Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

Chapter 25: Fractured

AN AWKWARD HEAVING SOUND ECHOED IN THE CHAMBER moments before Draco Malfoy rolled over, vomiting spectacularly into the pan beside his bed. All that remained of his afternoon tea gurgled through his oesophagus in reverse until the convulsions subsided into a series of weak coughs. Gristly bits of half-digested Christmas ham and aubergine gratin ricocheted in and around the house-elves' Self-Sealing Sick Pan before Draco wearily tapped the container with his wand, concealing its contents from view.

He leaned back gingerly on his side and curled into foetal position, resting his head on a pillow damp with perspiration. In vain, he pressed his eyelids tightly together and clutched at his roiling stomach. He supposed he ought to regard it as some consolation that he no longer thought he was dying. But still he didn't understand it. What could possibly have given him all this trouble? He hadn't eaten or otherwise ingested a thing at the masque, apart from one of those unpalatable rock cakes and... And those two glasses of punch. Punch! His eyes flew open and rolled to the back of his head in self-reproach. Punch brewed by those carrot-topped cretins! How could he have been so gullible!

As the stabbing pain in his gut diminished, Draco's resolve strengthened.

So... the Weasley boys thought they could pull a fast one on him, did they? Well. Soon they'll know bet--Draco's chest reverberated with a series of long hacking coughs--they'll know better than to commit social errors of that nature in future, he vowed bitterly. Soon. As soon as his stomach stopped trying to escape through his mouth. Every Malfoy, including Draco, knew an underhanded trick or two. All Draco had to do was settle on one (though finding one in the family repertoire still within legal limits would require a little more careful reflection) and use it on a Weasley.

It almost didn't matter which Weasley at this point, he thought bitterly, coughing up a wad of milky phlegm. His stomach gave a threatening curl once again and he squinted tentatively at the Self-Sealing Sick Pan. Damn them! Damn the whole lot of them!

Or... it might not have been the punch. Punch that had, after all, been imbibed by pretty much all the other guests. Most of them, he noted, had retained their suppers. Could he be overreacting?

No!

Not at all.

Well... maybe.

Okay, just a little. So what?

After all, who could expect him to keep a clear head given his altercation with Bole just now on the way through the common room? That pimple-faced pinhead's asinine taunts over the past few weeks would have made even the holiest of saints peevish enough to make a virgin attempt at an Unforgivable! Draco frowned at a damp spot on the ceiling, all the while unable to dismiss the sight of the hunched curve of Bole's bony form. Creeping across the slate floor of the common room on his third toilet run that night, Draco had spotted the boy bending towards the fireplace using suspiciously hushed tones...

"...locked and Disillusioned, as you stipulated, ma'am," said Bole quietly. "An' the students 'ave all been confined teh their 'ouses--won' be a soul about, I 'spect."

"You have done well." The voice was high-pitched, breathy and prim like a little girl's.

"Thank you, ma'am." The Slytherin captain gave a sycophantic bow to the woman's head bobbing in the fire. "Anythin' I can do teh help."

Draco couldn't see her clearly from behind the couch, but the bulbous outline of her face suggested she was neither young nor pretty. She was pretty ugly, in fact. Which led to the obvious conclusion that she was most likely a relative.

A tacky relative, he added. Draco's nose wrinkled in disdain at the sight of thinning, wiry hair escaping from an unimaginative hair band that called to mind the eagle-eyed madams who dropped by Malfoy Manor for his mother's annual benefit brunch for that faction of the Daughters of Purity... What was that group called? Draco wrinkled his forehead. Oh, right. L.O.V.E., otherwise known as "Ladies Overseeing the Voldemortian Expedient." Batty old hags, the lot of them.

Secluding himself in the shadow of one of the common room's limestone pillars, Draco strained to catch the rest of the conversation, wondering what the witch wanted. Gengis Bole's personal correspondence had always been so far beneath Draco's notice that he wouldn't have troubled himself with eavesdropping under normal circumstances. But there was something about Bole's demeanour and the tone of the woman's garbled whispers that suggested that this was a far from normal circumstance.

"...sure an' see that it's open. Leave it teh me," Bole whispered in earnest. "What time should I be 'xpectin' yeh, then?"

Draco lost the woman's reply as muffled peals of mocking laughter erupted from the direction of the girls' dormitory. He glowered irritably down the empty corridor. Stupid Pansy! Leaning forward against the pillar, he trained his ear towards Bole, but to his disappointment, the conversation was nearing its close.

"If all goes well," she said loftily, "your contribution will not be forgotten, Master Bole."

"No worries, ma'am," reassured the Slytherin captain, slowly straightening from the edge of the chair. "No worries. Got it all unner control."

The woman's lips pursed into a thin amphibian twist. "We shall see, boy," she intoned into the flames. "We shall see."

There was no mistaking the superior snort that followed from the fire, a noise that he immediately recognised as not unlike the dismissive huffs emitted occasionally by his father. Draco well knew that being the subject of such low expectations was never pleasant. And when he saw the hurt flash across Bole's face in the dying firelight, he almost felt sorry for the gangly git.

Almost.

"You!"

Draco's head snapped up in alarm to meet the Slytherin's obsidian glare. Bole's pale face drained of all remaining colour, then flushed quickly, his eyes narrowing to the size of beetles on either side of his nasal promontory.

Draco stepped from behind the pillar, nervously brandishing the tin sword of his pirate costume in his hand. The blade bounced off a nearby armrest and knocked against a marble table leg with a resounding clang! The heat rose predictably to Draco's face. Nonchalance had never really been his forte.

"'Ow long you been standin' there, eh?" asked Bole accusingly. Picking up his wand, he rose from the fireside chair.

Draco's hand strayed reflexively to the wand at his side.

"What're you up to, Bole?" he countered. The fresh pallor on the boy's face was satisfying, but brief.

Bole raised the thick hairy brow above his eyes in delight. Draco had heard that sometimes even the dodgiest-looking characters could be rendered mirthful and kind with a smile. Bole was not one of them. The Slytherin captain leered at Draco and his lips contorted into a mocking twist.

"Yeh don' know, do yeh?" Bole laughed. A plebeian guffaw to Draco's ears. An uncivilised, grating philistine sort of sound.

Draco snapped the sword irritably back into its holster, eyeing the Slytherin captain with patent distaste. "Don't know what?" he spat.

The two black coals of Bole's eyes glistened malevolently in the firelight. "Then yeh 'aven't heard!" Bole laughed again at his private little joke, circling around the couch until he peered down at Draco from his full height. Draco winced and averted his face from the stench of Firewhisky on the boy's breath. "'Reckon yer jus' not fit teh be told then," gloated Bole. He gave a cryptic shrug and bared a portion of yellowed, uneven teeth in a malevolent grimace, obviously relishing Draco's puzzled expression. "'Money don' buy trust after all."

Draco furrowed his brows and watched Bole back gleefully from the room, mimicking the delivery of a few Dark curses with this wand as he sang, "Yer goin' down! Down down down. Yer goin' down..."

Inebriate ignoramus.

Draco shook head and took a deep breath, treading back to his room. He was in no mood for that uncouth imbecile's antics--particularly as he had begun to feel the unfriendly twinge of an odd intestinal rumbling...

Hours later, finally free and clear of all epigastric expectoration, the last thing he wanted to think about was Bole. Instead Draco's mind rewound happily over the past few hours in an attempt to revisit the finest moment of the evening. The Harpy clock on the wall emitted a soporific sigh in lieu of its normal shriek to tell him it had just turned 4:00 am.

