Hunted

Chapter 8: The Contenders

The morning edition of the Daily Prophet lay open on the kitchen table of the Lupin cottage. Remus sat reading while he tucked into his breakfast of eggs and toast. Angela leaned over him with her arms around his neck, reading the headlines over his shoulder.

BLACK GAUNTLET STRIKES AGAIN!

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has confirmed a break-in late Monday evening at the estate of Madam Graves in Richmond upon Thames. The owners were not in residence at the time of the alleged burglary. Madam Graves reported that a priceless family heirloom, a whalebone scrimshaw horn, was taken.

The purloined ivory was to be part of a special exhibit at the Soho Museum for Magical Artifacts slated for opening later this month. Curator and antiquities expert at the museum, Delilah Coffin, mourned the loss of the piece. "The theft of this irreplaceable artifact is a tremendous loss for the entire wizarding community," Ms. Coffin announced. "The Horn of Life is an antique dating from the mid-1700's, known for its healing and restorative powers. It was to be the centerpiece of our latest exhibit."

Aurors from the Ministry of Magic believe the break-in to be the handiwork of the notorious international jewel thief known only as the Black Gauntlet. A left-handed black glove and a calling card bearing the initials B.G. were found at the site of the crime. Ministry officials confirm this to be consistent with the modus operandi of the criminal mastermind.

This theft was the latest in a spate of jewel heists attributed to the Black Gauntlet and his first on British soil. The bandit's latest crime spree began in Istanbul in July with the theft of a blood-red carnelian known as The Devil's Heart. The private collections of wealthy wizard families in the Mediterranean region were targeted throughout the summer. The international community has united in its efforts to apprehend this criminal, but the elusive Black Gauntlet has thus far evaded capture. He is a master of disguise and considered highly dangerous.

"What do you think of this?" Angela asked, tapping a slender finger on the headline.

"I don't think we have anything to worry about," Remus commented, chuckling. "We have nothing that would interest a jewel thief."

"Rather I was thinking about my Aunt Medea and Uncle James," Angela replied, a worried look in her eyes. "With all those Malfoy millions, not to mentions the jewels, they're sure to become targets."

"Hmmm," Remus mused. He picked up a piece of toast and then put it back on his plate. His brow furrowed. "Wasn't your cousin Ravena traveling in Turkey and Greece this summer?"

"Yes, she was. On family business," Angela replied. She released him and straightened up, a puzzled expression on her face. "Why do you ask?"

"Just an observation, that's all." He cast her an innocent look and scooped up the last bit of egg with his fork. "I thought that she might have seen something."

"I'm sure if she had, she would have gone straight to the authorities." Angela stared back into his blue-gray eyes. Her expression softened. "So what are you up to today?"

Remus leaned back in his chair. The crease was back on his brow. "I received a message from Mad-Eye this morning. There was some vandalism at the Weasley twins' joke shop last night."

"Oh no," Angela gasped, her green eyes wide with alarm. "Was anyone hurt?"

"No, but the storeroom was destroyed by an explosion," Remus explained. "Mad-Eye and I are going over to investigate and to help the boys salvage what they can. Then I have a meeting with Dumbledore later this afternoon. I was hoping to check in on Harry to see if he's had any more visions. I may be a little late this evening."

He drained his teacup and rose to his feet. His hand fished in his pocket and retrieved a small mirror. He took Angela's hand in his and pressed the mirror into her palm.

"You fixed it," Angela remarked, staring down at the communicating mirror in her hand.

"Yes," he said. "And I'd like you to take it with you." He gazed in her eyes with look of concern etched on his face. "Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."

"I'll be fine," she replied, giving him a reassuring smile and a sweet little kiss.

"You'd better go," he whispered, returning the kiss. "You'll be late for work."

"Goodbye, dear."

Her hand slipped the mirror into the pocket of her dress. Then she donned her cloak, grabbed her briefcase, and stepped into the fireplace. In a flash of green light, she was gone.

* * * * * * * *

Angela stepped out of the gilded fireplace into the magnificent lobby of the Ministry of Magic. She stared with amazement, as her gaze traveled over the great throng of witches and wizards assembled there. A tremendous clamor of voices and chatter met her ears. She couldn't even hear the sound of her own footsteps on the polished mahogany floors. How would she ever reach the lifts at the far side of the immense hall through this crowd?

