EDITED: November 15th, 2021.

14 - Shadows on the Floor

When I first met Albus Dumbledore, I'd thought he was a psychiatrist of sorts. The way he spoke to me and held himself had made it obvious that he dealt with children often. A glance at his clothes had me questioning his sanity.

Ironically, it'd be one of his pet projects who turned out to be my psychologist. Therapist? It didn't matter. It didn't quite dawn until Professor Remus Lupin asked, "And how does that make you feel?"

I was supposed to be hounding him for questions. Madam Pomfrey had given me all the right clues, and all I had to do now was ask. I convinced myself the first time I used one of his permission slips that I needed to establish some trust. The second time that I needed to get something personal out of him before I could bring up Black in conversation.

By the third time, I was reluctant to even remember why I decided to open up to him in the first place.

Eventually, I used up all the slips. He gave me another bunch. No one except Snape complained, so I just attended his detentions and happily made my way up to Lupin's office or the Gryffindor common room after. Sometimes Lupin and I drank hot chocolate as we blabbered (he about his lessons, me about my problems); other times we didn't talk and just worked in silence.

During that time, I figured out why Madam Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore were worried about him. And of course, I reminded myself to never bring it up. Even if the scars on his wrists were a glaring reminder. Quid pro quo and all that. If he could keep my secrets, so could I.

And then he opened up.

Lupin (not Remus or Professor. Somewhere along the way, he'd become much more than that) talked of his Hogwarts days from time to time. I wasn't surprised when he told me he'd known Natasha Rosenberg, but I was taken off guard when he claimed she'd been a friend. Natasha had never expressed having friends; I didn't even know if she had any family besides my father. His father became a topic of the conversation shortly after, though: Lyall Lupin worked at the Ministry, handling spirits (which was a reason Lupin knew to deal with Boggarts). He also talked about his first meeting with Dumbledore (I was not surprised to hear the old man had proposed a game of gobstones), and then, much to his consternation, he revealed a little of when the signs of Voldemort's rise began.

In turn, I told him of St. Louise's, of Mrs. Darcy and Carol Davis, of Marie and Natasha.

And Tom. I told him about Tom.

Lessons should've been awkward for both of us but Lupin was nothing but a professional. He quickly became a favorite of mine, despite my refusal to call him 'professor'. No one jumped to conclusions at the familiarity in which the two of us communicated, as most of the school had come to admire him too. His classes were so dynamic that we'd learned not only three jinxes in one month, but also how to avoid certain creatures (or confront them).

The only ones who showed their distaste for Professor Lupin were the Slytherins—and I mean the entire House. The sole mention of DADA seemed to make Professor Snape more hateful and bitter than he already was. Not only did his eyes flash when Lupin's name came up but he also started to bully Neville more since he heard about his doppelgänger wearing women's clothes. I... did not handle it well. But what could he do when he'd already stolen most of my free time?

As for the other classes, I couldn't complain much. Transfiguration was still difficult for me and Charms was still the ace under my sleeve. I went back to the Charms club and Cedric Diggory, now a Prefect, caught me up with every spell I'd missed. Herbology was still a weak point in my notes, and Professor Sprout made sure to hand me a list of students that were willing to tutor me; almost all names were of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs.

I wasn't sure what to think of Divination. At this point, I knew Trelawney was a phony, but sometimes, when I would read the books properly, everything made sense; other times, I just wanted to pull out my hair. I'd given up on trying to stop her from bursting into tears each time she saw either Harry or me. It got more annoying when Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil started to talk to me in whispers and would look at me with mournful expressions every night before I closed the curtains around my bed. Sometimes, I wondered if my faking my death would put them into their places.

The rest of my time was for Otto, who now could no longer fly. Despite being worried about Buckbeak, Hagrid had accepted taking care of the owl when I couldn't, and today it was my turn to have him at the tower. The girls didn't complain about the owl, and I ensured his droppings fell into the enchanted space so that the smell didn't carry.

But it was a fact that his time was near. I could feel it.

"Come on, Otto. You have to drink it. Do it for me, please?" I pleaded.

Otto, with all the strength he had left, shook his feathery head slowly, backing away from me and resting on my pillow. I sighed, placing the small plate in the middle of my bed, and dropped the potion the woman from Diagon Alley had given me for his pain inside.

I felt despondent. Was this what Hagrid felt about Buckbeak?

I needed to get out of the dormitory for air.

When I walked down the common room, I saw everyone buzzing with excitement.