But Draco wasn't tired. Wasn't interested in sleep. Didn't want to succumb to it at all if it meant that he might wake up in the morning to discover that the girl in the red dress had been no more than a dream, a figment of his overactive imagination. He closed his eyes and clutched the pillow to his cheek, clinging desperately to the night's images before they dissipated with the morning mist: the amber glints of candlelight in her eyes; the swish of blonde hair brushing her cheeks as she leaned in to share a small joke; her companionable laughter in his ear as they--he--attempted the tango for the first time; and the sound of her voice in a sleepy whisper as she meekly suggested taking some air on the castle's front steps...

With anyone else, Draco's knee-jerk reaction would have been to tell her to go herself, so it was a great surprise to see his own hand--the hand, he supposed, of his pseudo self in costume--close over hers and lead her out through the steeple of the castle's vast front doors.

The bracing air cooled their flushed faces and cleared his head a bit. Clear enough, at least, for him to become acutely aware of the hand in his. And that they were the only guests on the faerie-lit terrace at that moment. And that his stomach was doing some unfamiliar and utterly unauthorised spastic somersaults, like fish out of water--fish like him.

Still feeling a little light-headed and not quite himself--perhaps two glasses of that punch had been too much?--he followed to where she leaned delicately against the stone balustrade which was covered with a crystalline dusting of fresh snow. The wind and flurries had died down to reveal a star-studded cape of the deepest blue-black and the faeries above huddled in glowing clusters every few feet along the promenade, shifting sleepy wings and breathing into their hands, counting the hours until dawn.

Beside him, each puff of the girl's breath fluttered daintily in the air like phantom butterflies cast into the breeze. She wrinkled her small upturned nose in delight at the landscape, at the night, and he found himself grinning--grinning with the heady excitement of being where one is not expected to be and doing the unexpected.

She drew up her shoulders and shivered. And Draco's pseudo self--for he was still loathe to admit responsibility for any of his uncharacteristic impulses--slid off his pirate cloak and, after a rudimentary Warming Charm, tucked it around her shoulders.

"Thank you." His reward was a smile that was open, grateful and--most surprising of all--endearingly artless.

With almost feline pleasure, she sank her neck into the folds of the cloak, but immediately reached around a stunned Draco to envelope him in the other half. If the girl registered his astonishment at this token of generosity, she didn't show it. Eyelids fluttering heavily, she yawned. And, still feeling distinctly unlike himself, he observed as his own arm cradled her shoulders underneath the cloak and found that he didn't mind it. Didn't mind it in the least. Nor did he object to her leaning gently against him. And... was it just him, or had the temperature outdoors suddenly risen several degrees?

Her hair brushed against his shoulder as she tilted her head upwards.

"I want to tell you something," she confessed in a soporific whisper. Casting him a skittish glance, she bit her lip then looked away, as if to stiffen her resolve. "I'm... I'm glad you decided to come to the Masque."

"Me, too," murmured Draco, stunned as the words left his mouth--even more stunned to realise that he meant them. Yes, it was definitely much warmer outside than it had been a moment ago, he thought, as his cheeks began to burn feverishly. Maybe he was coming down with something.

On the other hand, it was a liberating feeling, this frankness. Liberating to be able to act and speak freely as himself, rather than as "Malfoy" or even "Draco". Thank Merlin for anonymity. He scratched at the leather eye patch with his free hand as a grin tugged at his lips. Thank Merlin for this costume!

"Why did you come to find me?" This time his whispered words and quiet tone rang perfectly natural to his own ears.

She turned her head, clouding his field of vision with her sleepy, half-lidded eyes and smiled.

"I couldn't stand the thought of you being by yourself," she said plainly. "No one should be alone at Christmas."

Remembering how solitary and miserable he had been feeling in the turret room earlier, Draco felt a surge of warmth greater than a thousand cloaks could have afforded. He blinked at her in delight, speechless in... was it gratitude? Even his pseudo self had no words.

Without pausing for thought, he bent his head and brushed his lips against hers.

Soft. Warm... Surprised.

And an instant later, he found his heart pounding in horror. Oh, no! What had he done? Was she offended? Draco didn't even stop to marvel at how uncharacteristic a thought that was; he was still reeling from his own surprising behaviour. What would she say? What would she do? Draco, who had recently weathered the terrifying prospect of death or dishonour at his first Dark Circle Initiation Rite, was suddenly and for the first time utterly petrified. And so, like a cornered squirrel he waited and watched with fearful eyes, wondering if she was going to cry, slap him across the cheek or run shrieking into the shadows.

Amazingly, she did none of those things.

She fixed him with eyes as wide as his own (the one that wasn't covered with the eye patch) and pressed her lips together thoughtfully. Draco held his breath. She didn't look horrified, as he had feared. Or angry. Or disgusted.

She looked...mystifyingly happy. There was barely enough time to get his head round it when she leaned toward him and kissed him back. A soft, timid flutter of lips touching that was over even before he knew it had begun.

But it had happened.

And for one glorious glittering moment, he had forgotten himself. Forgotten who he was. Forgotten Draco Malfoy.

Inevitably he knew he would have to trade in the cheap pirate captain costume with its torn shirt for his Slytherin robes. But with this girl at his side on that snowy terrace, he wanted to freeze the moments, chain them down, anchor them, anything to keep them as they were without fading, without tarnishing... all the time wishing that there was some spell, some incantation, some potion to make time stop, because he knew that with daybreak, he would have to be Draco Malfoy again, and shrug back on the weight of his identity, a sack bulging with regrets both past and present that had no room for her.

But was that true? he found himself wondering. Was there really no room for her? He hated the thought that the answer might be no. But he would never know unless he first knew--

"Your name," he blurted suddenly.

"My name?" Her slender brows rose, disappearing beneath a cascade of blonde fringe as she blinked at him, first in surprise, then curious amusement.

"I... I never asked you what it was," he said sheepishly.

"Wait." She furrowed her brows at him incredulously. "You mean you really don't know who--"

She never finished.

A rumble of voices came from the Entrance Hall. Not a few, but many, rising in pitch and frequency until the Hall sounded as if it was under siege.

"You two!" snarled a voice from the entrance. "Inside! Quickly!"

They turned to find the black of Professor Snape's cloak whipping in his wake like a battle flag as he strode purposefully toward them.

"All students inside; you will report to your--"

The Head of Slytherin halted suddenly in his tracks and blinked, goggling in confusion at each of them in turn. He seemed to be at a loss for words... until he levelled a finger at Draco.

"A word with you, young man," he said.

The girl rested a commiserating hand on Draco's arm. "I'll see you inside," she whispered, slipping out from underneath the cloak. Draco watched the swish of her red flapper dress vanish into lights of the Entrance Hall, then turned with more than a little disappointment towards the Potions Master. Snape's black eyes scrutinised him with a strange mixture of horror and concern that Draco found unsettling.

"Sir?" he prompted.

Draco steeled himself for the venom he knew was customary. But Snape seemed only capable of opening and closing his mouth in consternation.

Draco frowned. What's wrong with him?

"What... what do you think you're... Do you have any idea what..." Snape shook his head wearily, looking more perplexed than vexed, and very much like he wanted nothing more than to sit down.

Snape turned at the sound of shattering glass in the Entrance Hall as the anxious voices grew louder.

"Just get inside," he ordered briskly, "back to the dormitory, and see that the other Slytherins do so as well." And with that, he vanished back into the castle...

Now that he was back in the relative comfort of his room--and mercifully away from Bole and other nuisances--Draco's train of thought did not call at all stops. Selectively, it bypassed all the confusion in the Entrance Hall, the students rushing willy-nilly in the castle, bustling with news of an injured Hufflepuff (who cares about them anyway?), the foreign guests being herded back home through the fires in the Long Galleries by Professors Sinistra and Flitwick, and the gossip in the common room about the Dark Arts witch and some dog. In the crush of departing guests it had been impossible to see where the girl had disappeared to, but he knew, with the certainty of the young and infatuated, that he would find her.

