“Yes, yes, I will,” said Lupin.
   “I made an entire cauldronful,” Snape continued. “If you need more.”
   “I should probably take some again tomorrow. Thanks very much, Severus.”
   “Not at all,” said Snape, but there was a look in his eye Harry didn’t like. He backed out of the room, unsmiling and watchful.
   Harry looked curiously at the goblet. Lupin smiled.
   “Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion for me,” he said. “I have never been much of a potion brewer and this one is particularly complex.” He picked up the goblet and sniffed it. “Pity sugar makes it useless,” he added, taking a sip and shuddering.
   “Why—?” Harry began.
   Lupin looked at him and answered the unfinished question.
   “I’ve been feeling a bit off color,” he said. “This potion is the only thing that helps. I am very lucky to be working alongside Professor Snape; there aren’t many wizards who are up to making it.”
   Professor Lupin took another sip and Harry had a crazy urge to knock the goblet out of his hands.
   “Professor Snape’s very interested in the Dark Arts,” he blurted out.
   “Really?” said Lupin, looking only mildly interested as he took another gulp of potion.
   “Some people reckon—” Harry hesitated, then plunged recklessly on, “some people reckon he’d do anything to get the Defense Against the Dark Arts job.”
   Lupin drained the goblet and pulled a face.
   “Disgusting,” he said. “Well, Harry, I’d better get back to work. See you at the feast later.”
   “Right,” said Harry, putting down his empty teacup.
   The empty goblet was still smoking.
* * *
   “There you go,” said Ron. “We got as much as we could carry.”
   A shower of brilliantly colored sweets fell into Harry’s lap. It was dusk, and Ron and Hermione had just turned up in the common room, pink faced from the cold wind and looking as though they’d had the time of their lives.
   “Thanks,” said Harry, picking up a packet of tiny black Pepper Imps. “What’s Hogsmeade like? Where did you go?”
   By the sound of it—everywhere. Dervish and Banges, the wizarding equipment shop, Zonko’s Joke Shop, into the Three Broomsticks for foaming mugs of hot butterbeer, and many places besides.
   “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 has 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 have brought you some butterbeer, really warms you up—”
   “What did you do?” said Hermione, looking anxious. “Did you get any work done?”
   “No,” said Harry. “Lupin made me a cup of tea in his office. And then Snape came in…” He told them all about the goblet. Ron’s mouth fell open.
   “Lupin drank it?” he gasped. “Is he mad?”
   Hermione checked her watch.
   “We’d better go down, you know, the feast’ll be starting in five minutes.”
   They hurried through the portrait hole and into the crowd, still discussing Snape.
   “But if he—you know”—Hermione dropped her voice, glancing nervously around—“if he was trying to to poison Lupin—he wouldn’t have done it in front of Harry.”
   “Yeah, maybe,” said Harry as they reached the entrance hall and crossed into the Great Hall. It had been decorated with hundreds and hundreds of candle filled pumpkins, a cloud of fluttering live bats, and many flaming orange streamers, which were swimming lazily across the stormy ceiling like brilliant watersnakes.
   The food was delicious; even Hermione and Ron, who were full to bursting with Honeydukes sweets, managed second helpings of everything. Harry kept glancing at the staff table. Professor Lupin looked cheerful and as well as he ever did; he was talking animatedly to tiny little Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher. Harry moved his eyes along the table, to the place where Snape sat. Was he imagining it, or were Snape’s eyes flickering toward Lupin more often than was natural?
   The feast finished with an entertainment provided by the Hogwarts ghosts. They popped out of the walls and tables to do a bit of formation gliding; Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, had a great success with a reenactment of his own botched beheading.
   It had been such a pleasant evening that Harry’s good mood couldn’t even be spoiled by Malfoy, who shouted through the crowd as they all left the hall, “The Dementors send their love, Potter!”
   Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed the rest of the Gryffindors along the usual path to Gryffindor Tower, but when they reached the corridor that ended with the portrait of the Fat Lady, they found it jammed with students.
   “Why isn’t anyone going in?” said Ron curiously.
   Harry peered over the heads in front of him. The portrait seemed to be closed.
   “Let me through, please,” came Percy’s voice, and he came bustling importantly through the crowd. “What’s the holdup here? You can’t all have forgotten the password—excuse me, I’m Head Boy—”
   And then a silence fell over the crowd, from the front first, so that a chill seemed to spread down the corridor. They heard Percy say, in a suddenly sharp voice, “Somebody get Professor Dumbledore. Quick.” People’s heads turned; those at the back were standing on tiptoe.
   “What’s going on?” said Ginny, who had just arrived.
   A moment later, Professor Dumbledore was there, sweeping toward the portrait; the Gryffindors squeezed together to let him through, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione moved closer to see what the trouble was.
   “Oh, my—” Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm.
   The Fat Lady had vanished from her portrait, which had been slashed so viciously that strips of canvas littered the floor; great chunks of it had been torn away completely.
   Dumbledore 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 Dumbledore. “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!” said a cackling voice.
   It was Peeves the Poltergeist, bobbing over the crowd and looking delighted, as he always did, at the sight of wreckage or worry.
   “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,” he said happily. “Poor thing,” he added unconvincingly.
   “Did she say who did it?” said Dumbledore quietly.
   “Oh yes, Professorhead,” said Peeves, with the air of one cradling a large bombshell in his arms. “He got very angry when she wouldn’t let him in, you see.” Peeves flipped over and grinned at Dumbledore from between his own legs. “Nasty temper he’s got, that Sirius Black.”