"What's with all the fuss?" I asked Harry, who sat glumly on one of the couches.

"First Hogsmeade weekend," he said.

"Oh." With all the homework and Otto's health, I had forgotten about the trip to Hogsmeade. The paper slip was still tucked safely at the bottom of my trunk, signed by Mrs. Darcy and Natasha both. I wasn't sure who was my legal guardian anymore so I'd made the redhead sign it before she fled.

"Harry, I'm sure you'll be able to go next time," said Hermione, seeing Harry's expression. "They're bound to catch Black soon. He's been sighted once already."

"Black's not foolish enough to try anything in Hogsmeade," said Ron. "Ask McGonagall if you can go this time, Harry. The next one might not be for ages—"

"Ron!" said Hermione. "Harry's supposed to stay in school—"

"He can't be the only third-year left behind," Ron argued. "Ask McGonagall, go on, Harry—"

"Yeah, I think I will," said Harry. Hermione was going to argue but her cat, Crookshanks, jumped onto her lap with a spider hanging from his mouth.

"Clever Crookshanks, did you catch that all by yourself?" Hermione cooed.

"Can you please throw away that thing?" I asked. "I'm not sure I could stomach the sight of him" – I saw the spider dangling from Crookshanks' mouth before he swallowed it – "eating it..." I trailed off. "That's disgusting," I muttered, watching as the cat's yellow eyes fixed on Ron.

"Just keep him over there, that's all," said Ron irritably, turning back to his homework. "I've got Scabbers asleep in my bag."

Harry yawned and took out from his bag parchment, ink, and a quill.

"Still haven't done it?" I said, smirking when Harry muttered, "Shut up".

"You can copy mine if you like," said Ron, shoving his chart toward Harry. Hermione pursed her lips but didn't say anything as she gently stroked her cat's spine.

Without warning, Crookshanks jumped from her arms and pounced on Ron.

"OI!" he shouted, shaking his bag as Crookshanks sank his claws into it and began tearing it furiously. "GET OFF, YOU STUPID ANIMAL!"

Even as Ron waved his bag from side to side, Crookshanks still clung to it and slashed and hissed to anyone that got close.

"Ron, don't hurt him!"

By now, the whole common room was watching as Ron whirled his bag around, the cat clinging to it, and Scabbers, his pet rat, came out flying. Crookshanks freed himself from the remnants of the bag and started chasing Scabbers.

"CATCH THAT CAT!" Ron roared, jumping on the table and almost getting a grasp on Crookshanks' bottle tail. One of the Weasley twins, George, lunged for Crookshanks but ended slamming his head on another table, where Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan sat. I barely caught sight of Scabbers running through many pairs of legs and shot beneath one of the old chests. Skidding to a halt, Crookshanks hissed and made furious swipes with his front paw at the wooden furniture.

Ron and Hermione hurried over, both grabbing their respective pets and keeping a strong hold on them as they tried to escape their masters' clutches.

"Look at him!" Ron yelled at Hermione, pointing down at his bald pet. "He's skin and bone! You keep that cat away from him!"

"Crookshanks doesn't understand it's wrong!" said Hermione shakily. "All cats chase rats, Ron!"

"There's something funny about that animal!" Ron said. "It heard me say that Scabbers was in my bag!"

"Oh, what rubbish," Hermione said impatiently. "Crookshanks could smell him, Ron, how else d'you think—"

"That cat's got it in for Scabbers! And Scabbers was here first, and he's ill!"

Ignoring those who were giggling, Ron stormed away from us and up to the stairs leading to his dormitory.

Trembling, Hermione stood silent for a moment with Crookshanks in her arms before she stormed out to our dormitory, too.

"Well?" I snapped, noticing that they were still looking on as if expecting another round of arguments. "Don't you all have anything else to do?"

Few glares were sent on my way but they did as told. Harry and I shared a glance.

I sighed. "Fine. You stick with Ron and I with Hermione."

"When haven't we," Harry said.

"Yeah."

•••••◘◘◘◘•••••

Ron did not acknowledge Hermione the next day until we were on Herbology. The four of us, including Harry and I, had been assigned to work together on a Puffapod.

Hermione hesitantly glanced at Ron. "How's Scabbers?" Her hands held a plant as Harry and I stripped its fat pink pods.

"He's hiding at the bottom of my bed, shaking," Ron snapped, missing the pail and scattering beans over the greenhouse floor.