As Draco's eyes finally succumbed to sleep, he was only vaguely aware that, for the first time in recent memory, he hadn't even bothered to tally his daily scorecard against Potter's.

The night was full of surprises.

**********

Blinded by the blaze of light in the Entrance Hall, Ginny paused in the open doorway, then gasped as something sharp and shiny flashed by her face.

"Oof!"

A foreign student dressed as a mer-king tripped over his fishy tail, nearly gouging her eye out with his trident. "Het spijt me! Er... Sorry, sorry!" he muttered, scrambling clumsily from the floor.

Two students from Durmstrang hauled him up by the arms and all three made a swift trail to the queues already assembling at Floo Points manned by Professors Flitwick and Sinistra. Momentarily forgetting her worry that Harry was outside probably enduring an unwarranted scolding by Snape, Ginny stared open-mouthed at the scene before her.

The music had stopped and the torchlights burned like the midday sun, infusing the Hall with sobering white light as students, their guests and even a startled-looking Woozy and the Banshees tumbled from the Great Hall with varying degrees of disappointment, dismay and disorder.

What--Ginny stepped back as a can-can girl from Beauxbatons pushed past in an indignant flurry of feathers and fishnet stockings--what on earth is going on?

"Ginny! There you are!" A hand grabbed Ginny's arm and she spun round to find that it belonged to Parvati. Behind her, Dean waved his arms, helping Hermione direct the Gryffindors up the stairs.

"Oh, thank Merlin you're all right!" cried Parvati, hitching up the white skirts of her czarina costume. "Ever since Mandy Brocklehurst came running in to the Hall crying about that student being attacked, Lavender and I have been so worried about you--since you disappeared with that strange boy."

The mere mention of "that strange boy" had a palpable effect on Ginny, who, flushing crimson, could barely restrain the silly grin tugging at her lips. Lips! Great Merlin, she didn't even think she could think about those until her knees regained full strength and her heart stopped all that irregular thumping. Even now, her nervous fingers clasped the crumpled remnant of white shirt that had torn from the pirate's costume thanks to Peeves' earlier scare in the turret room. She knew it was silly, but she clutched it like a talisman that brought back all the happy accidents of that evening.

"Parvati," she said, resisting the urge to cover her cheeks with her hands, "that wasn't a 'strange boy'. That was Ha--"

"Miss Patil! Miss Weasley!" Elbowing towards them in the crowd was an extremely stern-looking Queen Victoria, immediately recognisable as Professor McGonagall. "That announcement was not a request," she said severely. "This is serious. You will proceed to the dormitories immediately while the guests are being evacuated."

"Evacuated?" Ginny repeated, staring after the Transfiguration professor who was then moving to where the Ravenclaws Kellie Starr and Will Turner were helping a Beauxbatons student who had sprained his ankle. "Why's everyone being evacuated?"

"Parvati! Ginny! Come on!" called Hermione. "We need all the Gryffindors accounted for in ten minutes."

"I'll tell you on the way," hissed Parvati over her shoulder, as she cleared a path through the stream of bodies and up the stairs.

By the time they reached the Fat Lady (dressed in an uncharacteristically revealing nightgown), Ginny had learned about how a student had been viciously attacked in the trophy room and was currently being seen to by Madam Pomfrey.

"They might have to bring in a team from St Mungo's," said Parvati as they stepped through the portrait hole. "Mandy said it looked really bad for him."

"Him?" said Ginny. "Who was it?"

Dropping her muff and fur cap on the closest couch, Parvati shook her head sympathetically. "Scary. Especially after all he's been through already this year, poor bloke," she said. "It was the last thing anyone expected to happen to Eamon Mulroney again."

Eamon!

"Is he all right?" She grabbed Parvati's arm in earnest. "Can we see him?"

"Uh... no," she replied, at once startled and apologetic. "I don't think so. Professor McGonagall said we're not supposed to leave Gryffindor until the attack's been fully investigated. But... I didn't realise you were a friend of his." She raised a curious brow that made Ginny blush. "Maybe you can see him in the morning."

Ginny's stomach plummeted as her mind raced. What if that was too late? She gnawed absently at her lip and stood rooted to the common room floor until two arms picked her up from behind and set her down out of the way.

"Quit blocking the path, woman," quipped Fred to Ginny as he threw a welcoming wink at Parvati. "Find somewhere else to gape like a guppy." He nudged George beside him and grinned, but the smile immediately fled his face as Ginny collapsed onto a nearby pouf.

"Hey. Hey, what's wrong?" George looked suspiciously like he had been about to offer some experimental sweets, but pocketed the little cloth bag at the sight of his sister's forlorn expression.

Ginny hugged her knees to her chin, feeling the guilt wash over her in heavy nauseating waves. Great, Merlin! She'd told Eamon to wait for her and she'd completely forgotten! She could have prevented this. If only he'd waited. If only she hadn't run off to find Harry...

"How... how could that happen?" she whispered aloud to no one in particular.

"'She talking about Mulroney the Hufflepuff?" whispered Fred. Parvati nodded.

George nodded first, then shook his head. He sighed and perched thoughtfully next to Parvati on the couch. "I don't know if I believe all that rubbish about Professor White, either," he mused, glancing at Fred. "You'd never think she'd be the type to attack a student."

Fred shrugged. "Well, she did get pretty peeved about the Dungbombs that one--"

"What!" Ginny's head snapped up in horror. "Professor White attacked Eamon? What... why? How can a teacher do something like that?" She stared wide-eyed at the three of them. "And why would she?" She shook her head. "I don't believe it."

"I didn't believe it either." George shrugged. "She seemed so... I dunno... nice. But that's what that prat Bole's been saying happened. He said he was there, heard Mulroney and White arguing in the trophy room, and next moment saw her, covered in blood, standing over his body."

"Bole!" Ginny screwed up her face in patent disgust. "Bole said that? You wouldn't trust him with a story like that, would you?"

"Normally, no," agreed Fred, "but--"

"It's true." Parvati nodded gravely. "Everything Bole said. I was there. He and Julian Bangert were taking a bunch of us from the dance to see some Wet Start Fireworks the Slytherins were putting on in the courtyard for some of the Durmstrang lot. That's when we heard the commotion in the trophy room. I wouldn't have believed it either if I hadn't seen it for myself."

Worrying away at the strip of pirate shirt in her hand, Ginny felt at once guilty and confused. She stared ahead in disbelief until the colours of the rug melted into a chaotic blob that resembled her own state of mind, an interior debate mirrored by the discord around her.

"I'm with Ginny," said George. "Something's not right. Professor White doesn't strike me as the type who would hex a rampaging Hippogriff if she could help it--"

"Sure." Fred tipped his chin amicably. "But she was trained as a spy, remember. Before this she was heading up the International Wizarding Intelligence Council. Percy even said he'd seen her at the Ministry a couple of times last year."

"What for?" asked George. "I thought Dad said the Ministry and the Council don't much mix. Different jurisdictions and all that."

Fred shrugged. "Dunno. But anyway, so none of us would've pegged her for the violent type, right. But she's a spy--or was. And she'd have the know-how to do pretty much--"

"That's right!" interrupted Parvati, snapping her fingers. "I just remembered. Were you there when they found Mulroney under that tree after the Slytherin match? She was there. I saw her face--white as a sheet. And she looked really worried about something, too. Something other than Mulroney, I'll bet," she said, raising a sceptical brow and glancing dramatically at each of the three Weasleys in turn. "All very fishy..."

Ginny frowned. Much as she was grateful to Parvati for her advice and encouragement, particularly in recent weeks, she wasn't sure she shared the girl's enthusiasm for good gossip.

"I don't know," Ginny said. "There must be some reason--"

"Exactly my point," chimed in George, perching forward to add his conclusions to the debate. "It's too unlikely."

It was very unlikely, thought Ginny, tuning out as new arguments precipitated amongst the other three.

