"I overheard some wizards at the awards ceremony talking about Wolfsbane Potion," Melvin said. "Apparently you can't touch candy or anything sweet while you're on it, or the whole dose goes bad."
He lifted the little porcelain bottle from the desk, held it up to the light, and took a cautious sniff near the cork. Even the faint wisps that escaped made his stomach turn. It was revolting—like spoiled milk mixed with rotting cabbage and something metallic.
Melvin set it down like it might bite him. "Muggles have this chemical sweetener. Tiny little bit makes anything taste sweet, zero sugar, almost no calories. Want to try some in your next batch?"
Remus gave a tired chuckle and shook his head. "Thanks, but I think I'll stick to drinking it straight. Safer that way."
"Damocles Belby started working on the potion back in 1970," Melvin went on. "Took him just two years to get werewolves keeping their minds on full-moon nights. Thing is, brewing it is ridiculously complicated. Only he can make it reliably, and the early versions were apparently even worse than this stuff. Smelled so bad it basically worked like werewolf repellent—beasts took one whiff and ran."
Remus smiled softly. "Having someone like Belby around is a blessing for every werewolf."
He shrugged. "I'm no Lily Evans or Severus Snape when it comes to potions. Never was. The fact I get to work with Snape at all is lucky enough—there aren't many blokes who can brew this stuff."
Melvin glanced at him and went quiet for a second.
Werewolves passing Potions at all was basically a miracle.
A lot of advanced potions need moonlight and specific lunar phases—Felix Felicis, Polyjuice, Wolfsbane… Werewolves transform every full moon, so anything that takes longer than a month to brew is pretty much impossible for them.
Remus didn't catch the look. He just took another sip of the potion, winced, and got back to wrangling the Boggart they'd been practicing on. The Wolfsbane always left his magic feeling scrambled and his whole body sluggish. He was moving a lot slower than Melvin.
He'd release the Boggart, let it sense his fear, snap into a big round moon, then hit it with Riddikulus—moon turns into a balloon, pops, and gets sucked back into the drawer.
By the time they finished, a house-elf had popped in with lunch—and, at Madam Pomfrey's strict orders, a second tray for Melvin.
Melvin eyed his plate like it had personally offended him. Bland steamed vegetables, a rare steak bleeding onto the plate, salad with no dressing, and exactly zero sugar in sight. Not even fruit for dessert.
Back when Remus was drifting around Yorkshire, a hot meal was a luxury. He tore into the food like it was a feast, polished it off in record time, then tried to hide a tiny, satisfied burp and rubbed his stomach like a kid who'd eaten too many cookies.
It reminded Melvin way too much of Fang after Hagrid rubbed his belly and the big boarhound made those happy grumbly noises.
Werewolves supposedly picked up weird eating habits—raw meat cravings, chewing on stuff. And since wolves and dogs are cousins… maybe some dog habits rubbed off too.
Come to think of it, Fang did the exact same belly-rub begging thing on patrol.
"Melvin, what's with that look?" Remus asked, frowning.
"Nothing. Just thinking about next week's lesson plans."
"You look like you're thinking something rude."
Remus raised an eyebrow, but he wasn't Dumbledore-level Legilimens and didn't know the first thing about psychology, so he let it drop.
"You're really not worried Snape's gonna slip Veritaserum or a laxative in your potion one of these days?"
"I trust him," Remus said simply. "Because Dumbledore trusts him."
Memories of their school days flickered behind his eyes—Snape always a little greasy, a little awkward, hanging around future Death Eaters more for protection than anything else. Never the one starting trouble.
…
Early autumn in the Forbidden Forest. Morning mist still clung to the treetops, frost sparkling on the leaves until the sun finally burned it off. The air was crisp and damp—perfect, except it made your nose cold.
No classes on the weekend. Remus traded his professor hat for gamekeeper duties and set off on the usual patrol route.
Fang trotted at Hagrid's side—short legs, surprisingly fast, dew soaking his coat. Every few minutes he'd stop, give a mighty shake, and spray water everywhere.
A soft hiss made him shiver. Little Yulm, the young snake riding around his neck, had nudged him with her cool snout. Fang picked up the pace to warm back up.
On the way back they caught familiar scents near the cabin.
Fang froze. Yulm lifted her head and flicked her tongue.
Hagrid followed their stare and spotted Harry, Ron, and Hermione messing around in the pumpkin patch outside the fence.
The old pumpkins had ripened weeks ago—hard orange shells left on the vine and dosed with growth potion so they'd be perfect jack-o'-lantern size by Halloween.
Harry and Ron were knee-deep in the dirt, poking holes in the skins and playing with the slimy goo that oozed out. Hermione stood outside the fence clutching a huge ginger cat, scolding them.
Hagrid's footsteps weren't exactly subtle. The trio spotted him immediately.
