The fire crackled bright orange in the grate.
Up on the third floor of the Three Broomsticks, the private room smelled faintly of mead and butterbeer. Once everyone was sure the students were safe, the tension melted away. What started as an emergency meeting slowly turned into a regular staff night out—easy chatter, clinking glasses, the works.
The long table had the Heads of House on one side, the rest of the professors opposite, and a few empty chairs still left. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat in the middle, finally starting to relax—though they still sat ramrod straight under all those adult eyes.
A little while ago, Lupin and Snape had dragged the three of them straight up here from the alley. The other professors had already been waiting. Quick once-over, a few basic healing spells from the pub's emergency kit, and the scrapes on wrists and foreheads were gone. The claw marks across Ron's chest were shallow enough that they'd scab over in a day or two—just a little itchy later.
No need for Wiggenweld or essence of dittany. Flitwick had patched them up with the standard stuff.
The grown-ups were still debating why the black dog had attacked.
Hermione hugged Crookshanks tight and scolded him under her breath—if she and Harry hadn't chased after the stupid cat, Ron wouldn't have been left alone.
Lupin leaned in close to Ron and lowered his voice. "We still don't know why that dog went for you. Could be dark magic, a curse, some wizard controlling it—better safe than sorry. Mind if I check those scratches one more time? Just to rule everything out."
"Yes, please, rule everything out!" Ron nodded frantically.
"There might not be a curse," Lupin said gently. "I just want to be sure."
Ron undid his tie and tugged his collar down. Lupin waved his wand like a proper examination, but his attention was really on something else.
"You said you usually keep your pet right here?" He tapped Ron's chest.
"Sometimes in my pocket, but lately that fleabag cat keeps eyeing Scabbers, so I've been keeping him close to my heart. He's really good, never squirms…"
"Mm-hmm."
Lupin made a vague noise. One perk of lycanthropy? Super-charged nose and ears.
The dog hadn't left much scent—just a quick brush-by. But Scabbers had been curled against Ron for years. Up close, the rat's smell was unmistakable.
Faint. Old. Familiar—like a friend from fifteen years ago, only coated in rot and decay.
Wormtail?
Lupin wasn't positive. Memory fades. But it was close.
If that really was Peter… alive all this time, hiding with the Weasleys—what for?
And what was Padfoot trying to do?
Lupin's eyes dimmed. He glanced across the room at Melvin, lips pressed thin. For reasons he couldn't quite name, he still didn't want to spill the Animagus secret to the whole staff.
"No dark magic," he announced calmly. "Grab some salve from Madam Pomfrey when we get back. You'll be fine."
"Brilliant!" Ron beamed—then remembered he'd been knocked out by a dog and slumped again.
Snape watched the whole exchange, eyes narrowed.
That same thin, fake-concerned face. Flitwick had already checked the wounds with them earlier—nothing there. Yet Lupin had to do it again, wearing that secretive little look.
Something was being hidden.
Snape's black eyes glittered. Interesting.
Melvin sat near the back, quietly sipping mead, gaze drifting from grumpy Ron to Crookshanks to conflicted Lupin to suspicious Snape. Click, click, click—the pieces snapped together. The real story of today's "attack" was perfectly clear.
This was getting fun.
Footsteps thundered in the hallway—heavy dragon-hide boots and two lighter sets. A knock, then Melvin flicked his fingers; the door swung open.
Madam Rosmerta (gorgeous as ever), Tonks (bubblegum-pink hair today), and Hagrid (lumbering in the rear clutching a flowery pink umbrella) stepped in.
"Rosmerta, Tonks, Hagrid—perfect timing!" Sprout called cheerfully.
Ron sneaked a peek at Rosmerta and turned scarlet.
"Talked to some regulars," Rosmerta said, settling in. "Tonks checked with the patrol Aurors. I hit the Hog's Head," Hagrid added, half the sofa collapsing under his weight.
"No strange wizards in the village lately," Hagrid reported.
"Plenty of people have seen a big black stray dog," Tonks said. "But he's been gentle. No aggression at all."
"So… just an accident?" McGonagall asked, lips thin.
"Maybe the Dementors spooked him?" Sprout offered.
Flitwick squeaked, "Melvin, could it be rabies?"
Melvin sighed. "If it were rabid, it wouldn't be picky about who it bit, and it definitely wouldn't be sneaking around acting shy. Whole village would've noticed a foaming lunatic dog by now."
Rosmerta brightened. "We've got a Pensieve mirror here. Why don't we pull Ron's memory and watch exactly what happened?"
Ron froze. Publicly broadcasting the memory of him getting knocked out cold by a dog—in front of every professor plus the hottest barmaid in Britain? He'd rather die.
"Excellent idea!" Flitwick and Sprout chorused.
McGonagall nodded firmly. "Student safety first."