Professor White was always taking precautions to protect all her students, both in and out of class. Particularly Eamon. The Hufflepuff had even told Ginny how, after his incident in the wood, the Dark Arts witch had taken him aside after class--mostly to give him a right dressing down about venturing into the Forest alone. But she then insisted that he accept an amulet used typically by wizards in combat. Ginny had seen him wear it on his robes, a thin crystal vial that looked like it was holding a drop or two of water. Small measure though it was, Professor White had told him that it would help prevent complete blood loss after being attacked by an enemy.

Ginny shook her head. How could someone as kind and generous as that also be capable of such violence? She just couldn't imagine it.

**********

A brisk staccato of heels and paws clipped through Hospital Wing's tomblike corridors. The leering statues of the Healers Hippocrates, Paracelsus and Le Comte de St Germain stood guard over the shadowy passage, a miasma of misty blacks and blues from the narrow gothic arches looking onto the castle's spiky turrets and the sheets of cascading snow blowing across the lawns. Tugging the stretcher along with one hand and gripping her wand anxiously with the other, Bethany checked the Mulroney boy's pallor. It was tough to be certain in the dim light, but his lips looked distinctly blue, despite the faint tremor of a pulse at his neck. Her eyes scanned his tunic. No amulet.

Damn! The foolish boy!

At her heels, the great black dog let out a commiserating whimper.

"I know." She shook her head at him, heaving a doleful sigh. "I wish we could go faster, but I don't want to risk injuring him in transit. We're nearly there, though. Hopefully Madam Pomfrey's already--"

Before she finished, Snuffles shot forward down the corridor at a quick hobble, decelerating with a squealing skid and darting into the open door of the infirmary. Bethany winced as the dog's foreleg buckled awkwardly with every other step, a souvenir from the blows inflicted by the spiders. Her stomach sank further still from the realisation that this--Sirius's injury, and even Mulroney's attack--was all, if indirectly, her fault. If only she had been more vigilant. If only she hadn't left the masque in such a huff. If only she hadn't let her emotions get the better of her, she might have been able to prevent--

"Eamon!" Meriwether Sprout peered around the infirmary door and gasped, clapping chubby fingers over her mouth.

"Great Merlin!" Madam Pomfrey's hand flew to her throat in horror. "What on earth's happened?"

Hitching up the silver skirt of her kimono, the mediwitch sprinted from the Infirmary surprisingly fast for a witch her age, with Meriwether close at her heels, both easily outstripping the black dog in their wake. Reaching the floating stretcher first, Professor Sprout grabbed for the boy's bloodied hand. Bethany looked on painfully as Meriwether's normally cheerful face contorted in shock and disbelief and her stocky frame shook convulsively, barely containing her sobs. Madam Pomfrey, with quivering hands and only a fragile margin of calm, conducted a rudimentary check of the Hufflepuff's vital signs before manning the stretcher through the swinging doors of the Hospital Wing.

There must be something I can do, thought Bethany, struggling to control her panic. Determinedly she followed the two elderly witches, but halted as Madam Pomfrey turned abruptly at the threshold and met her with wide, fearful grey eyes. Eyes that then narrowed ever so slightly and cut away to a point over Bethany's shoulder.

"Thank you, Bethany," she said curtly. "I shall take him from here."

"But I can help," insisted Bethany. "There must be something that I can--"

"You've done quite enough, Professor." Bethany was taken aback by the Herbology professor's acid tone and steely expression.

"What? But I was--"

Slam!

"... only trying to save him," she said meekly to the closed door's brass knocker. She suspected that the chill in her bones and the deep roiling in her stomach foretold disaster more accurately than any crystal orb Sybill Trelawney could produce. At once, the strength evaporated from her knees and she sank onto a wooden bench nearby, burying her face in her hands.

Perhaps she was cursed. The thought had occurred to her more than once in her lifetime, and certainly more than usual in the last few months. Was it possible that everyone she encountered could come to harm? Her mother. Father. Claire. Now Mulroney. And even--

The clammy tip of a black nose nudged her arm.

Oh, gods. Even Sirius.

Lowering her hands, she looked into the iridescent blue of the dog's eyes. He appeared oddly out of focus, as the tears left warm tracks down her face. With a commiserating canine murmur, the dog nuzzled her neck, treating her to several reassuring licks across her cheek. Casting an arm about his neck, Bethany held him close, stroking her fingers through his rich black mane--until he yelped.

"Oh, no! Oh, I'm so sorry!" she gasped, quickly retracting her fingers from the wound, still raw, on his side. "I'm sorry. I forgot."

Snuffles licked her cheek again.

"And your leg." She sniffed, determinedly brushing her cheeks dry. "We've got to do something about that before it worsens." Bethany scratched behind the dog's ears and eyed him with concern. "Can you make it all the way down to the dungeons on your own, or would you like me to carry yo--Argh!"

For an injured dog, Snuffles displayed great alacrity in leaping onto her lap.

"Gods, you're heavy!" she choked, then giggled breathlessly into the fur of his neck. "And really shockingly cheeky. Anyone ever told you that?"

Against her chest, Bethany felt the shallow rumble of a canine wheezing that sounded unmistakably like a chuckle. She rolled her eyes.

"Fine. You can have a lift, but we'll be doing it my way," she said, extracting her wand from her pocket. "Mobilicorpus."

Snuffles issued a petulant whimper of disappointment as he levitated four feet from the ground.

Bethany rose from the bench and smoothed down the battle-scarred chiffon of her robes. "Sorry. I can barely carry a stack of books from the Library as it is without them falling every which way. It's for your own good." She gave the floating dog a slow sideways grin and crooked a sly brow. "I would hate to see you in a full body cast."

Snuffles perked up his ears, then gave a little canine shrug of agreement.

"Hmmph." Bethany nodded sagely. "Thought you might think so," she said, turning to descend the staircase. "Come on. Let's see if we can't rustle up something to sort out that leg of yours, shall we?"

Looking back over her shoulder at the Infirmary doors, she frowned. "And we'll check on the boy in a few hours."

***

They passed no clocks or enchanted Moondials on the way, but the silence in the corridors and the drunken droop of the suits of armour suggested that the revelry had long since ended. It must have been the wee hours of the morning. It sure felt like it, she thought, rolling away the ache in her shoulders. Each footstep felt heavier than the last as Bethany propelled her limbs along with the floating Snuffles in tow.

They encountered no one but the rangy pair of Mrs Norris and her master Argus Filch, who was dragging a mop and bucket. The caretaker crossed their path in his surly fashion, trudging up to the trophy room as they made their descent through the West Tower. Through a stringy curtain of hair, Filch narrowed his eyes at Bethany--with, it seemed, almost a touch more suspicion than usual. But she had grown accustomed to this facial tic and was thankful for not being predisposed to analysing it. She was far too tired, frankly, to care about his opinions of her tonight. Behind her, Snuffles let out a low growl. Bethany reached back to give the dog's neck a grateful scratch and was rewarded with a sympathetic lick on her hand.

"Never mind about him." She yawned as the final moving staircase groaned into place.

They descended into the frosty chill of the dungeon's dank passages, its maze-like corridors devoid of all sound now that the students had been corralled into their houses after the Masque.

Bethany whispered away the wards to her chambers and turned the key, swiftly ushering Snuffles into the sitting room where she left him hovering over the divan.

Shutting the door with a weary push, she leaned her forehead against the jamb. Her arm ached with the effort of drawing the bolt and, closing her eyes, she felt as if she had aged a decade in the past few hours. A weary sigh rose up from her chest and she nearly gave in to a whimper. Why did she have to let her emotions get the better of her at the Masque? Why? She should have kept her eyes peeled is what she should have been doing. She should have been paying attention. If she had, she wouldn't have missed the first signs of trouble and the Mulroney boy might not have suffered anything more serious than a butterbeer hangover or a heart trembling from a girl's kiss.

