"WOOF!"
The huge black dog launched itself straight at Ron.
Ron yelped and reflexively flung the paper bag in his hand.
It was a thick, heavy Honeydukes bag stuffed to bursting. It smashed into the dog's head like a brick. The bag split with a loud rip, showering the dog in exploding whiz-bangs of ice-cream bonbons, chocolate caulders and every sweet imaginable. Sticky syrup glued itself into the matted black fur.
Dogs famously have iron skulls. Sirius barely felt it; he was mostly just stunned that the kid's first instinct had been perfect: disrupt the attacker, buy half a second, go for the wand. Hogwarts was clearly teaching dueling these days. Impressive.
Didn't mean Sirius was backing off.
He had no wand, but he had teeth, muscle, and twelve years of pent-up rage. This wasn't a polite school duel; this was a dark alley and a grown wizard in dog form versus a third-year. No contest.
Hackles raised, Sirius growled low, the kind of sound that made Ron's knees knock together and his wand hand shake.
Rear legs coiled; spring.
Ten feet became zero in a heartbeat. Ron's back hit the wall; nowhere to run. He swung his wand desperately, but the incantation never left his lips. A massive paw swatted the wand aside; pain exploded in his wrist and the holly-and-unicorn-hair wand went spinning through the air, clattering against brick.
Sirius leapt again.
If he'd been a real stray, he'd have gone for the throat and ended it. But the man inside the dog still had rules. The target was the rat, not James Potter's best mate's kid.
So instead of ripping out Ron's jugular, Sirius simply head-butted him.
Two skulls collided with a dull, meaty thunk.
Ron's eyes rolled back, legs folded, and he dropped like a sack of turnips.
Sirius stood over him, panting, tongue lolling.
"Come on out, Wormtail," he growled in dog. "Time to settle the score."
Nothing. Just the steady rise and fall of Ron's chest; kid was out cold, probably dreaming of Quidditch.
Sirius snarled, claws scraping sparks from the cobblestones. He tore at Ron's robes; Madam Malkin's finest shredded like tissue. Pockets, sleeves, lining; nothing. Not even a whisker.
Scabbers wasn't here.
Today of all days, the cowardly little rat had stayed back at the castle, probably snoring under Ron's bed having a nice nap.
All that planning; hours of barking and gesturing until Crookshanks finally understood the scheme, sneaking through the Whomping Willow tunnel, splitting Harry and Hermione off; and for what? A goose egg.
Sirius paced, furious, then spotted Ron's wand lying in the shadows.
He glanced around; no witnesses. The dog shimmered, shrank, and became a gaunt, ragged man in Azkaban rags. Sirius picked up the wand almost reverently.
"Willow and unicorn hair…" he murmured, tracing the grain.
"Reparo."
A soft flash. Torn bag resealed itself, sweets hopped merrily back inside like obedient ducklings. Shredded robes knit themselves whole again. Even the bruise blooming on Ron's forehead faded to almost nothing.
Thirteen years since he'd last held a wand. Felt good.
Two minutes later a huge black dog trotted out of the alley, looking innocently hungry.
…
Crookshanks sat primly outside Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, bottle-brush tail curled neatly around his paws, the picture of feline patience.
Hermione scooped him up, utterly bewildered. "How on earth did you even get to Hogsmeade?"
Crookshanks just blinked slowly and flicked an ear toward the corner as if to say, "Time's up."
They did two laps of the stationery shop (Hermione's money pouch significantly lighter) and headed back the way they came.
"Ron should be just around; Harry started, breath fogging his glasses. He lifted a hand to wipe them and realized Hermione had frozen mid-step.
She was staring down the alley, face pale.
Harry followed her gaze and the bag of sweets slipped from his fingers.
Ron was sprawled flat on his back in the middle of the lane, arms and legs starfished, red hair stark against the stones. He looked… dead.
Hermione screamed.
They sprinted over. Harry checked for breathing, Hermione pried open an eyelid; both exhaled in shaky relief when they realized he was just unconscious.
Crookshanks sniffed Ron's chest, gave a deeply disappointed huff, and lowered his tail.
Then it shot straight up again when an adult voice barked behind them.
"Potter! Granger! What in Merlin's name are you doing?"
Snape and Lupin strode into the alley, looking like the world's most mismatched shopping duo; Snape in billowing black, Lupin bundled in a threadbare coat that had definitely seen better decades.
"Professors?" Harry gaped.
Lupin opened his mouth, closed it, and tried again. "We were; er; picking up some potion ingredients;"
Snape cut across him, eyes raking over Ron's prone body. "Did Weasley finally eat himself into a sugar coma and walk into a wall?"
"It was an attack!" Harry snapped. "We were only gone a few minutes!"
Lupin knelt, running diagnostic spells. "Bruised wrist, bump on the head, minor claw scratches on the chest; nothing serious."
Snape's lip curled. "No signs of spell damage. Wand still in his pocket, sweets untouched. Are we sure he didn't simply trip over his own feet?"
"Severus," Lupin said mildly, "people rarely give themselves wrist bruises by tripping."
He tapped Ron's forehead with his wand. "Ennervate."
Ron jerked awake with a gasp, clutching his skull. "Bloody hell; my head! Am I dying?"
…
Up on the private third floor of the Three Broomsticks (a floor most students didn't even know existed), Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat ramrod straight on a sofa that suddenly felt like the defendant's bench.
Across the low table sat the most intimidating lunch party imaginable: McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, Snape, Lupin, retired Professor Kettleburn, and; taking the head seat like he owned the place; Professor Lewinter, smiling pleasantly while house-elves delivered fish & chips and frothy butterbeers.
Kettleburn was beaming. "Definitely a large canine. Wrist bruise from a paw, lump from a head-butt, light claw marks; all very superficial."
Ron, still rubbing his forehead, recounted the attack. When he mentioned not bringing Scabbers "because he's old and gets stressed," Kettleburn's eyebrows shot up.
"A rat that's lived over a decade? Remarkable! Common garden rat, you say? No special breeding?"
Ron shrugged. "Just Percy's old pet."
The professors traded thoughtful looks that led absolutely nowhere.
"No stolen wand, no eaten sweets, no serious mauling," Flitwick summarized. "Not a wizard directing the animal, not a rabid beast either."
"Then why?" Sprout wondered aloud.
Harry muttered, "I saw a black dog in the tea leaves…"
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. "A dog playing tag, perhaps. Or the Dementors have made the local strays aggressive."
At the far end of the sofa Lupin stared into his butterbeer, expression unreadable. A flicker; just for an instant; passed across his tired eyes.
Snape caught it. His own eyes narrowed to black slits.
And across the table, Melvin Lewinter simply sipped his drink and smiled like a man who already knew exactly whose dog it had been.