She eyed the wizard nearest to her. He was a young man with very short, spiky, blond hair and a camera slung around neck. A press pass dangled at a crooked angle from the front of his tatty cloak. It read Jason Scoops, The Quibbler.

"Pardon me, Mr. Scoops," Angela asked, tapping him on the shoulder. "What's going on here?"

The young man spun around and surveyed Angela with a startled look on his face. "Don't you know?" he replied. "It's a press conference. The leading candidates for the position of Minister of Magic are reading statements and taking questions from the press. I thought that everyone knew that?"

There was an outburst of applause that began at the far side of the hallway near the gilded doors to the lifts. Angela stood on tiptoe and craned her neck to see over heads in front of her. The crowd nearest the lifts parted to create a thin passage to a podium set up in front of the circular fountains.

"Excuse me," Scoops said. "The conference is about to start."

He turned toward the podium and muscled his way through the hordes to get a better view. Angela followed in his wake. Her eyes caught sight of a little pink bow bobbing like a butterfly along the makeshift aisle. Moments later, a hand with stubby fingers and brightly polished nails gripped the edge of the podium. The head of Dolores Umbridge, the interim Minister of Magic, popped into view, that little bow perched in her hair. Umbridge wore a fuzzy bubblegum-pink cardigan. She had large bulging eyes. A toad-like smile played on her lips that were smeared with lipstick the color of cotton candy.

"Hem, hem," Umbridge cleared her throat. "The ills that face our society today are the direct result of our failure to deal effectively with the undesirable elements in our midst," she announced, in a high, girlish voice. "We will not see an end to the violence that plagues our nation until those of lesser breeding are taught their proper place.

"Under the previous administration, I have proposed legislation that accomplishes this purpose. I have instituted the toughest set of anti-werewolf laws in this century. Under my leadership, the giants have been banished once again. A new mandatory registration and monitoring system for vampires is in the works.

"We are all aware of the havoc reeked upon our communities by dementors running amok. We must return them to subservience and reinstate them as guards at Azkaban. We can expect more riots from subversive half-breeds like the one in Trafalgar Square this past July, if we do not take decisive action. A peaceful demonstration for werewolf rights? Ha! We all know the true reason for that assembly: the complete overthrow of our government! If we tolerate their insolence, what will they demand next? Will the centaurs demand a voice in the Ministry and their own representatives on our councils? Ludicrous!"

Angela's eyes flicked to the other spectators. She was astounded at the number of wizards nodding in agreement. She shook her head in disbelief. How could anyone side with such bigotry?

"If elected," Umbridge continued. "I promise to continue reforms to make this world safer for all wizard children. Complete apartheid is the answer to our woes. Undesirables and dangerous half-breeds must be forced into separate communities, where their anarchistic activities can be monitored and controlled.

"I am a firm believer in wizard superiority," she continued, her voice rising to a high-pitched squealing crescendo. "It is our responsibility to assert our leadership, to use our superior intelligence, and to create a new world order in which wizards lead the lesser races to the betterment of all mankind. Thank you."

Angela cringed, as if Umbridge had raked those gaudily-painted nails down the front of a chalkboard. She couldn't imagine a worse future for Remus or her children. Her fist clenched the wand in the pocket of her dress. Her anger rose. She had no intention of standing idly by and allowing anyone to force her and her husband from their home. If Umbridge was elected, Angela resolved to fight.

All around her, hands of the press corps shot into the air amid shouts of "Ms.Umbridge." Quick-quote quills scribbled on bits of parchments. Flashbulbs from wizard cameras exploded to her right and left. The flurry of activity jolted Angela from her reverie.

"I only have time for one or two questions," Umbridge said, simpering. A stubby finger pointed to a reporter in the front row. "You first."

"Rita Skeeter, independent press correspondent," said a female reporter with horn-rimmed glasses. "Ms. Umbridge, is it fair to say that, as Senior Undersecretary to Cornelius Fudge, you were an active participant in and in full agreement with his policies?"

"Why yes," Umbridge replied.

"Then, with you in charge, we can expect more of the status quo?" Skeeter queried.

"Why n-n-no," Umbridge stuttered, now looking a bit flustered.

"Then to clarify," Skeeter rejoined. "You were not an active participant in the previous administration?"

