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The Fat Lady hadn't just wandered off to visit another portrait—the canvas was still there, but it was completely mutilated.
The gilded frame was warped and twisted as if it had been wrenched by some massive force. The canvas itself was ripped right down the middle. The tear was jagged and irregular, looking like a screaming mouth.
A single corner of the Fat Lady's signature pink silk dress remained, snagged on a shredded edge of the canvas and fluttering slightly in the draft.
But the most terrifying part was the marks. They weren't from a knife or fire; they were claw marks. Huge, savage claw marks that tore from the center of the canvas all the way out to the frame. Every single slash radiated a frantic, almost desperate violence.
"Where—where did she go?" a first-year girl's voice trembled.
Percy's face was chalk-white, but he forced himself to stay composed. "Everyone, stand back! Don't get too close! I'm going to get Professor McGonagall—"
"No need for that."
Professor McGonagall's voice rang out from the bottom of the stairs, accompanied by rapid footsteps. Behind her were Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout. All three had their wands drawn, the tips glowing with a warning light.
"When did you find this?" McGonagall hurried forward, her eyes sweeping over the destruction.
"Just—just now, Professor," Percy stammered. "We just came up—"
"Where is the Fat Lady?" Professor Flitwick squeaked, having to stand on his tiptoes to see the height of the frame. "Could she—could she be hiding in one of the nearby portraits?"
Just then, Dumbledore arrived at the scene. His face was as calm as ever, but his expression was heavy.
"Sir Cadogan, please notify the other portraits to help search for the Fat Lady and find out exactly what happened," Dumbledore instructed a nearby portrait of a knight.
"Right away! I will investigate immediately." With that, Sir Cadogan leapt from his frame into the next, quickly disappearing into the distance.
"Headmaster! Headmaster! I see her; she's over here!" Argus Filch, the caretaker, yelled from the bottom of the stairs, holding a lantern with Mrs. Norris at his feet. There was a trace of panic in his voice.
"I'm here!" The Fat Lady's voice finally echoed from the portrait Filch was pointing at.
The group hurried over. They found a painting depicting a group of drunken monks carousing in a medieval tavern.
There, huddled between two monks raising their beer steins, was the Fat Lady. Her pink dress was in tatters, her hair was a mess, and there was a faint scratch on her face. Her expression was caught somewhere between absolute terror and furious indignation.
"What happened, my lady?" McGonagall was the first to ask.
"It was him! He tore my canvas!" the Fat Lady shrieked, her voice high enough to pierce eardrums. "My beautiful face! I spent three centuries maintaining my complexion!"
"Calm yourself, Madam," Dumbledore stepped quickly toward the painting. "Tell us what happened. Who exactly did this?"
"That murderer!" The Fat Lady's chest heaved violently, knocking over one of the beer steins in the painting. "Sirius Black!"
"He—he appeared in the corridor! Matted hair, sunken eyes—he looked exactly like he does on those wanted posters."
"He tried to force his way into Gryffindor Tower?" Professor Flitwick pressed.
"Yes! And naturally, I refused to let him in!" The Fat Lady puffed out her chest, then immediately shrank back again. "But he—he didn't even ask for the password! He just ripped straight through my canvas!"
The Great Hall at Hogwarts had never been so crowded. Nearly the entire student body had been herded inside.
Dumbledore ordered a complete lockdown of all entrances and exits to the castle. For the night, all students would sleep in the Great Hall.
Meanwhile, he and the staff, accompanied by a few seventh-year students, began thoroughly searching every inch of the school to ensure it was secure.
The usual tables and benches had vanished—who knows where—and were replaced by a sea of sleeping bags. The scarlet, blue, yellow, and green colors mashed together like a haphazardly stitched tapestry.
The floating candles overhead had been dimmed to their absolute lowest setting, casting the vast room in a sickly, amber twilight.
Naturally, none of the students left in the hall could actually sleep. Everyone lay in their sleeping bags, whispering to each other. However, anyone who dared to stick their head out to talk ran a very high risk of taking a physical hit from Professor Snape's wand.
Snape hadn't joined the search party. He had stayed behind to guard the students. Though, as Ron muttered, it looked more like he was trying to sniff out a spy.
He stood motionless on the raised platform at the front of the hall, his black robes hanging like solidified shadow. His gaze swept over the sea of "sleeping" students, scrutinizing every face. Occasionally, his eyes would lock onto someone shifting in their bag, linger for a second, and move on with cold indifference, as if hoping to catch someone slipping up.
Julien lay in the Ravenclaw section, eyes half-closed. His right hand unconsciously drifted to rest over the inside of his right wrist. The eagle-headed hound totem beneath his skin was pulsing with a faint heat, like a dormant heart suddenly starting to beat.
He could feel it. The resonance of his bloodline was wandering through the castle—getting closer, then further away again, like a trapped beast frantically searching a maze for an exit.
"Mr. Black," Snape's voice suddenly cut through the silence, right next to him. "I noticed your unusual sleeping posture... Are you waiting for someone?"
Julien opened his eyes. The thin lips beneath Snape's hooked nose were pressed into a cruel, straight line. Snape crouched down, his black robes trailing on the floor like the belly of some massive reptile.
The few students nearby who were still awake froze completely. Casen quietly buried his head deeper into his sleeping bag, pretending he had passed out.
"Just adjusting to the environment, Professor," Julien replied calmly. "After all, the Ravenclaw common room doesn't usually have this many... roommates."
Snape stared at him for a long time. Long enough for Julien to catch the bitter scent of potions clinging to him—valerian root, wormwood, and maybe... wolfsbane? Yes, that was the distinct smell of the Wolfsbane Potion.
Then, Snape noticed Julien's left hand constantly covering his right wrist. He reached out and gently gripped Julien's left wrist, pulling it away. However, seeing nothing unusual, he let go.
"You haven't washed your hands since brewing potions, have you, Professor?" Julien noted.
"Your composure is impressive," Snape finally murmured after a moment's pause, his voice so low only Julien could hear. "Composure can be a sign of courage. Or it could be a sign of complicity."
Julien felt the totem still burning hotly against his skin, but his expression remained perfectly neutral. "I don't understand what you mean, Professor."
Snape released him, stood up, and started to walk away before glancing back over his shoulder. "By the way, I did just finish brewing a potion. A keen sense of smell is a talent useful for potion-making. You're welcome to guess exactly what I was brewing."
He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing hollowly against the stone floor.
Ron Weasley woke up with a start right around midnight.
It wasn't a nightmare that woke him. It was a hollow, empty sensation—the kind of feeling you get when you lose a tooth and your tongue keeps reflexively probing the empty space.
His right hand fumbled toward the corner of his sleeping bag, reaching for that familiar spot where Scabbers always curled up and let out his tiny, comforting snores.
But now, it was empty.
"Scabbers?" Ron muttered, groggy and confused. "Scabbers?"
He sat up, his red hair sticking out every which way like a wind-battered bird's nest.
He dug frantically through his sleeping bag—which smelled heavily of aged cheese and old socks—but Scabbers was gone.
Honestly, given what had just happened and the tense atmosphere in the hall, almost none of the young wizards were deeply asleep.
A large number of students immediately turned to look in his direction.