Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

Chapter 24: Dead Pets

AIDED ONLY BY THE THIN STRIP OF PALE LIGHT slicing through the cupboard doorway, there was very little Bethany could discern of her rescuer. The broomstick twigs at her back dug like nettles into the nape of her neck as she strained to get a better view. Even as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, there was nothing visible of him other than a dark fringe over an angular profile partially hidden by his black mask. The stubble of his chin grazed her temple. He was tall. And strong, she thought, winded by his protective grasp around her waist.

The grip, however, slackened abruptly as his arms fell away. She heard the swish of robes against the splintery wood of a few storage boxes and the soft thunk of a toe hitting a stone step. There was a sharp intake of breath and a muttered exclamation, but the man set himself to pressing his eye against the crack in the door. Slipping the tip of a wand through the opening, he murmured an unfamiliar incantation, finishing just as the door to the demon's lair creaked aside. Craning her neck to see above his head through the tiny opening, Bethany saw the darkness of the atrium give way to a dim green glow. Marring the wall opposite, the tenebrous shapes of six-foot tall hairy legs parted as another shadow, fierce and skeletal, emerged from the chamber.

The man drew swiftly back into the cupboard, as if he were a shadow himself, taking refuge in the dark beside Bethany. She groped into her robes for her wand... only to find it missing. Damn! With sinking despair, she recalled hearing it drop to the floor moments earlier. At least there was the dagger, thought Bethany, rucking up her gown and slipping it silently from her garter.

The sinewy muscle of his arm brushed her shoulder. Bethany didn't so much hear as sense the man at her side holding his breath. Whoever he was, he'd be on the menu--along with herself--the moment the demon and its arachnid entourage discovered them in the cupboard.

Sinister shapes flickered against the far wall and the spectral shadow of a bony hand reached for the door handle. Bethany swallowed hard, feeling the tensing of every muscle in her body. Any second now... One... two...thr--

A cry rang out in the distance from above on the stairwell.

"Over 'ere, men! They're 'ere--at the bottom!"

Along the limestone walls bobbed the crackling yellow-orange glow of torch upon torch, heralding a stampede of boots thundering down from the upper floors.

"Quickly!"

"Torches forward! Spears!"

"Stakes!"

"Hurry, man! Hurry!"

"Wands out!"

"Bows at the ready!"

The demon let out a startled growl and swung round at the steady file of flaming torches. The clamouring voices were growing louder by the second. As the faint scraping and thumping of metal and wood rattled against the coarse grain of the walls, the demon gave a shuddering cringe and issued a shrill commanding wail. The atrium erupted in the frenzied clicking, hissing and scurrying of legs in retreat. Suddenly, the cupboard door slammed shut with a thump, plunging Bethany and her companion into blackness. And then... nothing.

Not a single sound to fracture the silence.

Not for several seconds.

Minutes, perhaps.

Bethany felt the dark man shift nervously. Slowly... carefully... she freed herself from the tangle of broomsticks on the wall and stepped forward. But an arm barred her from the door and a rough whisper tickled her ear.

"Wait."

From the push of his hand, the door's hinges squealed open painfully, the jarring sound reverberating through the atrium like a mournful cry.

The vestibule was empty. Exanimate, cold and grey. No evidence of any disturbance. It might have all been a dream but for the few thick spider hairs on the grey flagstones and the dark man's black robes billowing past her and out into the dim light.

Bethany followed cautiously and discovered that, although the door to the demon's lair hung slightly ajar, the windowless chamber beyond drowned in shadow, shrouded in a calming stillness.

Reluctantly lowering her dagger, Bethany retrieved her wand from the floor and straightened to see the man raise his own in the air. With a wave and a whisper, the angry mob's voices began again. Dancing cheekily down the banister like a procession of miniature faeries, came a trail of glinting spheres the size of dragons' eggs, emitting a flickering glow not unlike the torchlights that had driven away the beasts. Their chattering and whispering mimicked the same exhortations Bethany had heard moments earlier:

"Over 'ere, men!..."

"Torches forward..."

"Wands out..."

To Bethany's surprise, the voices grew progressively softer, diminishing entirely with the stream of twinkling orbs trickling back from whence they came: the tip of the man's wand.

Her rescuer half-turned and a corner of his mouth quirked up in the shadows.

"Not bad for an amateur ventriloquist," he said.

The dark man backed into a shaft of pale amber light and pushed his mask up past his dark fringe.

Bethany's mouth dropped open.

Sirius.

With an insouciant wave of his wand, he produced a gleaming torch. In its light, his blue eyes glittered roguishly for a moment... then blinked apprehensively as Bethany's lips formed a thin hard line. She squared her shoulders in what she hoped was a suitably detached, nonchalant fashion and turned abruptly toward the chamber entrance so that he might not see the embarrassed hue creeping across her cheeks.

"Bethany, wait."

There was a plaintive note in his voice that gave her pause.

"You can't--It's... not a good idea for you to go in alone."

Bethany glanced over her shoulder, shoring up an artillery of curt replies, when a loud clatter issued from the chamber, startling the pair of them. Bethany swung back to face the door.

"Take this," he ordered sharply. "It's safer."

Her cheeks began to burn, this time with irritation. At Sirius's tone, she felt as indignant as any agent who had just been manhandled out of proper attack position by a meddlesome stranger and thrust forcefully into a broom cupboard. Whirling round, she raised her brow in challenge and... blushed accordingly. Oh, for heaven's sake! What an inopportune moment to be noticing the mesmerising movement of Sirius Black's Adam's apple! Even if he was swallowing contritely.

"Please," he said quietly, "just take it."

She avoided his eyes, wondering if she had only imagined the slight twitch at the corners of his lips.

He held out the torch. At the brush of his fingers, she raised her gaze to the unreadable expression in his eyes. Eyes that darted to the floor as he cleared his throat.

"Look, I know this isn't--"

A moan from the darkened room cut him off.

Plucking the torch from his hand, Bethany swung round and tugged at the heavy door, its rusty hinges squealing in protest. She brandished the light ahead of her and stepped across the threshold with Sirius following close behind.

Bethany let out a long shaky breath as the golden glow of their flames illuminated the chamber. Pentagonal in shape, it bore no resemblance to any room she had come across in the rest of Hogwarts Castle, though the décor eerily called to mind a subterranean theatre Bethany had seen at De Vredewizardzakademie.

At the far end of the chamber hung a velvet drape the colour of congealed blood that did nothing to warm the other walls. Each was covered with sconces, supporting rows of sharp spears and axes and a morbid collection of trophies, the crumbling skulls of men and elves that peered down at the newcomers with sightless sockets. Tall crimson pillar candles formed a curious pattern in the centre of the room in the shape of a five-point star set within a circle. The core of the star comprised a mosaic illustration of a coiled serpent ringed in concentric circles of runic carvings... carvings that she recognised. A primitive calendar of days. A slow, steady countdown until... Oh, God!

