Hogsmeade, the Shrieking Shack.
After the storm, the north wind felt especially brutal. It wormed its way through every gap, and the Shack's old wooden windows were full of cracks. Cold air poured inside with a faint, whistling howl.
The man slumped on the filthy couch opened a lunch box. A freshly baked meat pie sat inside, steaming—hot and fragrant. He leaned close to the tray and took a deep breath, and a look of pure satisfaction spread across his face.
A beef pie from the school kitchens. He hadn't tasted one in fifteen years.
A skinny house-elf stood in the middle of the narrow passage, watching the scene and, for reasons he couldn't quite name, feeling a sting of sadness.
This was the second time Sirius Black, the employer, and Dobby, the employee, had met.
"Harry and Ron buried Scabbers under the beech tree on the edge of the Forbidden Forest?" Sirius asked from the couch. "Someone as slippery as Peter Pettigrew survived the last wizarding war. He dodged two attacks from me. How could he die that easily?"
"I saw the funeral with my own eyes—this morning," Dobby said. "Mr. Weasley nearly cried, sir. Harry Potter and Miss Hermione Granger were there too. Maybe the rat really did… have an accident?"
Sirius shook his head and took a bite of pie. "No."
He chewed shamelessly, talking around the mouthful, his words a little muffled. "Animagus-trained, wand in hand, cunning, good at hiding. I swear on Merlin's beard—Peter's just pulling the fake-death routine again. He probably didn't even go far. He's hiding somewhere, watching."
"Watching what?"
"Watching what's happening around Harry. Watching my movements. Like a hunter waiting for prey to step into a trap—if I show my face for even a second, he'll bring Dementors and Aurors down on me. Any cost, any method—just kill me, and nobody will ever be able to expose what he really is."
Sirius lowered his voice. "Even if it means exposing the Animagus secret."
"Then what should we do?" Dobby asked. "Your friend hid for thirteen years. If he hides again, we can't exactly search the entire wizarding world for one rat."
Dobby had thought it through as carefully as his little head could manage. The two men's real enemy was each other; Harry was the one who was probably safest. "What about telling the Ministry directly? Exposing his crimes? But compared to you right now, those officials would probably believe—"
"Believe Peter, yes?" Sirius smiled.
"There's no other proof that shows the truth."
"I know," Sirius said. "Even back in school he was good at fooling everyone—people who lived with him day in and day out. But a rat that lives in the gutter can't hide the stink forever."
He swallowed another bite. "A rat doesn't escape the hounds forever. When I catch him, I'll tear him to pieces."
"If a rat hides in the sewers," Dobby muttered, "then not just dogs and cats—even house-elves get headaches."
Sirius licked the grease from his fingers. "It's a metaphor. You know what a metaphor is?"
He stood and moved closer to the cracks in the wooden window. It was weekend lunchtime. In the streets of Hogsmeade, shops were packed with customers, all talking about the house match playing in the enchanted mirrors.
"When we were in school, Gryffindor always won the House Cup," Sirius murmured. "And James's name was always on the Quidditch trophy."
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"Poor Harry," Sirius said softly. "He lost because of an accident, and his broom snapped. Those Slytherin kids must be feeling pretty smug—probably saying nasty things, just like we did when we won."
"It's not that bad," Dobby said, passing along what he'd learned. "Captain Wood is a little down, but the rest of the team is optimistic. They're training hard. As long as they can avoid another Dementor incident, they're confident they can win the remaining matches."
"What do you think—should I get Harry a new broom?" Sirius asked.
"Hogwarts match brooms are standardized," Dobby said in his shrill voice. "Since Mr. Potter's broom broke, Madam Hooch will replace it."
He hesitated, then added, "But Mr. Potter does want a new broom. The Christmas gift he wants most is a Firebolt."
"The new broom that came out a few months ago," Sirius said, recalling the promo he'd seen in the Quidditch shop window. "Fastest speed, sharpest handling, costs two thousand Galleons…"
He looked pleased at the thought of Harry opening it. "Next time you come, bring paper, a quill, and ink. And help me send the letter to the post office—I'm ordering it by owl."
Sirius couldn't help smiling.
