in dinner jackets played a light waltz under a silver banner that read, "The Eclectic Manticorchestra." Disdainfully eyeing the group from a table in the shadow of the stage was the second act, a huddle of anaemic- and artfully gothic-looking witches, easily recognisable as Celestina Warbeck’s first band, Woozy and the Banshees. Dumbledore grinned widely at the top table, pulling out chairs for Madam Pomfrey in a silver silk kimono and Professor McGonagall who had come as Queen Victoria. The latter had just spotted Lavender Brown in what looked like a belly dancer’s costume and did not look at all amused. In the corner, talking to an extremely statuesque Marie Antoinette was a ruddy-cheeked William Wallace that looked suspiciously like Hagrid. Remus was relieved to note that some adults, like himself, had opted for simple dress robes and a small black mask, which, he supposed, made them easier to spot as chapero—

"Oomph!"

"Oh, sorry, I—oh, hi, Professor Lupin. Didn’t see you there." The voice seemed to come from the tall brown gorilla that had just collided into him from behind. A voice that sounded like…

"Harry?" Remus laughed, bending close enough to see the green of Harry’s eyes and the edge of his wire-rimmed spectacles through the eyeholes. He pursed his lips together and nodded, struggling to come up with a suitable compliment. "Very nice… er, opposable thumbs."

A chuckle rose up through the hairy mask.

"It’s okay," conceded Harry, leaning down to give Padfoot a scratch behind the ears. "I know it looks awful."

Remus frowned. "Pad—er, Snuffles said you were going as a pirate."

The ape nodded, then shrugged. "I was," he said, looking first at the dog and then at Remus. "I told the clerk at Zonko’s to set aside the pirate suit for me, but when I came back, the store manager said it had looked like he’d written ‘primate’ instead of ‘pirate’, and they’d already rented out the pirate costume to someone else." Harry gave a resigned sigh. "This was the only costume left in the shop today."

"Oh, no," said Remus with a sympathetic frown.

The gorilla shook its head resignedly and reached behind Remus into a basket of Chocolate Frogs.

"Nah, it’s fine," said Harry, giving a brave nod. "At least this way I might be able to get through the whole evening without dancing," he said cheerfully.

"Or not," said Ron, sidling up with a glass of pumpkin juice in his hand. He took off his wide-brimmed plumed hat and grinned behind a new ginger goatee. "There’s a certain Helen of Troy asking around for Harry Potter."

A groan issued from beneath the gorilla mask as Harry covered his eyes.

Padfoot finished chewing and perked his ears up with interest. Remus raised his brows.

"Helen of Troy?"

Harry cleared his throat. "Erm… hey!" he said, pointing. "What’s that Fred and George are putting in the punch there?"

Ron leaned in confidentially. "One of their little gags—you know them," he said, rolling his eyes. "You might consider sticking to pumpkin juice or Gillywater, if you know what I mean…"

"What?" Remus frowned, looking dutifully alarmed. "They’re spiking the punch? With what?"

"Oh! Nothing harmful," said Ron hastily. "George said it’s the Vox Powder they’ve been testing as part of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes’ ‘Fun With Foods’ Line. I’ve tried this one; it’s pretty mild. Only changes your voice a little when you drink it, that’s all."

"Well…" began Remus reluctantly, "if it’s no more than that—"

"It’s okay, really," said Ron, nodding. "When I drank it, I just ended up sounding like Percy for a couple of hours."

"Your voice doesn’t sound much different from Percy’s as it is," observed Harry.

Ron smirked. "It does when I spend two hours telling everyone I see that they’re behaving like ill-bred hooligans and that the way they’re carrying on could jeopardize their career prospects in the future."

Harry laughed, but Padfoot let out a curious bark.

"Oh, right." Remus cleared his throat. "So… no trying to change the subject, Harry. Who’s this Helen of Troy, then?"

The gorilla gave a bashful shrug. "No, it’s just this girl. It’s really nothing—"

"Nothing compared to her," interrupted Ron.

"Who?"

Remus was amused to see that the boy’s jaw had dropped and that his eyes had glazed over. He followed Ron’s gaze across the dance floor as many other heads turned in the same direction. Through the tall doors walked, or rather, floated, a witch with a long veil of flaxen hair cascading across bare shoulders. Her eyes were hidden by a red mask that matched her gown. At least, Remus supposed one might have called it a gown; but he had never before seen anything like the high-necked, floor-length robe with its cleavage-baring keyhole opening from neck to navel.

"Professor van der Witte," whispered Harry. "Muggle Studies. She moderates the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus with Professor White."

"Interesting… er, costume," muttered Remus, glancing quickly at the staff table.

Minerva, who had frowned moments before at the sight of Lavender Brown’s low-waist balloon trousers, now looked positively apoplectic. She had dropped open her mouth and was blinking with such ferocity that the use of smelling salts seemed inevitable. Across the Great Hall, a few other heads in the dancing crowd seemed to have lost control of their jaws—all except Bethany White, who, even with eyes hidden behind a black lace mask conveyed ample displeasure in the pursing of her lips.

