25

Ron and Hermione didn't make up over the Crookshanks vs. Scabbers debacle until the day of the first Hogsmeade weekend, when they reunited to feel sorry for Harriet.

"We'll bring you back loads of sweets from Honeydukes," Hermione said, squeezing her hand.

"Yeah, loads," Ron promised. He'd even abandoned Seamus and Dean to sit with Harriet and Hermione at breakfast. Although Harriet was thoroughly depressed, she knew this was a very powerful symbol of their old friendship: the mood among all three of them was quite gloomy, whereas Dean and Seamus were laughing and whooping at something Fred and George were doing that involved a cork, a string, and a basket of uncooked eggs.

"Don't worry about me," Harriet said in what she hoped was a content voice. "I'll see you at the feast."

She walked with them to the Entrance Hall, where Filch was checking off a long list the names of everyone who tried to get past him, glaring suspiciously into each face to make sure that no one was sneaking out who didn't have permission. Bundled into coats and thick scarves, Hermione and Ron filed into line while Harriet hung back where Filch (probably) couldn't accuse her of trying to sneak out.

"Aww, poor ickle Pottykins," said Pansy Parkinson, passing by on Malfoy's arm, a bright pink beret pulled down over her long, shiny hair. "Is oo staying here all by herself?"

Ears ringing with the sound of Pansy and Malfoy's laughter, Harriet waved one last goodbye to Hermione and set off alone up the marble staircase.

"Poor Harry," Ron said as they trudged down the Hogsmeade road between two crowds of students (some Ravenclaw fifth-years up ahead and sixth year Hufflepuffs behind). "That bloody family of hers ought to be locked up."

"They're horrid," Hermione said in a low voice, not trusting herself to say it any more loudly with that knot pressed on her chest, hot and tearful. "They ruin everything for Harriet that they can. And if it isn't them, it's—it's You-Know-Who—"

Harriet had said it herself that summer, and she was right: if it wasn't the Dursleys, it was the shadow of Voldemort. Their summer together had been truncated by the threat of Sirius Black, and now Hogsmeade . . . and she couldn't even be properly honest with Harriet because Professor McGonagall had made her promise to keep the Time-Turner a secret, from anyone—everyone. "Don't even tell Miss Potter," she had said, as if reading Hermione's mind. And although Hermione had always trusted her teachers (even when it had been proven that some of them, she shouldn't), she had felt a twinge of dissatisfaction. Didn't Professor McGonagall understand how hard it was to keep secrets from one's friends? Not simply logistically, but emotionally?

Especially Harriet, who'd had so many things kept from her. And Hermione couldn't even properly be her friend this year because she'd signed up for so many classes that she didn't have time for anything but studying.

Perhaps she should tell her about the Time-Turner. Maybe she owed Harriet that.

But . . . what if Harriet asked to do something like . . . go back and see her parents? Or try to save them? What if . . .

Ron's elbow nudged her arm. "What are you thinking about?" he asked.

"Harriet," she said automatically.

Ron nodded. They crunched on in silence, down the beaten mud track scoured with the passage of so many feet, scattered with puddles and the crushed remains of fallen leaves. It was a bleak, desolate day. The wind was biting sharp, the sky a hard and unforgiving gray. They were lucky it wasn't dumping icy rain all over them.

And yet the further Hermione walked from Hogwarts, the more excited she became. She would get to see Hogsmeade, the only wizarding village in Britain! Harriet had stayed with the Weasleys, an all-wizarding household, but Hermione had never been to a place (other than Hogwarts—and Diagon Alley, she supposed) that was all-magic before. She'd never seen the clock that told where you were, not when, or watched the dishes wash themselves, and the mirrors at Hogwarts didn't speak. She had tested Harriet's Sneakoscope, but Dervish and Banges would have a whole range of them, and Foe Glasses, Dark Detectors—

"Now you're thinking about learning things," Ron said, shaking his head. "I can tell."

Hermione smiled in spite of herself, and shoved at him with her elbow. It was . . . strange, being alone with Ron. She was sure she'd been before, but this was the first time she'd noticed. Strange but . . . good.

And even thinking that, with Harriet left alone at the castle, made Hermione feel like the greatest traitor alive.

Harriet climbed listlessly to Gryffindor Tower, but when she got inside, she found no one except the first and second years and a few older students who must have visited Hogsmeade so many times the novelty had worn off. Ginny was sitting with a group of her friends, laughing, and Harriet retreated quietly before any of them could see her. She knew that Ginny would wave her over, but Harriet felt awkward around Ginny's friends, who clearly felt awkward around her, and she didn't feel like sitting with a bunch of people she didn't know.