The chamber didn't just resemble the one at De Vredewizardzakademie. It was the very same. Bethany shivered.

It was happening. Again.

Her stomach roiled with a sudden, sick feeling.

Suspended above the mosaic serpent was a body. Spread-eagled and upright, arms and legs tautly stretched to the ceiling and floor with thick glutinous strings, hung the motionless form of Eamon Mulroney. Bethany lowered her torch and knelt. At his feet stood a jade goblet etched with a single illustration--a snake wrapped around a wizened skull.

Bethany's eyes darted anxiously at the velvet drape.

It was almost too quiet.

Behind her, the only sound in the room was the echo of Sirius's footfalls against the stone floor. He waved his torch around at the five corners.

"It's all right," he whispered. "They're gone."

She shook her head.

"No." Her voice trembled, as she glanced again at the drape. "We have to move faster."

Levitating the torch at her side, she drew her dagger and began sawing through the translucent gum on the web. Its oleaginous secretion worked itself between her fingers, inflicting a chilling cold and--aaaaaarrrggghh!!

An excruciating burning seared into her hands and she gaped in horror as the skin on her fingers turned first red then an alarming shade of puce as the substance scored her flesh like concentrated Bubotuber Pus. The epidermis was already beginning to peel in places. Glancing at the boy, she realised that both Mulroney's wrists and ankles had been eaten almost clean through where they had come into contact with the sticky web. Dark rivulets of blood trickled down his arms and from his ankles. It pooled between his feet on the floor, sweeping cleanly into the jade chalice as if drawn by a magnetic force.

Bethany stared at the goblet. The dizzying glitter of the serpent's scales on the tiles. The blood. The unearthly crook of a pallid neck--one that belonged not to Mulroney, but to a blond boy with a once-rosy Dutch complexion. And from the past rang the hollow echo of low, thunderous chanting in a chamber full of savage voices. There was nothing she could do to stop it, and she looked on, helplessly blinking as the room began to spin...

"Bethany!"

Her head rocked awkwardly against someone's chest and steady arms caught her from behind. As she fluttered open her lids, the hazy apparition of a dark man sharpened into Sirius's features, twisted in concern. Reaching toward him, Bethany stopped and winced at the sight of the pustules forming along her knuckles.

"What--" Sirius spat a vehement exclamation, taking in the extent of the burns on her hands. He brought his wand tip to her fingers.

Bethany shook her head. "Not me," she whispered hoarsely. "I'm fine. The boy. Save the boy."

"If they come back, we won't stand a chance with you like this," insisted Sirius. "Hold still." He raised his wand. "Prophulactikus."

The cooling sensation was immediate, spreading from her fingertips through her palms and past her wrists. But she knew that, at best, it could only buy them another hour or so before the effect of the acid redoubled.

Seconds later, keeping clear of the web, Sirius had freed Mulroney and had administered the same Salve and Staunching Spell as the boy's horizontal body hovered limply in the air before them.

Bethany raised her fingers to the Huffelpuff's jugular. There was barely the hint of a pulse. Her eyes widened at Sirius.

"We've got to get him to the Hospital Wi--"

"Listen," said Sirius, raising a hand in warning. His eyes darted to the curtain.

A soft howling wind rustled the drape as if a distant door had opened. The ground shook with the rumble of stampeding legs. Sirius turned to Bethany with a face as white as ash.

"They're coming back!" he shouted. "Take him! Through the door, quickly!"

A loud tearing of thick fabric echoed through the chamber as a flurry of spider legs and pincers shredded the flapping red drape. Its metal rod fell to the stone floor with a startling clang!

Bethany tugged the Mulroney boy through the open door by his arms, settled him against the wall of the vestibule, then doubled back through the opening. She gasped. Three spiders, their bulbous many-eyed heads brushing against the beams across the high ceiling, were bearing down on Sirius. Behind them, he looked no larger than a flea, backing edgily into a corner and casting hex after hex, but to no apparent effect.

She pointed her wand at the closest of the spiders.

"Stupefy!"

A stream of red light bounced off the beast's side. But rather than fall, it turned its angry head in her direction... and charged. As its shadow lumbered forward, she glimpsed the room, a miasma of smoke and jets of red and green light, multiplied in the eerie kaleidoscope of the spider's eyes. Through the tangle of its hairy legs she saw Sirius, clutching at a deep gash on his arm as one of the other spiders sliced at him with another sharp leg. The blood soaked through his robes, trickling fast through his fingers.

"Bethany! Run!" he yelled. An unexpected blow clipped him behind the legs. He knocked his head against a stone pillar and crumpled to his knees.

A violent swish! in the air inches from her nose brought Bethany's attention back to the beast towering above her, its pincers clicking wildly.

She raised her wand, calling upon and willing into being the essence and force of everything she knew of the Dark.

"Avada Kedavra!"

But she might as well have been aiming at the beast with a sugar quill, as the spell had no effect on it other than to redouble its fury. And if the Killing Curse had no effect, that had to mean that it was already--

She dodged a flurry of rapier-sharp feelers as the spider lashed at her with its foremost appendages. Diving back against a stone pillar, she took temporary cover. Her gaze raked the walls behind her and--a-ha!

Cracking a spell from her wand like a whip, she dislodged four skulls and a mace from the sconces above and hurled them at the spider's eyes. They splintered against its corneas and the sharp-studded mace drew forth streams of warm black fluid. The spider gave a high-pitched hiss and tottered a few steps back in surprise, waving its unwieldy forelegs to shield its head.

Keeping her back to the wall, Bethany hurried across the room toward the two other spiders, now engaged in a fight over which would get the dazed-looking Sirius for dinner. The skirmishing spiders scratched ferociously at each other with furious swings of their hairy legs and the flagstones cracked and loosened with the weight of each blow.

Bethany slipped past them unnoticed and knelt beside Sirius, who nodded groggily. Gripping her wand between her teeth, she reached under her gown and sliced off her garter with the dagger.

"Aaagghhh... ow..." He groaned as she tightened the tourniquet around his arm. "...hurts."

"Come on," she coaxed, positioning his good arm around her shoulder. "Sirius. Darling, wake up." She brushed her hand against his cheek. A nasty welt was beginning to form just above his temple. "We've got to go now, or that's not the only thing that's going to hurt--"

She ducked, pulling him after her as a tapered leg flew at their heads and chipped the stone pillar. The column trembled, raining sharp limestone shards.

That seemed to wake him up. Sirius fumbled with his wand and raised a shaky arm as all three spiders inched forward, backing their prey against the corner.

They were trapped.

**********

Damn it. Where could they be?