"Hem, hem," Umbridge coughed, the smile fading from her pink lips. "Of course I was," she replied, in a falsely honeyed tone.

"I see," the reporter replied. Her acid green pen scribbled of its own accord on a thick pad of parchment. "Dolores Umbridge admits that she contributed to the ineffective policies of her predecessor," she dictated to her pen. "If elected, she vows to continue the same policies that lead us into this intractable morass."

Umbridge's lips closed very tightly. Her eyes bulged out even more. Angela thought that she looked remarkably like a very large toad that had just swallowed a bitter insect. Angela smirked. She liked this reporter very much.

"Hem, hem," Umbridge coughed again. A most unpleasant smile appeared on those pink lips. "I apologize," she said, her voice becoming shrill. "But I cannot take any more questions at this time. I have to get on with the business of running this country. Thank you. Good day."

Umbridge stepped down off of the platform. Angela watched the little bow bob out of sight. Lucius Malfoy took his place behind the podium. He was impeccably dressed in a silk waistcoat and ascot of green and silver. His trademark walking stick with the silver serpent engraved on the handle rested in his gloved grasp. His cold grey eyes swept over the crowd. They settled for a brief moment on Angela's face. A disarming smile flickered on his lips. Then he stared back at the reporters.

"We Malfoys come from a very ancient and revered line of pure-blood wizards," Malfoy drawled. "We have wealth and privilege, but have always thought of those less fortunate than ourselves. We have contributed to a great many charitable and worthy causes over the years. I daresay than many of you have been the beneficiaries of my family's largesse.

"I am no stranger to politics, having served on numerous committees and boards. I have been recently reinstated as governor of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and on the board of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries to mention only two. Public service is a great honor. I pledge to serve the community with all of my talents, should I be elected the next Minister of Magic..."

As Malfoy spoke, his hand fingered the serpentine handle of the cane and moved it in slow circles. Angela's eyes strayed from Malfoy's face to the cane, hypnotized by its motion. A soothing sensation trickled through her body. She heard Malfoy's words, but they just echoed in her brain. Her subconscious seemed to be asking her to simply trust him. Just trust.

She jerked her head, trying to shake off the feeling. The calming sensation ceased, leaving only malaise in its wake. Her eyes surveyed the crowd. Several other witches and wizards around her stared up at Malfoy with glazed looks, spellbound.

Angela glanced back at the podium, only just noticing Narcissa Malfoy standing behind her husband. Although beautiful, Narcissa's looks were marred by the forced smile arranged on her face. And Angela surmised that her appearance at this event was born of duty rather than desire.

Angela's gaze swept Narcissa's elegant satin gown and locked on an emerald brooch pinned to the lace lapel. The brooch bore resemblance to a serpent's eye and seemed oddly alive. Angela felt its piercing stare penetrate to her very soul. She shivered without understanding why. She'd felt this way once before. If only she could remember when.

Again the applause and clamor of the crowd distracted Angela from her thoughts. Malfoy had begun fielding questions from reporters.

"John Gates, The Daily Prophet," said a tall wizard in the front row. "Mr. Malfoy, is it true that you were incarcerated last year for a break-in at the Ministry of Magic?"

"Ah, an unfortunate miscarriage of justice," Malfoy replied in a nonchalant tone. "All charges were dropped. My record remains spotless. You are free to check with the office of Wizengamot Services, if you have doubts. They will, of course, confirm the truth of my statements." He pointed to the reporter right in front of Angela.

"Jason Scoops, The Quibbler," Scoops said. "Mr. Malfoy, there are reports that you were caught philandering with a debutante, Miss Penny Moneywort, in a back room of the Hawkins Mansion at their most recent party. How do you answer?"

"Baseless allegations," Malfoy replied, casting the reporter an icy glare. "I have been nothing but faithful to my lovely wife, Narcissa." He pulled his wife to his side and gave her a peck on the cheek. She obliged him, but an evil glint of suspicion flashed in her eyes. Malfoy turned back to the reporter. "Do you have proof of this alleged assignation?"

"There were several guests who saw you in Miss Moneywort's company at the party."

"I spoke with many people at that party," Malfoy replied. "Your reports are nothing more than malicious slander and gossip."

"And there is the testimony of a friend of Miss Moneywort," Scoops pursued with a dogged look. "She claims that the girl told her the entire story of your advances."