"Careful, Weasley, careful!" Professor Sprout cried as the beans started to bloom on the floor.

After we cleaned, the Professor held me back for a few moments.

"Have you chosen someone, Miss Barton?" said Sprout. I bit my lip.

"I saw Cedric Diggory and Penelope Clearwater, but I haven't decided yet."

Sprout nodded but then said, "I forgot, Barton, but I believe I didn't add someone else on the list. Mr. Longbottom," she called, and a pink-faced Neville came over.

"Professor?" he said, dubious.

"Miss Barton here needs all the help she can get for my class," said Professor Sprout bluntly, making me flush in embarrassment. "Seeing as you both know each other, I thought it'd be easier for you to confide in him," she told me.

"That's if you want to," I jumped in, looking away and making sure that I didn't look so hopeless.

"Sure," Neville said, giving a small timid smile.

Professor Sprout clapped her hands together. "Marvelous! You can start with today's notes..." she said, glancing pointedly at the mess of crushed pods inside one of the wooden pails.

Neville and I discussed our availability as we walked toward Transfiguration together. It was funny to hear him shoot down the days I suggested, as I never saw him interacting with other people; it was also unbelievable to hear him suggest places like Greenhouse Five or Professor Sprout's personal greenhouse. I hadn't thought someone like him would be that well-connected, and yet, he even mentioned talking with Cedric Diggory so he could lend us certain equipment.

Our conversation faded into silent curiosity when we saw the small gathering of people crowding next to Professor McGonagall's office. When we neared, I saw Lavender Brown in the middle of the circle crying her eyes out, Parvati Patil curling a sympathetic arm around her friend's shoulders. The pretty girl was talking with Seamus and Dean quietly; both boys looked quite disturbed.

"What's the matter, Lavender?" Hermione asked.

"She got a letter from home this morning," Parvati whispered. "It's her rabbit, Binky. He's been killed by a fox."

"Oh," Hermione said, "I'm sorry, Lavender."

"I should have known!" Lavender wailed. "You know what day it is? The sixteenth of October! 'That thing you're dreading, it will happen on the sixteenth of October!' Remember? She was right, she was right!"

Lavender had the whole class' attention by now. Seamus was shaking his head.

Hermione hesitated; then she said, "You—you were dreading Binky being killed by a fox?"

Lavender blew her nose with her sleeve. "Not necessarily by a fox—but I was obviously dreading him dying, wasn't I?"

I frowned. "Why?"

Oh, I regretted speaking out. Lavender's eyes flashed in my way, thunderous and glassy.

"What do you mean 'why'? He was a baby! I didn't think he would survive his first month without his mother's milk!"

Did rabbits even nurse their newborns?

"Okay, that's valid," I said, and walked around the mob towards the door, very aware that McGonagall would throw me out for entering before class time. To my relief, she wasn't there yet.

Hasty steps ran behind me.

"Why did you leave?" Neville asked just as I slung my bag over my chair.

"I was not going to stay there and make her cry some more. They would've lynched me—I've got enough with the Gryffindor Ice Princess rep as it is."

We took seats by the front, close to the window. When the rest of the class started pouring, all of them looked affronted; when Hermione entered, all eyes shot in her direction, shrewd and judging. She ignored them, nose held high, faltering only when she saw that her spot had been taken by Neville. Harrumphing, she went to the one behind us, a grumpier Ron trailing behind her and Harry followed closely, looking like he was done.

Class was unforgiving, as usual. With our Christmas Break looming, McGonagall made us review everything we'd seen so far. It was difficult to not mix up some spells—and I was one of the few (including Harry and Ron) who ended up sparking up the objects we were supposed to be working on. When it ended, it was with a collective sigh of relief.

Until Professor McGonagall spoke up again.

"One moment, please! As you're all in my House, you should hand Hogsmeade permission forms to me before Halloween. No form, no visiting the village, so don't forget!"

Neville raised his hand.

"Please, Professor, I—I think I've lost—"

Her eyes narrowed. "Your grandmother sent yours to me directly, Longbottom. She seemed to think it was safer. Well, that's all, you may leave."

Making my way out, I briefly stopped beside Harry's desk.

"Don't bother," I said quietly, throwing a look at McGonagall's desk. "I don't think she's gonna say yes, I overheard the portraits saying they've tightened security again—"

Ron, who was sitting beside Harry, snapped, "Nobody asked for your opinion! Sod off, Anne."

"Was I speaking to you, Ronald?" I hissed. "Fine, do what you want! You obviously don't want my opinion, so, bye."