Ron shuffled out of the deserted portrait gallery opposite the Great Hall, casting a backward glance at the collection of Headmasters' Dead Pet Portraits on the walls. As there was very little of interest in the gallery (apart from the odd frisky Puffskein dragging what looked like a sticky wad of bogies across a frame), the room had made the perfect place for a quick rendezvous with his Musketeer mentors. D'Artagnan himself had suggested it.

In the threshold, Ron scowled in frustration and felt his stomach give a nervous lurch. They were supposed to have been here at nine o'clock to give him last-minute pointers on... (he blushed)... well, on how to woo Hermione, but... He ducked his head back in and surveyed the portraits of cats, cuddly Crup pups and fluorescent fanged goldfish. Nope. Not a single horse or cavalryman in sight.

He sighed and weaved back through the few stragglers hanging about the entrance to the Great Hall, resolving to check the Dead Pet Room again in a bit. He retrieved his pumpkin juice and settled himself beside Harry, as Fred and George stood to resume their duties at the drinks table.

"Have either of you seen, er... Snuffles anywhere?" asked Professor Lupin, bounding in from the entrance.

Ron blinked at their former professor from above the rim of his tumbler. Lupin, standing before them in his threadbare charcoal dress robes, blinked back excitedly. His greying sandy hair was slightly mussed, which might have made him look pitiable if not for the heightened colour in his countenance and the bright look in his eyes. The hollows of his cheeks were rosy with the cold and he rubbed his hands together giddily, as if he had some delicious morsel of news to bestow. His face wore that pinched expression, like he might burst into laughter at any second, and he exuded a kind of glow that put Ron in mind of Bill or Charlie coming home from an Exceptionally Good Date.

"Snuffles?" repeated Ron.

"Yes." He nodded vigorously. "Is he... Have you seen him?"

"Not since he asked Professor Trelawney to dance," said Harry, unsuccessfully trying to manoeuvre a glass of butterbeer into the jaws of his gorilla outfit. He gave up with a frustrated sigh and poked a finger into the gorilla's eye hole to push up his spectacles.

Lupin straightened his shoulders in surprise. He raised his eyebrows and blinked. "He... he what? Trelawney?"

"Yeah." Ron nodded. "In one of those old fashioned numbers where you switch partners. By the end, though," he added thoughtfully, "he ended up with Professor White, I think."

"Ah." Lupin gave a sage--one might have said cheeky--little nod, as if that explained everything.

Ron frowned at him curiously, but the man offered no further explanation.

"So..." said Lupin, clearing his throat and searching the crowded Hall impatiently, "where are they--er, is he?"

Harry shrugged in his gorilla suit. He seemed distracted by a blonde in a red beaded dress dancing in the arms of a dark-haired pirate. Ron, lanky as he was, had a perfect view of nearly everyone in the Hall as he glanced round, half in search of Hermione, and now, Sirius and Professor White. He shook his head and scratched apologetically at his fake goatee.

"Dunno," he said. "Think he might have left shortly after Professor White stalked off. She didn't look like she was in such a good m--"

"I am sorry to interrupt you, Ronald, but... Remus, could I have a word?"

Ron and Harry both turned at the sudden appearance of the Headmaster. For the first time that evening, Dumbledore was not smiling. The creases had deepened on the old wizard's forehead and the usual twinkle in his eyes had vanished. He rested a hand on Lupin's arm and gave the man a grave, pointed look.

The light in Lupin's face immediately extinguished. He nodded and turned back to the boys. "Would you...er, excuse me?"

Ron shared a quizzical frown with Harry.

"Uh, right. Sure."

"'Course."

Lupin moved after the Headmaster but called over his shoulder, "If you see Snuffles, would you please tell him I'm in Professor Dumbledore's office?"

Ron and Harry nodded. Lupin flashed them a smile that Ron supposed was meant to be reassuring and slid away into the crowd of merrymakers.

"What d'you reckon that's all about?" mused Harry. His gaze followed the Headmaster's peaked cap as it vanished through the Staff Exit.

But Ron wasn't paying attention.

"Mmmph."

He was too busy trying not to turn a deep pink.

There she was.

And she looked...

"Hi, Hermione. You look nice," said Harry politely.

Nice?

"Nice" was an understatement.

Hermione had done something to her hair to sweep it up so that loose tendrils curled round her face here and there, and at the nape of her neck. With the glittering stones laced in her hair and that necklace, she could have been a faerie queen. And she was wearing a... a... The technical words for this type of gown had always flown over his head. Translucent pale pink silk... organ-something? In retrospect, maybe he should have paid a little attention to his mum's and Ginny's conversations about clothes. Ron frowned. On the other hand... what kind of man does that? I mean, what man other than Gilderoy Lockhart?

Only after a significant glare from Harry through the gorilla mask did Ron realise that he had yet to say something.

Ron cleared his throat and nodded jerkily, nearly tipping off his plumed hat.

"So. Er, what... I mean, who are you supposed to be?" He nearly winced at the words; they sounded stupid even as they left his mouth.

Ron frowned. He didn't have this much trouble talking to Hermione when she was in her Gryffindor uniform. Why should he have any difficulty now that she was wearing a dress... that showed the curve of her waist... with a scooped neckline that... that made him blush as much as the look she was giving him now.

If Hermione was aware of his discomfort, she didn't show it. Instead, she gave him a bashful smile of her own. It might have been the heat from the dance floor, but he thought her cheeks did seem a bit pink.

"There wasn't anything left at Gladrags and the only costume left in my size at Zonko's was, well..." She trailed off awkwardly and shrugged, with a sheepish swing of the mask in her hand. "Zonko said the Frenchman who sold it to him last week swore that it once belonged to Queen Anne of Austria." Hermione smoothed down the front of her dress and chewed her lip with a rare expression of uncertainty that Ron decided was very becoming. "You don't think it's a bit too--"

"Incredible," blurted Ron without thinking. Merlin. He could have kicked himself. Why did everything he say have to be so naff? "I--I mean, good--er, better, at least!" Hermione frowned. "Oh, no, I mean, not that you don't look okay enough normally, but..."

As Hermione persisted in her baffled blinking, Ron turned to the gorilla with a silent plea for help. To his chagrin, he found that Harry was pointedly preoccupying himself with folding and refolding a paper napkin to hide the mirthful shaking of his furry shoulders. Oh, great. Ron fervently wished that he had just saved himself the trouble and worn Harry's Invisibility Cloak.

Ron swallowed hard. "Erm... I'll be... right back."

Muttering curses under his breath and fighting the flush in his face, he slid out through the Entrance Hall and back to the Gallery of Headmasters' Dead Pets. As he'd expected, it was empty of guests. Casting an eye impatiently across the walls, Ron was both relieved and annoyed to hear familiar voices whispering to him from a corner painting of a white kitten snoozing beside a stack of weighty-looking scrolls. In front of its paws and behind a ball of yarn hunched the valets Planchet and Grimaud.

