Public Opinion, Judgment, and the White Dark Lord (6)

McGonagall sat alone in the office piled high with Howlers, staring at the closed door without moving for a long time. The fire in the hearth burned quietly, casting her shadow long across the wall.

An owl hooted in the distance, then all fell silent again.

Moonlight spilled over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, coating every tower and window of Hogwarts in a silvery-white chill. Dumbledore left McGonagall's office and slowly made his way down the corridor.

The portraits lining the corridor were already asleep. Some snored, some muttered in their dreams, and some had buried their faces in their arms, their expressions hidden from view. As he passed one portrait, the figure inside turned over, mumbled something, and went back to sleep. No one woke. No one greeted him, questioned him, or asked, "Where are you going?"

He passed Lockhart's office. The lights were still on. Through the crack in the door, he could see the figure in deep purple robes practicing wand movements before a mirror. Lockhart was still preparing for tomorrow's Dueling Club.

He passed Snape's underground classroom. The door was shut, and the lights were off. Yet a familiar scent drifted through the crack beneath it, a mixture of wormwood and dried toad. Snape was probably still inside; he simply had no need for light.

He walked through corridor after corridor and climbed flight after flight of stairs, finally stopping at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower. The Fat Lady leaned against the edge of her frame, holding a glass of wine from who knew where, her cheeks flushed red. When she saw Dumbledore, she set down her glass and straightened up.

"Headmaster," she said hoarsely, "what brings you here so late?"

Dumbledore smiled. "I came to see the children."

The Fat Lady looked at Dumbledore