"What was the point of waking me up?" the Fat Lady said grumpily as Harriet climbed out the portrait hole and set off again.

Not wanting to do work but having left the Tower without her broom, she drifted in the general direction of the Owlery, where she could at least visit with Hedwig, who was probably there at this time of the morning.

The Owlery was built detached from the rest of the school, perhaps to reduce the effect of the smell, and was reached by an isolated walkway that stretched over a dizzying drop filled with mist far, far below. When she stepped out onto it, the wind whipped her hair back from her face, sharp and cold. She climbed the winding stairs, shivering in the chill. It was almost November, and the Dementors made it colder than usual. Some dead leaves, tossed by the wind, lay crushed and broken to either side of the wall.

As she round the last curve in the staircase, she heard a burst of laughter. Boys—young ones, maybe first or second years, it sounded like. She hesitated, not sure if she wanted to continue if someone else was in there.

"Little snakes aren't supposed to be up this high," said one boy.

Harriet frowned. Snakes? How would a snake get into the Owlery, unless an owl brought back a dead one?

Something went BANG, like a paper bag bursting, making her jump.

"Too bad, little snake," said a second boy, and he and his friend, maybe even a third or fourth of them, laughed.

"Not a very good weapon, all this paper," said a third boy. "It sort of"—there was the sound of tearing paper—"just comes to pieces."

They're talking to a Slytherin, Harriet realized. She mounted the remaining stairs and stepped into the dimness of the Owlery. It took her eyes a moment to adjust, but when they did, she saw she'd been right: three boys she didn't recognize had backed a girl with long blonde hair against the wall. She looked terrified: she was shaking all over and seemed to be having trouble breathing, and tears were pouring down her face.

Anger built in Harriet's stomach, mixing with her unhappy loneliness and rising up hot and fresh.

"What the fuck?" she said loudly, using one of Snape's words.

The boys had their backs to her when she came in, but they turned at the sound of her voice, looking surprised. Two of them immediately looked dismayed, although the third tried to play it cool.

"Just what d'you think you're doing?" she demanded.

"Oh, come off it, Potter," said the boy playing it cool, and Harriet thought he—all of them—might be in Gryffindor. "It's only a snake."

"I don't care." She stalked toward them. The girl had fallen to the floor and was wheezing jerkily, like she couldn't draw in her breath all the way, and her whole body jerked each time she tried. "You get off her!"

"Or what?" said Playing It Cool, though his friends, at least, looked like they'd have happily complied. "You'll really show me when you get bigger?" To Harriet's extreme frustration, he was taller than her. "When's that gonna be?"

"I'll show you what I did to that Basilisk right now," she growled, pulling her wand out of her pocket. But he just grinned.

"OoOooh," he said. "I'm really scared."

"Good," Harriet retorted, and punched him in the nose with the hand holding the wand.

It wasn't a hard punch, and it probably hurt her hand as much as it hurt him. He yowled, stumbling away, and blood spurted out his nose, while she grit her teeth against the desire to scream and cradle her hand.

"Morbius!" his friends yelped.

"Next time just piss off," Harriet said, shoving past them, going to the girl, who'd fallen onto her side and seemed to be having some sort of fit. Her eyes were open but she was staring at the ceiling with wide, terrified eyes, her breath coming very fast and high-pitched, her chest heaving and her hands curled into rigid claws. "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing," said one of the friends, starting to look scared. "That's just Asteria Greengrass—she's scared of everything, we were just having a laugh, that's all—"

"I'll have a laugh at you next," Harriet said furiously. "You help me get her to Madam Pomfrey or I'll tell Professor Snape what you did."

That put the fear into two of them, although Morbius just grumbled and held a handkerchief to his nose. Harriet was really worried about—Asteria? Astoria?—and ordered one of the boys to run ahead and bring Madam Pomfrey to meet them.

Madam Pomfrey found them about two floors up from the Hospital Wing with, of all things, a paper bag in her hand. "Here, Miss Greengrass," she said briskly, opening the bag and holding it over Asteria/Astoria's mouth. "Breathe into that now."

Asteria/Astoria did, at first still wheezing, and then gradually steadying as she leaned weakly against Harriet's shoulder. (She, also, was taller.)