"Monsieur! Oh, I am so glad eet is you!"

"Hi, Planchet," said Ron lamely. He had been about to berate them for being late, but stopped when he realised that Grimaud kept glancing warily over his shoulder at the white kitten. Relative to the snoozing feline, the two young men were the size of acorns. Though the little feline appeared to be asleep, drowsily bobbing its head against a black spot on its left leg, its nose and whiskers twitched ominously.

"Monsieur D'Artagnan sends 'is compliments," announced Planchet, who, unlike Grimaud, seemed completely unperturbed.

Ron scowled. "Where is Monsieur D'Artagnan?" he asked, unable to keep the exasperation from his voice. "And Athos and Porthos and--"

"Zey wair on zair way to meet you zis evening," Planchet explained, "but at ze last moment, zey found ze wairabouts of le demon clair, 'oo zey believe is trying to infiltrate zis castle. Most likely, zey are following the demon's progress now, monsieur."

"Oh," said Ron, giving his head a contrite little scratch. "Well... I suppose that's... more important..."

"But Monsieur D'Artagnan and ze rest 'ave been watching you, too, zis evening, monsieur, and zair advice is--" Planchet paused irritably to swat at the timid taps Grimaud had begun to rain on his shoulder. "Mais, attends, Grimaud! Tais-toi! You can see I am talking to Monsieur Weasley!" He turned back to Ron and pressed his palms together as if about to impart the Great Musketeers' Secret To The Lovelorn. "Monsieur D'Artagnan's advice, as well as zat of Messieurs Athos, Aramis and Porthos, is to... be yourself."

"Myself?" Ron was more than a tad disappointed. "That's it?" That was just the sort of advice that didn't really offer... well, much practical advice. It even sounded like something his own mum might say. He raised his eyebrows incredulously. "Porthos said that, too, did he?"

Planchet hesitated and bit his lip. "Eh... Monsieur Porthos also said to tip 'eavily, dress flamboyantly and 'e said to drink a bottle of ze best burgundy in ze 'ouse before ze rendez-vous if you are feeling particularly nervous... but Monsieur D'Artagnan said zat in your case, zis is neither necessary nor advisable--Quel culot, Grimaud!" he exclaimed suddenly, turning to his cowering companion. "Par dieu, tu m'embetes, toi! Be patient, please. Monsieur Weasley and I are almost finished..." Turning back from his friend, Planchet screwed his eyes shut for a moment in concentration. "Eh... ah, yes. Ze girl seems to 'ave an affection for you already, you see, based on conversations zey 'ave 'eard in ze... what do you call zem? Dormeetories?"

Ron's eyebrows flew up, intrigued. "She was talking about me? When? What did she say?"

But he received no response. At that moment, the hitherto silent Grimaud gave a loud cry, shoving Planchet to the ground. There was a wild swish! as a large groping paw narrowly missed their heads and knocked the wool skein across the floor. The kitten's greenish-yellow eyes blinked in ravenous anticipation as they lit upon not one but two tasty wriggling morsels scrambling to standing position on the floor.

Ron had seen Crookshanks attack defenceless birds and mice enough times to recognise a full-scale attack in progress. The animal pulled back on its haunches, seconds away from a pounce, when Ron thwacked the portrait with an angry fist that was roughly the same size as the cat on the canvas. It leaped aside in alarm--mercifully away from the two valets--and hissed at Ron, baring a cavernous throat fenced with sharp white teeth.

"Don't just stand there!" Ron yelled at the two men. "Run!"

Without further ado (except for what looked like an hasty bow from Grimaud), the two young men raced toward a small hole in the skirting board of an adjacent wall, leaving the giant white kitten meowing, furiously pounding and dragging its claws across the mouse hole entrance.

Ron stepped back from the painting, clutching his chest with one hand. Those two... He shook his head in relief. Never a dull moment. His heart rate had only just begun to slow down when he remembered Hermione and--

"Weasley! I should've guessed. What's all that racket you're makin' in 'ere?"

The sneering, grizzled face of Filch the caretaker peered round the doorframe from the Entrance Hall. At his feet, scurrying to a stop and eyeing Ron with glowing red eyes, was the ubiquitous Mrs Norris.

"I--I... was just setting the frame straight," fibbed Ron, adjusting the tilt of the canvas. "Keeps falling from the wall."

Filch narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously and bared his rows of yellowing teeth. But he stepped forward to inspect the rear of the portrait. Taking that as his cue to jump carefully over the hissing Mrs Norris, Ron made a bee-line back for the Great Hall with a lighter step and a lighter heart.

He might have been a bit awkward, but D'Artagnan and his friends thought he was doing fine... and they'd overheard Hermione... talking about him! He wished he could have been a portrait on that wall. But what was it Planchet said? "She seems to 'ave an affection for you--" For me!

Ron's face broke into a wide grin and he fought desperately against the desire to break into a little jig on the way to the table. He even smiled at Valentina Rupp and Pansy Parkinson.

They think she has an affection for me! ME! Me, me, me. Hermione has an affection for--

Krum.

Ron stopped abruptly in mid-step and felt his heart thud to the floor. What's hedoing here?

Viktor Krum. There was no mistaking the gaunt profile, the large curved nose and the brooding stoop of the sallow-skinned young man that mocked him from every Bulgarian National Team Trading Card--every card that Ron had burnt down to cinders after Hermione left to visit Krum's family over the summer. (He had, however, out of an odd sense of obligation to sporting posterity, spared Krum's autograph. Ron couldn't stand the ruddy Slav, but even he knew he wasn't about to destroy a dog-eared fragment of his History of Magic final personally autographed by the youngest and most famous Seeker in Bulgarian Quidditch History.) Ron had torched Hermione's postcards from Tŭrgovishte, too, and then had withdrawn into his room for a week and not spoken once. Even the ghoul in the attic had gone strangely quiet, seeming to know better than to taunt Ron for the rest of the week.

Now, ignoring the warning glances shared by the twins behind the drinks table, Ron felt his hands clenching into tight fists at his side. A nervous pulsing began in his right jaw as Krum bent to kiss Hermione on each cheek. And as she beamed up at Krum in obvious delight, the pulsing felt like a hammer against the side of his head.

Ron moved through the hall sluggishly, dogged by a horrible thought. She invited him.

Ron's shoulders slumped. Approaching them both, he inspected Krum in his simple dark grey travel cloak and black Kelpie-hide dress gloves and Ron suddenly felt clownish and effeminate in his borrowed Musketeer's doublet with its gilded crest and the broad-brimmed plumed hat.

