CHAPTER SEVEN

Hallowe'en

Sunday dawned cold and gray, the castle wrapped in a chill that seeped through its ancient stone walls. Moody was slouched in an armchair near the Gryffindor common room fire, staring blankly at a half-written essay on goblin rebellions when Hagrid returned. The half-giant's boots thudded against the stone floor, caked with mud and grass, his face flushed from the brisk morning air.

"I were up at five," Hagrid said, his eyes glassy as he sank heavily into the oversized armchair opposite Moody. "Checked the forest with Mr. Fenwick. Unicorns're spooked—somethin's been prowlin' about, but Fenwick reckons it's just the time o' year. Forest always gets restless in autumn."

Moody frowned, setting down his quill. "Prowling? Did you see anything?"

Hagrid shook his head, rubbing his tired eyes. "Nah. Nothin' more'n the usual—bats, a couple o' bowtruckles actin' territorial. Fenwick said I'm overthinkin', but I dunno… unicorns don't scare easy."

"Well, whatever it is, it's not on the grounds," Moody said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

"That's what I'll be makin' sure of tonight," Hagrid replied firmly, his massive hands flexing as though ready to face down anything lurking in the shadows.

"Well, keep safe," Moody murmured, turning back to his essay, scowling at the absurdity of a footnote that described one skirmish as "a spirited disagreement over hats"—proof that even goblins managed to make history both deadly and ridiculous.

The week leading up to Halloween passed in a tangle of frayed nerves and sleepless nights. Moody felt the weight of it in every muscle, every hurried step between classes, every unfinished essay. The castle seemed to hum with a restless energy, its shadows stretching longer as the days grew shorter. Even the Great Hall, usually a source of noisy comfort during mealtimes, felt oddly subdued.

Moody had started to notice Dumbledore's absence at meals—a curious omission, given the escalating tension. The professor seemed to vanish from view, always elsewhere, working on something Moody could only imagine. The headmaster's chair might have been filled by Dippet, but it was Dumbledore's presence that left a void, a quiet reminder that something deeper was unfolding beyond the students' sight.

Moody hadn't spent proper time with Prewett all week. Their interactions were fleeting—hurried meetings in quiet corridors, quick nods across the Great Hall, and whispered updates between classes. Each exchange left Moody feeling restless, as though the moments were slipping through his fingers before he could grasp them.

Cecily had spent every spare moment in the library, combing through dusty tomes and barely touched scrolls. By Thursday night, she collapsed into a chair in the far corner, dropping her head onto the table with a frustrated groan.

"I've got nothing," she muttered as Moody approached, her voice muffled against the wood. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. "I've been lurking in the library all week, keeping an eye out for Riddle or Rosier, but they've been nowhere to be seen. I even dragged Myrtle Warren into it—you know, third-year Ravenclaw? She spent more time whining about Peeves than actually helping. Madam Wickett glared at me like I'd hexed the Restricted Section just for being there."

Moody hesitated, leaning against the table. "Myrtle? The one who chats more to dead people than us?" He asked carefully, his brow furrowed. "Why her? I mean... she's not exactly the most reliable person, is she?"

Cecily stiffened, her sharp green eyes snapping up to meet his. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Moody shifted uncomfortably, crossing his arms. "I just meant—Myrtle's... she's always crying about something. I don't know, always chatting with the Grey Lady, she doesn't seem like the type who'd be much help."

Cecily's expression darkened. "She's not the type?" she repeated, her voice icy. "And what type is that, exactly? The type Olive Hornby made miserable? I think it says more about Hogwarts than Myrtle that the ghost sare kinder to her. Myrtle says she's lovely," Figg added, "Which is more than I can say about you."

Moody blinked, taken aback by her sharp tone. "Figg, I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean what?" Cecily interrupted, her voice taut. "You didn't mean to judge someone you don't even know? Myrtle might cry a lot, and, yeah, the Grey Lady looks after some of the Ravenclaw students, you know some of them can be quite odd, not like Prewett," she added, "all handsome and debonair. And yes, maybe she's a bit of a mess, but at least she's trying. Did it ever occur to you why she's like that?"

Moody frowned, uncertain. "I... no, I guess not."