"We're getting rid of the slugs!" Harry called, jumping up like they'd been caught red-handed.
"Yeah, look—no pumpkins harmed!" Ron added, showing off a perfectly intact one.
Hagrid snorted. "You two are the slugs. C'mon inside."
He'd kept the fire going all morning; the stack of winter firewood outside was taller than Harry. A few fresh logs and the cabin was toasty in no time.
Fang and Yulm curled up in their favorite warm spot—just far enough that stray sparks wouldn't singe fur or scales. Crookshanks wriggled free from Hermione, bounded over, and flopped down beside them like he belonged there.
Hagrid pulled out a tray of rock cakes to warm on the hearth, ladled everyone tea, and got a pot of thick stew bubbling.
"Thought you had Quidditch practice, Harry," he said, settling into his huge chair. "And Hermione, ain't you buried in essays? What brings you lot here?"
Harry sighed dramatically. "Blame these two. They've got a question for you—Professor Hagrid."
Hagrid's face split into a massive grin at the title.
Hermione and Ron exchanged a look and then very pointedly sat on opposite sides of the room.
"It's Crookshanks," Harry explained. "Hermione's new cat—half-Kneazle. And Ron's got Scabbers. Thing is, Crookshanks has it out for Scabbers. Every time they're in the same room it's a chase. We're desperate for a way to make them get along."
Hagrid scratched his beard. "Make a cat not chase a rat? That's a new one…"
"It's not about never chasing rats," Ron muttered. "There's tons of rats in the old classrooms. He can hunt those all he wants. Just leave Scabbers alone!"
Hermione bristled. "Cats hunt rats, Ronald. Crookshanks doesn't know Scabbers is off-limits!"
"Yeah, well he never goes after anyone else's pet rat! He's got it in for Scabbers specifically!"
Ron was practically shouting now. He yanked a sleepy Scabbers out of his pocket; the rat blinked in confusion.
The second Scabbers appeared, Crookshanks went from half-asleep to predator in a heartbeat—tail lashing, back arched, and launched straight at the rat.
Ron yelped, stuffed Scabbers down his shirt, and shoved Crookshanks away.
Crookshanks landed in a crouch, ears flat, fur bushed, growling low in his throat.
"You stupid beast!"
"Ron, don't call him that!"
Total chaos ensued until Hermione finally calmed Crookshanks down and Ron sat on the opposite couch hugging Scabbers protectively.
Fang lifted his head, and Yulm whispered something in his ear. Fang gave a low woof that sounded suspiciously like "Aha."
Harry just sighed like this was the most normal thing in the world. "Fourth time this month. Crookshanks went for him the second we saw him in Diagon Alley."
Hagrid frowned at the ginger cat. Half-Kneazles were brilliant guard animals—sharp senses, fast, could supposedly smell dark magic and see through disguises. The Ministry and even the pyramids in Egypt used them.
A half-Kneazle shouldn't randomly attack a harmless family pet.
But Scabbers had been with the Weasleys forever—Percy's first, now Ron's. Sweet, lazy, ordinary rat.
Maybe Crookshanks just saw a rat that kept escaping and decided it was a fun challenge.
Hagrid rubbed his neck. "Animals ain't as smart as wizards. Sometimes instinct wins. Best I can tell you is keep 'em apart. Don't even mention Scabbers around Crookshanks if you can help it."
"So Scabbers has to hide?" Ron looked outraged.
"For now, yeah."
Ron scowled and shot Hermione a death glare.
They'd fought Voldemort, a basilisk, trolls, three-headed dogs, and Acromantulas together. A little pet rivalry wasn't going to end the trio—but it sure made life complicated.
…
Afternoon sun poured through the windows, the cabin warm and smelling of stew and woodsmoke. Everyone had eaten until their stomachs were round and happy, and after weeks of stress they all dozed off on the couches.
The door was shut, the windows closed. Outside you could just barely hear the wind, the crackle of the fire, maybe the Whomping Willow thrashing in the distance if you really listened.
Crookshanks heard it.
The wizards were snoring softly. The rat was tucked safely in the red-haired boy's pocket, silent and still.
Then—rustling near the Whomping Willow.
Crookshanks' ears twitched. He slipped out the door without a sound and padded toward the sound.
A skinny black dog was creeping along the edge of the trees—ribs showing, fur dull, moving like he expected an ambush any second.
He smelled… off. Like the rat. Not quite dog, not quite anything natural.
But no malice.
Crookshanks watched from behind a stump as the dog stopped at the garden fence and stared at the warm, glowing windows of the cabin. He looked like he knew the place inside out. He hesitated a long time, took one step toward the door… then turned and slunk away.
Crookshanks decided this was a good dog. He followed at a distance.
Neither cat nor dog noticed the two pairs of eyes watching them from the cabin window.