"...so good you came, Viktor," Hermione said. Ron noticed with a pang that she gave Krum's hand an extra squeeze. "Merry Christmas."

Krum's sallow face was turning a soft shade of red around the edges. "Merry Christmas to you as vell," he said with a nod. "You look... vonderful." Hermione smiled, blushing. "And your parents," continued Krum, hastily changing the subject, "they are doing vell also, I hope? Ve, Lilia, my brothers, my parents and I, are very grateful for your mother's box of Christmas krekkers and the mink pies--"

"So you got them, then." Hermione pressed her lips together and smiled indulgently. "I hope you and your family enjoy the presents in the crackers," she said, unable to resist slipping in the correct pronunciation. "And Mum thought the mince pies might lure your grandmother to the cabin for the day at least."

"You are remembering this!" exclaimed Krum happily. "Yes, Babushka is very seldom crossing the vood to visit us since the Pogrebin attack. Ve are grateful for your father's help in catching it."

"Well, you're welcome." Hermione shrugged. "But I think unwittingly stepping on the thing's head and then Dad slipping on top of it on the grass was no great act of heroism--"

"Oh, yes, it vos," insisted Krum. They both laughed at the memory.

Standing now a few feet behind the Slav, Ron shifted uncomfortably, feeling more and more like an intruder. He should have just turned on his heel and left, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

"I thought you weren't planning to come tonight," said Hermione.

Krum raised his thick black eyebrows. "I vosn't. Vit great difficulty I vos negotiating vit Wilfried for a whole veekend to visit again Scotland. Still ve are practicing from six o'clock, vorking nearly every day twice a day..." He shrugged his bony shoulders and smiled at Hermione. "You know how is Wilfried. I haff only few hours this evening."

Hermione smiled sympathetically. Krum smiled, too, little wrinkles appearing at the edges of his dark eyes. Ron, who thought this made him look even more like a vampire, finally cleared his throat.

"Yeah, well, 'shame you can't stay long," Ron cut in bitterly.

Hermione, noticing Ron for the first time, frowned and gave him a sharp glare that reminded him, oddly, of his mother. "But... er, glad you could make it, of course," he added hastily.

Krum's smile faded slightly and the familiar surliness flashed across his face for an instant. But it vanished just as abruptly, and the Bulgarian Seeker shared a conspiratorial glance with Hermione. Ron swallowed a sudden urge to punch Krum's big nose in.

"Hello, Ron." Krum's voice was polite, but his eyes regarded him with caution, as he might track the moves of a capricious Bludger.

Ron recalled his previous conversation with Porthos and Aramis about Krum, and suddenly everything clicked. He thinks I'm going to fight him. Swallowing carefully, Ron caught Hermione's anxious expression from the corner of his eye. They both do. But if he picked a fight with Krum, Ron was sure he'd forever lose any respect Hermione may have had for him. And that, to him, wasn't a risk worth taking.

Ron grasped Krum's outstretched hand and nodded. "Merry Christmas to you." He forced a friendly half-smile.

"Merry Christmas," said Krum. Following Ron's cue, his stern features relaxed surprisingly into a relieved grin that made the surly international Quidditch star look like just another student.

And because he thought it was the polite thing to do, Ron asked, "Can I, er... get you a drink?"

"No, thank you," said Krum, starting to peer over their heads. His face took on a business-like cast. "I haff really come only to speak vit Harry Potter."

"Uh, sure. He's right--" Ron raised his ginger brows as the import of Krum's words hit him. "You... you mean, you didn't come for the dance?"

"No." Krum sucked in his hollow cheeks and shook his head. "I vos told only to find Potter and bring him back to see our Minister of Magic."

"Why?" Hermione's surprised glance went from Krum to Ron and back to Krum again.

Krum leaned his bony face forward, glancing warily around at a nearby cluster of students. Then he continued in a stage whisper over Woozy and the Banshees's cover of "Moon Over Bourbon Street".

"Uncle Krystof--he is a forest ranger like my father," he explained to Ron, "he vos patrolling the voods vit his colleagues last night and they found something that only Harry Potter might--"

"That only I might what?"

"P--Potter?"

There was a moment of silence as Krum gaped in astonishment at a hairy gorilla as it slurped through a straw from a tumbler of fresh butterbeer. Then Ron heard a sound that had never occurred to him that he might hear.

Viktor Krum laughed.

And Ron, Harry and Hermione laughed with him.

**********

In Azkaban, apart from the changing of the guards and the anguished sobs and screeches of the other inmates in his block, the spiders that had crawled into Sirius's cell from the outside world were the only evidence of a life other than the farce that he called his own. Several had nested in the crags along the walls and he had welcomed them as his guests. He even dimly recalled dropping a few dead insects onto their webs as offerings. In his life, Sirius had never once experienced arachnophobia.

Until now.

Thwack!

The sharp, sticky end of a trunk-sized leg narrowly missed his head and knocked off another chunk of the column behind him.

"Avada Ke--"

"Don't waste your breath," Bethany said, hastily tucking his arm around her shoulder again. "Won't work. They're already dead."

"Wha--"

The chamber crackled with the sound of bristly hairs scratching against each other as the three towering spiders scraped their forelegs together in ravenous anticipation. Their glassy, lidless eyes multiplied his fearful expression and Bethany's. Sirius twisted his neck to look up at her and winced at the throbbing in his temple. But she didn't appear so much fearful as thoughtful as her eyes took in the walls above them.

A jet of milky liquid shot past his arm and she ducked again, dragging him with her further along the wall, which began to hiss and smoke where the spider's web had attached itself.

"Can you move your wand arm?" she asked.

He lifted his hand experimentally. "Yeah, I think--"

"Good." She tilted her chin briskly toward the portion of wall above the spiders. "Now, look."

He did, swivelling his shoulders to avoid more of the spiders' violent swiping. Above and around them, glimmering dully in the shadows beside rows of crusty skulls and crumbling stonework, hung an impressive armoury of ancient weapons. Rapiers. Maces. Axes. Halberds. Cutlasses...

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he glanced back at the witch at his side, who was grinning excitedly. He knew that look. From across a darkened fencing room, that impish gleam in her eye, and the playful quirk of her--

Smash!

But he could think about that later.

She screamed beside him and Sirius was alarmed to see blood slowly begin to pour from a fresh wound on her shoulder.

But before he could staunch the bleeding with a spell, she had raised her arm again and aimed it at the weapons along the far wall. They came away easily, hung in the air for a moment, and then plunged at the eyes of the two closest spiders. The beasts reared back on their hind legs and clawed at their eyes. The third, which appeared to have already suffered some injury, came crawling forward. Sirius raised his wand, arcing a shower of red light over the weapons on the side wall. Axes, halberds, spears, all rusty but sharp, hurtled down in a torrent of metal rain, piercing the eyes of all three spiders, now hissing and squeaking venomously. The spiders, effectively blind, groped at their eyes. Their legs teetered dangerously like half-felled tree trunks.