Remus had barely enough time to wonder why that would be when the Muggle Studies instructor strode purposefully up to them. Her coral lips curved at the sight of Ron in a manner that seemed… inappropriate. Remus widened his eyes. Surely the woman is aware that he’s a student?

A stern cough resonated over the music and they turned to see that Professor McGonagall had materialised at the buffet nearby. Although it had seemed that the young witch had begun to move towards Ron, after a moment’s reflection, she nodded at Remus. He couldn’t deny that there was something primally attractive about this woman and yet… alarming as well.

"Good evening." Her voice had a sultry lilt, a faint, odd mixture of Dutch and possibly French. "I don’t believe we’ve met."

Remus felt a nudge at his knee and noticed Padfoot sitting curiously, observing the proceedings. "Remus Lupin," he said. "I used to be—"

"A professor of the Dark Arts, I know," she murmured silkily. "Clarimonde van der Witte. How do you do?" She studied him with a bold gaze. "Yes, our little Miss White has told me about you—one of Hogwarts’ finest. Impressive. And a student of the art of the… sword."

"Er… yes." Remus cleared his throat. He was feeling strange suddenly, and a bit light-headed. "Are you… a… a weapons enthusiast as well?"

Throwing one last coy glance at the boys, Clarimonde linked her arm with his. Padfoot barked sharply and Remus could have sworn he had seen the witch’s expression harden. But the next moment, she gave a light, tinkly laugh.

"Me? Good heavens, no," she said, leading him further into the dancing crowd and away from Padfoot, the boys, and Minerva’s reproving glare. "But I am an eager student like yourself." She turned to fix him with a pair of striking gentian eyes, blinking behind the red mask. Her lips hardened momentarily into a wry smile. "Perhaps one day you might take the time to show me the proper way to handle a sword."

Remus coughed. Despite his black mask, he suspected that it couldn’t possibly cover the flush creeping up past his collar and onto his cheeks.

"However, as we’re here, perhaps you ought to ask me to dance," she suggested.

Over her shoulder behind an interlocking set of wreaths, the clock read only half past eight, and he wasn’t due in the greenhouse until nine…

Despite his growing unease, there wasn’t much he could do at that point—particularly as her hands had insinuated themselves one onto this shoulder, and the other into his hand.

"Erm… I would be… delighted."

But as his skin touched hers, he recoiled. It was like touching ice. And then quite suddenly… he knew.

"Is something wrong?" Her slender brows rose solicitously.

With his heart beating fiercely in his chest and his palm growing clammy in her grasp, he found it all the more difficult to force a weak smile.

"No, no." He kept his eyes on the middle distance and his voice as calm as he could manage. "I’m… always, erm… anxious that I’ll tread on someone’s toes is all." Remus shrugged, willing his feet to keep their movements casual, and prayed for a swift end to the waltz.

**********

"I wonder where Professor Lupin’s off to in such a hurry." Ginny tilted her head back and peered through the dark at the big brass hands of the clock above the Hall entrance.

"He’s probably just going to take his dog for a quick walk," said Colin Creevey, pointing after the bear-sized black dog that followed Professor Lupin into the corridor. "… Or not," he said, as Lupin returned quickly in conversation with a tall masked man in black.

Ginny watched him lead the man to the drinks table. Lupin glanced over at the Muggle Studies witch, and, after muttering something in earnest and checking his watch, made for the doors a second time.

"He can’t be leaving already, can he?" Ginny muttered irrelevantly. "It’s barely nine o’clock."

"That’s right!" yelled an enthusiastic Seamus, skidding up the table with a breathless Lavender in tow. "And we’ve still got Woozy and the Banshees for another 3 hours!"

Lavender laughed and slipped off her curly-toed shoes. "Good, then I get to have a few minutes’ rest." She turned her bright smile to Ginny. "All right there? Are you having a good time?"

Ginny tried to widen her smile, but found that it was stuck somewhere between "frown" and "smirk".

"Oh, yes. Mm-hmm. Wonderful," she said distractedly.

Of course, what Ginny really meant was Where on earth is Harry? She cast a furtive glance across the dance floor, scanning for any sign of a pirate costume—to no avail. She had spent literally hours of agonizing preparation and the boy hadn’t even had the courtesy to show up! Petulant whinging, of course, had been completely outlawed by Dame Francesca, as far as Ginny knew, which was why she was doing her best to keep a bright smile on her face and sit in such a way as not to crease the folds of the beaded curtains of her flapper dress. But the only thing she had to show for her efforts so far was a backache and sore cheeks.

"You look like a thirsty-looking lot," observed Fred with a wink too roguish for the Roman collar and black suit he was wearing. "Compliments of the house," he said, depositing a tray of punch-filled glasses before quickly rejoining George at the buffet table.

"Thanks!" called Lavender, plucking a glass for herself and offering another to Ginny. The pink punch smelled slightly sweet with the faint aroma of blackcurrant jam and… something else Ginny couldn’t put her finger on.

"What, er… who are you supposed to be, Colin?" asked Seamus, scratching his head and adjusting his mariner’s cap.

