Hogsmeade's shops might have gotten a fresh coat of paint over the years, but the witches and wizards who ran them were the same kind-hearted bunch. If a scruffy stray dog looked hungry, somebody always slipped him a sausage or a chunk of shepherd's pie. Didn't matter if Aurors and Dementors were patrolling the streets; nobody paid attention to one mangy black dog.
By day he scavenged, by night he crashed in the Shrieking Shack. After a few weeks of steady meals, the ribs weren't quite so visible anymore.
With survival taken care of, revenge climbed back to the top of Sirius Black's to-do list.
Sneaking into Hogwarts was child's play for a Marauder. The Dementors couldn't see through an Animagus disguise, Filch had boarded up most of the old passages, but the tunnel under the Whomping Willow was still open. A big dog fit perfectly in that cramped space; he'd used it half a dozen times already.
Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology were outdoors; Sirius hid in the bushes and watched the classes go by, waiting for one fat gray rat to finally show its ugly face.
But that coward Pettigrew never appeared. Was he hiding in the Weasley kid's pocket? Up in the Gryffindor dorm? No wand, no clear shot; how the hell was he supposed to get revenge?
Getting inside the castle itself was a lot harder. Filch and that demonic cat of his prowled the corridors, ghosts and portraits kept watch, and the Fat Lady demanded passwords. No chance.
This trip onto the grounds was only supposed to be reconnaissance, but then he caught it: Wormtail's scent, right at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Jackpot.
Hagrid didn't have a wand, and the other three were just kids. The second that rat poked his nose out, Sirius would rip him apart.
He'd explain to Harry and the others later; believe him or not, didn't matter. Azkaban, Dementor's Kiss; whatever came next, he'd take it.
The path to Hagrid's hut was muscle memory. Skirt the Whomping Willow, slip past the greenhouses, weave through the underbrush like he'd done it a thousand times (because he had). Back in school he and the Marauders had spent countless full moons roaming these woods as animals. They'd even nicked vegetables from Hagrid's garden more times than he could count.
Coming back after all these years, the big black dog's eyes were complicated.
He reached the pumpkin patch, followed the fence, and picked up fresh prints in the mud: Hagrid's giant boots, three sets of smaller student shoes… and one adult wizard's.
That scent was familiar.
Sirius froze, circling in place, then it hit him.
That weird professor from the night of the storm; the one who'd muttered about dog-meat stew, then Apparated him straight to Hogsmeade like it was nothing.
The reckless revenge plan suddenly didn't feel so simple anymore. He might be healthy again, teeth and claws sharp, but there was another full-grown wizard down there. One who was clearly off his rocker.
Sirius shook his head and decided to play it safe for once.
He was just about to slink away when his tail brushed something warm and furry.
He nearly jumped out of his skin.
Standing behind him was the single most offended-looking ginger cat he'd ever seen: bottle-brush tail, squashed persimmon face, bow legs already crouched to spring.
Crookshanks.
The cat belonged to Harry's bushy-haired friend. Sirius took a cautious step back, trying not to set the beast off.
Crookshanks hissed low, eyes locked on the dog, and Sirius could practically hear the accusation: I know you're not a real dog, pal.
Part-Kneazle. Of course.
First the creepy professor, now a cat that could see right through him. Fantastic.
Every ounce of doggy brain screamed RUN.
Sirius bared his teeth, hackles up, ready for a fight.
Crookshanks mirrored him, back arched like a Halloween silhouette.
Then Sirius froze.
If this cat could see through Animagi… didn't that mean he could see through Wormtail too?
And as Harry's friend's pet, Crookshanks had way more access to that rat than Sirius ever would.
Sirius barked once, tail giving a tentative wag.
"Ruff! Ruff!"
Crookshanks's ears twitched. "…Mrrow?"
"Woof!"
A very confused ginger cat and an over-excited black dog proceeded to have the world's most awkward conversation.
A little ways off, a young snake and old hound sat politely behind a tree trunk, watching the show like it was the Weird Sisters reunion tour. Every once in a while Yulm leaned over and whispered something to Fang in perfect dog.
…
Inside Hagrid's hut things were finally quiet.
Hagrid and Ron were snoring in their chairs, Hermione was half-heartedly reading aloud from a textbook, voice fading. Harry had curled up under a blanket on the cushioned bench, not sure when he'd fallen asleep. The last thing he remembered was the crackle of the fire.