"Can you stand?" Without waiting for a reply, she helped him up.

The shooting pain in his left leg was almost unbearable when he stood on his own, but Sirius winced and nodded. "Let's go," he croaked.

Weaving through the dense, quivering wood of the spiders' hairy legs was an ordeal in itself--the last of the beasts crashed against the stone floor seconds after he and Bethany had passed--but there was no stopping until they fell through the chamber door and into the stillness of the darkened atrium.

Sirius quickly closed the door on the sounds of thrashing and the angry scraping of the spiders' sharp hooks against the wood. He slid the bolt across and sank to the floor beside Bethany. The laceration on her shoulder was still bleeding, but she had managed to staunch it with some conjured gauze. The drape of her dark hair concealed the wound nicely and the only palpable signs of their ordeal were a few tears in her gown which he waved away with a quick "Reparo".

"Thank you," she whispered breathlessly, giving him a grateful smile.

He grinned but almost immediately winced at the pain tearing up his leg. Sirius felt the discomfort lessen considerably, however, at the sound of her empathetic gasp. Reaching forward, her hands inspected around his knee.

Bethany's forehead wrinkled into a small frown. "I can't tell if it's broken or just sprained." She shook her head. "You're going to need a splint before we get you to Madam Pomfrey--"

"No!" he growled.

Bethany drew back as if bitten. Sirius hung his head and shook it in apology. "She... doesn't know..."

"About you being an Animagus," she finished matter-of-factly.

"Or that I'm here."

"But she's the only--"

"Don't." Sirius shook his head. "I can't explain it all to you, but...trust me, it's as much for her safety as for mine."

She gnawed absently at her bottom lip, her gaze travelling anxiously from the bloody tourniquet on his arm to his knee. "Well... I think I might still have enough provisions in my MediKit, but it'll have to wait until after we get Mulroney--"

She glanced round the shadowy atrium for the first time.

"He's gone!"

"Well, he can't have got far," observed Sirius. He pointed at the wall opposite, where a faint trail of bloody hand and footprints ascended from the base of the steps.

"I'll go," she said. "You stay here."

At his back, a loud thud! and a series of furious scratches peppered fruitlessly at the door. Sirius gave a dark laugh.

"I think I'd rather not stay, if you don't mind," he said wryly. He waved his good arm and transfigured one of her arrows into a rough hewn walking stick. "You catch up with the boy," he said. "I'll follow on at my own pace."

She squinted up the spiral stairs, vanishing into blackness, then looked at him with concern. "Are you sure you'll be--"

"Go on," he insisted, gingerly picking himself up from the floor. Sirius braced himself against a narrow column. "I'll be fine. Go."

Bethany picked up her discarded quiver and reloaded the crossbow, flipping the release mechanism to double-test it. She pulled back the bow and locked it in place before pressing it into his hands.

"Here, then. It should work properly now," she said. "But be careful. That thing's capable of--"

"Yes, I'm quite aware of what it can do," he said dryly, fingering his ribs.

Sirius knew he was being cheeky, but he was also enjoying the sight of the embarrassed flush that flew across her cheeks. It was rather fetching, actually.

Bethany gave a nervous cough. "Yes, well... mind you don't kill yourself," she said stiffly.

Biting her lip again, she hesitated before picking up her wand and dagger, and then, with a deep breath mounted the stairs with dignity. A dignity that was, unfortunately, short-lived. She tripped, catching her heel on the third step, but instantly righted herself, picking up her skirts and turning a deep pink colour around her cheeks as she hastened from view.

The chamber door rattled from behind, but more feebly this time.

Sirius, wincing at the pain in his leg, allowed himself a small smile, despite himself. Very fetching.

**********

Harry was disappointed to discover that the Fat Lady had gone missing from her portrait. That made it the fourth night that week. Under normal circumstances, Harry wouldn't have minded waiting, except that after having climbed several flights, the lining of the heavy gorilla suit had begun to stick uncomfortably to his skin from all that perspiration. That and the fact that Viktor Krum had followed him. The former Triwizard Champion had insisted on speaking to Harry confidentially and the only place Harry could think of that would offer any privacy was Gryffindor Tower, as the evening was still early and the Masque was in full swing. (The broom cupboard in the Entrance Hall did spring to mind, but Harry immediately discounted the idea, as moments before Krum's arrival, he noticed a starry-eyed Angelina vanishing into it behind a familiar mop of red hair and a fake Roman collar.)

Harry cleared his throat, feeling sheepish in his role as host, and glanced uncertainly at Krum. But the young man was still peering over the edge of the balustrade, with a look of amused wonderment on his face, taking in the helix of moving staircases both above and below the tower mezzanine and the snores and vociferous merry-making of the portrait occupants along the halls. Well, at least he's preoccupied.

Harry pulled off the gorilla mask and took a deep breath of fresh air. Just as he rapped his knuckles on the portrait frame for the third time, the Fat Lady's flushed face and shoulders appeared at the side of the canvas. Her mousey ringlets were distinctly dishevelled, a portion of her pink dress had slid down to reveal a scandalous amount of shoulder, and her eyes held the same dazed expression that he had seen in Angelina's earlier that evening.

"Yes?" she asked irritably. "What is it?" Harry noticed that she was panting.

The Fat Lady's eyes blinked clear as she followed Harry's gaze to her bare shoulder. With a little shriek, she pulled the garment back in place and flushed redder than the Gryffindor crest.

"Password?" she said, calling on some of her customary severity.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Er... erm..." Good grief, he'd forgotten the password.

As he scratched his head, trying to jog his memory, the ruddy face of a man with an auburn beard appeared beside hers. The man peered first at Harry and then at the Fat Lady.

"But, my dear Emeline, what is the matter?" he said in a deep French drawl.

"I can't let him through unless he gives me the password," she said, with a petulant twist of her lips.

"Bah!" exclaimed the sanguine stranger. "That is what I find so endearing about you, ma biche, this English obsession with rules. Come, my delicious Botticelli. You know what you need? You must let me teach you to... live on the edge." Harry's brows perked up in amusement as the man's lips curled enticingly. It amused him even more as the Fat Lady giggled, blushing profusely.

The red-haired man inspected Harry again with a curt nod. "It is this Harry Potter, who is a member of your House, is it not?" he asked. "Then simply ask him to show you his scar and be done with it, cherie. This lovely lit-bateau is getting cold..." The man's head withdrew from the frame, leaving the Fat Lady blinking and blushing at Harry and his guest.

Krum had stopped scanning the castle interior and had observed the entire exchange with the Fat Lady.