"No, of course not," Cecily snapped. "Because it's easier to dismiss her than admit she's been treated like dirt since she got here. Olive Hornby made her life hell, and no one cared. That's why Myrtle trusts me. Because I actually see her."

Her words landed hard, and Moody dropped his gaze, guilt twisting in his chest. "I didn't know," he muttered quietly.

"No, you didn't," Cecily said sharply, crossing her arms. "Because you're fine on your own, hiding in your corner and pretending you don't need anyone. But some of us actually want friends, even if they're not perfect."

Moody nodded faintly, the weight of her words pressing on him. "Fair enough," he murmured. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the quiet of the library settling around them like a heavy blanket.

Finally, Cecily shifted, her tone becoming more practical. "Anyway," she said, breaking the silence, "we can't keep doing this in passing. If we're going to figure anything out, we need somewhere private to plan. Somewhere no one else can overhear."

They'd decided on the prefects' bathroom as their meeting spot after much debate. The common rooms were too noisy, the dormitories not private enough, and the library too exposed; and the disused classrooms were the worst, always seeming to attract wandering ghosts or Peeves at the most inopportune moment. The prefects' bathroom, with its enormous sunken tub, enchanted taps, and comforting privacy, seemed the safest option. Prewett had suggested it with a raised eyebrow and a faint grin, and no one had disagreed.

They'd decided on the prefects' bathroom as their meeting spot after much debate. The common rooms were too noisy, the dormitories not private enough and the library too exposed; and the disused classrooms were the worst, with them always seeming to attract wandering ghosts or Peeves at the most inopportune moment. The prefects' bathroom, with its enormous sunken tub, enchanted taps, and comforting privacy, seemed the safest option. Prewett had suggested it with a raised eyebrow and a faint grin, and no one had disagreed.

"Well, how do we even get in?" Cecily had asked skeptically as they huddled in a quiet corner of the castle earlier that evening.

Prewett smirked. "Password's 'Keep Calm and Carry On,'" he said. "Fitting, don't you think?"

"Merlin's beard," Moody muttered. "Do the prefects think they're Churchill now?"

"It's that or 'Loose Lips Sink Ships,'" Prewett replied dryly, clearly enjoying their reactions. "Take your pick."

"This place is ridiculous," Cecily said as she perched on the edge of the pool-like bath, swinging her legs. She glanced at the gilded taps lining the edge, each one enchanted to release its own unique blend of water, bubbles, or scents. "Honestly, it might be worth the hassle of being a prefect just to have access to this."

Hagrid, trying to make himself comfortable against the far wall, shifted awkwardly and accidentally knocked one of the taps with his elbow. A geyser of water erupted, sending a cascade of shimmering lavender-scented bubbles into the air.

"Sorry!" Hagrid rumbled, fumbling to twist the tap shut. The bubbles floated upward, bursting softly in the marble chamber, their scent filling the room.

Cecily snorted, clearly unimpressed. "You'd think a prefect would know how to handle the plumbing," she teased.

"I ain't no prefect," Hagrid muttered defensively, his cheeks flushing pink. "Yeh lot dragged me here. Jus' tryin' not to knock over anythin' else."

"Which is why you're sitting on the floor," Prewett said dryly as he leaned against one of the carved pillars, arms crossed. He gestured toward Moody, who was pacing near the door, his expression tight and restless.

"So, we're agreed then," Prewett said, his voice calm but measured. "There's no concrete evidence. Riddle hasn't left a trail, and neither have his friends."

"Which means we've wasted an entire week," Moody snapped, rounding on him. His tone was sharper than he intended, but the frustration bubbling beneath the surface was too much to contain. "We've been skulking around, chasing shadows, and what do we have to show for it? Nothing. No one's been paying attention, and now we're—"

"Moody," Prewett interrupted, his voice steady but edged with warning.

"No, I'm serious," Moody shot back, his pacing growing more erratic. "We should've been more vigilant. We should've known Riddle wouldn't leave clues just lying around. He's too clever for that, and now—"

"Now what?" Cecily cut in, her tone defensive. "What exactly are you saying, Moody? That this is our fault?"

Moody stopped abruptly, running a hand through his hair. "I'm saying we're not doing enough! This isn't just about us—it's the whole school. If Riddle's planning something, it's going to be on our heads if it happens!"