She sighed. Oh, I am so not made for this.

A small explosion roused her from these self-pitying reflections. Over her shoulder, she glimpsed lively flames lapping gently at the top of the hearth.

"Mmm. Much better," said Sirius, resting his wand on the coffee table. "Now, how would you prefer me?"

She eyes cut across the room to Sirius, long legs stretched across the divan, head against the cushions and a stray lock of dark hair falling rakishly across his brow... Bethany's face grew alarmingly warm, and she realised only after a few telling seconds that her jaw had slackened unbecomingly. Oh, dear.

The arthritic Pixies were back.

"I..." Bethany cleared her throat. "I beg your pardon?"

Sirius glanced at the floor and then back, looking bemused.

"Would you prefer me as I am now, or as Snuffles... you know, for working on my leg?" he asked, raising his dark brows. "I mean... you had mentioned that you might be able to tend to the break or sprain..." He flushed suddenly in embarrassment. "Er... or, was I being too presumptuous?"

Oh. Bethany blinked, nodding absently. OH!

"Of course, I am... It is presumptuous of me," he continued, backtracking in alarm. "I shouldn't be troubling you." Sirius winced, leaning forward and squinting toward the mantelpiece at the large-faced cuckoo clock that had been Dumbledore's Christmas present to each of the faculty. "You've had a rough time of it this evening. No sleep at all. And it's late--"

"Oh, no!" cried Bethany. "I mean, yes, it is, but... no, it's not that." Her hands flew to her cheeks to mask the traitorous colour she knew was creeping its way across her face. "I just... I'm sorry, I thought you meant something else."

Sirius crooked a dark brow. "You... did?" Bethany's stomach leaped unexpectedly at the devilish curl at the corner of his mouth. "What did you think I--"

"Why don't I get that MediKit, so we can see just how much damage you've done to that leg," she suggested hastily, grateful for the opportunity to turn her back to the sitting room and hide her face in the utility cupboard.

"Here we are," she said, heaving out the oak and forged iron strongbox of quick-fix cures and charmed gauze. Crossing the room, she set the box on the table by the fire and glanced up to find a pair of blue eyes examining her with a look that made her colour shamelessly all over again.

Oh, for heaven's sake!

Bethany averted her gaze in a vain attempt to quell the leap-frogging Pixies in her stomach. She turned her mind back to the MediKit and began rummaging for a Toothpick Splint, gracelessly knocking over a tin of grasshopper heads and an old vial of... Viagroserum concentrate. If her cheeks had been hot before, they were definitely on fire now. She gaped at the vial in her hand. This stuff is standard issue for field agents?

"Bethany?"

"Yes!" She jumped guiltily, dropping the vial back into the box with an awkward tinkle.

"You never answered my question," prompted Sirius. "About which form is more convenient for you?" Bethany watched as he propped his injured leg further up on the cushions and grinned goofily. "Okay, like this? Or...ruff-wuff? Like this? Or...woof-ruff?" he said, switching back and forth between man and dog.

Bethany gave in to a laugh, despite herself. "I don't know." She rolled her eyes. "You're equally incorrigible in either form, aren't you?"

Sirius wrinkled his forehead. "I don't know what you mean," he protested huffily.

Then his face softened to a bashful grin. "Er... apart from impersonating Remus's dog, sneaking into your chambers, pilfering all your ginger biscuits..." His fingers worried at a frayed buttonhole on his robes. "And the... erm, losing your trust part," he finished quietly.

Sirius turned to her with a grave, beseeching look that took her off guard.

"I, erm..." He swallowed awkwardly, stumbling over his words. "I'm... really sorry about that," he said. "It was wrong of me to have misled you."

His pleading eyes wrung her heart.

"Oh, no," she said. Bethany dropped to her knees on the floor beside the divan and deposited a Toothpick Splint and handfuls of sterile bandages on a cushion. "I'm afraid I was too harsh. And... I shouldn't have slapped you--"

"But no, it was really my--"

"No, really--"

"I shouldn't have--"

"I'm sorry," they said at once.

Bethany laughed.

The wrinkles beside Sirius's eyes deepened as he let out a hearty chuckle.

"Call it even, then?" He gave her a lopsided grin and held out his hand. "Truce?"

"Okay," she said, pressing her hand into his palm. "Friends."

His smile faltered, but only briefly. After a pause, he met her curious gaze squarely and cleared his throat. "So..." Sirius smiled winningly. "I guess this means I'm forgiven for all those evenings I kept you out here on the couch while commandeering your bed and eating your supper besides?"

Bethany quirked her brow. "Don't get any fresh ideas..." she quipped, waving her wand to bring the leg splint to full size. "You're not out of the doghouse yet!"

Sirius snorted and reached forward to help her unravel the bandages.

"I'll need to remove your boot," Bethany said, biting back her annoyance as the words sailed from her throat in a tremulous whisper.

She slid off the boot, setting it on the rug beneath the divan. Fitting the makeshift splint was easier than she had expected. Sirius kept perfectly still, wincing only slightly as she secured it with gauzy bandage. She tied the last strip of loose gauze, tucked it under, gave the bandage one final check... and sighed. For the first time that evening, she felt a surge of relief, as if she had put down her quill at the end of a final exam, or leaped onto the final carriage after having sprinted to catch a last train.

Mulroney, in Madam Pomfrey's care, was no doubt being transfused again, and the door to the Sacrificial Chamber had been secured (for the moment, at least--she made a mental note to follow up on it in the morning). At the moment, it was the best Bethany could hope for.

And she tried to ignore how pathetically little a hope that was.

At least she had helped ensure that Sirius emerged relatively unscathed. Despite all previous attempts at feigned indifference, Bethany couldn't resist a few oblique glances at her patient--solely to verify that there was nothing more that ailed him, of course. She was relieved to note that the thin rivulets of blood had caked onto his forehead in small, harmless-looking scratches and there promised to be only some slight bruising on his stubbled cheek. Both eyes were now more blue than bloodshot. Soot and chalk clung to the ends of his dark lashes, and it took an inordinate amount of effort to quell the sudden impulse to brush them away with her finger. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she continued her inspection of him crouched over the pieces of cloth on his lap. He looked like a little boy helping with the chores. As he undid a stubborn knot in the old bandage cloth, his brows wrinkled endearingly in mild concentration. A muscle twitched in his cheek and a stray lock fell across the bridge of his nose. And... great Merlin, she couldn't stop staring.

This soon became a source of great consternation. She realised, to her dismay, that the moment her eyes rested on his face, he would catch her. Bethany couldn't be sure of how long this coy game went on, but it seemed like several minutes. The fourth (fifth? sixth?) time it happened, the corners of his lips quirked in cheeky amusement.

It was infuriating.

He would smile.

She would blush.

He would raise a curious brow.

And she would look away--uncertain if the quivering in her stomach had more to do with the embarrassment of being caught, or with the force of his bold unwavering gaze. A gaze so powerful that it held her in a grip, as if he himself had seized her arms and held her fast as he had on the dance floor.

The room sank into silence and she found that efforts at distraction were pointless. She cursed herself for being wholly incapable of holding any other thought in her head other than her awareness that Sirius had stilled all movement, save for the husky rise and fall of his chest. She was as acutely self-conscious as when she had shared a carrel with this same boy in the Ancient Runes section of the Bibli at Beauxbatons after hours... heads a hair's breadth from touching as she indicated the orientation of Venus and Jupiter with a trembling hand--a hand suddenly covered by a gentle palm, and a wrist that tingled from the feather-touch of a caressing thumb. Under her gaze, the stars beside them faded away and all there was in the universe were those eyes. Eyes that laughed, that teased, that danced and embraced as sure as if his own arms wrapped about her and--

Lord, this is difficult! It was all she could do to remind herself that she had been the deputy head of the world's largest international wizarding intelligence organisation, educated as a swordswoman and a spy, and... hired as an assassin.