All eyes at the table turned to Colin, sitting calmly beside his Muggle camera. He brushed the long tendrils of a woman’s mousey wig away from his face and pushed up a pair of sober black-rimmed spectacles.

"I’m

Lavender knitted her brows above her veil. "Who?"

Colin’s response, however, was cut off by a sudden gagging noise from Seamus.

"Ugh!"

He pointed at a figure hunched over in the shadows by the table. Neville, dressed as a chimney sweep or an unwashed street urchin, tucked a set of keys into his pocket. But what had caused Seamus’s sudden exclamation was most likely the rat wriggling and squealing in his other hand. Neville’s eyes looked hard and glassy as he lowered it into his mouth by its tail. Seamus swallowed and twisted his mouth as if he might be sick.

"That’s disgusting!" cried Lavender.

Ginny put her punch down and placed a hand over her mouth. "You think that’s a chocolate mouse he’s eating?"

"Let not such trifles crease your fair forehead, my lady."

With a start, Ginny felt a hand on her shoulder. In Lancelot’s ivory tunic and chain mail, Eamon Mulroney gave a gallant bow and an errant lock fell forward over his brow. In the candlelight his blue eyes sparkled mischievously and Ginny’s stomach did a somersault that had nothing to do with what Neville may or may not have been eating.

"You recognised me?" She blinked up at him in astonishment.

"I’d have recognised you anywhere." Eamon blushed and gave a little shrug. "The prettiest girl in the room’s always the easiest to spot."

"I see," said Ginny, nodding sagely. "And I suppose she told you where to find me, then."

Eamon rolled his eyes and shook his head. "You’re incorrigible, you know that?"

Taking her hand in his, he tilted his head persuasively toward the other dancing couples. "Now, if my lady were but to grant me the favour of but one dance, I shall die the happiest of men."

Despite herself, Ginny knew she was grinning like an idiot.

Before she knew it, she was on her feet, allowing Eamon to lead her to a free space on the dance floor. If there were any defences a girl could raise against such an assault, she didn’t know what they were. As his arm wrapped about her waist, she didn’t much care, either. And when he bent his head toward her ear, she found that she cared even less.

"You’re late," he whispered. "I’ve been looking for you everywhere."

Ginny pulled back and grinned. "You have?"

"I have," said Eamon with a serious nod. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

"And did you miss me?"

If it was an odd thing to say, Eamon didn’t seem to think so. His grin widened and he arched a sandy brow.

"Erm… Yes, as a matter of fact, I did miss you," he confessed.

"Good. If only I’d known, I’d have arrived even later." Ginny grinned cheekily, turning in his arms. "I like being missed."

Eamon laughed and spun her out—her beads flapping and clicking—and caught her again as they had done during the Society’s dance lessons early in the term. Ginny chuckled breathlessly into his shoulder and happily returned the glances, both curious and admiring, that their performance received from around the Hall, including Lavender and Parvati, a beaming Professor Dumbledore at the staff table, and a goofy-looking gorilla standing near Ron and Professor Lupin’s friend, the man in black.

Yet, swaying in Eamon’s arms, there was only one person she wished could have seen her, and he wasn’t anywhere to be found.

Where was Harry? Perhaps he wanted to be… alone? With her cheek against Eamon’s shoulder, she gave a little gasp as a terrible thought struck her. For all the daydreams and imagined conversations she’d had with Harry, Ginny hadn’t really stopped to think about what Christmas might mean to him. Christmas was a time for family, rowdy laughter and toasting marshmallows by the fire, making a mess in the kitchen for Christmas dinner, trimming the tree. She herself had always taken for granted the presents she received from her brothers and her parents, from Percy’s self-researching dictionaries, to the twins’ Qwik Wit Quills (which she reserved only for occasions where a bawdy joke was due), to her mother’s famous sweaters. Her gaze drifted over Eamon’s shoulder to Ron, arm-wrestling with the gorilla in the corner, and rolled her eyes. Her family was a weird lot. But at least she had them. Harry had no one, except perhaps a fugitive godfather, who was probably too busy dodging the authorities to spend quality time with him. The more Ginny thought about it, the worse she felt. Oh, dear! How selfish she’d been! She had to find him.

"Ginny?" Eamon pulled back slightly and tilted his head. "D’you want to sit down? Are you tired?" He frowned. "You seem a little—"

"Um… no," she replied. "No, I’m all right. Just a bit… um—"

Suddenly, her eyes at last caught sight of the pirate she’d been searching for all evening! He was there, black boots, black hat, black eyepatch and all. He hovered indecisively by the punch bowl for a few moments and glanced round at the crowd before turning away with his glass and disappearing in the direction of the Entrance Hall. Oh, no! Harry! Ginny couldn’t let him just walk away like that, all alone on Christmas Eve.

Before she knew what she was doing, she had pulled out of Eamon’s grasp.

"I’m sorry, Eamon," she said hastily, "there’s something I have to do."

"Now—?" He raised his eyebrows, puzzled. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

"No! Oh, no," she said, with a vehement shake of her head. "I’ve just remembered that I’ve got to talk to someone. Can you wait for me?" She blinked at him pleadingly. "I’ll be back in a few minutes."