"Anya, wait—"

But I didn't bother. I was so high-strung that whatever Harry said would end up worsening my mood. So I just left him hanging.

So much for staying friends. I'd never felt so far away from them than now.

•••••◘◘◘◘•••••

I sat alone at the Gryffindor table on Halloween day. It was my own choice, not because my friends were angry at me for unfathomable reasons.

But damn Hermione for taking Ron's side of an argument that had no grounds. Why the hell did I need to apologize to that nitwit when all I'd been doing was share gossip with Harry? As if I hadn't done it before. And we all knew how Professor McGonagall thought—she'd rather have us all locked in the castle practicing her subject than let us go to Hogsmeade.

(Really. The Weasley twins had a lot of stories to tell about their detentions with her.)

Why did Hermione, of all logical, rational, people inside this school, did not argue against their plan? No, scratch that—she'd been against it, too. So why, when it was my turn to not agree, did she turn against me?

(Is it because of Tom? Does she still feel it's my fault?)

And yet. Yet. It wasn't just me who was losing her footing. It was them too: Hermione being at odds with Ron most of the time; Harry 'coincidentally' having a busy Quidditch practice schedule. And me, losing my mind while I'm trying to stitch my sanity thread by thread. What the fuck was going on with us?

"Hormones," had been Lupin's joking response. Seeing my horror, he'd changed that to, "It's quite normal at your age to find different interests. But you will drift back, I promise."

Would we? Truly? And would it be the same? If it wasn't, would we be good with it?

The chair across me scraped against the floor as Neville sat down. He was dressed most comfortably, looking quite plump with the dark jumper and red-and-white trapper hat. He greeted me cheerfully and started serving himself sausages and a pair of fried eggs.

I stared. "Morning."

Neville was... I didn't know how to describe it. A surprise? Next to the trio, next to Ginny, he was the person I spoke to the most. He was starting to be the only one I spoke the most to, what with Ginny taking on more responsibilities in her new clubs. It was true that his tutoring had brought us closer, but... I didn't understand how.

Really. I didn't. I was under the assumption I was too frightening to speak with. Even the Slytherins hesitated before meeting me head-on, regardless of Draco's silly vendetta. Neville Longbottom was the weakest of our generation, the most unlucky. He was the most pliable: he'd resorted to carrying a fake amulet or something to ward off the basilisk last year because some older student had convinced him it had the powers of some powerful creature. Technically speaking, shouldn't he be doubly terrified of me? Or was that disappearing too?

He looked up with puffy cheeks, eyes wide. He tried to speak, but couldn't. I offered him a glass of water and he gulped it down.

"I forgot to tell you—Grandma said Newt Scamander RSVP'd for her Christmas Party!"

It felt like someone was crushing my throat. Not in an evil way—in excitement, rather. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them was my favorite book. That the author happened to be someone who shared my disdain of the Ministry's system was just a stroke of luck. Newt Scamander was basically a rebel, the one who got away from the forces due to his services in the fight against Gellert Grindelwald.

And apparently, Neville knew him well. The boy had met the Magizoologist in one of his many travels with that crazy uncle of his, the one that had pushed him off a bridge when everybody thought he was a Squib.

"I could give him your special edition to copy to sign."

I was glad I'd finished eating. I would've choked.

Neville started to look worried. "Are you all right?"

I shook my head side to side—then up and down.

"Yeah, I'm—if it's no trouble, I would really like that. Thank you. Thank you very much, Neville, but is it really—" I just ended nodding enthusiastically.

Then my mouth betrayed me. "Are you going to Hogsmeade with anyone?"

He spluttered, almost choking with his eggs. I leaned forward to pat his back, but the distance proved to be too much.

"So-sorry?"

Lord, I was regretting saying it. What was I thinking?

But Neville's eyes seemed hopeful. Happier. Even through his choking attack.

What was I thinking?

Neville didn't have friends. I wasn't aware if he did. I'd seen him hanging around Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan many times, but they were such a tight duo I doubted he was close to them the way I was with Harry. Maybe he'd planned to tag along with them this morning. Maybe I was intruding, breaking plans apart.

Or maybe I was just giving him fake hope to string him along. The way Riddle did with me.

It would be cruel to back out now.

"Wanna go to Hogsmeade with me?"

The bashful grin that followed weighed on me for the rest of the day.