"Very... interesting," murmured Krum, pressing his lips together in a poor attempt not to smile.

"Well, perhaps just this once," whispered the Fat Lady indulgently. She mimicked Harry lifting up his fringe.

Harry complied, pushing his mop of hair back over his scar, and the portrait swung aside to let them pass. Krum stepped through the threshold with Harry following. Harry thought he heard the Fat Lady giggle coquettishly as he glimpsed a muscular arm pull her out of the frame.

***

It was a good fifteen minutes before Harry pried Krum from the common room and entered the boys' dormitory. He wondered again what kind of place Durmstrang must be if Krum was awed by the simple comforts of the common room--enough to sink into every squashy armchair and to finger the tapestries. Probably cold and uninviting, he thought. Krum didn't even seem to mind that the boys' dorm looked a right tip. The house-elves had clearly not yet begun their Christmas clean-up. Harry kicked Seamus's discarded socks into a corner and Ron's Chudley Cannons jersey to the shadows beside his trunk.

"Er... sorry about the mess," he mumbled as Krum peeked his head round the doorframe.

"Wow, your room is haffing vindows," breathed Krum.

"Uh... yeah." Harry paused in rummaging through his trunk and raised a quizzical brow. "You... you don't... er, didn't?" Pulling out one of Mrs Weasley's jumpers and a button down shirt, he glanced over his shoulder.

Krum gaped around in awe at the intricate carvings of the five four-poster beds and their lush velvet drapes, shaking his head in amazement. With a little sniff, Krum's eyes glossed uninterestedly over the promo poster of himself from the previous year's Quidditch World Cup. Harry supposed that kind of media attention was second nature to international level Quidditch stars like Krum, who seemed more intrigued by Dean Thomas's West Ham football poster. Harry grinned in amusement, watching him poke a long thin finger at the players in a vain attempt to make them move.

"Vell..." began Krum absently, "in the classrooms ve vere haffing vindows, but the student quarters... many are underground, undervater--Ooof!"

Harry swung round at the thud thud thud as the contents of a sack spilled onto the floor. Across the old woollen rug were oddly-shaped greenish balls that he recognised as the parsnips Dobby had given him from Chef Rojah months before. He'd forgotten all about those. Krum was already bending to pick them up. On his knees, hastily throwing the parsnips back into their burlap sack, Harry realised that mould had grown over them, giving them the look and texture of algae-covered boulders. Eeeuuch!

"This!" exclaimed Krum. "This is excellent craftsmanship!"

Harry blinked in confusion as Krum held up a glittering silver box covered in what looked like illustrations of faeries. Darting to and fro across the sides, they stopped occasionally to peer at Krum and Harry. Some waved. Some ignored them. And others blew big, fat raspberries before twittering off and giggling.

"Ve are only haffing these in museums in Bulgaria, these heirloom boxes," said Krum. "They stopped making these in my country centuries ago ven the last of the metal vos mined." He frowned at Harry curiously. "I am vondering, vy are you keeping it in a bag of old vegetables?"

Harry blushed, already acutely embarrassed at the state of the dorm. Suddenly, he remembered Dobby's voice. Dobby... must not ruin the surprise for Harry Potter. The surprise! That must have been the surprise from the Master Chef!

Turning to Krum again, he said, "Er... was that where you found it?"

"It fell out vit the... how do you say... potatoes?"

"Parsnips, actually," said Harry with a shrug, taking the box from Krum and hastily stuffing it back into the sack of parsnips for lack of a proper hiding place. Harry gave him a sheepish grin, but Krum, finally settling his spindly legs on the chair beside Ron's bed, already seemed to be distracted by the sight of something else.

Krum eyed the model figure of himself perched precariously on a forgotten stack of Ron's Which Broom? back issues. With a bemused expression, Krum picked his miniature self up and held it to the light. The model Krum did not stand on his namesake's palm, but instead winced and hunched over, gingerly fingering his arm at the elbow where it had once been snapped off and then hastily glued on--backwards. Krum furrowed his brows into a long dark line.

Harry cleared his throat. "So... er, why does the Bulgarian Minister want to see me?"

Krum opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

Harry dropped a bundle of clothes on his bed and reached round to pull the handle. Remus Lupin stood at the threshold and nodded at Harry and Krum.

"Oh, good, I see you're almost ready," said Lupin.

Harry's brows slid up above his spectacles in astonishment. "You know about this?"

"Dumbledore does as well," said Lupin.

"Then what--"

Lupin shook his head. "I think it's best if the Headmaster explains to you personally. There's something he wants us to see when you're through packing here." Noticing Krum for the first time, he nodded at the surly-looking young man in the corner.

"Oh, um... Professor Lupin, Viktor Krum." Harry fumbled the introduction disrtactedly.

"How do you do," said Lupin.

"Hello." Viktor stood and offered his hand in an awkward gesture but with a gravitas that made him look less like a star Quidditch player and more like a political emissary.

It was a surreal moment for Harry, watching Krum and Lupin shake hands. He felt almost as if the two chapters of his life--from both before and after the events of the Triwizard Tournament--had merged. And from the looks on the two men's faces, he wasn't sure that the next chapter would be any less harrowing.

**********

One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one, two, three--Good Lord, how many stairs are there?

Bethany leaned her shoulder against the cool limestone of the stairwell and clutched at a stitch in her side. Her head was starting to spin and, if she closed her eyes, she could see bright spots floating against the insides of her lids. Mmmph. And to think I wondered why I never passed the endurance tests to be a Field Agent. She tilted her head up at the mezzanines lying between her and the strip of bluish moonlight that marked the landing by the trophy room.

They had been quite far underground in that chamber... That chamber that she was now certain was the very same as the one at De Vredewizardzakademie. There was no mistaking the serpentine mosaic embedded with runic carvings. Bethany frowned. But how was that possible when she had seen to its destruction herself? The spiders, however, were new. How such large beasts had managed to infiltrate the castle and thwart all its wards was a mystery... Though she did have her suspicions.

Running her fingers along the walls, she came across more livid streaks of caked blood left by the Mulroney boy. How on earth did he get up this far? she marvelled, leaning her weary self against the banister to catch her breath. Echoing up from the shadowy depths, she heard the unsteady click clackof wood against stone that meant that Sirius was making progress up the stairs.

Sirius.

His name alone in her head was enough to stir the Pixies in her stomach--arthritic Pixies that hadn't done that much quivering since she was a besotted Beauxbatons student in that darkened fencing room years ago--

Must. Stop. Thinking. About. That.

Great Merlin, she thought, finally reaching the trophy room landing. She was no better than any of the starry-eyed adolescents under her tutelage. Thinking about her behaviour on the dance floor, in the cupboard (though, did that really count? She hadn't even known it was him then), in the spiders' den when--Oh, dear. She was embarrassing even herself. Bethany was suddenly hit with a vague recollection of having called him "darling" at some point, which she fervently hoped was simply a figment of her now-overwrought imagination.