His face was a bit gaunt, with rough stubble—life on the run didn't leave time for grooming. But his eyes were bright and alive, and when he spoke, the big, bold tone in his voice still carried the old Black family swagger.
Late November arrived in the blink of an eye, and it was Friday again.
Weekend classes always made students unusually eager, and the atmosphere in class felt especially upbeat.
After finishing his second-to-last period, Melvin returned to his office and pulled out the Marauder's Map to pry into other people's business.
School wasn't out yet, and most students were still in class. The yellowed parchment didn't reward close inspection: with just a quick glance, only a few names stood out in each classroom. The more he looked, the more names appeared—too many to count—layered into dark smudges of ink.
The new Professor Lupin was acting strangely. He'd shut himself away, staying in the inner office.
Before, even when he didn't have classes, he'd wander the courtyard and halls, increasing his chances of "running into" students so the younger witches and wizards could ask questions more easily. Today, for some reason, he stayed in the back room, standing by the window without moving for half an hour.
Melvin did the math in his head. The full moon was coming up again soon.
It wasn't dinnertime yet. Only a few students sat quietly in the Great Hall. Down in the kitchens, house-elf names weren't labeled on the map, so that area looked strangely empty—making Peter Pettigrew, stationed by the kitchen entrance, stand out all the more.
Looking out at the grounds, the second-years were in the greenhouses learning how to care for Mandrakes. The third-years had Care of Magical Creatures. Rubeus Hagrid's name appeared bigger and darker on the map—just like the man himself.
And Sirius Black was hiding in the tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow.
One man stood guard in a warm, comfortable kitchen, with a hot dinner coming soon. The other kept watch in a cold, damp passageway, jumpy and terrified of being found.
Melvin clicked his tongue. Before he could even put the map away, he heard footsteps approaching outside his door.
Knock knock.
Two polite taps. A few seconds of waiting. Only after Melvin called out did the visitor push the door open.
Fifth-year students: the Weasley twins—also his business partners.
Melvin looked up and saw George and Fred standing in the doorway in their school robes, holding a copy of Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5. He waved them in right away, picked up the teapot, and poured them both steaming hot pumpkin juice.
"Mr. Weasley… and Mr. Weasley," he said. "I hear you've invented a few new prank products. How's development going?"
"You heard about that, Professor?" George asked.
"I did," Melvin said, smiling. "Professor Flitwick reported you to Professor McGonagall. He said you disrupted class, played pranks during the lesson, tricked Lee Jordan into eating candy, and then when he could only bark like a dog, you all egged him on to answer questions."
"Professor," George said carefully, "is it possible—just possible—that Lee was the one disrupting class?"
Fred nodded vigorously, looking utterly sincere. "He wasn't paying attention, couldn't answer, so he decided to bark like a dog on purpose."
"Then you'll need to explain that to Professor McGonagall yourselves," Melvin said.
He took a small sip of pumpkin juice and looked at them calmly, like he was offering honest advice. No one could have heard a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
"Yeah… we'll pass," George said. "McGonagall won't let us off."
"When it comes to detention and losing points," Fred added, "could you maybe put in a good word for us?"
The twins pleaded in turns, wearing miserable expressions.
"Depends on how you behave," Melvin said, taking another sip.
George and Fred's eyes lit up. If that was his answer, it meant there was room to negotiate.
"Professor Lewinte, just say the word," George said. "We'll do anything—seriously!"
"From this moment on," Fred declared, "George and Fred are your Knights of the Round Table."
"Professor Flitwick invited me to serve as an assistant instructor," Melvin said. "Tonight's Dueling Club session is mainly about the Patronus Charm. It requires students to stir up positive, happy emotions. Compared to digging up memories in their own heads, I think getting real laughter in the room will work better."
Melvin set his cup down and looked at them with a straight face. "And when it comes to making people happy, there might not be anyone in Hogwarts better than the two of you."
George and Fred looked at each other and whooped. "Leave it to us, Professor!"
"We guarantee we'll get it done!"
They were grinning so hard they couldn't hold it back. Getting praised for essays or exam scores felt nice, sure—but being personally asked by a professor to create joy? That made them proud in a way grades never could.
Melvin smiled too. "One more thing—have you made a decision about the joke shop?"