"Miss Potter," said Madam Pomfrey, still brisk, "please find Professors McGonagall and Snape and bring them to the Hospital Wing. You three," she added to the boys, her voice going very cold, "will come with me."

The boys went ashen, even Morbius around his bloody handkerchief. But they trudged dejectedly alongside Madam Pomfrey as she swept away, her arm around Asteria/Astoria's shoulders.

Professor McGonagall was in her office, grading, when Harriet knocked. "They what?" she demanded, her eyes flashing. "Very well. Thank you, Miss Potter, I will deal with them."

She swept away, looking about as angry as last year, when Harriet and Ron had flown the car into the Whomping Willow. Feeling slightly more cheerful—if anyone deserved to have Professor McGonagall that angry with them, it was those three bullies—Harriet headed down the corridor for Snape's office.

But she hadn't gone even one floor down before she heard his voice, floating out of a half-open door.

". . . take another dose tomorrow," Snape was saying in that voice of especially strong hatred that she associated with Professor Lupin.

"Yes, of course," Lupin said, sounding quite serious. "Thank you, Severus."

Before Harriet could decide whether she should try and sneak closer to the door to find out more about this mysterious potion they'd been brewing together all summer, Snape threw open the office door and stalked out—or started to. When he saw her, he stopped so abruptly his boot soles squeaked.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Madam Pomfrey sent me to get you," she said, the close call of being caught snooping at the door making her heart thump. Behind him, Professor Lupin pulled the office door open the rest of the way and peered over Snape's shoulder.

"Asteria," Harriet said, "—or is it Astoria?—anyway, Greengrass, some boys were picking on her and she had some sort of fit. She's in the infirmary—"

Snape strode out the rest of the way into the hall and slammed the door in Professor Lupin's surprised face. He swept away without saying anything, but when Harriet followed, he didn't send her away.

When they got to the infirmary, Snape billowed inside. But the only person there was Madam Pomfrey, checking Asteria/Astoria's vitals.

"Where are they?" Snape demanded in a voice that made the hairs along the back of Harriet's neck rise.

"Professor McGonagall has taken them away to deal with. Don't make a fuss, Professor," Madam Pomfrey said sharply. "You'll only upset her more, and she's had quite enough of a fright as it is."

Asteria/Astoria was trembling, staring at her toes and still breathing into her bag. The multicolored web of spells in the air in front of her was flickering madly. The golden one for heartbeat was driving especially fast and furious.

"You rest, dear," said Madam Pomfrey, surprising Harriet, who had never heard her call anyone "dear" before. She stepped away from the bed and drew a mint-green curtain round it, blocking Asteria/Astoria off from the rest of the room.

"Has she said anything?" Snape asked Pomfrey, who shook her head.

"I haven't been able to get a response out of her," said Pomfrey. "Not even a shake or nod of the head. The boys weren't communicative either—"

"How many?" Snape asked in that bone-chilling voice.

"Three. Miss Potter, what did they do?"

Snape turned on her like he'd forgotten she was there, so suddenly that she almost jumped.

"Er—" she said, taken aback at being appealed to so suddenly, and having both of them staring at her so fixedly. "I don't know everything—I was going up to the Owlery, and I heard them pop something, it sounded like a paper bag—"

"She carries one for breathing into. That explains where it went," Madam Pomfrey added darkly to Snape, who was watching Harriet with a kind of burning ferocity. It was almost unnerving to be the focus of that much intensity. "And then, Miss Potter?"

"And—I guess she'd gone up there to mail a letter, since I heard them ripping something made of paper. That's when I realized they were—well—they'd been talking about snakes, but that was when I realized it wasn't really a snake, it was . . . "

An echo of the feeling that had gripped her during the Boggart lesson squirmed in her stomach. Snape had no visible reaction—he just kept staring at her—but Pomfrey's eyes flickered toward him.

"Anyway . . . that's when I went in and saw . . . them. I thought they'd done something to her, she was breathing funny—"

"She was hyperventilating," Madam Pomfrey said to Harriet. To Snape: "I couldn't find any evidence of spells, jinxes, or hexes."

"And then, Miss Potter?" Snape asked, still not reacting.

"Then I punched one of them in the no—" Harriet bit her tongue. But neither Snape nor Pomfrey reacted to this admission at all. It was as if their ears had chosen that exact moment to stop working.

"You didn't see them touch her or use magic in any way?" Madam Pomfrey said. Harriet shook her head. "It corresponds to my diagnosis," she told Snape. "All the same, I would like to keep her here for the time being."

