It seemed natural to Giselle to let the two Gryffindors take the lead. She followed close, her wand at the ready.
Ron had started off so recklessly that Hermione had snagged his shirt collar, pulling him back with a hiss in his ear.
"Let's be careful," she had whispered. "There may be others with Vlaud. We should try to come up behind them, and signal to Charlie."
"WHICH Vlaud?" wondered Giselle as they paused a moment at a fork in the footpath that snaked through a dense stand of pines. "Could it be Boris' father? Surely not Boris himself!"
As they pondered which path to take, straining to hear what might offer guidance, Dumbledore stood in his office looking with disappointment at the small painting that McGonagall had brought in.
It was set upright in a chair by the bookshelves: a portrait of a 17th century wizard, Garth, once the Minister of Magic. The portrait showed signs of lifelessness. The spiritual energy it had been embued with was now gone.
There with McGonagall was Professor Charity Burbage, the Muggle Studies teacher, and Burbage's new temporary assistant, Petunia Dursley. They were all in their ceremonial robes, still a little amazed at how the Choice of Champion ritual had turned out.
Petunia was gazing around at the portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses that graced the office walls. No comatose state here; they were alert and anxious to hear what Dumbledore had to say, fidgeting in their frames and eyeing one another in a mutual fear. Were their two-dimensional lives in jeopardy?
"It seems that the epidemic in Promethea has a counterpart in Hogwarts," said Dumbledore. "This makes the seventh portrait that has been drained of its vitality by some unknown hand. The seventh in, what? Just five days?"
"Such an unprecedented thing," exclaimed McGonagall, "that I can't help thinking that the Goblet's additional choice of Harry Potter is somehow connected to this peculiar vandalism."
Dumbledore arched his brows. Her idea seemed to amuse him. "If that should happen to be true, my suspicion would lie with Karkaroff, the Head of Durmstrang. His delegation, and that of Beauxbaton, will be arriving in two weeks. Time enough to investigate the possibility of his involvement in this misfortune. But as I intimated," he continued in a more serious tone, "the vampiric epidemic in Promethea has found its way here in the case of Leon Vlaud, and possibly in the form of the Roc, if indeed the monster has taken up residence in the Forbidden Forest. The appearance of the afflicted portraits suggests a draining of blood."
Professor Burbage said through a puzzled smile, "Blood? I should think it's a red pigment of sorts. How could paint be of any use to a vampire thirsting for blood?"
Dumbledore shrugged. "Good question," he remarked, noting the troubled look on Petunia's pale face. "The portraits here in my rooms are safe enough, I dare say, but those in the hallways and classrooms are vulnerable to whoever this mysterious villian may be. I'll have Argus gather them up and lock them away in the annex of the Trophy Room. I shall personally cast an impenetrable spell on the annex door."
He had not stopped glancing at Petunia. "Mrs Dursley," he said in a tender voice, "is there something you wish to discuss with me?"
Petunia folded her arms defiantly and looked away. But her lips trembled and her breathing was shallow, her eyes misty with an emotion that was more like disgust than the confused yearning she usually expressed.
"I was just... wondering," she said, biting her lip. "Just wondering if there was... if there happened to be... a portrait of Lily... of Lily Potter."
She stared intensely at Dumbledore now, all pretense of indifference gone. But still there was that stubbornness about her, as though she refused to accept what she really felt.
The name did not mean much to Burbage. She was just curious. But McGonagall blanched, turning her back to Petunia and very slightly shaking her head at Dumbledore.
He considered a moment, and said, "Not to my knowledge."
Severus Snape stood in the lower chamber, noting the painting above the hearth, its replica of the room's furnishings; the untidy bed and the clutter on the worktable; the empty stool by the open door to the dark earthen tunnel. Everything was as he expected, except for one thing.
"Vlaud," he said over his shoulder.
"Sir?"
Boris stood on the bottom tread of the stairs. He was the Slytherin house hall-monitor for that night.
"Go and inform the Headmaster that Mr Weasley and Miss McGonagall are not where they are supposed to be. Explain to him that I am taking the exit tunnel to the forest."