"I am a wealthy and powerful man. Not to mention good-looking," Malfoy replied, chuckling. "Is it surprising to you that a young impressionable girl would fabricate such a tale? This is obviously the product of the girl's overactive imagination." He paused, a calculating look on his face. "Who did you say you are?"

"Jason Scoops, The Quibbler," Scoops repeated.

Malfoy's lips turned up into a cunning grin. "Well, Mr. Scoops, I daresay, you will print whatever fantastical story about me you wish." Malfoy sneered. "Perhaps it will even rate the front page, directly under the story about Sniveling Hornsacks or some other mythical creature."

"You mean, Crumple-Horned Snorkacks?" Scoops corrected.

"Whatever," Malfoy replied, with a mocking smile and a flippant wave of his hand.

At this, the other reporters burst out in sniggers and guffaws. Scoops' face reddened. His fingers clasped his quill as he scribbled a few haphazard notes.

A worried look crossed Angela's face. Malfoy would be no better than Umbridge as the new Minister. And he was clearly more gifted in disguising his motives and handling reporters. Malfoy stepped down and the final candidate approached the podium.

A large man with a big bristling salt-and-pepper mustache stepped behind the podium. He wore a khaki legionnaire's uniform complete with pith helmet. A large colorful array of medals decorated his chest, jangling as he moved. He clutched a baton in his right fist.

"General Sparticus Cornwall, reporting for duty," he announced to the crowd, with a sharp salute. "Order and discipline, I say. Order and discipline is what this country needs and what I intend to provide.

"What we have here is war. And I am the only candidate on the ballot with combat experience. I was awarded the Excalibur Medal of Bravery in the Great War," he announced, tapping his baton on a large silver medal pinned to his chest. "And twice recipient of the Arthurian Cross." He tapped a sizable bronze medal. "Keep the other in my duffel, doncha know. No more room on the old lapel." He winked and chuckled.

"If elected, I promise to have this government shipshape in no time. Spit and polish. And I will send the scalawags packing for the borders..."

Angela's green eyes sparkled with amusement. She suppressed a snigger. Whether or not he would be effective, this General Cornwall was certainly a colorful character.

Just then, the large clock over the lifts chimed the hour, nine o'clock. Angela gasped. She was an hour late for work. She had frittered away her time, listening to those speeches. How would she explain this to her supervisor?

Angela elbowed her way back out of the crowd. She skirted along the dark paneled walls to the gilded doors of the lifts. Her anxious eyes flicked repeatedly to her watch, as the lift ascended with torturous slowness to the Offices of Wizengamot Administration Services where she worked. She dashed out of the lift and raced down the corridor to her cubicle. Her footsteps slowed as she noticed that the other cubicles around her were empty as well. She surmised that the others also must have been stopped by the press conference.

She shrugged and settled down at her desk, now eyeing the case file and huge tower of parchments piled in front of her. She opened the file and began reading. The first page contained a note in shaky handwriting, signed Iphigenia Frump. Madam Frump was rumored to be the oldest living member of the Wizengamot, having predated even Albus Dumbledore. Angela breathed a sigh of relief and smiled, pleased that the venerable old witch would be the Wizengamot member in charge of her next assignment.

Angela's eyes had skimmed only the first few pages of the file, when she was interrupted by someone tapping on the entrance of her cubicle. Her gaze flicked up to see a frail-looking witch with wispy white hair. The woman was barely four and half feet tall and walked with stooped shoulders and a slow shuffling step. She looked as if you could knock her over with a feather. But Angela knew better. That woman was made of much sterner stuff.

"Madam Frump," Angela remarked, rising to her feet. "How can I help you?"

"Not to fret, dear," Madam Frump replied. "I simply forgot to add this list to your case file." The old woman's trembling fingers held out a rolled bit of parchment.

"Thank you," Angela replied, taking the scroll. "But you needn't have come yourself. You should have sent for me."

"Nonsense," the old woman replied, shaking her gnarled finger. "Exercise is good for the soul. Keeps a mind and body young."

Then the ancient woman turned and shuffled from the cubicle. When she had gone, Angela sat back down and surveyed the note. The parchment contained a long list of requests for reports and depositions for the new case. Angela reached for her quill and began filling out the mountains of requisition forms and paperwork, all of which had to be filed in triplicate.