With any luck, he won't remember. Men never did remember, anyway, she thought dismissively. Selective memories and all. He was half-conscious at the time and under attack from giant flesh-eating spiders, so there were obviously more important things to preoccupy his--

Holy Circe!

The blue dappled glow of the night filtered through the mullioned gothic arches, glinting here and there on gilded plaques and Quidditch trophies, gently caressing the lush embroidered drapes beside the windows, the decorative benches, and... the body of a boy, face-down in a dark pool of his own blood.

Eamon appeared to have collapsed at last in front of a grim bronze statue of the god Pluto. His head had fallen inches away from the commemorative brass plaque that read, "In Memoriam, C. A. Diggory."

NO! No, no, no... Bethany flung herself down at the boy's side, and was immediately assaulted by the coppery stench of blood. She pressed her fingers to his neck... and breathed a sigh of relief. There was a pulse. Faint. Barely there. But a pulse it was. Frantically, she dug around in her robes for her wand and performed the Staunching Spell to stop the bleeding from his wrists and ankles. Before even thinking of transporting him to the Hospital Wing, he would need some sterile gauze, a stretcher and--

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!"

She jumped as a scream tore through the trophy room. It was followed by several more from the direction of the West Tower's main corridor and the stairs to the Great Hall. Poised with her wand still pointing at the boy at her knees, Bethany glanced up to find not one, but an entire gaggle of students on their way back to their Houses--all of them squealing and pointing from the doorway. In the half-light, she discerned more than a few of her own students: Terry Boot, Amanda Brocklehurst, Pansy Parkinson, the Creevey brothers, Gengis Bole, Julian Bangert, Susan Bones, Parvati Patil... All stood gaping at the sight before them in shock and horror.

A movement rippled quickly through the throng as two arms cleared the path into the room. Oh, no.

Severus.

Right behind the Potions Master, the grey-wigged, bespectacled Queen Victoria that was Minerva stepped into the hall... and paled visibly.

"Wh--what's happened?" McGonagall asked shakily. The pallor of her skin had become indistinguishable from the white of the cheap costume lace at her throat.

"He's still alive, Minerva," said Bethany, lowering her wand.

The Transfiguration professor called over her shoulder, as if she had eyes in the back of her head, "Miss Brocklehurst, fetch Madam Pomfrey from the Great Hall and tell her to meet us in the Hospital Wing." She turned to face the messenger with a stern expression. "Do so quietly. There is no need to cause a disturbance. Severus," she said, turning to Snape, "would you please notify the Headmaster."

Severus's eyes, round and incredulous, met Bethany's for an instant, then immediately narrowed. She could almost see a multitude of wheels churning round in his head. With a whip of his robes, he vanished back through the crowd and into the corridor.

Dropping down to the floor beside Bethany, Minerva frowned at the sight of something on the young professor's shoulder. Following her gaze, Bethany remembered the gash inflicted by the spider's talon and knew that it was bleeding again. McGonagall glanced from Bethany to the boy's body with wide eyes.

"What happened here?" she demanded.

Bethany opened her mouth, but before she could speak, a drawl from the doorway resounded hollowly through the open space.

"We 'eard voices in 'ere like Mulroney talkin' teh a woman. Arguin'," said Bole smugly. He waved a long, thin arm to indicate the mixed crowd of students. "We was all in the hallway there, an' when we came teh look, she was 'ere, Professor White, kneelin' over the poor bloke with 'er wand pointed at 'is chest." Bethany gaped at the Slytherin in horror, but he continued. "Looked like we'd just missed 'em strugglin'."

"That's not true!" cried Bethany. But a few of the other students around the Slytherin nodded in corroberation.

Her mouth dropped open and she glanced at Minerva, pleading for reason. Surely... surely Minerva wouldn't believe the boy's insinuations! But Minerva's eyes narrowed, first at Bole, then at Bethany. On the other hand, Bethany concede fretfully, looking down at the blood on her robes... it didn't look good.

From the stairwell mezzanine, the wooden clink of a cane rang sharply as it fell against the flagstones. large black dog limped forward from the shadows and sat protectively at Bethany's side.

Minerva raised her brows in surprise at the sight of the dog. There was a moment's pause during which Bethany imagined that the Transfiguration professor gave the dog a pointed look which Snuffles acknowledged with a slight nod. Minerva's nostrils flared. She pursed her lips and stood abruptly, turning her back on Bethany and moving briskly toward the crowd of students.

"All prefects!" she yelled. "Prefects!"

There were a few murmurings of "here" and "here, professor".

Minerva nodded and ordered, "All students present will return to their common rooms at once. Permission to leave the dormitories shall be granted only by myself or Headmaster Dumbledore. Owl and fireplace use are strictly by permission only until further notice. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"Yes, Professor."

"Good. Off with you, now. Go." She herded the students from the room with her bony arms, closing the doors on their curious faces.

"Minerva," began Bethany, "let me explain--"

"We haven't the time for that now, Miss White," snapped the older witch volubly. She waved her wand at the rug beneath Mulroney, transfiguring it into an floating stretcher. "Take him to Madam Pomfrey at the Hospital Wing. Quickly!" she barked, raising her voice still further. "You will be dealt with later."

Bethany blanched and blinked in shock at the witch's acid tone. Slowly standing, she rested her hand on the stretcher to steady herself. She opened her mouth... but no words came. Against her knees, she felt a warm, comforting pressure and looked down. Snuffles shifted against the front of her legs in barely contained fury then barked angrily at Minerva.

"And for heaven's sake," spat McGonagall, "DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT DOG!"

She wrenched the doors open with a furious tug and nearly collided with Bole and Bangert, who fell forward, as if they had been leaning against the door all along.

"What are you doing here?" she scolded. "I said get back to your dorms! Now!"

Bangert fled, Bole trailing behind with his usual insolent insouciance. Bethany caught just a glimpse of the boy's swagger as Minerva slammed the doors shut behind her with a resounding THUD!

The trophy room was silent once more, except for a commiserating yelp from Snuffles and Bethany's own agitated breaths.

She stared at the door across the empty hall, stunned. What just happened?

To think that a few short hours ago, she had been contemplating having one last dance at the Masque and then retiring with a cup of tea... Bethany closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She still felt shaken. But the night wasn't over yet.

Drawing her lips into a thin, anxious line, she looked down at Snuffles and conjured a small cast for his foreleg. Then she tugged the floating stretcher toward the opposite stairs and the Hospital Wing.

"Come on," she said, taking heart at the subtle but ragged rise and fall of the boy's chest. "We can still save him."