"I will alert her sisters," Snape said.

For the first time, Harriet connected the name Greengrass. Was this Daphne's sister? She tried to picture Daphne Greengrass in her mind but couldn't come up with much more than a girl with long blonde hair who always stood slightly behind Pansy. She wasn't sure if they'd ever spoken in all two, starting-on-three, years.

"Will Asteria—Astoria?—be okay?" Harriet asked.

"Her name is Asteria," Madam Pomfrey said. "And yes, she will, Miss Potter. There's nothing more for you to do now. What she needs is her rest."

She said it briskly, but she laid her hand on Harriet's shoulder and didn't retract it. Harriet nodded silently. Madam Pomfrey's hand only withdrew when Harriet turned away.

She left, feeling very thoughtful.

Daphne ran up the stairs, as fast as she could. She would have taken them two at a time but her legs weren't quite long enough.

"Merlin, Daff," Tracey said, jogging after her. "Would you slow down?"

Daphne didn't bother replying, because it would have slowed her down.

"She's fine now," Tracey called after her. Though taller, she wasn't running as fast. It wasn't her little sister whom her own selfishness had abandoned to tears and childish cruelty. "Professor Snape said—"

Finally gaining the top of the stairs, Daphne put on a burst of speed. She had a stitch in her side and her breath was sore in her throat—she hadn't run this much in years, not since before Hogwarts, when she and Asteria used to race down to the beach, Asteria with her longer legs always winning—but she wasn't going to slow down, she wasn't going to listen to Tracey, not this time.

She hurled all her strength into the infirmary doors, but they only groaned and swung inward softly.

Madam Pomfrey came out of her office as Daphne staggered into the room. "Miss Greengrass," she said. "Your sister's in the last bed behind the curtian."

Daphne nodded, panting too hard to say thank you. Tracey came in behind her and grabbed her by the arm before she could rush down to the beds.

"Calm down, would you?" she said in a low voice as Madam Pomfrey retreated back to her office. "It isn't your fault."

"I don't expect you—to understand," Daphne panted, pulling her arm away.

"And it's not my fault," Tracey said, her voice still low but now a touch angry. "Don't try to make me feel bad because you're too guilty to—"

"Go," Daphne said. "Leave us."

Tracey stared at her, not looking as cool and collected as usual, but warm with anger. Then she turned on her heel and stalked out, shoving at the doors like she wanted to slam them. But they only drifted as softly shut as they'd opened.

Daphne spent a few moments composing herself, trying to even out her breathing, pushing the thought of tears away. This was her fault, no matter what Tracey said, and she should feel guilty, no matter what Tracey believed. Asteria was her responsibility, and she had left her, defenseless, to go have fun, to—

She smoothed her hands down her hair, then walked down the path between the hospital beds to the last one, and ducked behind the curtain. Asteria looked up as she entered. Her drawing pencils were scattered across the bed, and on a little tray on her knee she was sketching on a piece of parchment.

"I'm fine," she said before Daphne could trust herself to speak. "Madam Pomfrey says I'm quite well."

Asteria was wearing her nightgown (which had once been their mother's, then Leto's, but skipped Daphne because Asteria had been big enough to need it by the time it was Daphne's turn), and her hair was braided over one shoulder, like she was all ready for bed.

"Yet she's keeping you in here," Daphne said, gripping her hands into fists.

"Just to be sure." For once, Asteria looked more composed than herself. "I feel really quite well. It's quiet in here."

No dorm-mates, Daphne translated.

"It's all my fault," she said.

"No it isn't," said Asteria with uncharacteristic composure. "It's the fault of those dreadful boys. Did you have fun in Hogsmeade?"

Daphne shook her head, not because she hadn't—she had, it had been the most amazing morning, just her and Tracey, away from Pansy, from everyone watching; for a morning, just two people in a crowd—but because she didn't wish to talk about it.

"I shouldn't have left you. It was selfish—"

"All third years get to go," Asteria said. "It's not selfish. If I weren't—if I didn't get so—" She looked down at her drawing, the un-Asteria-like composure unraveling. "You wouldn't have to worry about me so much."

"I'm your sister," Daphne said. "I ought to worry, whether you're well or hale. You're my responsibility, Aster. Gladly," she added, sitting on the bed.