Crack.
The log popped loudly.
Harry jerked awake.
Ron was hiding behind Hagrid, clutching his chest. Crookshanks stood in the middle of the room, flat face locked on Ron's shirt pocket, where a certain fat rat was trying to disappear into the fabric.
Thirty tense seconds later Hermione scooped up her cat, stroking his tail and murmuring apologies.
Fang and Yulm were still sprawled by the hearth, eyelids half-mast, giving the room one lazy glance before dozing off again. For a sleepy second Harry swore the dog-and-snake duo looked exactly like a pair of ancient wizards who'd already seen everything.
"Pets, eh? Always scrappin'," Hagrid chuckled, stuffing rock cakes into everyone's pockets. "C'mon, off yeh go, nearly supper time."
They stepped outside into the biting wind. Harry shivered and thought he saw a huge black dog vanish into the bushes.
"I saw it again… the Grim."
"Just your imagination," Hermione said automatically, hugging Crookshanks purring in her arms. "Or a rabbit."
Harry glanced back. Leaves rustled, and yeah, just a rabbit.
Hagrid saw them to the fork in the path, clapped them on the shoulders, and stomped home.
Harry pulled his collar up against the wind. "Remember what Professor Lewinter asked me to look into? The truth about that night my parents died? If even Professor Lupin doesn't know the details… who's left?"
"Dumbledore?" Ron offered through chattering teeth.
"He'll tell us when he thinks we're ready," Hermione said. "Maybe we should just ask Professor Lewinter tonight. We still haven't had a single make-up Muggle Studies lesson this year. The man's the laziest teacher alive…"
Harry nodded enthusiastically.
Ron opened his mouth to agree, then felt Scabbers trembling like a leaf in his pocket.
…
Moonlight struggled through thick clouds.
In the Muggle Studies professor's office, Melvin poured himself a steaming mug of pumpkin juice and slid one across to the sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle sitting opposite him. The Resurrection Stone ring sat in a shallow glass dish of silvery memory-revealing potion.
Riddle was still wearing his old Hogwarts uniform, white shirt, Slytherin crest glinting silver and green.
Being back in a professor's office inside the castle made him feel oddly young again.
"Tom," Melvin said, leaning against the bookshelf full of elementary Dark Arts texts, "I think it's time we were a little more honest with each other."
Riddle raised an eyebrow.
"You taught me how to control Dementors without holding back," Melvin continued. "I can't exactly storm Azkaban right now for… reasons, but I can show good faith another way."
He paused, watching Riddle closely.
"Tonight you get to observe the boy up close."
"The Boy Who Lived?" Riddle's voice was soft, almost amused.
"He's taking my Muggle Studies extra lessons. Saturday nights he comes here. You can stay hidden and watch."
Melvin's gaze drifted to the ring: dark gold band, black stone scratched with the Deathly Hallows symbol. The Horcrux clung to it like a barnacle. To pry the Resurrection Stone free he'd need the fragment's cooperation… and maybe Gryffindor's sword.
…
Nine o'clock sharp, Harry and Hermione knocked and stepped inside.
Their eyes went straight to the shelf. Where Helga Hufflepuff's cup used to sit there was now a glass dish with silvery liquid… and something black floating in it.
Scented candle? Hermione wondered randomly. She almost asked about the cup and whether it had really healed Neville's parents, but the words stuck.
Same setup as last year: Melvin in the armchair, Harry and Hermione side-by-side on the long sofa.
"It's been almost four months since our last lesson," Melvin said casually. "Let's see how your magical cores are coming along. Hit me with the strongest Lumos you can manage. No holding back."
He glanced at Harry, then, almost too quickly, at the ring on the shelf.
Two blinding beams shot out, one red-gold, one pure silver.
Harry and Hermione squeezed their eyes shut, tears streaming. They hadn't thought to shield their faces.
Melvin just smiled, mentally comparing this year's light to last spring's.
Teenage magical cores grow every year, but these two had shot up way past normal. Hermione's summer in Paris, meeting Bastian, nearly losing her parents; all that emotional upheaval had supercharged her. Harry's blow-up with the Dursleys, running away, then learning the ugly truth about the night his parents died; same effect.
(Neville's core had grown too, now that his parents were awake and his family whole again, but not quite as dramatically.)
Melvin filed the data away and waited for Saturday night's real show to begin.