The room fell into tense silence. The gentle slosh of the water seemed deafening as Prewett's gaze flicked between Cecily and Hagrid, who looked uneasy in the corner. After a moment, Prewett sighed, crossing his arms. "Cecily, Hagrid, go on. Take a breather. I'll deal with Moody."

Cecily hesitated, glancing between the two boys. "You sure? Because I'm happy to—"

Here's a revised version where Gideon uses humor and light-hearted charm to disarm Moody, keeping the tone lighter and making Moody more taken aback:

"I've got it," Prewett said firmly, meeting Cecily's eyes. Reluctantly, she slid off the edge of the bath, muttering something under her breath. Hagrid followed, his heavy footsteps echoing as he squeezed through the doorframe. The door creaked softly as it closed behind them, leaving Moody and Prewett alone.

Prewett leaned against one of the marble pillars, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He waited a beat before speaking, letting the stillness settle. "So," he said finally, his tone casual, "I guess it's just you and me now."

Moody blinked, not catching the implication. "What?"

Prewett gestured toward the door. "They've gone, Alastor. It's just us. Alone. In the prefects' bathroom." His smile widened, and he raised an eyebrow, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Scandalous, isn't it?"

Moody stiffened, caught completely off guard. "That's not—this isn't—" He broke off, his cheeks flushing as Prewett chuckled softly.

"Relax," Prewett said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm only joking. Mostly." He stepped closer, his grin fading into something gentler. "Now, are you going to keep pacing and growling at the taps, or are we actually going to talk?"

Moody scowled, crossing his arms defensively. "We're not ready. If Riddle makes his move, we'll be caught flat-footed."

"And shouting at Cecily and Hagrid is going to fix that, how exactly?" Prewett asked, his tone light but pointed. "You think yelling about being unprepared is going to magically make us prepared?"

"They don't take it seriously enough," Moody muttered, his fists tightening. "They think this is just some kind of school project."

"Uh-huh," Prewett said, tilting his head thoughtfully. "And you're taking it so seriously that you've decided to give yourself a heart attack before anything even happens. Great plan, Moody. Very tactical."

Moody glared at him, the knot in his chest tightening further. "We're wasting time."

"No," Prewett countered, stepping closer, "we're figuring things out. You know, like normal human beings. That's what this whole 'planning' thing is about." He paused, his smile returning as he gestured vaguely around the ornate room. "Although I admit, we could probably be doing it somewhere less... bubbly."

Moody's lips twitched despite himself. "Bubbly?"

"Yeah, you know," Prewett said with a dramatic wave toward the bath. "The ambiance, the lavender-scented water... very romantic, don't you think?"

Moody groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Merlin's sake, Gideon."

"There it is," Prewett said with a laugh, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "A sense of humor. I knew it was in there somewhere."

Moody exhaled sharply, the tension ebbing away despite himself. "I just... I can't shake this feeling, Gideon. Something's coming, and I don't know if we can stop it."

Prewett's expression softened, though his tone stayed light. "Well, lucky for you, you've got me and my unparalleled wit on your side. We'll figure it out, Moody. That's what we do."

For a moment, Moody didn't respond, the lingering tension replaced by something quieter. He finally looked up, meeting Prewett's gaze. "You're annoying, you know that?"

Prewett chuckled at Moody's flustered expression and stepped closer. "You know," he said lightly, flicking his wand with a casual flourish, "if we're going to spend all this time worrying about Slughorn's soirée, I should at least be prepared."

Before Moody could respond, Prewett's plain school robes shimmered and transformed. The dull black fabric melted away into jet-black dress robes, tailored perfectly to him and edged with intricate sapphire and bronze embroidery along the lapels and cuffs. The colors gleamed subtly in the soft light, accentuating the fiery auburn of his hair and the striking green of his eyes.

"Well?" Prewett asked, tilting his head and spreading his arms slightly. "What do you think? Too much, or just enough to make Slughorn's pets jealous?"

Moody blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "You—you're wearing that?"

"Why not?" Prewett replied, turning slightly as if to admire his reflection in the polished marble wall. "Still, a second opinion wouldn't hurt. How do I look? Not bad for a Ravenclaw, right?"

Moody muttered, "you're always one step ahead Prewett aren't you?" He wanted to be angry at the grinning sixth year but couldn't help a smirk cross his face.

