"That's exactly the point, my dear Figgle. We at S.P.E.W. are working to lessen that load. In fact, as an act of good faith, I'd like to help you now. Please, might I help you carry that?"

        Figgle looked positively horrified. "Oh, no, master. Figgle couldn't! Master shouldn't mock Figgle, sir!"

        James could see where Zane was heading with this charade, but was doubtful it would get anywhere. House-elves, especially those who worked amongst the Slytherins, were often mistreated and tricked by their masters. Figgle looked as if she was about to burst into tears from fear.

        Zane knelt down, bringing himself eye-level to the trembling house-elf on the second step of the stairs. "Figgle, I'm not going to hurt you or get you into trouble. I promise. I'm not even a Slytherin. I'm a Ravenclaw. You know Ravenclaws?"

        "Figgle does, master. Figgle collects the Ravenclaws' wash on Tuesdays and Fridays. Ravenclaws use less scent than Slytherins, master." The elf was babbling, but she seemed a bit calmer.

        "I'd like to help you, Figgle. Surely there is more to carry. May I carry it for you?"

        Figgle pressed her lips together very hard, obviously caught on the knife edge between her fear of a mean prank and her duty to do what she was told. Her tennis ball-sized eyes studied Zane, then, finally, she nodded once, quickly.

"Excellent, Figgle. You're a good elf," Zane said soothingly. "There is more laundry upstairs, isn't there? I see you're piling it there by the door. I'll gather the rest for you." He made to step forward onto the stairs.

        "Oh, no, master! Wait!" Figgle said, raising her hand. The basket on her head wobbled a bit and she steadied it easily. "Master will break the boundary. Figgle mustn't let the others see she is being helped." Figgle jumped lightly down the last two steps and turned toward the stairs. She raised her hand and snapped her fingers. Something changed about the doorway. James would have sworn that something like a light had been turned off, although the actual lighting in the room hadn't changed. "Now master can go up. But please, master…" Again, Figgle seemed tortured on the edge of fear and obedience. "Please, master mustn't touch anything but the basket. Then Figgle will take all the wash to the basements. Please?" She seemed to be pleading to get this over with and be gone as soon as possible.

        "Of course," Zane answered, smiling. With only the slightest pause, he put his foot on the first step. Nothing happened. "I'll be right back, guys," Zane said over his shoulder, then trotted up the steps.

        James let out a pent breath and heard Ralph doing the same. Figgle watched Zane tramp up the stairs, then glanced worriedly back at James and Ralph. Ralph shrugged at her and smiled. It was, James thought, a rather ghastly smile. Figgle didn't seem to notice. She weaved through the furniture, balancing the huge basket easily, and then tipped it onto a large pile near the door.

        "James," Ralph said quietly, "the map."

        James nodded and opened the Marauder's Map again. He looked first toward the upper right area of the map, where a set of neat drawings illustrated the Quidditch pitch and grandstands. Dozens of names were crammed together there, most in and around the grandstands, but a few swooped around the pitch. The Slytherin practice session was still going on, although there seemed to be fewer people on brooms at the moment. They were probably gathered on the ground nearby, talking strategy or something. He glanced over the names ranged between the pitch and the grandstands. There was Squallus, Norbert, Beetlebrick, and a few others James didn't know.

        Figgle raised her hands in the same gesture James had seen the house-elves in the Great Hall use to gather up the tablecloths. The pile of laundry clumped into a large ball and a bed sheet cocooned around it, the four corners tying at the top. Figgle tossed a small puff of pink powder onto the gigantic ball of laundry and snapped her fingers again. The ball of laundry vanished, presumably to reappear in the basements. She looked nervously at the stairs.

        "Well?" Ralph asked James in a tight, worried voice.

        "I can't see Tabitha," James answered, trying to keep his voice calm. "Or Philia Goyle. They aren't out on the pitch anymore as far as I can see."

        "What? Well, where are they?"

        "I don't know. They seem to be off the map at the moment."

Figgle was looking at them, her eyes wide and alert. She seemed to sense something was even more wrong than it had been a minute ago. James studied the Marauder's Map keenly, watching the huge blank spots to see if Goyle and Corsica would appear out of them. He kept a sharp eye on the blank spot at the door to the Slytherin quarters.

        "Oh, no," he said, his eyes widening. "Here they come! What are they doing here now?"

        "Get rid of the map!" Ralph said, his face going pasty white. "Come on! Zane!" he called up the steps. There was no answer.

        Figgle's expression had gone from alarm to raw panic. "Mistress Corsica is coming! Figgle has done an awful thing! Figgle will be punished!" She bolted for the stairs, snapping her fingers as she went. There was that sudden sensation of change, as if an invisible light had popped back on, and James knew that the Boundary Charm over the stairs was in place again. There was a clatter of footsteps and muffled voices both from upstairs as well as from the front door of the common room. James balled the Marauder's Map roughly and jammed it into his open backpack. Ralph threw himself onto the nearest couch, trying to affect a scene of lazy indolence. The door swung open just as James re-shouldered his backpack and turned.

        Tabitha Corsica and Philia Goyle stepped through the doorway. Their eyes fell on James and both of them went silent. Tabitha was dressed in a sport cloak and black capris, her broomstick over her shoulder. Her hair was in a neat ponytail, and even though she had, only minutes before, been swooping over the Quidditch pitch on her unusually magical broom, she appeared as cool and fresh as a tulip. She spoke first.

        "James Potter," she said mildly, having almost instantly recovered from her surprise at seeing him. "What a pleasure."

        "What are you doing here?" Philia demanded, scowling.

        "Philia, don't be rude," Tabitha said, moving into the room and passing James breezily. "Mr. Potter is as welcome among us as I'm sure we would be amongst the Gryffindors. If we don't have goodwill during these difficult times, what have we got? Good afternoon, Mr. Deedle."

        Ralph croaked something from the couch, looking remarkably awkward and uncomfortable. Philia continued to stare hard at James, her expression openly hostile, but she remained silent.