"But—"

"Thanks!"

And she was off. Threading past the Gryffindors, the buffet table, Ron and the weird gorilla bloke, she quickly made it through the mistletoe-hung doors and into the Entrance Hall.

**********

Draco Malfoy scratched at the black leather eye patch. Again. Damn it. Draco made up his mind. If this thing gave him a rash, he was going to get his father to sue Zonko for every Knut he was worth.

If his father would listen. Lucius hadn’t bothered to contact him by owl or Floo since Draco’s second Initiation Rite had been postponed. Although Tom had said that they had had to reschedule due to urgent business in the Balkans, Lucius had been adamant that somehow this must have been Draco’s fault. That it was a sign that Draco had fallen out of favour with the Dark Lord. How ridiculous was that?

Draco kicked the toe of a medieval suit of armour, smirking in satisfaction at the thunk! in the corridor.

Still, it didn’t make him feel much better.

Neither would a bloody dance. At the very best, he could expect an evening of supervising Crabbe and Goyle at the buffet table and dodging Pansy’s simpering attempts to persuade him to dance. At worst, he’d be unable to stop himself from hexing Bole, who had been making petty, vindictive comments ever since Draco had become a Sentinel. Even worse was that Draco still wasn’t able to recall what had happened after he and the other boys had met at the castle’s western arch that night. Or how he had woken the next morning to find the Sentinel Badge, a Kappa and a Cockatrice stamped with a pair of crossed bones, on his school robes. An eavesdropped conversation in Potions told him that Potter and Weasley were just as clueless on the subject.

The other Slytherin Sentinel, Olaf Sponger, didn’t seem to remember much either—though more than likely he’d partaken of rather too much butterbeer in Hogsmeade earlier that evening. Draco was extremely vexed, too, that Sponger couldn’t even be arsed to find out. Any normal person might have thought that having no recollection at all about several crucial hours of his life would be a cause for concern. But the lazy git was just pleased he had something other than a lacklustre Quidditch career and hobbies like skeet-shooting Pixies on his curriculum vitae.

Snatching a glass of punch from one of those servile Weasleys behind the bar, Draco cast a disdainful glare around the Great Hall. At least Potter wasn’t around. He didn’t think he could stomach seeing Saint Potter’s ghastly get-up, whatever it was. Something predictable, probably, like King Arthur or Godric Gryffindor or Alexander the Great…

Several girls seated along the side of the room glanced hopefully in Draco’s direction. He wrinkled his nose and sighed. The girls from Beauxbatons, distinguished by noses raised haughtily in the air, seemed too self-centred to pay any kind of compliment to Draco, whilst the Durmstrang lot—those that didn’t look like men—too homely to be complementary. Sadly, no girls of note worth dancing with, either… he thought, scanning the floor… except… that one dancing with Mulroney.

Draco scowled. How was that possible? Perhaps it was some weird genetic anomaly, like that rare species of Carnivenus Fly Trap that emitted subtle puffs of a hallucinogen to attract its prey. How on earth did that sod Mulroney manage to get all the girls? Like that one, for instance… or Ginny Weasley—not that Draco considered that carmine cretin’s little sister attractive. She was just… another girl. Anyway, Ginny Weasley wasn’t the point.

Draco flushed, and immediately infuriated himself by flushing.

The point was that Mulroney was a Hufflepuff, for crying out loud—and a hypochondriac to boot. He was annoying.

Like a gnat.

He had the personality of a gnat, too.

Probably.

Draco squared his shoulders. He really wasn’t in the mood for a ball any more than he was in the mood to wear this wig all night. The black boots were starting to dig into his toes and the little silver mount his mother had sent to make a pin out of the heirloom dagger had begun to cut through his shirt. And, although it amused Draco that Bole hadn’t noticed him slipping an enema into the Slytherin captain’s butterbeer, he had no desire to be anywhere near loud music and laughter. He didn’t need fairy lights. He just wanted a quiet place to concentrate on getting his memory back.

Picking up his glass, he strode to the doorway and paused, glancing one last time at Mulroney and the girl.

Turning from the Great Hall, he wandered down the main corridor, sniffing at the one or two couples casually meandering in the direction of the Astronomy Tower. Restless and still not ready to head for his own room (it was only just nine o’clock, after all), he walked on until the orchestral strains had subdued to a distant murmur and the din of conversation had died away altogether.

The north wind blew across the adjacent turrets, sending drifts of fresh snow falling across the lawns glimmering faintly from the glow of fairies and the light of the crescent moon. Even the Forest seemed less ominous when coated in white like a great jumble of sugared cinnamon sticks.

In a darkened turret room overlooking the greenhouses, he pulled his legs up on the windowbench and took a draught of punch, feeling the warmth spread through his chest and down to his toes. Just like the sips of Great-Aunt Brunhilde’s brandy that his grandfather used to let him have when his parents weren’t looking. Draco sighed. If only Grandfather hadn’t gone Kappa fishing with his father that summer, he might yet have been around to help Draco get to the bottom of what happened to his memory of the Sentinel Congress. He might have been around on Christmas, period.