"Yes, sir," Boris said, and hurried up the stairs.
Snape drew and lit his wand. He negotiated the tunnel swiftly from long familiarity. He paid no mind to the merman peering at him from the stream as he crossed the stone bridge. Outside the birchbark door he paused to shine his light on the odd footprints in the patch of dirt that led away to the east; to where the dragoneers were setting up the corrals and the arena for the first challenge.
'Moody,' he thought, and wondered at the series of paw scratches that paralleled the marks of the peg leg.
He was about to follow these tracks when a sudden glare of orangish light appeared in the depth of the woods straight ahead.
At once he strolled in haste down the winding footpath, ducking the low branches, his wand's light extinguished, guiding himself by the flecks of moonlight.
The auburn-haired young woman in the fashionably torn black gown fingered her wand, smiling at the three figures lying on the carpet of leaves. Just as she turned her head at the sound of a twig cracking, her wand flew from her hand.
"Severus?" she said, and then a gusty laugh, "Ha!" and stood with her hands on her hips.
"Hexaba LeStrange," Snape said, and splintered her wand against a fir. He tossed it back to her. "Ollivander will be pleased to see you."
"Yes! And aren't you? Oh don't worry, these brats here are only stunned. They'll come out of it after I'm gone. You won't try to stop me from apparating, will you, my love?"
"Where is Charlie Weasley?"
Hexaba breathed a laugh. "I haven't a clue. Haven't seen him."
"What brought these students out here, then?"
"I imitated Charlie's voice. I'm good at that, you know." She said the last sentence in Snape's own voice. "Ha! You see?"
Snape stood with his wand idly pointing at her, his eyes narrowed.
"Mad-Eye has been out here, in the forest," he said. "Would you be associating with him, if I may ask?"
"With an Auror? Have you gone mental on me? My sister Bellatrix doesn't trust you, Severus, but I have no reason not to. You're loyal to the aims of the Death Eaters, I've no doubt. But, my love, listen to me."
She stepped closer to him, now full in the moonlight where her beauty shone with a spectral quality. "The Dark Lord is not coming back. The power is with Lucius. Oh don't look so amused. Lucius has been gathering support from Hellington Nestor and the secret Grindelwald Society. There is a division among the Death Eaters. More and more are coming over to the Malfoy side."
Snape smiled grimly. "Very few have come over. It is a lost cause. What happened at the Quidditch World Cup is just a foretaste of what's to come as the spirit of Voldemort gains strength. Already Malfoy is playing both sides. He'll have a clever explanation for the Dark Lord if he's asked about rumors of his subversive activities. He'll say he was testing the Loyalists."
Hexaba smiled darkly at Snape, but not without a twinkle in her green eyes. "I see that you've been analyzing this with your usual keen intellect. But your optimism is surely exaggerated. There is little hope that Tom Riddle will ever be alive again, let alone be Lord Voldemort again. His death diminished his potential, Severus. You know the theory. If he comes back, he will be little more than a ghost."
"Perhaps," said Snape, impatient. "But this doesn't explain what you're doing here, or for whom you are working, nor why you lured these students into a trap. You may be interested in knowing that one of them is the neice of Minerva McGonagall. Should she find out about your abuse of her neice, your life might take a serious downturn."
Hexaba's levity vanished. Her lovely face took on a look of petulance. "I can hold my own against any witch," she said in a voice utterly unlike her natural one. "I am not at liberty to answer your questions. I've revealed too much as it is. I will just add that a powerful necromantic magic is at work here, and you'd be wise not to interfere. Now, I'm leaving. Don't try to stop me... my love."
Snape lowered his wand. "You escaped from half a dozen Aurors who were taking you to Azkaban. You've managed to outwit them in the two years since. I won't try to stop you. But don't let me catch you anywhere near the school again."
In the next instant she disappeared. A final "Ha" lingered as a ghostly echo among the trees.
Snape turned to the three students. Hermione lay next to Ron, her arm across his chest. Giselle lay on her side a little apart from them, her face upturned to the scudding moon.
With a smirk, Snape waved his wand over them.
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