"But I feel so—so wretched when you're kept from things because of me," Asteria said, her eyes glinting with the start of tears. "Now I've ruined your day and you won't want to go again because of me—"

"Oh, Aster," Daphne said, because she didn't know what to say. This was their problem, had always been fated to be their problem: at Hogwarts Asteria couldn't be comfortable with Daphne or without her, and Daphne couldn't make Asteria comfortable whether she was with her or without her. They both loved each other too much to be anything but horridly, miserably guilty.

"What are you drawing?" she asked, shifting up the bed to lean around and see the sketch from the right side. "Pink and yellow roses?"

"Gratitude and friendship," Asteria said shyly, playing with a green pencil.

"It's for someone?" Daphne asked, surprised.

Asteria shrugged, still shy, and colored in a leaf with expert strokes.

Daphne thought she understood. "Aster, did someone help you with the boys?"

Asteria nodded, her eyes shining with something quite different from tears—and for a moment, although she knew it was terrible and felt quite ashamed, Daphne was both jealous and hurt. It was her job to protect Asteria—and she had failed because she had left, knowing she should stay and do what she ought, because who else did Asteria have if not herself?

But Asteria had found someone else. And wasn't that her right? If her dearest sister was to abandon her, she would do well to find someone much better.

"Who, Aster?"

But Asteria just blushed and sketched in the shadow falling from the vase, as if the sun behind it lay in the east. "Not important," she mumbled. She glanced up, smiling faintly. "I'm glad you had a good day. Mine wasn't so bad, really. So don't look so sad, Daffy."

"There you go," said Ron. "We got as much as we could carry."

A shower of sweets in a rainbow of brilliant colors—sapphire blue and turquoise and aquamarine, butterscotch and pumpkin orange, emerald green and iridescent melon, strawberry red and amethyst purple—fell into Harriet's lap in shapes likes stars, nautiluses, spheres, and swirls. Dusk had drifted down from the highest point in the sky, all the lamps and fires were lit, and Ron and Hermione had just turned up in the common room, pink-faced from the cold and looking as though they'd had the most brilliant afternoon of their lives.

"Thanks," said Harriet, picking up a black packet sparkling with silver and red dots. Pepper Imps it read in bold red and silver letters. "What's Hogsmeade like? Where did you go?"

Everywhere, it sounded like. Deverish and Banges, the wizarding equipment shop, where they sold things like Sneakoscopes like the one Ron and Ginny had sent Harriet for her birthday; Zonko's Joke Shop, full of Dungbombs, Fanged Fisbees, and Fred and George; then into the Three Broomsticks for foaming mugs of hot Butterbeer, and—

"The post office, Harry! About two hundred owls, all sitting on shelves, all color-coded depending on how fast you want your letter to get there!"

"Honeydukes have got a new kind of fudge, they were giving out free samples, there's a bit, look—"

"We think we saw an ogre, honestly, they get all sorts at the Three Broomsticks—"

"Wish we could've brought you some Butterbeer, really warms you up—"

"What did you do?" said Hermione, switching off her excitement for a moment to switch on her anxiety. "Did you get any work done?"

"I rescued a damsel in distress," Harriet said lightly, breaking off a piece of the fudge. Ron's "a bit" was the size of a small boulder. The fudge was so light, it seemed to disappear the moment it hit her tongue, leaving behind flavors of chocolate cream and caramel.

"You already did that," Ron said. "Last summer, with Ginny. You can't recycle damsels, Harry."

"This was a whole new damsel, thanks very much."

When she'd finished telling them about the three Gryffindors and Asteria Greengrass, they sat staring at her for a few moments, their mouths slightly open. Then they looked at each other, as if they were thinking the same thing and were checking to make sure the other was, too. When they did that, Harriet felt a frission of something she didn't like at all—didn't like feeling, for too many reasons.

"So I can entertain myself, thanks," she said, pretending to be smug and lofty, and taking another heavenly light bite of fudge.

Ron was shaking his head. "Gryffindor's sword didn't fall out of the Owlery ceiling and hit you on the head again, did it? Because it bloody missed a great opportunity."

"Oh, bugger off," Harriet said, flicking a Pepper Imp at him.

"I'm serious!" he said, trying to block it and only hitting himself in the nose. "Only you would find some girl to rescue the minute we left you on your own—"

"We'd better go down," Hermione said, raising her voice slightly, "or we'll miss the start of the feast."

Harriet ran upstairs to dump her sweets in her trunk, where Crookshanks couldn't get into them, and then came back down to find Ron and Hermione clumped near the portrait hole. Ignoring the clench in her stomach at the sight of them standing with their elbows almost touching, Harriet put on a smile and they all climbed out the portrait hole and headed down the winding stairs.

