Thick bushes ringed the edge of the Forbidden Forest, stretching all the way to the Whomping Willow. A gaunt black dog slipped through the undergrowth, crept across the grounds, and finally flopped down beneath a gnarled beech stump, panting hard.
The tree's roots had pushed up the earth years ago, creating a little hollow that looked like nothing more than a pile of dead leaves from a distance. Perfect cover.
"Meow…"
A ginger mound in the leaf pile lifted its squashed persimmon face and gave a short, rough meow.
"Still no chance to drag that filthy rat out?" Sirius asked.
He didn't speak Cat, but he'd spent enough time with Crookshanks lately to read the look: mission failed.
Sirius ground his teeth. "Thirteen years hiding with the Weasleys, and the little coward's still glued to that kid ever since he heard I broke out. You've scared him half to death a few times and he still won't leave the boy's pocket. No openings at all. That gutless, disgusting Wormtail!"
Crookshanks just flicked an ear and pawed at a beetle crawling past. As Hermione's pet, he was mostly stuck in the common room or the girls' dorms, and Ron treated him like public enemy number one anyway.
"Fine. He hides in the dorm, he hides on the kid. We wait. Halloween's coming up—they'll all head to Hogsmeade for the weekend, and Wormtail will come too."
Sirius's gray eyes flashed with hatred. "We'll be waiting in the village, my good cat. I need you to make me an opening."
"Meow?"
"One moment when the redheaded kid is alone. Harry and your girl are always together. I can't tear that rat apart in front of three students, so you distract the other two—just for a few minutes. Three to five. That's all I need."
Crookshanks' face scrunched even flatter. "MROW!"
"I know, I know—the Weasley boy's innocent. He's been lied to just like everyone else. I'm not going to hurt him," Sirius growled softly. "Just the rat. He dies for what he did to James, Lily, and those twelve Muggles. That's the price."
Crookshanks stared into the dog's eyes for a long moment, something unsaid flickering there. In the end he just crunched the beetle and swallowed it.
Sirius scraped a paw through the leaves. "Yeah… I should've done it thirteen years ago. Instead I ran and hid."
He glanced toward the path. Break time—students in black robes were all over the lawns, laughing. Harry stood with his friends, whispering about something.
"I missed everything," Sirius whispered, voice cracking. "After James and Lily… Hagrid took Harry away on my bike to give him to Dumbledore. I thought they'd take care of him. When I finally found him again… he'd had it rough. No family. And his godfather was a coward rotting in Azkaban."
Crookshanks stayed quiet.
"But I'm back now. The traitor who sold his friends, the rat who faked his own death—he's going to pay. Even if the Dementors kiss me the second it's over." A pause. "I just hope I get to say goodbye to Harry first."
Up in the treetops, Fang lay silently watching, little Yulm draped across his head like a living scarf. Neither dog nor snake made a sound.
…
October 30th, Saturday.
The morning mist had mostly burned off, but a thin haze still clung to everything, cool and damp. Wind off the forest and the lake carried a bite.
Melvin stood on the castle steps wrapped in a sleek Muggle-style overcoat, shirt and sweater underneath, newsboy cap pulled low against the breeze. He looked like any non-magical bloke—just breathing white clouds and nodding at students who caught his eye.
Every now and then he tuned back in to whatever Professor McGonagall was saying about rules.
The clock tower ticked louder than her voice at this point. The third-years were practically vibrating—any more delays and they'd miss lunch.
Only the third-years were still here getting the lecture; older students had already left with Flitwick and Sprout. First trip to Hogsmeade ever—excitement was practically dripping off them.
"Remember, children," McGonagall said sternly, "a signed permission slip is the bare minimum. Hogsmeade visits are a privilege, not a right. Misbehave and you lose it."
Harry nodded so hard his glasses slid down his nose.
Under McGonagall's and Filch's watchful eyes, the group finally set off—not toward the lake or the station, but the opposite direction, past the winged boars on the pillars and out the gates. Everything outside felt brand-new; the kids gawked left and right.
Melvin brought up the rear, collar turned up, making sure nobody wandered off.
The mist was thicker outside the grounds. He glanced up—high above, black cloaked figures drifted like scraps of night. Dementors on patrol. Not too many.
Perfect hunting weather… once it got properly dark.
After fifteen minutes the village came into view. Halloween decorations were already up—lampposts wrapped in colored ribbons, enchanted smoke in every color pouring from shop signs.