And now who did he have? Crabbe and Goyle? He snorted against the window, frosting up the mullioned panes. They had enough trouble remembering how to spell their names. They’d be utterly useless in helping him with anything more complicated than pulling one sock on after the other. So, who? Zabini? Not that self-serving sycophantic sop. He couldn’t be trusted. Pansy, then? Draco’s stomach churned unpleasantly. Most definitely not.

And so he worked his way through the Slytherin roster until in desperation he found himself half-considering Millicent Bulstrode… and her poor cat’s broken legs. Ugh! I ought to give up. There’s no one who—

"Hi. Mind if I join you?"

A frustrated and rather cutting epithet sprang to Draco’s lips as he swung round on the bench and… dropped his mouth open. Nothing came out.

Leaning shyly against the doorframe in the shadows, beaded dress clicking gently as she shrugged, was Mulroney’s dance partner.

After an awkward moment, she cleared her throat and gestured toward the other half of his bench with the hand that held her punch glass.

"May I?"

Draco’s brows knitted into a bemused frown. Half of him was a hair’s breadth from telling her to sod off, but he was more astonished by the curious half of him that wanted her to stay. And so he nodded mutely, and partially against his will. He took a quick sip of punch, which only made him feel less like himself, if that was possible.

"I hope I’m not interrupting anything," she said.

In the moonlight, her eyes danced timidly from beneath long lashes. There was something vaguely familiar about her, yet he didn’t recognise her voice. Hmm. Perhaps she was from Beauxbatons. Draco, whose head had begun to feel distinctly light, suddenly realised that he must have been staring.

She frowned back at him. "If you’d rather be alone," she said, beginning to stand, "I’ll just—"

"Sure—I mean, no!"

She looked at him quizzically. Draco couldn’t remember when talking to a girl had been this difficult. Frankly, he couldn’t recall when talking to a girl had actually been necessary.

Tentatively resuming her seat, she eyed him a little warily, then smiled.

"You didn’t stay long at the masque," she said, gesturing behind down the corridor.

"Wasn’t really in the mood." He gave a shrug that, unfortunately, wasn’t as surly as he’d intended. What’s wrong with me tonight? The confessional tone of his voice didn’t sound like his own.

The girl nodded, as if she understood. She smiled and bit her lip, fidgeting with the beads on her dress. Their clicking and tinkling echoed in the little room.

"Er… so, why aren’t you dancing with Mulroney, then?"

At the Hufflepuff’s name, her head jerked up in surprise. "You were watching me?"

Draco’s eyes widened. Damn!

"No," he said quickly, then winced at the squeak in his voice. Ugh.

She smiled knowingly again, and he was searching his mind for something to say next when something out the window caught her attention. She squinted and rubbed a clear spot into the glass.

"Look!" she said excitedly. "Isn’t that Professor Lupin?"

Draco was just about to say something like who cares about that bloody werewolf? when she gasped.

"Who’s that girl with him?"

Draco’s brows perked up—a heightened state of alert at the prospect of good gossip was a common Slytherin reflex.

"Where?" he said eagerly, happy to feel somewhat like the Draco he knew.

"Here," said the girl pointing down. She beckoned to him to join her at her side of the window. When he hesitated, she seemed to think nothing of placing her hand on his shoulder and drawing him to her place by the glass. "See? Just there, in the greenhouse."

During that time, Draco was surprised to discover that he was holding his breath. He was empirically certain of this because the pane in front of his face wasn’t fogging up. All at once, he became aware of where he was, in a small turret room, leaning his forehead against a frosty window, temple to temple with a girl who, coincidentally, also appeared to be holding her breath. Who smelled faintly of spring roses and sandalwood. Then the heat flooding into his cheeks came accompanied by a pounding noise in his ears that only he seemed to hear. If he turned his face just a few inches to the right, and she turned just a fraction to the left, they would—

"Oh, look!" she gasped suddenly. "He’s getting down on his knee!"

Startled, Draco jumped and nearly fell off the narrow bench. He felt distinctly like sinking to his knees, too.

But the girl turned to him with bright, happy eyes and a silly grin that he discovered was infectious.

"He’s proposing!" she whispered excitedly before turning back to the window with a sigh.

Feeling distinctly flustered and embarrassed, Draco said nothing for some minutes but couldn’t stop himself from watching as Professor Lupin slid something onto the woman’s hand, which he supposed was a ring. He also seemed incapable of looking away when the woman beamed up at Lupin. Draco wondered irrelevantly whether his mother had beamed at his father like that when he proposed—though by his father’s account, it was his mother who had done the proposing, so perhaps not. Then, his eyes drifting again to the girl beside him, he wondered if one day a girl might ever look at him like—

"MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!"

Two high-pitched screams rang through the little room and into the corridor. Draco realised with some shame that one of them had been his. He and the girl both lost their balance, falling to the floor. Draco heard the sound of fabric ripping and the shatter of their punch glasses against the flagstones.

Cackling above the threshold, cheekily dangling a pair of ghostly binoculars in his long, spindly fingers was Peeves the poltergeist.