The Great Hall was decorated for Hallowe'en with a countless number of candle-filled pumpkins, some leering on the tables, others grimacing in midair, the flame-light making their eye- and- teeth holes flicker as if they were blinking and breathing. Bats chittered high on the lightning-lashed ceiling, and flaming orange streamers coiled lazily through the air like water-snakes. Most everyone was already there, including the teachers, and the hall rang with noise. Harriet glanced at the Slytherin table for Asteria or the girl she thought was Daphne, but she didn't see either of them. Snape was seated at the High Table, isolated once again from the talk; he was staring into space and taking absent sips from a goblet. Harriet wondered what he was thinking about.

The food was delicious and came in courses—a range of thick soups and small game pies for starters; whole roast turkeys for the main, with sides of wild rice, potatoes, greens, and yams; and desserts so enticing that even Hermione, who'd become very choosy about how much sugar she ate, managed a second helping. The Hogwarts ghosts provided the entertainment, streaming through the walls and across the tables, the pumpkins and streamers floating out of the way to give them room. Nearly Headless Nick enjoyed school-wide success when he re-enacted the gruesome story of his own botched beheading. Even the Slytherins enjoyed it.

It was such a good feast that if Harriet didn't forget what an up-and-down day it had been, she at least was finally at peace with it. She, Ron and Hermione followed the rest of the Gryffindors back up to the tower in a sleepy, feast-induced haze, but when they got to the corridor ending in the Fat Lady, they found it crammed with babbling students.

"What's going on?" Harriet and Hermione asked Ron, who had much more hope of seeing anything.

"Can't really tell." He stretched up on his tip-toes, craning his neck. "Looks like no one's going in for some reason."

"Let me through, please," said Percy, bustling as well as he could through so many stationary people. "What's the hold-up here? You can't all have forgotten the password—excuse me, please, I'm Head Boy—"

And then a silence spread over the crowd, starting from the front and rippling toward the back in a soft, chilling wave. Harriet felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise for the second time that day, although in a much different way than before.

"Somebody get Professor Dumbledore," said Percy in a suddenly sharp voice, sounding much less like a self-important prig and much more like a grown-up. "Quick."

Hermione's fingers wrapped around Harriet's hand. People in the crowd around them were doing like Ron, standing on tip-toe to try and see the front of the crowd.

A little babble started at the back of the crowd: Professor Dumbledore had arrived and was wading into the morass of people. The Gryffindors shuffled and squeezed aside to let him through; Harriet edged into his wake as he passed, to push further to the front and see what was going on. Hermione held tight to her hand and Ron pushed after them, using his elbows.

"Oh—" Hermione gasped, her free hand grabbing Harriet's arm.

The Fat Lady's painting had been cut, as if from long slashes of a knife. Strips of canvas had torn free and littered the floor, and in some places the painting's back had been stabbed straight through.

Dumbledore took one quick look at it and then turned away. If he saw Harriet, Hermione and Ron standing so close by him, he gave no sign: he looked through the crowd at the teachers who had just come up to it: McGonagall, Lupin and Snape. As if through some homing signal, Snape's eyes fixed immediately on Harriet, glittering like moonlight on the lake on a clear black night. Was it her imagination, or did he look paler, stranger, than usual?

"We need to find her," Dumbledore said to them immediately. "Professor McGonagall, please go to Mr. Filch at once and tell him to search every painting in the castle for the Fat Lady."

"You'll be lucky!" an unpleasant voice cackled.

Peeves the poltergeist hung bobbing over the heads of the crowd, looking delighted, as he always did, at the sight of wreckage and worry.

"What do you mean, Peeves?" Dumbledore said calmly, gazing at him steadily, and Peeves's grin faded a little. He didn't dare taunt Dumbledore the way he did everyone else; instead, he pasted on an oily voice that was almost as bad.

"Ashamed, your Headship, sir. Doesn't want to be seen. She's a horribly mess. Saw her running through the landscape up on the fourth floor, ir, dodging between the trees. Crying something dreadful," he said happily. "Poor thing," he added, convincing no one.

"Did she say who did it?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

"Oh, yes, Professorhead," said Peeves with the air of someone cradling a large bombshell. "He got very angry when she wouldn't let him in, you see." He flipped over and grinned at Dumbledore from between his own legs. "Nasty temper he's got, that Sirius Black."