The topic abruptly shifted to business, and the twins froze.
Last time, when Melvin borrowed the Marauder's Map, he'd offered them two partnership options—investment or a loan—and told them to go write a budget and make a real plan for the future.
Months had passed, the map had been borrowed and used, and the joke shop still wasn't settled. So Melvin had no choice but to call them in.
George blinked. "Professor, the last few months we've been focused on researching prank items. We even invented some new ones to help build the budget, but… it didn't go great."
"A bunch of Skiving Snackboxes, Canary Creams, Fanged Fizzing Whizbees—" Fred listed their inventions, frowning. "Every item has different R&D costs. Some are high, some are low. We can't lock down a real number."
"Fair," Melvin said. "Making two underage wizards learn business the way Muggles do is asking a lot."
He rotated his white porcelain teacup, thinking for a moment. "Up to now, you've mainly been messing around—making and improving prank items. You haven't really dealt with mass production or retail. So I think you should see it firsthand."
"What do you mean?" the twins asked, both looking blank.
"Next summer," Melvin said, "go do an internship at a Muggle factory."
The Great Hall.
Night slowly fell. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the sky outside; the moon was almost full, and the stars were sparse and dim. Still, wall torches burned at an angle along the stone, and the fireplaces roared with bright logs, lighting the hall like it was daytime.
After dinner, students and staff felt warm and full. Instead of heading back to their common rooms to enjoy a weekend evening, they stayed in the Great Hall for a public Dueling Club lesson.
The room had been transformed. The four house tables had been pushed to the walls, leaving the center open. A platform made of Transfigured hardwood boards served as a stage, covered in rich red velvet carpet.
"Did you hear?" Lavender whispered in the Gryffindor crowd, huddling with Parvati and glancing toward the side entrance. "They're teaching the Patronus Charm tonight. And Professor Lewinte is the assistant instructor."
Almost every professor was present, besides Headmaster Dumbledore.
"Professor Lewinte!" a Hufflepuff girl squealed nearby, cheeks flushed with excitement. "Of course it should be him! He showed a Patronus during the Quidditch match—oh my gosh, I still remember how shocking it was!"
In the front row, Hermione sat calm and quiet, listening to the excited chatter with zero reaction.
Nothing surprising about it. She'd known for half a month already.
Half a month of detentions—organizing materials and copying until her wrist ached—was unforgettable.
And what made it worse was that she still didn't know why.
If Professor Lewinte hadn't always looked so serious and proper, she would've suspected he was messing with her.
Bang.
Several colorful party poppers exploded in front of the stage. Blue smoke billowed out, fading quickly until the color disappeared, but the scent spread through the entire Great Hall.
"What's that smell?" Professor Sprout asked, sniffing. She was sensitive to anything herbal.
"Party poppers laced with a trace amount of Euphoriant Elixir," Snape replied, expression blank.
"The Weasley boys helped set up," Lupin said softly with a faint smile. His face looked sickly pale.
Whether it was the potion taking effect or just the mood, Flitwick breathed in the scented air and his mouth curled into a smile. "Using a tiny dose to nudge students into a happier emotional state and support Patronus instruction—what a brilliantly creative idea!"
From a purely teaching standpoint, it really was clever.
But Flitwick couldn't ignore the other side of it—because the Euphoriant Elixir had been requisitioned from the Potions Master.
Snape's face stayed cold, his jaw tight. He could feel the effect working, and he hated that he couldn't stop it. He wasn't in a good mood—couldn't be.
Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Lupin by the wall. Lupin's pale complexion showed the Wolfsbane Potion was doing its job, and as the moon grew fuller over the next nights, Lupin's body would only get weaker.
Maybe it was Damocles Belby's cleverness: Wolfsbane kept a werewolf's mind intact, and at the same time left the werewolf worn down and weak—less capable of harming anyone.
After receiving the intel passed along by Peter Pettigrew, Snape had been watching the new professor constantly, trying to figure out whether Lupin knew about the Animagus secret—trying to figure out whether he knew Peter was still alive.
And out of sheer professional discipline as a master of potions, Snape restrained the impulse to do something reckless—like slipping a dose of Veritaserum into the Wolfsbane.