Hogsmeade existed for Hogwarts students the same way corner shops exist for Muggle schools. Six months of boarding school got boring fast; the village was the sugar rush that kept everyone sane.
The second they passed the first shop, the kids scattered like startled pigeons.
Honeydukes was mobbed instantly. So were Zonko's, Scrivenshaft's, and Madam Puddifoot's. The street filled with laughter and the smell of caramel.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione made a beeline for Honeydukes, Harry's Seeker reflexes actually useful for once as he wove through the crowd. Ron was yelling nonsense to clear a path, and even Hermione was flushed and shoving.
Melvin and McGonagall shared an amused look, shook their heads, and headed deeper into the village. Professors couldn't elbow children out of the way; they had adult errands—winter supplies, settling last month's bills, the usual.
"Shall we split up?" McGonagall asked, handing him a list. "I'll handle Dervish and Banges for teaching supplies. You take care of food and potion ingredients. Meet at the Three Broomsticks for lunch?"
Melvin sighed dramatically. "This is definitely grounds for a raise."
…
Lunchtime.
Melvin leaned against the wall outside the Three Broomsticks, scanning the updated sign. Coat still neat, cap a little crooked, one hand in his pocket tossing free nuts from grateful shopkeepers into his mouth.
Everything on the list was crossed off except the very last item—alcohol. The house-elves handled milk, juice, and hot chocolate just fine. Grown-up drinks had to come from the village.
"Total buzzkill having to trek over here just for a drink," a tipsy wizard complained loudly on his way out, arm slung around his buddy. "Ministry's got Aurors—why leave the Dementors too? Just to mess with us."
His friend spat at the notice taped to the window.
Customers please note:
Until further notice, Dementors will patrol Hogsmeade streets after sunset.
This is for resident safety only and will cease upon the recapture of Sirius Black.
Please refrain from lingering outdoors after dark.
Happy Halloween.
The Dementors had been stationed here since term started. They never attacked anyone—Ministry orders—but just having them gliding around after dark made everyone miserable.
Melvin glanced away from the sign and spotted a tiny hand waving from inside—Flitwick, Sprout, Hagrid, and Kettleburn already at the bar with drinks in hand.
"Melvin! Get in here—Madam Rosmerta's got fresh mead with your name on it!"
"Coming!"
He grinned and stepped into the warm, noisy pub.
…
Honeydukes.
Mr. Flume hustled back and forth with crates, restocking shelves that groaned under towers of sweets. The air was pure sugar—caramel, chocolate, fizz, honey. You couldn't tell if the shine on the wood was polish or frosting.
A low table in the middle held free samples—little dishes of broken bits, toothpicks, and sugar-quills. Kids strolled by stuffing their faces, pockets still half-full when they left. The Flumes just smiled.
"Merlin, it's the actual Gingerbread House," Ron groaned happily, popping a fizzing honey-chew. "My stomach gave up ten minutes ago, but I swear I can fit more."
"How do they even make the magic ones?" Hermione wondered, watching glowing blue bubbles drift overhead—Blow-Your-Own Bubble kits that lasted for days.
"Best weekend ever," Harry said around a mouthful of luminous coconut ice.
They did three full laps, bought way too much, and finally waddled out with bulging paper bags.
Harry and Ron were grinning like idiots, still tasting sugar on the air. Hermione checked her nearly-empty money pouch and sighed—she'd meant to buy quills, not blow everything on candy.
A rough "meow" came from the alley beside them.
Not the prettiest cat voice, but familiar.
"Sounds like Crookshanks," Hermione muttered.
She turned—and there he was, scars and all, squashed face, bottle-brush tail.
"Meow!" Crookshanks bounded over, rubbing against her legs and looking back toward the alley like he wanted her to follow.
Hermione frowned. "How on earth did you get to Hogsmeade?"
Harry shrugged at Ron. "Let's go see what he wants."
"No thanks," Ron said, clutching his stomach. "Those Peppermint Toads are still hopping around in there. You two go—I'll wait here."
Harry remembered the cat-vs-rat drama and didn't push. "Okay, stay put. We'll be quick."
"Yeah, yeah, go."
Ron actually didn't hate Hermione—he was just stuffed and didn't feel like running after a cat. Friends fought; it happened.
He watched them disappear around the corner, then plopped onto a nearby step, paper bag beside him, one hand rubbing his bloated belly.
The street felt oddly empty all of a sudden.
A low, steady panting came from behind him—heavy paws on cobblestones.
Ron turned slowly.
A huge, ribby black dog stood a few feet away, lips peeled back, growling deep in its throat.