* * * * * * * *

Out on the lawns of Hogwarts, the students in Ravena's N.E.W.T. level Defense Against the Dark Arts class were clustered around her with concerned looks on every face. A range of archery targets were set up at intervals about thirty meters from the group. Each student held a bow and a quiver of arrows. Neville's face wore look of abject horror. Ravena stood with her right hand held high, wrapped tightly in a bloodied cotton cloth. The wooden shaft of an arrow protruded from the makeshift tourniquet.

"Masters Potter and Weasley, please collect the bows and quivers and take them up to the Dark Arts classroom," Ravena instructed, trying to sound calm. "You may leave mine. Miss Bulstrode, would you be so kind and pass out our textbook for this segment. Archery through the Ages by Pierce Bronson. The author is a personal friend and graciously donated copies for the entire class."

Millicent Bulstrode, a square-jawed and formidable-looking Slytherin girl, picked up a textbook. She turned it over in her hands and stared at the author's picture on the back of the dust cover. There in living color was a photograph of a handsome wizard with a rakish grin. He wore a forest green jerkin and cap with a long red feather.

"Ooooooh!" Millicent intoned in a voice that was surprisingly deep for a girl.

"Well, yes, he is rather dashing," Ravena remarked with a snigger. But then her hand twitched. A bolt of pain shot up her arm. She winced. Ravena turned back to the students, now business-like. "Obviously, our lesson will be cut short today. Homework. Kindly read the first five chapters of your text and write an essay on modern innovations to the bow. Twelve inches of parchment due back to me on Monday. That will do. Turn in your weapons and you are dismissed."

Harry and Ron moved among the students, collecting equipment. Every few seconds, they shot their professor a worried glance. Others packed up their texts and prepared to leave. Neville stood rooted to his spot, just staring at Ravena with a wretched look on his face.

"It's all right," Ravena soothed. She forced an encouraging grin. She glanced up at the castle to see Snape bustling across the lawns hot on the heels of Draco Malfoy. "Ah, look. Here comes Professor Snape now."

Snape approached the group, surveying the scene with a cold glare. He studied Ravena for a brief moment. Then his dark eyes swept to Neville, an incredulous sneer on his lips. "Let me guess," he scorned. "Mr. Longbottom's handiwork?"

"Now, Severus, it was an accident," Ravena remarked. "I was helping him fit the arrow nock to the bowstring, when the arrow just flew off. It was a freak accident, my own fault really. I should have been standing behind him."

"Naturally," Snape rejoined, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "Ravena, you should know better than to entrust Mr. Longbottom with anything sharp."

Neville's face turned scarlet. He couldn't have looked more miserable. Ravena cast him a sympathetic smile.

"Not to worry, Mr. Longbottom," Ravena said. "I will be fine. Go on back to the castle with the others." Ravena turned to Draco. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Please collect a textbook. Miss Bulstrode can fill you in on the assignment. Professor Snape will assist me. You are dismissed."

Neville turned and trudged back up toward the castle with reluctant steps, glancing back over his shoulder at his professor every so often. Malfoy grabbed a text and bounded back over the lawns. He smacked Neville in the back with the tome on his way past. Ravena heard Malfoy snort with laughter, as he raced over the green lawns. A sigh of irritation escaped her lips. She turned back toward Snape and held out her injured hand for his inspection.

Snape shot her a superior look and took her right hand in his. His nimble fingers removed the bandages. Ravena grimaced with pain. His black eyes popped wide at the sight of the arrow shaft sticking all the way through the palm of her right hand, lodged between the bones that supported her middle and ring fingers. His jaw melted open and then clamped shut with a snap. He shook his head in disbelief.

"Evanesco!" he whispered with a flick of his wand. The wooden shaft dissolved into thin air, leaving a gapping hole in the flesh of Ravena's right hand. His fingers searched his pockets and extracted a small phial containing a clear liquid. His eyes flicked to Ravena's face.

"Brace yourself," he warned.

The fingers of his right hand closed around hers, gripping it tightly. Ravena took a sharp intake of breath and watched as he dribbled a few drops of the transparent fluid on the wound. The potion bubbled and frothed in the open wound. Ravena felt a sharp pang shoot through her veins all the way up her right arm. She gasped and jerked her hand, trying to pull it free from his grasp. But he held her fast.