"Two ickle kiddies

sit in front of me

P-E-P-P-I-N-G!

First comes—OW!"

Draco never did find out what comes first because the girl had pulled off one of her beads and hurled it forward, nailing Peeves between his beady black eyes.

"And ‘peeping’ has two e’s and two p’s!" shouted the girl as the poltergeist whirled angrily in place and zoomed through the ceiling. "Er… counting the one ‘p’ in the beginning, of course…" she concluded nervously, giving Draco a shy sideways glance.

He gaped at the girl in admiration. But she flushed under his stare and self-consciously smoothed down her dress.

"That’ll teach him to call us ‘little kiddies’," she said, and then, "Oh! Oh, gosh." Her face turned even pinker as she uncurled her fist to reveal a crumpled swatch of white cloth. "I’m terribly sorry! I think I’ve ruined your shirt."

Draco smirked, feeling relieved and much less stupid than he had a few moments before. He was surprised to hear himself laugh. "Forget it. I’ll get a new one."

Draco frowned. This was turning out to be quite a weird night.

And it grew even weirder as heard his own voice continue. "Would you… er, like to dance?"

There was an uncomfortable moment of stunned silence, as Draco wished that his eye patch had been made for two eyes. How could he have been so stupid as to assume that she—

"I would love to."

Draco, turning to look at the girl with his good eye, grinned to discover that she was beaming, too.

**********

"Some… er, Firewhisky, Professor White?"

"What? Oh."

From behind the buffet table, Fred or George Weasley—she could never tell which—dressed as a Muggle priest, held out a glass tumbler with a hopeful expression on his face. Bethany glanced over her shoulder to where Clarimonde held court at a table, flanked on both sides by a number of her male students and a stocky medieval squire who bore a striking resemblance to Millicent Bulstrode. Satisfied that the Muggle Studies witch was suitably occupied, she turned back to the boy, wrinkled her nose and smiled.

"No, thank you. Firewhisky’s normally much too strong for me," she said. "I prefer red wine myself, but… Oh!" She peered into the large shell-shaped bowl at the pinkish concoction the boy was stirring. "I wouldn’t mind a bit of this punch you’re making. It looks delightful—"

"Wait—"

She picked up a cup beside the bowl and took a sip as the boy fixed her with a wide-eyed look of panic.

"Mmm…" Bethany inhaled the aroma. "Very nice. What have you got in here? There’s some lovely blackcurrant cordial, strawberry and… what is that other taste? I can’t put my finger on it. Let me see, maybe it’s—oh!"

A hand plucked the cup from her hand and tossed its contents into the bin behind the table.

"You won’t be needing any more of that," drawled a voice from behind.

"Severus!" Bethany turned to glare at the Potions Master, whose countenance demonstrated an astonishing lack of remorse. "How rude! I was drinking that."

His black eyes narrowed in his sallow face. "I have saved you from a fate far worse than public humiliation. By all rational counts, you should probably be thanking me."

Bethany scowled and crossed her arms. "Of all the impertinent, presumptive, arrogant… How… How—" She faltered as a dizzying wave of warmth washed over her unexpectedly. What was I saying? … Oh, yes—

"How… How about a dance?"

Bethany blinked in confusion even as the words left her mouth. She thought she had been about to say, How dare you… but… She suddenly shrugged and grinned stupidly. Well, all right, why not, then?

"Would you care to dance, Severus?" she repeated as the Eclectic Manticorchestra launched into another number.

She frowned at the train of emotions that flickered across the Potions Master’s face. His dark brows first rose in alarm, then furrowed together in suspicion; then his face contorted into a trademark sneer and finally twisted into the sort of look that she might have expected if she had proposed an afternoon of colonic irrigation rather than a minute waltz.

"Fine, then," she huffed.

Bethany rolled her eyes and had begun to turn away when he startled her by wrapping an arm about her waist and drawing her back.

"Why, yes," he said suddenly. "It would be… a pleasure."

She blinked up at him with wide eyes, realising that the only thing stranger than her asking the Evil Vicar to join her in a waltz was the Evil Vicar grinning weakly at her like a smitten schoolboy. It was odd. Not to mention disconcerting in the extreme.

Then she saw his eyes cut to a tall, masked man in black at the drinks table standing next to… a-ha! Sybil Trelawney.

Why hadn’t she guessed it before?

Bethany arched her brow at Severus. "All right, I see." She nodded knowingly. "I see what you’re up to."

Snape’s eyes widened and snapped back to her in surprise. "You do?"

"Well, of course I do." She rolled her eyes again. "You’re being quite obvious."

His eyes widened further in alarm. "I am?"

Bethany smirked and gave a little sigh. Men.

As a blushing Sybil took to the floor on the arm of her dark-haired companion in the black mask, the bell-like notes of the harpsichord and strings echoed dreamily through the Hall as the pink-haired soloist sang "

Later, it would be difficult to pinpoint whether a whim of Fate or simply Fred (or George) Weasley’s spiked punch was to blame, but in a sudden surge of fraternal generosity, she tugged Severus back onto the floor and stood him in line. There was barely enough time for his face to register indignation before the bows and curtseys began.

