And now here she was, beaten and half-starved, shivering inside her stained, torn woollen cloak – something she wouldn't have been caught within thirty feet of, several months ago let alone huddled inside its rather pungent folds. Pansy had told the Order how many werewolves there were; thirty-two, and where they were; an old house just outside town, on the opposite side to the caravan park. She had also told them, with her chin held up high – good old Pans, proud and snobbish to the last – that she herself had been bitten by Greyback.