The pain subsided as quickly as it had come. Snape pulled her hand just under his hooked nose, now surveying her palm with a studied look. A long finger stroked her hand, a gentle caress. Then he released her hand, now gazing into her eyes, an unfathomable look upon his face.

Ravena's eyes glanced down at her palm, surprised to see it completely restored. She pulled her hand in close to get a better look. Then she flexed the fingers of her right hand.

"Thank you, Severus," she said with a look of astonishment. "You really are quite remarkable."

"You're welcome," Snape replied, pleased at the compliment.

Ravena's hand snatched her bow and quiver from the grass. With a deft movement, she notched an arrow into the bowstring, pulled the string taunt, and let the arrow fly. The projectile soared through the air and landed dead center on the bull's-eye of the target with a thwap, the feathers and shaft still vibrating from the impact. An image of Haight Ashbury was affixed to the center of Ravena's target. The metal tip of the arrow caught him right between the eyes. A self-satisfied smirk crept over Ravena's face.

"Care to take a shot?" she offered, presenting Snape the bow. "I find it very therapeutic."

Snape cast her a quizzical stare. Then he frowned. But the corners of mouth convulsed as if he were fighting to suppress a grin. "Do you really think it is wise to so openly flaunt your disdain for a colleague?" he chided.

"Why should I bother to hide it?" Ravena replied with shrug.

"Because such carelessness might lead to your dismissal." Snape cocked an eyebrow.

Ravena whipped around to face him. "And why should that concern you?" she queried, casting him a feigned look of indifference. "I thought that you didn't care."

"Then you would be mistaken," Snape spat, his dark eyes flashing. "I think you should know that Minerva found Ashbury in the Room of Requirement the other night, dancing a jig. Now how could that have happened?"

Ravena's face broke into a broad grin. "I confess," she replied, giggling. But her smile faded when she spotted Snape's withering glare.

"This is no laughing matter," Snape scolded. "He claims that he hexed himself by accident. Any idea why he would cover for your indiscretion?"

Ravena's mouth fell agape, a look of bewilderment on her face. She shook her head. "None whatsoever."

Snape's eyes bored into hers, as if he were trying to read her thoughts. She met his gaze with an unflinching stare and an innocent expression. She had nothing to hide.

After a moment, Ravena noticed that the hardness is his eyes had turned suddenly warm. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Her lip quivered with desire. She reached for him, but then yanked her hand back down. Her fingers plucked at the string of her bow. Her gaze strayed to the castle towering above them, all too aware that they stood in plain view of the many castle windows.

"How have you been?" she inquired, her gaze flicking to his face and back to the bow in her hand.

"Miserable," he griped. "Someone has broken into my private stores cupboard again. They raided my supply of boomslang skin, powdered root of asphodel, and wormwood."

Ravena's head jerked up to face him, a stunned look on her face. "Surely, you're not accusing me?" she replied. "I don't know the first thing about baboon skin or whatever." She waved her hand.

"For your information, it is boomslang skin," Snape said, his lip curling in derision. "And I would not presume to accuse you, Ravena. I know that you have no talent for the subtle art that is potion making."

"Well, if you had my mother, concocting some deadly brew in the basement all the time," Ravena snapped with a defensive glare. "You'd develop an aversion to potions too."

"No," Snape sneered. "I would develop an aversion to your mother."

Ravena guffawed and doubled over with mirth. She glanced up at Snape to see his mouth twist into a wry grin. Her gaze dropped back down to the bow in her grasp. A sly smile spread over her face.

"Are you certain that you won't try a shot?" she coaxed, holding out the bow to him. "I could coach you. Here, let me show you."

Ravena handed him the bow, snatched an arrow from the quiver, and helped him fit the string into the nock. Her hands maneuvered his body into position, taking every opportunity for contact. Then she moved around behind him. Her cheek nestled against his, as she pretended to check his site line.

"Just aim for the center of the target," she whispered, her lower lip brushing against his ear.

"And if I miss?" Snape asked, with a cunning smirk.

"Then we'll just have to go into the woods to retrieve the arrow," Ravena replied, arching a thin eyebrow.

Snape pulled back on the string and let it loose. The arrow flew wide of the target, disappearing into the bushes just beyond. Snape cocked an eyebrow and glanced over at Ravena. Her china blue eyes danced with laughter, a delighted grin on those ruby lips.