Severus had to force himself, with all the willpower he possessed, not to grab the girl in the hall or to react at all, even when Dumbledore said, "Stay, Severus," as Minerva started herding the Gryffindors away and Lupin was sent to find the Fat Lady.

Dumbledore looked at him once all the children and the others were gone, with something like concern in his face. That was when Severus realized he was breathing very quick and shallow, his whole body vibrating with tension so harsh his muscles were already beginning to ache.

"I need you to think clearly, Severus," Dumbledore said in a calm, measured voice, as if he were speaking to someone standing on the edge of a tall building.

"I am thinking very, very clearly, Headmaster," Severus whispered, and it was the absolute truth. His mind felt as bright and clear as glass, filled with a light almost blindingly white, and yet dark on the edges, a deep blackness one couldn't quite see except on the periphery.

Dumbledore stared at him a moment, almost as if startled, and then a firmness of purpose came over him, a strength that would brook no opposition. "Our task is to find where Sirius Black went, Severus, and if he is still in the castle. That, and nothing more. Do you understand me?"

Severus looked at him. Now his breathing was long and drawn out, like he was preparing to jump off a very long drop into very deep water far below, so far it couldn't be seen, so far it might not even be there.

"Promise me that you will do no more than search for Black, Severus," Dumbledore said, his tone now commanding.

"I promise, Headmaster," Severus said after a long moment. He even meant it.

Because in his mind, anything he did until he found Black counted as part of that search.

He turned and strode away. He was sure to meet Lupin at some point, and when he did, he and the werewolf were going to have, perhaps not a long, but a very fruitful talk.

"How did he get in?" everyone seemed to be asking as they streamed through the corridors. "How?"

One of many ways, perhaps, Remus's conscience thought. The one-eyed witch, the Whomping Willow, even the cellar at Honeydukes—if he's cunning enough to escape Azkaban, he's cunning enough to break into the sweetshop without anyone being any the wiser...

Remus had gone to Filch's office back in the summer, looking for the Map; but it was gone, someone had taken it. No one in the school could have done it or they would surely have turned it in, considering. . .

Or not, said Conscience coldly. Look at you.

He closed his eyes, thankful the hallway was dark around him. The far-off echo of children's voices washed through his ears like the sound of the ocean.

He opened his eyes and started climbing again.

Snape found him as he was hunting for the Fat Lady.

The man moved as silent as a cat's shadow. In one moment Remus was scanning the many paintings on the walls for the landscape that Peeves had mentioned, and in another the shadows on the periphery had warped into Snape, moving so fast and viciously Remus almost hexed him out of reflex. But then he registered who it was, and in that moment's stupidity (as it turned out), he stayed the hex.

Snape grabbed him by the throat and shoved him into the wall, trying to choke off his airway. Remus elbowed him in the stomach, hard; Snape grunted but didn't fold, as Remus might have expected; instead he countered with a blow to Remus's temple that knocked him sprawling against a bust of an old headmaster.

Remus swiped his wand at Snape's abdomen, sending out a shower of golden sparks; Snape repelled it with a non-verbal shield and leapt away, moving like a cat. Panting, Remus hauled himself upright against the bust, his wand held in a defensive position across his chest. Snape was also panting, but in a way that seemed almost manic; his eyes were strangely wide, his face rigid with an emotion that made Remus's skin prickle all over with warning.

"I knew it," Snape whispered, his voice hoarse and whiplash sharp, his eyes glittering in a way that made the wolf part of Remus's brain raise its hackles with a long, drawn-out growl that only he could hear. "You're helping him. You let him in, told him when the feast would be, when the corridors would be empty—if he'd got into Gryffindor tower he'd only have found a lot of barely trained children when they returned—"

He took small steps forward with every word, his wand clenched so tightly in his hand it was shaking, his whole body shaking, with tension, Remus assumed, like it was taking all of Snape's willpower not to slice his head off his shoulders. His eyes never wavered from Remus's face, and that bright, mad glitter never left his eyes.

"Sirius Black got into the school without any help from me," Remus said in a low voice, while his conscience whispered Liar liar liar—

"Liar," Snape hissed piercingly from between his teeth, as if he could read Remus's mind. "If you were any real use to us, you'd have told us how to catch him. Don't think I don't know how things were between you— don't think I'm as stupidly trusting as Albus—"

Don't react, Remus willed himself, as something inside him, something left alone and denied for so long, twisted and tore, but not cleanly, don't react—

"I have not had any contact with Sirius Black since before James and Lily died," Remus said, keeping his voice low so that he could control it.

