Phineas Nigellus Black's portrait was quite empty when Hermione drew it from her handbag.
The portraits of Hogwarts headmasters had been imbued with extraordinary sentience, far beyond that of ordinary magical paintings, so that they might provide counsel to the current headmaster when needed. That being the case, Oleandra could well understand why Phineas Nigellus might have been reluctant to linger within the confines of this particular frame, for the view inside Hermione's handbag must surely have been dreadfully dull.
"Er… Phineas?" Hermione called hesitantly. "Phineas Nigellus?"
The dark background of the painting remained motionless.
"Can he even hear you from this side?" Oleandra said dubiously.
"Maybe he's just hard of hearing?" Ron offered.
Sirius was beginning to lose patience.
"Come on out, old man, I know you can hear us!" he said. "Or shall I have Kreacher fetch your other portrait from the Headmaster's Office? If you don't show yourself soon, I'll set the two frames facing one another, so you'll have to spend eternity staring at your own backside!"
Phineas Nigellus hastily ran into frame, heaving and wheezing with his hands on his knees as if he'd just run a marathon. Once he'd finally caught his breath, the former headmaster glowered at Sirius.
"Well, if it isn't the prodigal son, the black sheep of the Black family," he said, straightening up. "What do you and your jolly band of Muggle-Borns and outlaws want, hmm?"
"We want to speak with Snape," Harry said.
"Professor Snape is not in right now," Phineas Nigellus corrected him coolly. "Would you like to leave a message, hmm?"
"Yes," Harry said. "Tell him—"
"Do I look like Professor Snape's secretary? In case you've somehow failed to notice, I was being sarcastic," said Phineas Nigellus witheringly. "Did the Muggles who raised you forget to teach you about sarcasm, Potter?"
"Professor Snape is most likely still at Malfoy Manor," said Oleandra, absently scratching at the cord that stitched her left eye shut. "All the Death Eaters were summoned there yesterday, and I overheard them talking about some ritual that would allow them to revive Voldemort… something about bones, flesh and blood…"
Oleandra's voice trailed off.
"Oh no," she whispered. "They wanted either Harry's blood or mine… and I might have just given it to them."
Harry stared at her in horror.
Memories came flooding back, of that terrible night when Voldemort killed Oleandra before his eyes, then restored himself with the bones of his Muggle father, the flesh of his servant, Peter Pettigrew, and the blood of his greatest enemy… Harry himself, the one who had reduced him to this wretched state in the first place.
Oleandra had destroyed his second body… would he not, then, see her as one of his worst enemies? And now he possessed her blood— Voldemort had everything he needed to resurrect himself, perhaps even stronger than before.
The intense relief Harry had felt when that monster had crumbled to ashes before his very eyes was giving way to a bottomless void of despair. Was Voldemort truly invincible? Not even the loss of his body could keep him from returning, again and again…
Phineas Nigellus regarded the faces gathered before his portrait with great interest. This alone had been worth the trip! There was precious little entertainment in the Headmaster's Office— particularly since all the other headmaster portraits despised him and usually refused to speak to him as a matter of principle.
"Well, I suppose I can make an exception," Phineas Nigellus said, coughing into his fist to catch Harry's attention. "Your message?"
"Please tell Sna— Professor Snape that we know he's a double agent," said Hermione quickly. "We need his help with the mission Professor Dumbledore gave us… and if he could just point us towards this third collaborator of his, that would be tremendously helpful— thank you."
With Phineas Nigellus Black gone, there was nothing for them to do but wait until Snape returned to his office to receive their message. Tracey briskly ushered the Gryffindors out of the treehouse, eager for a bit of time alone with her girlfriend, but unfortunately for her, Oleandra was not in the mood.
…
After walking a lap around the stadium for a bit of scenery to clear her mind, Oleandra sank onto a park bench, her eyes drawn to her reflection in a puddle left by the rain. She glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then shifted into Tonks's form— but, as she had expected, her left eyelid remained stitched shut, stubbornly refusing to open. With a weary sigh, she changed back to her usual appearance.
"Tonks…"
What good was Oleandra's being a Metamorphmagus if she couldn't even manage a proper disguise any more? She had ruined Tonks's life by stealing her powers, and now she couldn't use them at all. Tonks had, quite literally, died for nothing.
"I suppose this is the end of my Tonks persona," Oleandra sighed. "I won't be able to go to Fred and George's interview tomorrow…"
"Why the long face?"
Oleandra leaned back in her seat to find Mai in the stands above her, leaning over the ledge.
"Spying on people isn't a very nice hobby," Oleandra said.
"Don't flatter yourself, Oleandra, the world doesn't revolve around you alone," said Mai snidely. "I was only here to expand the sanctuary's living quarters— pushing the stadium's walls back, stretching space-time, that sort of thing. Some of the Muggles who like to fiddle about with the radios managed to reach a pocket of resistance in Northern Ireland interested in joining us, so we'll be needing a lot more space soon."
Mai hopped down from the stands and sat next to Oleandra.
"So, what's bothering you more?" she asked, pointing at her head, then her stomach. "This, or that?"
"It's not mine, before you ask," Oleandra sighed. "I'm just holding it for someone who didn't deserve to die… that's all."
"The Death Eaters have been carrying out mass sterilisations on the Muggles they haven't already slaughtered," said Mai matter-of-factly. "There are plenty of people in here who would gladly trade an arm or a leg for a baby… or even an eye."