Bethany's shoulders drooped. She seemed to have forgotten that quite a lot lately. If there was one thing--one of many--that Sirius Black made her feel, it was fractured.

You will remain calm, she told herself irritably. Bethany bit her lip and tightened the bandages around the splint on his leg. (Even in her head, she could hear the lack of conviction.) He's injured. He's your patient. Whatever happened to clinical detachment?

Her eyes fluttered open at the feel of warm fingers tracing the scratches on her arm, moving slowly, tenderly, across her skin, leaving a tingling trail from her elbow to her shoulder. She blushed, turning to inspect the welts and scratches on her arm as his fingers tested the abrasions. Her breathing came in short shallow gasps.

She swallowed.

Clinical detachment had apparently gone right out the window.

"You... I..." Sirius cleared his throat. "I think you're going to need a Disinfection Spell," he whispered hoarsely, then muttered a basic Antiseptic Incantation that stung painfully, though not nearly as much as when he drew his hand from her arm.

"Thank you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes lingered solicitously over her face, neck and shoulder and she felt an altogether different kind of pain as he withdrew back to the divan--somewhat reluctantly, she thought.

But then, what did she know?

Goodness, her train of thought shocked even herself, particularly after all they had been through that night. They had narrowly escaped a gory and gruesome death at the pincers of ravenous undead creatures in a secret chamber and almost failed to save a boy's life--all because she had charged out of the Masque in a proud huff when all Sirius had wanted was to--

"Oh!" Startled, she turned to him in earnest. "Erm... you said you had something you were going to tell me."

"Mmm?" Sirius blinked away the dazed expression in his eyes. "Did I?" Perhaps the fire was too strong after all, she thought, noting the high colour flooding the planes of his face.

"Yes, at the Masque. Something important?"

Sirius frowned thoughtfully. She didn't blame him, of course; the dance in the Great Hall seemed more like several months ago, rather than several hours. She watched his eyes darken as he remembered.

"That woman," he said. "The Muggle Studies witch..."

Oh, dear.

Bethany's stomach clenched. "Yes?"

"She's a... vampire."

Her blood froze at the word.

"I see," she whispered. "How did you know?"

"Remus. He danced with her at the Masque and..." Sirius glanced away briefly and his face took on a reluctant, closed expression. "Well, he just... knew."

Bethany frowned and returned to the pile of bandages.

"You... don't seem very surprised," observed Sirius, cocking his head thoughtfully to one side. "You knew?"

She bit her lip... and instantly wished she hadn't. It was as good as an admission.

Sirius's forehead creased and his lips set into a grave line. "But you've been working with her in that society of yours for months now... How long have you--"

"A while," Bethany said evasively, drawing away to sit on her heels. She glanced at her knees and raised her shoulders in a pleading half-shrug. "It's... complicated."

In a way, it ought to have been a relief for her to tell someone at last. She had been shouldering the burden of her silence for so many years, and now... what a temptation it was to finally give voice to it! On the other hand, it had been so long since Bethany had confided in anyone--anyone who wasn't directly involved in her plans--that she felt not a little bit rusty with the concept, as if it were the combination to an old padlock, or the half-forgotten rituals of a Muggle Catholic confession.

Bethany wondered, too, if she could trust him. Cradling a small pile of unused bandages, she turned away from his questioning gaze back to the MediKit on the table.

And if he knew... would he trust her? In truth, that worried her more.

It had been years since she and Sirius had known each other--not merely years, but long, elaborate chapters that had opened and closed and wedged between their destinies so that their histories no longer entwined. He was a stranger. And yet... there was something familiar about this man--he who was so different from the boy she knew and so very much the same--something about this tall gaunt man with the haunted look in his eyes that felt like... home. A sense of a time long forgotten, or the resurrection of an innocence expired. No matter how undeserving she may have been, whatever it was, Bethany knew she was not prepared to let it go. Not when everyone she had ever loved had been lost. It was a temptation only the staunchest of hermits could refuse.

And, despite her circumstances, Bethany felt she could be a hermit no longer.

She was certain, however, that once Sirius knew the truth he wouldn't want to admit an acquaintance of any kind with her. Even the most objective of judges would scorn her chosen path, no matter how noble her intentions. Why wouldn't he?

Sirius's dark brows furrowed, not in judgement, but in confusion. "You knew!" He shook his head. "But then, why--"

His voice died at the sound of thunderous rapping. Startled, Bethany swung round at the door, then back to Sirius on the divan where she found Snuffles instead, warily eyeing the entrance.

"It's probably just Madam Pomfrey," she whispered, giving his neck a comforting scratch.

At least, Bethany hoped it was. She needed more time to collect her thoughts. The Sirius she knew was more than perspicacious; he was persistent. He would probably work it out eventually, but... She hesitated. What to tell him? And how?

Pushing up from the floor, she winced. Rubbing at the pins and needles coursing through her limbs, she limped awkwardly to the door. The knocks continued with a much heavier hand than she would have suspected of the school matron.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

BAM! BAM! BAM!

"All right, I'm coming," she called resignedly, drawing back the bolt and undoing the wards. Her shoulders slumped at the sudden prospect that it could be Snape. It would be just like the Evil Vicar to pound vituperatively at her door at four in the morning, she thought bitterly. She was determined not to entertain any of Snape's lashing remarks at this hour. What was he thinking anyway? Didn't that man ever sleep?

But as the heavy oak door creaked to the side, in the hallway stood neither the Potions Master nor the school nurse.

Peering at her from above bright pink tortoiseshell reading glasses were the bulbous eyes of a stout middle-aged woman. Her many jowls partially obscured the pearl necklace choking the collar of her fluffy pink cardigan. All of the woman's attire, in fact, was pink--from her baggy floral skirt to the schoolgirlish Alice band capping a crown of dirty greying hair. The rosy hues contrasted with the pallor of a face that, even without its greenish tinge, bore a distinctly amphibian air. Bethany half-expected a forked tongue to shoot from of the woman's lipless mouth, but instead was treated to a flash of rows of small sharp uneven teeth... and a whiff of acrid breath poorly masked with stale peppermint.

"Professor Bethany White?" inquired the woman breathily in a high-pitched, simpering voice.

Bethany was too taken aback to do more than nod. Behind the dowdy woman, looming surly in the corridor, were three men. Two of them she did not recognise, though together they gave the distinct impression of a large menacing troll and a reedy, pockmarked jackal. The third she recognised instantly as Lucius Malfoy, who tipped his platinum crown in almost imperceptible acknowledgement while glaring down at her imperiously along the length of his aquiline nose.

"Hem hem," coughed the woman. With great ceremony, she attracted Bethany's attention by thrusting forward a pudgy, wart-covered hand. "I am Dolores Umbridge, Special Assistant to the Minister of Magic, and representative of the Wizengamot."

"The High Wizard Court?" said Bethany, subjecting herself to the clammy touch of the woman's stubby fingers. Dragging her bewildered gaze from the three poker faces of the men in the corridor, she blinked back at the woman, taking care not to stare at the copious folds of skin hanging from her chin. "Erm... how can I help you, Mrs Umbridge?"

"Miss Umbridge," corrected the woman pertly, then twisted her lips into a treacly smile that matched her voice--one that would not have been out of place in a cross-dressing choirboy. "Baldrick Ely, Averill Yeats," she squeaked, indicating both the boar-like man and his scrawny companion. "And," she added reverently, "Lucius Malfoy." Bethany did not miss the change in the woman's tone, nor the obsequious half-bow misdirected at Malfoy's cane. Umbridge turned her beady eyes back to Bethany. "I think you will find that it is we who are here to help you."