Hogsmeade was probably constructed on Muggles' idea of what Santa's Little Village looked like. Picturesque was the first word I thought of, and despite some of the cottages looking like they needed renovations, Neville and I walked down the High street with wide eyes, fully impressed.

"It's beautiful," I told Neville, staring at the snowy grounds. "Imagine how the landscape looks like in Christmas time."

"I can see it," said Neville. He was looking at the shops in awe; his eyes kept straying back to Honeydukes, trying to not be so obvious about it. "So, where do we head to?"

"Honeydukes." I had a craving for sugar quills anyway.

A small bell rang above the shop's doorstep but no one turned to stare. The place was so crowded I was surprised there was still enough space to walk through the aisles. Rows and rows of shelves were full of all types of sweets: creamy chunks of nougat, Fizzing Whizbees, Droobles Best Blowing Gum, Toothflossing Stringmints, tiny black Peppy Imps ("breathe fire for your friends!"), Ice Mice ("hear your teeth chatter and squeak!"), peppermint creams shaped like toads ("hop realistically in the stomach!"), fragile sugar-spun quills, and exploding bonbons. All in all, I could hardly believe what I was seeing.

Neville—clever young man—had brought two big bags, both looking more like potato sacks. It didn't matter; soon enough, both were too full that nothing else we bought in other shops fit in.

Thankfully, the post office sold bags this size. Thousands of owls stared down at us, hooting. I took advantage of our visit to write to Marie and the Tonks.

Marie,

I'm sorry I didn't write sooner but classes are getting harder to understand and I still have to catch up with a lot of things from last term. Otto's hanging on. If what the witch at Magical Menagerie said was true, he hasn't got much time left by now. He looks tired most of these days, and he's stopped drinking his pain potion.

Everything's going fine. DADA's the coolest class because of the new teacher, Remus Lupin. He's also not evil, that's a plus. Neville Longbottom is also tutoring me on Herbology (I'm surprised he hasn't run away after I burned a pot—and yes, it was an accident).

How's everything at the orphanage? How are you holding up with Snuffles?

I'll write to you later; we haven't got much time left and Neville and I haven't gone to the Three Broomsticks yet.

A.B.

There was a lot I omitted. My health, the nightmares, my newborn friendship with Lupin, the growing rift with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. My letter to the Tonks was nearly identical, except for the question after the PS.: Do you know anything about a Remus Lupin?

Returning to the castle was one hell of a walk. But going up to the common room was just asking for an earlier death.

Neville and I were struggling to breathe as we finally—finally!—arrived at the entrance. When the Fat Lady saw our appearances, she guffawed so loudly she forgot to ask for the password and let us in. The common room was already packed with first years and older students, all probably waiting for the Halloween feast to begin.

Harry was also there, sitting in one of the armchairs closest to the fireplace. At the sound of our voices, he looked up, his eyes widening at the sight of our souvenirs. I hesitated, but finally set down my sack of sweets to join him.

He grunted in surprise when I threw the small but relatively large bag of sweets at his face, catching it on reflex.

"From Honeydukes and Zonko's. There's also a bottle of butterbeer; I asked Madam Rosmerta for one," I told him.

I went to leave, but Harry pinched my sleeve. I tensed.

"I'm sorry."

I prepared myself. "For what?"

"I promised you I wouldn't push you aside and I did. I don't even know how."

I looked anywhere but at him. "Don't you?" He gave me an unimpressed stare. I sighed. "Don't worry, I'm aware it's not because of that. We're just... finding different interests. And you wanting to skive off the side of the law to go Hogsmeade is one of yours."

He snorted. "Asking wasn't going to break any laws, Anya. What about you? What are your interests these days?"

"Well, I learned how to turn someone's head into a pumpkin," I said. "And to make them dance without stopping. And to not burn plant pots down, but admittedly that was rotten luck, I didn't think getting two syllables wrong would start a fire."

He stared. "Okay, your week sounds way better than mine."

"You couldn't have just been training," I argued, but he shook his head.

"Wood's paranoid this time."

"When isn't he?" The Gryffindor Quidditch team captain wasn't exactly known for having his priorities straight. Oliver Wood's life revolved around Quidditch and the rest of the world didn't matter. I witnessed too many times how he drove his team mad by waking them up before the sun rose and by having them stay when the weather grew awful. "How about today, then? Don't tell me you spent it brooding."

"I actually didn't." He leaned forward. "I spent it at Professor Lupin's office."

My heart skipped. "Really? How did it go?" What had they talked about?