Prewett paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. His auburn hair caught the golden light, glowing faintly against the deep sapphire of his robes. "Oh, by the way," he said casually, his tone almost too nonchalant. "How do you feel about another date?"

Moody froze. His brain scrambled to process the question, the word date reverberating in his mind like a shout in the stillness. "I—uh—" The word stuck in his throat, his mouth opening and closing uselessly.

Prewett's grin widened, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Think about it," he said, disappearing into the corridor before Moody could respond.

The door creaked shut, leaving Moody alone in the cavernous bathroom. His chest tightened as the realization hit him like a bolt of lightning: another. Another. The word settled in Moody's chest like a spark catching flame, dragging his mind briefly to their last trip to Hogsmeade—the laughter, the shared looks, the warmth he hadn't let himself linger on until now.

The word: warm and thrilling, sent a jolt of joy through him that left his thoughts spinning. For the first time in days, the tension that had weighed him down began to lift. He sat back, the faint scent of lavender still lingering in the air, a small, unbidden smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Moody stepped out of the prefects' bathroom, the faint scent of lavender clinging to him as he strode through the castle. The corridors were dim but alive with an electric energy that seemed to hum in the air. From the direction of the Great Hall came the sound of laughter and chatter, drawing him forward with a sense of quiet anticipation. He couldn't help but feel lighter, Prewett's parting words still ringing in his mind. Another date.

Pushing open the heavy doors to the Great Hall, Moody paused, taking in the sight before him. The room was dazzling, transformed for Halloween with enormous pumpkins floating overhead, their carved faces glowing softly. Bats darted among the decorations, their wings slicing through the flickering candlelight. Black and orange streamers spiraled lazily from the enchanted ceiling, which shimmered with the deep blue of a starlit night. All around the Hall, Hogwarts' ghosts floated in high spirits. The Fat Friar hovered above the Hufflepuff table, cheerfully dispensing advice about pumpkin pasties, while Nearly Headless Nick swooped low over Gryffindor, earning startled laughs from the younger students. Even the Bloody Baron wore something akin to a smirk as he glided past the Slytherins.

Moody spotted Hagrid and Cecily at the Gryffindor table. They waved him over, and as he approached, Cecily leaned toward Hagrid, whispering something that made the half-giant chuckle. The moment Moody sat down, Cecily pounced.

"Well, well," she said, her grin wicked. "Someone's looking positively radiant. What's got you so cheery, Moody? Did you find out you're getting extra homework?"

Hagrid snorted with laughter, his shoulders shaking as he poured himself a goblet of pumpkin juice. "Aye, or maybe yeh found a room full o' books ter organize."

Moody scowled, but Cecily leaned closer, her grin widening. "Or," she added in a sing-song voice, "maybe Prewett said something terribly sweet and now you can't stop smiling like a lovesick fool."

"I'm not—" Moody started, but Cecily cut him off, her voice laced with mock suspicion.

"Oh, wait," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Don't tell me he kissed you."

"What?" Moody's voice cracked, and his cheeks flushed a furious red. "No! Of course not!"

Hagrid choked on his drink, thumping the table as he roared with laughter. "Look at 'im! Yeh've got him pegged, Cecily. He's redder than a Gryffindor scarf."

"I knew it!" Cecily said triumphantly, pointing her fork at Moody. "Oh, you're hopeless. Admit it, Moody—he's got you wrapped around his finger."

Moody buried his face in his hands, groaning. "You're both impossible."

Cecily laughed, leaning back in her seat with a satisfied smirk. "We're delightful, actually. You're the one who's hopeless."

As Moody lowered his hands, glaring at her through the faint blush still dusting his cheeks, the laughter and chatter in the Hall swelled around them. The pumpkins floated lazily above, casting a flickering golden light over the tables, while the Hogwarts ghosts wove cheerfully through the decorations. Nearly Headless Nick gave Moody a passing glance and an encouraging nod, which only made Cecily laugh harder.

Moody exhaled sharply, but despite the teasing, he couldn't stop the warmth that lingered in his chest. Another date. The words echoed again in his mind, and a small, reluctant smile tugged at his lips. Maybe tonight wouldn't be so bad after all.

Moody, still flustered from Cecily and Hagrid's relentless teasing, leaned back in his seat with a grumble. "You two are relentless, you know that?"