A gentle nudge at her leg and Bethany felt the reassuring warmth of Snuffles's flank against her knees as the dog sniffed at Umbridge. He gave a low growl, eyeing the woman and her companions dubiously. Bethany stole a glance at Malfoy, whom she hadn't seen since her Intermediate Initiation Rite. Was it permissible for her to acknowledge Lucius as if she knew him? She couldn't remember. She gave him a wan, confused sort of smile. It was not returned.

"Help me?" she repeated dumbly. "I don't understand."

"You can come with us now, quietly and willingly, to put an end to the little matter of your... altercation with the Mulroney boy earlier this evening," suggested Umbridge sweetly. "Or we will have no choice but to hold you in custody for an official preliminary hearing before the Wizengamot."

Bethany felt herself colour with rage. "Custody!"

"You are advised, Miss White," said Malfoy coldly, "to take Special Assistant Umbridge's advice to come with us now. Merely for questioning, of course." Beneath the well-coiffed brows and a façade of terminal ennui that Bethany had always suspeted belied something... well, something else, Malfoy's pale eyes glistened almost threateningly. "Otherwise," he drawled, with a casual wave of his walking stick, "you leave us no choice but to place you under arrest." He nodded at the wiry ginger-haired man called Yeats, who stepped forward cradling a pair of heavy iron shackles.

A stream of furious barks and angry growls filled the room and echoed through the corridor, enough to wake the dead, never mind all of Slytherin House.

Umbridge squealed. Terrified, she shuffled behind a disconcerted-looking Baldrick Ely and clutched at his robes as Snuffles lunged toward the little posse. Ely, who had leaped aside (with a surprisingly high-pitched yelp for such an intimidating hulk), thrust the shrieking Umbridge forward as a shield. Yeats, knocked forcefully into the wall by the dog's outstretched paws, staggered and collapsed into a heap as Snuffles bounded for the stairs. A bellowing clang! of irons resounded in the corridor. And amid the commotion, Bethany heard a sharp click and rasp that was Malfoy unsheathing the wand concealed at the top of his cane. Raising it high, he swung round, taking aim at the hobbling dog's retreating form--

"No!" Bethany dove for Malfoy's wand arm as the jet of green discharged. A shower of limestone shards pelted the dungeon floor. But through the swirling dust, she was relieved to see Snuffles scramble swiftly up the dungeon stairs.

Incensed, Malfoy swung round, eyes blazing, and drew back his hand to strike--

"Hem, hem!"

Lucius froze. His pale lips disappeared in a long thin line and his nostrils flared. Lowering his hand, he arranged the front of his ermine cloak and straightened his cravat. He cast a withering look at Umbridge, but the woman's beady eyes were on Bethany.

"As a former law enforcement officer, Professor," she said sweetly, "surely you are aware that there are stiff penalties, of course, for obstructing Ministry officials and their deputies?"

Bethany narrowed her eyes at the frumpy little woman, whom she had begun to despise more with each passing minute. Social graces be damned, she thought. Stepping forward, she peered down at Umbridge in loathing.

"As a former law enforcement officer," she spat, "I also know that Ministry officials and their deputies do not pitch up unannounced at a Secured Private Facility merely for target practice on domestic animals! Tell me, Miss Umbridge, exactly what is your business here at four o'clock in the morning? I trust you have a warrant for this intrusion?"

The woman's simpering expression contorted into an ugly grimace and quite suddenly, it was she who looked tempted to strike Bethany. The woman's pasty knuckles whitened as her grip tightened on the wand at her side. Her squat form quivered with sharp angry wheezes as she struggled to contain her fury.

"The Wizengamot's authority, like that of the Ministry, is not to be challenged by lay citizens," she said in a dangerously uneven tone. "Nor will it tolerate its decisions being impugned by the same. I am afraid your uncooperative attitude, Professor, leaves us no choice." Behind Umbridge hovered the thuggish figures of Ely and Yeats. Bethany could have sworn she saw Ely crack his thick knuckles. But instead, Umbridge turned to Malfoy with an awkward deferential nod. "Lucius, if you would."

The icy rage in Malfoy's eyes struck Bethany like a blow across the cheek. He nodded at the man with the shackles.

"Take her."

**********

The only sound in Dumbledore's circular chambers was the fire crackling in the hearth, casting long, mournful shadows that swayed eerily across the walls up to the domed ceiling. The tongues of light and shadow lapped at the portraits of past headmasters and -mistresses gazing down with sober expressions. On the mantelpiece, the red-haired witch in the painting observed the proceedings with benign curiosity as the little girl yawned in her arms. But the silence of the Headmaster's office did not, as on previous occasions, have a lulling effect on Harry, who sat warily in one of two cushy leather armchairs in front of the mammoth carved oak desk.

In an effort at self-distraction, he inspected the gargoyle carvings across the front of the Headmaster's desk. (One of them leered at both himself and Lupin, who was in the next chair, whilst another leisurely picked his nose.) But Harry's mind was still puzzling over what mystery the Bulgarian Minister of Magic thought he could help solve. And Krum's parting words had done nothing to quell Harry's fears about what lay ahead.

Earlier, after finalising details of his and Harry's arrival in Turgovishte, Professor Lupin had rigged the fire in the deserted staff room to send Krum back by return Floo.

"Don't vorry," Krum had said. The Bulgarian envoy had given Harry a weak smile that was probably meant to be encouraging. Unfortunately, on Krum it resembled a grimace. "Uncle Krystof said they vill haff cleared all the bodies by tomorrow," he said, as his voice and body faded into the swirling greenish yellow flames...

Now Lupin leaned forward in his chair as the Headmaster sighed.

"Sir, are you sure?" Remus Lupin frowned anxiously.

Like a war-weary general, the old wizard sank back behind the desk and nodded at the map of Europe unrolled across the blotter.

"Based on the facts gleaned from the testimony of Alastor Moody's prisoners, the Order had previously concluded that Voldemort might not be prepared to mobilise until September at the earliest," he said. "But I am very much afraid that Arabella's and Fenchurch's latest findings indicate the possibility of a much more immediate time table."

Lupin straightened in his seat. "News from the Tracers?"

Dumbledore tilted his head affirmatively. "Alastor surreptitiously arranged for the Tracing Spells to be placed on each of the three Ministry prisoners upon their release by Cornelius Fudge," he said. "Two were successfully followed to small villages on the Danubian Plain in northern Bulgaria before they slipped from Auror detection."

"And the third?"

"Here."

With a wrinkled finger, Dumbledore tapped a small dot at the foothills of the Southern Carpathians in Romania, about 200 kilometres from the Bulgarian border. At the Headmaster's touch, a warm light glided up from the scroll and hovered in a sphere about two feet above the map's surface. Harry squinted up at the globe of gold mist as it cleared to reveal images of hazy shapes hunched around a mountainside campfire beside a crude stone well.

The figures of the villagers slowly came into focus, some laughing, some bartering, some bellowing advertisements for their wares in the makeshift marketplace. Then without warning, dark shadows swept swiftly forward, closing in from the foreground--from all directions, in fact. In one portion of the sphere, Harry could see a Muggle washer woman just straightening from her basket. He gasped in tandem with the woman as a black hand from behind darted across her face and stifled her cries. In the ensuing blur, the only things Harry could discern were the whites of her eyes, rolling blankly to the back of her head, seconds before her body dropped to the ground.

And she was only the first. Body after body fell to the great looming shadow, as if a black cloud of amorphous heads and arms swooped in from the plains and razed the townsfolk like weak blades of grass. Then the cloud dissipated as abruptly as it had materialised. And all that was left were the pale bodies, lifeless and unmoving in the flickering firelight.

"Holy..." Remus gaped at Dumbledore in horror. "What in heaven's name is going on over there?"

"Years ago," said the Headmaster darkly, "they used to call them Sweepers."