As the dance lines broke, Bethany grinned a goodbye at Severus as they were swept up with the others, taking one partner’s hand and then another, and another, and another… weaving across in figures eight before ending on opposite sides of the dance floor. Panting, Bethany curtseyed inattentively before her new partner and, sneaking a side glance down the row, was pleased that her hasty calculations had been nevertheless correct. At the far end, a pink-cheeked Sybil Trelawney drew up from her curtsey to bat her bespectacled eyelashes at a confounded Severus.

Broadening her cheeks with a self-satisfied grin, Bethany turned her eyes back to her new partner… and froze.

In his disguise, no one—not even Minister Fudge himself, at the top table nursing a saccharine smile—would have been able to guess the masked man’s identity. But Bethany’s eyes saw with the precision of an expert. One whose second nature was to know the curve of those lips, the precise blue of those laughing eyes, the quirk of those brows—every line of the face that she had slapped in her chambers just weeks before. Smiling down, a mere breath away from her face, was Sirius Black.

Bethany faltered in her step but regained enough composure to continue the set, only to find herself blushing furiously from the gravity of his stare and a maddening grin that only seemed to grow wider by the second and … oh, fabulous.

Her palms were perspiring.

On other hand, the more her mind sifted through the circumstances of their last meeting, the more livid she became. If not for having to follow the intricate timing of the allemande, Bethany might have slapped him again. And who could blame her? How many times had she tried to shut her mind from the realisation that he had been living with her right under her nose? Merlin! That she had shot him. Not to mention healed, fed, bathed and pampered him for weeks as if he had been Remus Lupin’s dog! In her chambers! Great Merlin, the things she might have said! There were no words to describe the levels of deceit that Sirius must have had to stoop to… to…

She blanched.

He had probably even seen her naked.

Her face felt excruciatingly warm. It was much harder, she realised, to poke a pair of eyes that one was too embarrassed to look at.

Mercifully, the song came to a swift end. The lights dimmed and Woozy and the Banshees took to the stage with a rumble of percussion. Trembling, Bethany hastened to disengage herself from Sirius, but not before his grip locked on to her wrist.

"Bethany," he whispered. "I—"

"Let me go." Her voice was low, but cut sharply; she could tell from the sudden droop of his mouth.

His jaw set grimly and a vein pulsed in the hollow of his cheek. He slackened his grasp on her wrist, but did not release her.

"Bethany," he said gently, "There’s something you should know, and also… I want to explain—"

She laughed and shook her head, even as the damning flush heated her face. "Explain? Exp—?" Bethany’s eyes darted round from beneath her mask and she leaned in closely. "Explain what?" she hissed. "How you pretended to be a dog? How you followed me home? How you insinuated yourself into my apartments and—"

"Insinuated! I was following you that night to protect you and then you shot me! Remember that?" The words shot from his lips in a low hiss, and the blue of his eyes—just inches away from hers—flared in outrage. And at the sudden and completely inopportune recollection of the last time their lips had been this close, Bethany was alarmed to feel her stomach leap and her legs grow distinctly weak. Damn body parts…

"That’s right!" she spat, struggling to regain momentum. "I did. And I swear I’ll do it again if you don’t let me go this instant!"

Above the ridge of his mask rose a dark, taunting brow and the corner of his lips quirked up in a most infuriating fashion.

"You haven’t got your crossbow here."

She narrowed her eyes. "Snuffles would know by now that I have a dagger strapped to my thigh," she whispered. "And you of all people should also know that I’m not afraid to use it—any more than I am to scream unless you take your hand off me. This. Instant."

By this time, one or two heads had begun to turn toward them curiously.

The second Sirius released her wrist, she fled. Which was no small task across a crowded floor teeming with couples gyrating to the deafening treble and bombastic bass of Woozy and the Banshees’ opening set. Bethany strode past the buffet table, waved away a puzzled glance from Minerva, a furious look from Severus, and a compassionate expression from the Headmaster whom she nearly knocked to the ground in her haste to exit into the corridor.

"Bethany, my dear, is everything all right?" Dumbledore adjusted his red and gold toboggan-patterned robes and righted his matching peaked cap. The blue eyes above the rim of his spectacles examined her with concern. "You seem rather—"

"I’m fine, sir," she said hastily. "Thank you…" She smiled weakly as she squeezed through the doors. "Lovely party. Dancing just… tires me a bit is all. Might be a good idea to get some air," she said, thumbing at the main doors.

But once in the Entrance Hall, she turned in the opposite direction, striking a brisk pace toward the dungeons.

Away from the festive mantle of fairy lights and candles, she stepped into the cold air of the stone corridors. Despite the cheery whoops and bellows of the castle ghosts exchanging gifts in a corner of one of the portrait galleries, the heart of the castle remained silent and tranquil for a Christmas Eve celebration. A breath of white frost tinged every windowpane of the western corridor. In the trophy hall, grey-blue shafts of moonlight cascaded across the display cabinets along the far wall and glimmered against suits of armour that nodded drowsily as she passed. Serene, and just a little bit sad.