Emotion flashed in Snape's face like a lightning strike. Remus hadn't been expecting that, not at all, and he blocked the resulting spell just in time, squinting his eyes against the actinic flash of spell-light. But Snape didn't seem to have noticed; it was almost as if his control had slipped and he hadn't even seen, like someone not realizing they've lapsed into an old habit.

Snape was almost within arm's reach, now. Remus didn't want him coming any closer. The moon was filling and the wolf was pushing against the inside of his skin, and all his instincts were screaming at him to— "Severus, please stay back—"

"Leglimens," Snape hissed, lunging that last step into Remus's personal space.

The mind-reading spell, Remus thought; he'd heard of it but had no idea how to block it, and Snape was going to see the truth about Sirius, the real truth, each and all of them, and a part of Remus wanted to fall to his knees with relief because if Snape tore the secret out of him it would at least be out, it would be over—

But nothing happened.

Remus blinked. Snape leaned in closer, looking feral and bewildered, and then he swore in the way he'd been especially known for at school, and raised his wand as if he was going to jab it into Remus's throat.

"Severus," Remus said hoarsely, "the moon is full in five days."

Snape froze, his breathing fast and audible, and then his eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth again. Remus rotated his wand in his palm, waiting. . .

And then, from down the corridor, he heard the wheezing breath and shuffle-thump gait of Argus Filch.

Snape heard it too. Cursing again, he drew back, and with one last scorching, half-mad look of pure hatred, he slipped away.

Filch came hobbling into the corridor, muttering, his jowls quivering. Remus tried to find a smile somewhere inside him, but he couldn't. Snape's mind-reading spell might have failed, but he had still taken something out of Remus, bared it to the light, and it would take him more than a few moments to find it again.

But he'd find it, eventually. He always had.

There was nothing else to be done.

Severus slipped into the Great Hall, somewhere between three and four in the morning, with nothing to report but defeat.

The ceiling was dark with black clouds, but a few hundred candles dusted the room with light far above the sleeping bags spread across the floor. Dumbledore would want his report, but Severus didn't look for him first, or for any of his fellow teachers.

He stepped through the rows of sleeping bags, searching for the girl.

He found her lying next to Granger, the pair of them at least appearing to sleep. But when Dumbledore's voice called softly from nearby, "Severus," he saw the girl's eyelid flicker.

Before he could turn and walk away from her so she wouldn't be able to eavesdrop on the conversation—which, if awake, she would certainly do—Dumbledore had joined him.

"Anything?" he asked.

"No," said Severus. Nothing, nothing, where is he, where has he gone "Astronomy Tower, dungeons, Owlery, Gryffindor—anywhere he could conceivably have got in a short period of time, and many places he couldn't have—all searched and found empty." Empty gone where did he go

"Very well," Dumbledore murmured. "I didn't expect him to linger."

The officious Weasley was prowling through the rows of sleeping bags, telling people off for talking. Dumbledore stared in his general direction, though he did not appear to be really watching him.

"Have you any theories as to how he got in?" Severus asked in a low voice. He was really saying, What is your explanation this time?

"Several," Dumbledore said, still staring vaguely toward Percy Weasley. "Each as unlikely as the last."

Severus knew that Dumbledore wouldn't hear him out—they'd had this conversation before the start of term, after all, and it would surely go the same way now as it had then—but he didn't fucking care, he'd say it anyway. "It seems impossible to believe he could have got in without help."

Dumbledore looked sharply at him, immediately understanding and knowing what he was going to say. Severus held his gaze, unflinching.

"The concern I expressed when you appointed—"

"I do not believe a single person in this school would have helped Black to enter it," Dumbledore said in a tone so final that Severus knew it was as useless as he'd always thought, as it had been the first time they'd argued over it. . .

"You're placing your faith in a man who never stopped his friends in any endeavor they wished to undertake, and you think, now that so much is at stake, he will suddenly stand up for what he believes in?"

"Remus has had a difficult life, Severus, full of discrimination and prejudice; he wishes so very much to be liked that it has in the past, it is true, compromised his judgment. But that does not mean that he has gone over to the Dark, that he wishes Harriet dead . . ."

And how will you feel, Severus thought as Dumbledore walked away, and the girl twitched in her pseudo-sleep, when your precious faith in the wrong person, once again . . .

But he couldn't bear to think it, even in the jagged depths of his own mind.