"About how he thought I was scared of Voldemort and dived in front of the Boggart to stop it from manifesting." He had an odd look, a pensive one.

"But it wasn't."

"No. I thought of Dementors. Lupin says that means I'm scared of fear itself."

"Very wise of you. Was that all?"

He mulled it over. "No. Snape came over."

I needed to clean my ears. "I'm sorry, did you say 'Snape'? What did he want, a cuppa?"

"Professor Lupin is sick. He said that Snape brought him a remedial potion."

"Why not go to Poppy?" I wondered aloud. Harry shrugged. "Well, if he gets poisoned, that's on him. Everyone knows Snape hates him."

"Tell me about your day?"

I eyed him. Harry appeared earnest. I sat down and, pulling out a sugar quill, I started talking about my not-a-date with Neville.

... Who'd slinked off without my notice.

The Halloween feast had yet to disappoint me. Like the last two years, the Great Hall was illuminated by floating pumpkins with candles inside them, their silly carved faces making silhouettes on the walls and awing the First Years. Above us, on the ceiling, a hoard of bats dangled precariously; some of them slept peacefully while others flew around to steal food from the tables.

Neville hadn't looked me in the eye since Harry apologized. Oh, he spoke to me all right but said very few words; his gaze would wander, never straying back to my face.

I've never been one for conversations, thus trying to make him talk was more than difficult—it was agonizing. It didn't help that Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas took this as an invitation and started pummeling me with Quidditch facts. But when Neville seemed ready to open up, I saw his eyes dart away—just a second—, and he shut me off again. I was quick to catch the direction he'd looked at, and found Harry watching us—watching me.

He startled. Flushing, Harry turned back to his food and grasped his goblet to hide part of his face.

The shame must've gotten into him. But it was irrelevant. So I continued to harass Neville.

The feast ended with a spectacular entrance of the Hogwarts' ghosts popping up from the ground and walls, Sir Nicholas getting huge applause for the reenactment of his own failed beheading. Neville and I followed the crowd heading to Gryffindor tower, except that when we arrived at the stairs leading to the room of the Fat Lady, we found all our housemates pushed together as each tried to unsuccessfully make their way to the front. Bewildered at the jamming, I asked aloud why anyone wasn't going in.

"Probably Neville has forgotten the password again, " said Ron behind us, standing on his tiptoes.

I slapped his head. "Don't be mean to Neville."

"Blimey, Anya! I was just joking."

"And look where your jokes led us!" I said and elbowed past him towards the tallest boy in our grade. "Dean, what can you see?"

"Perfect Percy just came from the secret eastern passage," said Dean, squinting. "He's trying to make way to the Fat Lady, but the crowd's really thick there. Hey! They aren't even Gryffindors!"

And silence fell over the crowd. It started up front and travelled to the back, as if a chill had settled in the corridor. Percy said in a sudden, sharp voice, "Somebody get Professor Dumbledore. Quick!"

A familiar redhead popped from the horde, her freckles standing out against her ashen face.

"The Fat Lady!" she gasped. "She's gone!"

"Serves her right. She was a terrible singer."

"It's not funny, Ron!" Hermione bit back.

"No, you don't understand—" Ginny said, but at that moment the crowd finally parted and I saw what she meant.

The Fat Lady had vanished. Her portrait was empty, and for good reason: the canvas had been violently slashed apart, red littering each slice. If she were a real person, she'd definitely be dead. But she wasn't. So what had happened to her?

A moment later, Professor Dumbledore was there, sweeping toward the portrait and the Gryffindors squeezed together to let him through. He took one quick look at the ruined painting and turned, his eyes somber, to see Professors McGonagall, Lupin, and Snape hurrying toward him.

"We need to find her," said the headmaster. "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!"

Bobbing above us was Peeves the poltergeist, with a gleeful smile at the sight of madness.

"What do you mean, Peeves?" said Dumbledore calmly, and Peeves's grin faded a little. He didn't dare taunt Dumbledore. Instead, he adopted an oily voice that was no better than his cackle.

"Ashamed, Your Headship, sir. Doesn't want to be seen. She's a horrible mess. Saw her running through the landscape up on the fourth floor, sir, dodging between the trees. Crying something dreadful. Poor thing," he said like an afterthought.

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

"Oh yes, Professorhead." Peeves grinned, and slowly rotated until he was gazing at Dumbledore upside down. "He got very angry when she wouldn't let him in, you see. Nasty temper he's got, that Sirius Black."