Her steps echoed faintly along the flagstones as she made her way past the various portraits of families and couples shredding open presents. And as the air grew colder and the cheerful voices of the Hall faded into silence, her heart felt heavy from the niggling feeling that she had left something important behind or… undone.

Perhaps she ought to have heard Sirius out. And the despondent pleading look on his face as she broke free from his grasp still taunted her. It wasn’t every day that a known fugitive outed himself to just anyone to apologise for cheeky behaviour. It would be rude not to listen, wouldn’t it?

Bethany sighed and for a long moment stared unseeingly at the geometric pattern of the thick weave rug beneath her feet.

At the far end of the long corridor, a flash of blonde and a slender hand vanished down the western stairwell. Beckoning. Following behind was a boy as pale as the white tunic he wore beneath his chain mail shirt. Staggering forward with a blank expression, eyes nearly closed in a drugged half-sleep, the Hufflepuff Eamon Mulroney disappeared into the shadows.

All thoughts of self pity forgotten, Bethany sped forward—past the sleepy suits of armour, the trophy-laden cases and landscape upon landscape featuring four riders racing alongside her on their steeds. Before long, her breath started to come in short, stinging gasps. The trophy hall seemed inordinately long when one was trying to run through it. Suddenly her steps felt leaden beneath her, and she cursed, very much afraid that her muscles would end the chase by cramping ignominiously. What if she failed to catch them this time? No. She couldn’t let it happen. Not again.

She paused at the landing to catch her breath. A sharp chill rose up from the stairwell as if a great door had been opened, but Bethany sensed no movement from below. Peering down the funnel of stone steps, she saw at first only blackness. But as her eyes adjusted to the lack of torchlight, a pale green glow flickered along the bottom of the well and a tall sinewy shadow slid across the wall.

Eyes wide, Bethany pulled out her wand. Raising it in the air, she whispered, "Accio Crossbow."

From behind the stone balustrade, she watched for more signs of movement and stared unblinkingly for so long she could have sworn she had seen strange stick-like shadows crossing the opposite wall below.

In moments she heard the swift pffffft! of her crossbow as it sliced through the air of the trophy room and into her outstretched palm, followed by a quiver of arrows. Bethany raced down the steps, descending further and further into the bowels of the castle until she was sure that no one in the trophy room would have heard her if she screamed. Eyes darting nervously into the shadows, she hugged the limestone walls. The dust in some parts was so thick, she was certain this part of the castle hadn’t seen use for at least a few centuries. The cold green glow, she discovered, emanated from a chamber off the atrium at the foot of the spiral stairs. Tiptoeing forward, she pressed her eye against the crack in the door and felt her blood run cold in her veins.

Eamon Mulroney was there, head drooping in insensate slumber. His arms and legs were tied, suspended apart by thick glutinous cords that weaved behind him into a glimmering net like a… a… dear Merlin, is that a web?

From inside the windowless chamber came a furied clicking. A sudden scuttling movement cut across her field of vision, and in the glow of sickly green torchlights, leered the many gleaming eyes in the black heads of spiders. Three of them. Taller than any she had ever seen or cared to imagine. Crawling sideways on the walls and upside down from the ceiling, their hairy black legs scurried forward, pincers clicking hungrily—all converging on the Mulroney boy.

Bethany closed her eyes as a wave of nausea coursed through her.

She had to act fast. Fumbling behind her, she drew an arrow with a trembling hand and loaded the crossbow. Aiming it carefully through the crack in the door, she rested her finger on the trigger… and paused. Damn it.

What good would one arrow possibly do when there were three of them?

She yanked out two more arrows as the sick feeling grew in her stomach. She only hoped she could be fast enough, for Mulroney’s sake. And for her own. Swallowing hard, she drew the bow to shoulder height and aimed once again through the opening, willing herself not to shake. But before her finger ever brushed the trigger, through the chamber echoed a feral wail. The sound of naked hunger.

The clicking abruptly ceased as a thousand lidless eyes shifted left. And though there was no wind, the forest of hairy legs rustled with a nervous shiver. From behind a long drape, a hoary skeletal figure drifted into view—the brittle tangle of hair, the pallor of sunken, decomposing skin and the teeth, yellowed and sharp and treacherous. The very same that had attacked her in the Forest.

The wail at once subsided into a shrill command: "Children, stand aside! Remember the bargain: you shall have his carcass, but the boy’s blood… is mine."

The scream echoed in Bethany’s head. Trembling, she fumbled with the crossbow, placed her finger on the trigger and pulled, and… nothing.

The arrow had jammed.

But the impotent click! of the release mechanism resounded into the chamber. Bethany’s eyes widened in horror as a thousand black eyes swung toward the door. Her wand dropped with a clatter to the flagstones. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand clasped over it. Struggling was useless as a firm grip tugged her into the darkness of a nearby cupboard.

Pinned against a wall of mops and broomsticks, she felt the scratch of their dry twigs cutting into the back of her gown and then… the comfort of gentle fingers running through her hair, the strength of arms wrapped around her trembling body and a single, oddly familiar whisper against her cheek.

"Hush."