"Oh, we know," Cecily replied with a grin, resting her chin on her hand. "But it's fun, and you're such an easy target."

"Leave the lad alone," Hagrid said, though his wide grin suggested he wasn't entirely on Moody's side. "Poor bloke's been through enough with us lot teasin'."

Moody huffed but didn't argue, glancing around the Hall as he tried to redirect the conversation. The room was buzzing with energy as students chatted animatedly, their voices bouncing off the enchanted ceiling, which gleamed with the dark, starlit sky of Halloween. The floating pumpkins swayed lazily overhead, their flickering candlelight casting warm, dancing shadows over the tables.

At the Hufflepuff table, a group of second-years led by Fintan Byrne had turned the wait for food into a competition, using their wands to charm scraps of parchment into miniature broomsticks and sending them zipping through the air. Cheers erupted when one managed to loop a particularly tricky pumpkin string, though the laughter quickly turned to groans as the parchment caught fire in the candlelight and disintegrated into ash.

"Look at them," Cecily said, nodding toward the Hufflepuff table with a small smile. "Absolutely fearless. You've got to admire that level of chaos."

"Or stupidity," Moody muttered, though his lips twitched faintly. "If Merrythought catches them, they'll be scrubbing cauldrons for a week."

"They'll be fine," Hagrid said with a chuckle, watching as one of the second-years tried to charm a goblet to catch the ashes, only to have it upend itself onto their neighbour. "Part o' bein' young, innit? Havin' a bit o' fun while yeh can."

Cecily sighed dramatically. "Ah, to be young and carefree again."

"You're only a year older," Moody pointed out flatly.

"Exactly," she shot back with a grin. "Ancient."

Their laughter mingled with the general cheer of the Hall. Moody found his gaze drifting back to the Hufflepuff table, where Fintan Byrne was now slipping quietly out of his seat, murmuring something to the boy beside him.

As the minutes ticked by and the food still didn't appear, a subtle shift in the atmosphere began to take hold. The chatter at the tables grew more scattered, pockets of students glancing toward the staff table with curiosity or murmuring among themselves. Moody frowned, his focus narrowing briefly on the gap left at the Hufflepuff table before turning back to the growing unease in the Hall.

"Alright," Cecily said, lowering her voice. "Is it just me, or is this taking longer than usual?"

Hagrid nodded, frowning slightly. "Aye. The food's usually here by now."

Moody glanced toward the staff table, his brow furrowing. "They don't seem worried about it," he said, though even as he spoke, his eyes narrowed. The teachers weren't chatting casually as they usually did. Instead, they leaned in close, their heads together in low whispers. Professor Dippet, seated at the center of the table, had a faint crease in his brow as he exchanged quiet words with Professor Merrythought.

"Doesn't look like nothing to me," Cecily murmured, following his gaze. "Look at Merrythought—she's not the type to fidget, is she?"

Moody shook his head, his sharp gaze scanning the staff. Professor Slughorn sat hunched, his usual joviality absent as he spoke in hushed tones to Professor Periwether. At the far end of the table, Dumbledore appeared calm, though his bright blue eyes flicked toward the doors more than once. Nearby, Professor Sinistra drummed her fingers on the edge of the table, her other hand resting lightly on her wand.

"It's probably just a delay in the kitchens," Cecily said, though her tone was more questioning than confident. "Right?"

"Maybe," Moody muttered, though he couldn't quite convince himself. The restlessness in the Hall seemed to deepen, as if the castle itself was holding its breath.

Hagrid shifted uneasily, glancing toward the doors of the Hall. "Dunno. Feels like somethin' ain't right."

The sudden crack of multiple apparitions echoed through the Hall, silencing the hum of conversation in an instant. Gasps rippled through the students as a cluster of house-elves appeared at the foot of the staff table. They trembled violently, their wide, terrified eyes darting around the room. Their pillowcases, normally pristine, were a stark mess—sooty, burnt, and damp, clinging to their frail forms as if they had just escaped some unseen catastrophe.

A murmur of discontent rippled through the older, pure-blood families. To them, the sight of house-elves standing openly in the Great Hall was an insult. A hushed voice from the Slytherin table sneered, "What are they doing here? It's indecent."