"Sweepers?" Harry's wide eyes shifted dazedly to Dumbledore.

Remus frowned. "Aren't they a myth?"

"A myth?" The Headmaster quirked a snowy brow. "The Sweepers are no more myth than the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus--far from it." He shook his head and peered at them from above his half-moon spectacles. "Myths are often based on fact--though fact can be twisted or exaggerated beyond all proportion in the retelling." He indicated the misty orb with a wave of his hand. "From the visual evidence we have received from Fenchurch and his men," he said, "there can be no doubt that the Sweeper tribes have returned from exile and that they are a real and tangible threat."

Unable to shake the memory of the washer woman's dead-eyed stare, Harry clenched his stomach, struggling against a gnawing dread. "What... what are they?"

The Headmaster looked grimly from one astonished face to the other. "Perhaps it is easiest to show you."

He waved his wand at the orb, which instantly began to replay the campfire sequence. But this time the image closed in on a single man, a Muggle farmer in faded, dust-coloured dungarees, sitting on a tree stump. He casually struck a match to his pipe as the scene moved forward once more, this time in slow motion...

Sinister shadows slithered into view, billowing in copious black folds... Cloaks!... Then the flurry of hands--not black, but a withered grey--once-graceful, wizened fingers tapering into razor-like points--winding around the farmer's mouth and chest, tearing at his arms, legs, chest and face--viciously, violently, savagely. Then heads--neither male nor female but deadly, with shining, sharp teeth and the red glint of hunger in their eyes--closed in on the body in a feral swarm, covering every available pore so that for several moments, the man seemed to have been swallowed whole. The victim's feet trembled as he first convulsed, then fell to the gravel, discarded and abandoned by the cloak's receding black tendrils, leaving only the old man's corpse. Limp, surprisingly unscratched... and pale. Bloodless.

"They're..." Harry shivered beside the fire and felt his mouth go dry. His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

"Vampires," finished Lupin. "Of a rather unique variety. The lesser in rank travel and kill in packs, swooping in together like a cloud of black smoke just before commencing their feeding ritual. Legend also has it that in exchange for a wizard's (or witch's) soul, they provide not only immortality but, because of their allegiances with many of the world's darkest forces--of both men and beasts--they can offer the means for world domination. It was rumoured that Grindelwald used them mercilessly to depopulate many of Europe's magical enclaves." Professor Lupin's lips thinned darkly. "The Sweepers devoured those who refused to swear allegiance to him, as well as others whom their whimsy claimed as their share of the spoils."

"But the Sweepers were not satisfied simply to remain Grindelwald's mercenaries," said Dumbledore. His snowy brows knitted together over the weathered lines of his face. "They are an extremely independent and highly organised species. Not long after Grindelwald's defeat, they decided that domination over both the wizarding and Muggle worlds was theirs to claim as their own, if they could only eliminate those that stood in their way."

Lupin frowned. "If these Sweepers are such megalomaniacs, sir," he said, "how is it that we've not had news of them all these years?"

Dumbledore's eyes darkened. "After Grindelwald's fall," he said, "his minions, his armies of giants, Sweeper tribes and other Dark Creatures, were forced to retreat into isolation. But the Sweepers, unlike other Dark beasts, were not content to flee. They went into hiding; this is true. But it was also rumoured that all the while they added to their ranks through the selective plundering of local magical communities. And waited."

Harry blinked. "Waited for what?"

"The time to strike. They waited--underground, in forests, in caves, claiming the lives of survivors in the fields, preying on the unsuspecting and the weak. They are, for the most part, immortal, and are thus extremely patient," explained the Headmaster. "All the while they knew that the world would change, that man's inherent weakness would eventually render him complacent and vulnerable, and that the winds of chance would blow in their favour once again."

He sighed. "I am very much afraid that with the current schism in the Ministry, as well as the rise of unexplained attacks throughout Britain and across Europe, their window of opportunity has arrived. In fact, we now know that it has, or will have, once they ally themselves with Lord Voldemort."

"Voldemort!" Harry felt a cold, despairing shiver.

"The Sweeper tribes left behind a handful of their number whose purpose was to mingle with the local populace of a given region, to absorb and relay as much information as possible about any developments of note in the Muggle and magical communities." Dumbledore tapped Fenchurch's map again to reveal a series of raised silver question marks, almost evenly spaced across the terrain in an area spanning nearly all of Western Europe. "Based on information collected from both Muggle and magical intelligence, the Aurors have constructed this map detailing the strategic locations of suspected Sweeper Sentries. As sunlight is a curse to Sweepers, they are forced to rely on like-minded humans to achieve their goals. With this network in place, it is most likely that the Sweepers would seek the opportunity to forge an alliance with Voldemort and his Death Eaters--indeed, they may have already done so."

"And, there is... something else, you must know." Dumbledore paused to share a grave look with Lupin, then turned back to Harry. "I hesitated to mention this to any of you, Harry, for it was then only speculation and I had no desire to alarm you or the other students and faculty."

What hadn't he been told? Harry followed Dumbledore's gaze to a silver question mark hovering in a place in the Scottish hills, a place that looked like... Harry stared at the Headmaster with mounting dread. Was that...?

"We have reason to believe," said Dumbledore carefully, "that a Sweeper Sentry has infiltrated Hogwarts--"

Harry gasped. "What? Here? But I thought nothing could--"

Dumbledore stilled him with a raised hand and a quelling glance over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. "You will recall, Harry, that the last time you were in this room with your friend Ronald I told you that there is no place safe from Voldemort and his spies. That unfortunately, includes Hogwarts."

Harry's mind reeled, struggling to absorb this information. Who or what was it? How long had it been there? Was there any way--

"Luckily," continued the Headmaster, "the discovery has been made before any lasting damage has occurred, and the Sentry is being carefully monitored. As we speak, steps are being taken to secure the school and contain the threat--"

"It's still here?" Harry shot a horrified glance between the Headmaster and Professor Lupin. "But the students have to know that--"

"To alarm the students and their families unnecessarily at this time would only cause undue panic and would cost us the element of surprise," said Dumbledore calmly.

"But you can't keep them in the dark! It's too dangerous! They won't be--"

"Harry, I am as concerned for everyone's safety as you are," he said. "But you must understand."

Harry wrinkled his forehead and averted his gaze. He trusted the Headmaster, and Dumbledore, eccentric as he was, had never given him any reason to question him.

But understand? Understand what? Harry found it absurd to think that a threat like this could exist at the school--one with possibly even more dire consequences than the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets--and the Headmaster wanted to cover it up! Dumbledore saw just as well as himself and Professor Lupin what those... those creatures were capable of doing. Wasn't he being rather... lax about it all? A blood-sucking cloud of death and destruction sweeping its way across Western Europe, possibly to join forces with Voldemort?

Voldemort...

Though his eyelids pinched shut, Harry could not stop the images rushing forward of the Death Eater shadows in the graveyard tightening around him in a claustrophobic embrace, and the piercing cackle that belonged to the one Dark wizard zealous enough to harness the aid of exiled vampire tribes. How could Dumbledore just sit back and--

"Harry, please. Listen."

Harry started and blinked up at the Headmaster who had walked around to lean on the front of the desk. The old wizard's eyes were at once kind and determined.

"Now that we are aware of the Sentry's presence, we are in a position to use that knowledge to our advantage," he said. "But we must not act rashly. Nor can we afford to let anyone see our cards... particularly as the Sentry does not appear to be acting alone."

"What!" Harry's eyebrows flew into his fringe. "Sir, do you mean that someone else--"

The question died on his lips as the Headmaster's door flew open with a crash!

On the other side was Sirius, bruised, battered and breathing raggedly as he supported himself against the doorjamb. He winced, favouring his left leg in a makeshift cast.

"Bethany... in the... dungeons," he choked. "They're taking her."