Nobody asked the student.
Ron's face went beet-red.
Flitwick patted his shoulder kindly and touched his wand to Ron's temple. "You've done this before, dear boy—no pain at all."
A silvery thread slipped out and floated into the mirror by the fireplace.
Scene one: dog lunges, Ron hurls candy, buys two seconds to draw his wand.
Scene two: dog charges again, disarms him, head-butts him into blackout.
Ron wished the floor would swallow him. He risked a glance at Rosmerta—she was smiling, but it felt like torture.
Third-year wizard, age fourteen, knocked out in two moves by a random mutt. Duelling lessons officially wasted.
"It really is just a stray dog," Flitwick said weakly. He suddenly felt like a terrible teacher.
"Looks that way," Lupin said, face unreadable. "Probably thought Ron wanted to play."
Harry's eyes went wide.
Sirius.
He'd seen that dog before—Privet Drive, Diagon Alley, the edge of the forest. But lots of big black dogs looked alike. Maybe it was just coincidence… or that thing Professor Trelawney kept going on about omens.
He glanced instinctively at Melvin, who met his eyes and gave a tiny, knowing smile.
…
Later, walking back across the grounds under the stars, Harry lagged behind, mind spinning. The day had slipped away in chaos—he never even made it to Zonko's or Quality Quidditch Supplies.
"Melvin," Lupin murmured, "how exactly did you know about James… about the Marauders?"
That first DADA lesson—Melvin had faced the Boggart and shown four animals: werewolf, stag, dog, rat. He'd claimed Occlumency and false-memory charms, but still.
The staff might have warned Melvin about Lupin's condition, but no one except Dumbledore knew the others were unregistered Animagi.
"Secret," Melvin said mysteriously, giving a very Dumbledore-like wink. "I'll tell you when the time's right."
James?
Harry's heart stuttered. Lupin had been quiet all evening—distracted, heavy. Harry had tried asking about his parents before and always hit a wall.
But tonight every professor was here. Maybe…
"Professors," Harry called, loud enough for the whole group to hear. "I still want the full truth about what happened to my parents."
The easy chatter died instantly. Heads turned. Hagrid stared, stricken.
"I know the basic story from Professor Lewin," Harry pressed on. "I want the details."
Silence. Then sighs—long, sad, complicated.
Melvin smiled softly. "Harry's not a normal kid. He deserves to know."
Hagrid ruffled Harry's hair with a dinner-plate hand. The other professors exchanged looks full of pity and affection.
And then they told him.
Four Gryffindors who called themselves the Marauders—Remus included, and a little guy named Peter, but really it was always James Potter and Sirius Black at the heart of it, thick as thieves, brilliant, reckless…
James trusted Sirius more than anyone. Sirius was best man at the wedding, Harry's godfather…
When they went into hiding, James insisted on Sirius as Secret-Keeper. "Sirius would die before he told," he'd said.
All the way back to the Great Hall, Hagrid's voice still rang in Harry's ears—furious, shaking.
"I was the last one to see him before he murdered all those people! I pulled you out of the rubble myself, Harry—tiny little thing with that great cut on your head, and your parents… dead.
"Then Sirius Black shows up on that motorbike of his. I didn't know he was the Secret-Keeper! Thought he was just coming to help. He was shaking, pale as death—I actually comforted the traitor!
"Tried to take you off me, said he was your godfather, he'd look after you.
"Ha! If I'd handed you over he'd have tossed you in the sea halfway home!"
The Halloween feast was spectacular, the Great Hall decked out in bats and pumpkins, but Harry barely tasted anything. He didn't remember eating, or answering his friends, or climbing the stairs to the dormitory.
He lay in bed fully dressed, staring at the canopy. The clock ticked. Every time he closed his eyes he saw his father's body on the floor, his mother pleading with a tall shadow.
He sat up abruptly.
Couldn't sleep. Couldn't breathe.
The dormitory was dark and quiet—Neville snoring softly, Ron muttering in his sleep. Harry grabbed his Invisibility Cloak, slipped on his shoes, and crept out—down the stairs, through the common room, out the portrait hole.
"Meow?" Crookshanks lifted his head by the dying fire, sniffing curiously.
"Who's that now?" the Fat Lady grumbled.
Harry didn't answer. He ghosted through the corridors until he reached Professor Lewin's office.
Dark.
He hesitated, then headed for Lupin's instead.
Light leaked under the door. Voices—low, familiar, and cold.
Harry froze, pressing against the wall.
He knew most professors well enough that he wouldn't be this nervous, but the voice leaking through the crack was unmistakably Snape's—icy, silky, dangerous.
"I brought Melvin as a witness. This isn't personal, Lupin.
"Don't even think about lying. You still have to drink the potion I brew every month. I'm sure you'd hate to taste Veritaserum in it."