Audrey Potter, seated at the Gryffindor table, gave a disdainful sniff, her nose wrinkling as she whispered loudly to her friends. "Honestly, can't they stay out of sight where they belong?"

Several others nodded in agreement, their faces twisted in scorn.

The house-elves quailed under the weight of hundreds of stares, clutching at the edges of their ruined pillowcases. Their thin fingers shook as they wrung the fabric, and their large, bat-like ears drooped low in fear. One elf took a trembling step forward, then faltered, almost collapsing under the intensity of the silence.

Dippet rose from his seat, his expression cold and bemused as he looked down at the frightened elves. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?" he asked, his voice firm but dispassionate, as though he were addressing a minor inconvenience. "Explain yourselves."

The elves flinched at his words, huddling closer together. They opened their mouths, but whatever they said was too low, too frantic to carry to the rest of the Hall. Dippet frowned, his hands clasped behind his back as he leaned slightly forward, but his posture suggested more annoyance than concern.

Across the staff table, Dumbledore had already risen from his chair. With a swift, deliberate motion, he moved to kneel beside the elves, his bright blue eyes warm as he gazed at them. Whatever they said next, he leaned closer to hear, his expression growing more serious with every word.

The Hall watched in tense silence, straining to catch even a fragment of the conversation. But Dumbledore's low murmurs to the elves were quiet and measured, and the words did not carry.

Professor Merrythought too rose swiftly, her sharp gaze sweeping over the room before she joined Dumbledore. Her dark robes swirled behind her as she crouched beside the elves, her presence steady and focused. For a moment, the Hall remained frozen, the only movement the faint swaying of the floating pumpkins above.

Whatever Merrythought and Dumbledore heard, their expressions darkened. Dumbledore stood first, his face grave, and he exchanged a quick, urgent look with Merrythought. She nodded sharply before straightening to face the Hall.

"Prefects," Merrythought commanded, her voice slicing through the tension like a blade, "escort your houses back to your dormitories. Immediately. Food will be provided in your houses."

The Hall erupted into murmurs, but Merrythought silenced them with a firecracker spell that cracked against the high ceiling. "Now," she said, her tone unyielding. "This is not a matter for debate."

Dippet, still standing stiffly at the staff table, added grimly, "Do as you're told. The feast is canceled."

Students reluctantly began shuffling toward the doors as the prefects herded them into lines. Cecily turned to Moody, her face pale. "This is bad," she whispered.

Hagrid nodded, but his usual composure seemed off. He fiddled with the hem of his coat, his gaze darting nervously toward the kitchen entrance. "Aye," he muttered, his voice quieter than usual. "Bad, alright."

Moody frowned, glancing sharply at Hagrid. "What's got you so twitchy?"

"Nothin'," Hagrid said quickly, avoiding Moody's eyes. "Just… those elves look scared stiff, don't they?"

"They're terrified," Cecily said, watching the trembling house-elves in the shadows. "And Potter didn't even care. She barely looked at them."

Moody's expression darkened. "Exactly. She was cold as stone, like they didn't matter at all." He turned abruptly to Cecily and Hagrid, his voice clipped. "You two—keep an eye on Potter. If she's planning something, I want to know."

Cecily hesitated. "You think she's involved? What about Riddle?"

"It's one of them," Moody said firmly, his grip tightening on his wand. "And I'm not taking any chances. Potter's been wearing those 'Keep Hogwarts Pure' badges like a second skin. Watch her and don't let her out of your sight."

"But—" Cecily began, but Moody cut her off with a sharp gesture.

"No arguments," he barked. "Potter or Riddle—someone's behind this. If Potter's cronies are mixed up in something dangerous, you need to be ready." He paused, his gaze narrowing on Hagrid. "And if you know something, Hagrid, now's the time to share."

Hagrid shifted uneasily but said nothing, his jaw tightening.

Moody exhaled sharply, muttering the incantation for a Disillusionment Charm. A shimmer of magic rippled over him as he vanished. Cecily glared at the space where he'd stood.

"He's going to get himself killed," she muttered.

Hagrid's shoulders sagged. "Let's just find Potter," he said, his voice gruff. "Before somethin' worse happens."

Together, they headed for the doors, leaving the Hall as the last murmurs of departing students faded. Moody, unseen, slipped into the shadows, his wand at the ready.